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Best Famous Anniversary Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Anniversary poems. This is a select list of the best famous Anniversary poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Anniversary poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of anniversary poems.

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by Audre Lorde |

Never To Dream Of Spiders

 Time collapses between the lips of strangers
my days collapse into a hollow tube 
soon implodes against now
like an iron wall
my eyes are blocked with rubble 
a smear of perspectives
blurring each horizon 
in the breathless precision of silence
One word is made.
Once the renegade flesh was gone fall air lay against my face sharp and blue as a needle but the rain fell through October and death lay a condemnation within my blood.
The smell of your neck in August a fine gold wire bejeweling war all the rest lies illusive as a farmhouse on the other side of a valley vanishing in the afternoon.
Day three day four day ten the seventh step a veiled door leading to my golden anniversary flameproofed free-paper shredded in the teeth of a pillaging dog never to dream of spiders and when they turned the hoses upon me a burst of light.

by David Lehman |

A Little History

 Some people find out they are Jews.
They can't believe it.
Thy had always hated Jews.
As children they had roamed in gangs on winter nights in the old neighborhood, looking for Jews.
They were not Jewish, they were Irish.
They brandished broken bottles, tough guys with blood on their lips, looking for Jews.
They intercepted Jewish boys walking alone and beat them up.
Sometimes they were content to chase a Jew and he could elude them by running away.
They were happy just to see him run away.
The coward! All Jews were yellow.
They spelled Jew with a small j jew.
And now they find out they are Jews themselves.
It happened at the time of the Spanish Inquisition.
To escape persecution, they pretended to convert to Christianity.
They came to this country and settled in the Southwest.
At some point oral tradition failed the family, and their secret faith died.
No one would ever have known if not for the bones that turned up on the dig.
A disaster.
How could it have happened to them? They are in a state of panic--at first.
Then they realize that it is the answer to their prayers.
They hasten to the synagogue or build new ones.
They are Jews at last! They are free to marry other Jews, and divorce them, and intermarry with Gentiles, God forbid.
They are model citizens, clever and thrifty.
They debate the issues.
They fire off earnest letters to the editor.
They vote.
They are resented for being clever and thrifty.
They buy houses in the suburbs and agree not to talk so loud.
They look like everyone else, drive the same cars as everyone else, yet in their hearts they know they're different.
In every minyan there are always two or three, hated by the others, who give life to one ugly stereotype or another: The grasping Jew with the hooked nose or the Ivy League Bolshevik who thinks he is the agent of world history.
But most of them are neither ostentatiously pious nor excessively avaricious.
How I envy them! They believe.
How I envy them their annual family reunion on Passover, anniversary of the Exodus, when all the uncles and aunts and cousins get together.
They wonder about the heritage of Judaism they are passing along to their children.
Have they done as much as they could to keep the old embers burning? Others lead more dramatic lives.
A few go to Israel.
One of them calls Israel "the ultimate concentration camp.
" He tells Jewish jokes.
On the plane he gets tipsy, tries to seduce the stewardess.
People in the Midwest keep telling him reminds them of Woody Allen.
He wonders what that means.
I'm funny? A sort of nervous intellectual type from New York? A Jew? Around this time somebody accuses him of not being Jewish enough.
It is said by resentful colleagues that his parents changed their name from something that sounded more Jewish.
Everything he publishes is scrutinized with reference to "the Jewish question.
" It is no longer clear what is meant by that phrase.
He has already forgotten all the Yiddish he used to know, and the people of that era are dying out one after another.
The number of witnesses keeps diminishing.
Soon there will be no one left to remind the others and their children.
That is why he came to this dry place where the bones have come to life.
To live in a state of perpetual war puts a tremendous burden on the population.
As a visitor he felt he had to share that burden.
With his gift for codes and ciphers, he joined the counter- terrorism unit of army intelligence.
Contrary to what the spook novels say, he found it possible to avoid betraying either his country or his lover.
This was the life: strange bedrooms, the perfume of other men's wives.
As a spy he has a unique mission: to get his name on the front page of the nation's newspaper of record.
Only by doing that would he get the message through to his immediate superior.
If he goes to jail, he will do so proudly; if they're going to hang him anyway, he'll do something worth hanging for.
In time he may get used to being the center of attention, but this was incredible: To talk his way into being the chief suspect in the most flamboyant murder case in years! And he was innocent! He could prove it! And what a book he would write when they free him from this prison: A novel, obliquely autobiographical, set in Vienna in the twilight of the Hapsburg Empire, in the year that his mother was born.

by Rg Gregory |


 (to where the ashes of both
 my parents are strewn)

ok the pair of you lie still
what's disturbing me need pass
no fretful hand over your peace
this world's vicissitudes are stale
fodder for you who feed the grass

some particles of your two dusts
by moon's wish accident or wind
may have leapt that late-life wound
refound in you the rhapsodists
first-married days had twinned

i've come today in heavy rain
a storm barging through the trees
to be a part of this fresh truce
to dream myself to that serene
death's eye-view no living sees

a roaring motorway derides
machine's exclusion from this place
cozens what the gale implies
while overhead a plane corrodes
all feel of sanctuary and solace

i cut the edges off the sound
and let the storm absorb my skin
my drift unravelling as a skein
through paths no brain's designed
i want the consciousness you're in

too much a strain - my mind can't click
to earthen voices (whispers signs)
my eyes alert to this life's scenes
my ears are ticked to autumn's clock
my shoes crunch upon chestnut spines

not a bird singing or flying
i seize upon such absence (here
the death-sense dares to split its hair)
why with such a strong wind flowing
inside the noises do calms appear

today the weather is supreme 
it does away with frontiers - sweeps
breath into piles as it swaps
ashes for thoughts conjuring prime
life-death from the bones it reaps

abruptly flocks of leaves-made-birds
quit shaken branches (glide in grace)
first soar then hover - sucked to grass
flatten about me as soft-soaked boards 
matting me to this parent place

and then i'm easeful - a hand scoops
dissent away (leaves me as tree)
settles the self down to its true
abasement where nothing escapes
its wanting (earth flesh being free)

i'm taken by your touching
there's no skin between us now
as tree i am death's avenue
you are its fruits attaching
distilled ripeness to the bough

i possess the step i came for
my senses burst into still speech
your potent ashes give dispatch
to life's tensions - i travel far
rooted at this two-worlds' breach

 october 6th 1990
 (seventh anniversary of my mother's cremation)

by Anna Akhmatova |


 Celebrate our anniversary – can’t you see
tonight the snowy night of our first winter
comes back again in every road and tree -
that winter night of diamantine splendour.
Steam is pouring out of yellow stables, the Moika river’s sinking under snow, the moonlight’s misted as it is in fables, and where we are heading – I don’t know.
There are icebergs on the Marsovo Pole.
The Lebyazh’ya’s crazed with crystal art.
Whose soul can compare with my soul, if joy and fear are in my heart? - And if your voice, a marvellous bird’s, quivers at my shoulder, in the night, and the snow shines with a silver light, warmed by a sudden ray, by your words?

by Anna Akhmatova |

White Flock

Copyright Anna Akhmatova
Copyright English translation by Ilya Shambat (ilya_shambat@yahoo.
com) Origin: http://www.
html  * I *  We thought we were beggars, we thought we had nothing at all But then when we started to lose one thing after another, Each day became A memorial day -- And then we made songs Of great divine generosity And of our former riches.
Unification I'll leave your quiet yard and your white house - Let life be empty and with light complete.
I'll sing the glory to you in my verse Like not one woman has sung glory yet.
And that dear girlfriend you remember In heaven you created for her sight, I'm trading product that is very rare - I sell your tenderness and loving light.
Song about Song So many stones have been thrown at me That I don't fear them any longer Like elegant tower the westerner stands free Among tall towers, the taller.
I'm grateful to their builders -- so be gone Their sadness and their worry, go away, Early from here I can see the dawn And here triumphant lives the sun's last ray.
And frequently into my room's window The winds from northern seas begin to blow And pigeon from my palms eats wheat.
The pages that I did not complete Divinely light she is and calm, Will finish Muse's suntanned arm.
x x x Just like a cold noreaster At first she'll sting, And then a single salty tear The heart will wring.
The evil heart will pity Something and then regret.
But this light-headed sadness It will not forget.
I only sow.
To harvest.
Others will come.
And yes! The lovely group of harvesters May true God bless.
And that more perfectly I could Give to you gratitude, Allow me to give the world Love incorruptible.
x x x My voice is weak, but will does not get weaker.
It has become still better without love, The sky is tall, the mountain wind is blowing My thoughts are sinless to true God above.
The sleeplessness has gone to other places, I do not on grey ashes count my sorrow, And the skewed arrow of the clock face Does not look to me like a deadly arrow.
How past over the heart is losing power! Freedom is near.
I will forgive all yet, Watching, as ray of sun runs up and down The springtime vine that with spring rain is wet.
x x x He was jealous, fearful and tender, He loved me like God's only light, And that she not sing of the past times He killed my bird colored white.
He said, in the lighthouse at sundown: "Love me, laugh and write poetry!" And I buried the joyous songbird Behind a round well near a tree.
I promised that I would not mourn her.
But my heart turned to stone without choice, And it seems to me that everywhere And always I'll hear her sweet voice.
x x x True love's memory, You are heavy! In your smoke I sing and burn, And the rest -- is only fire To keep the chilled soul warm.
To keep warm the sated body, They need my tears for this Did I for this sing your song, God? Did I take part of love for this? Let me drink of such a poison, That I would be deaf and dumb, And my unglorious glory Wash away to the final crumb.
x x x The blue lacquer dims of heaven, And the song is better heard.
It's the little trumpet made of dirt, There's no reason for her to complain.
Why does she forgive me, And whoever told her of my sins? Or is that this voice that now repeats The last poems that you wrote for me? x x x Instead of wisdom -- experience, bare, That does not slake thirst, is not wet.
Youth's gone -- like a Sunday prayer.
Is it mine to forget? On how many desert roads have searched I With him who wasn't dear for me, How many bows gave in church I For him, who had well loved me.
I've become more oblivious than inviting, Quietly years swim.
Lips unkissed, eyes unsmiling -- Nothing will give me back him.
x x x Ah! It is you again.
You enter in this house Not as a kid in love, but as a husband Courageous, harsh and in control.
The calm before the storm is fearful to my soul.
You ask me what it is that I have done of late With given unto me forever love and fate.
I have betrayed you.
And this to repeat -- Oh, if you could one moment tire of it! The killer's sleep is haunted, dead man said, Death's angel thus awaits me at deathbed.
Forgive me now.
Lord teaches to forgive.
In burning agony my flesh does live, And already the spirit gently sleeps, A garden I recall, tender with autumn leaves And cries of cranes, and the black fields around.
How sweet it would be with you underground! x x x The muse has left along narrow And winding street, And with large drops of dew Were sprinkled her feet.
For long did I ask of her To wait for winter with me, But she said, "The grave is here, How can you breathe, you see?" I wanted to give her a dove That is whiter than all the rest But the bird herself flew above After my graceful guest.
Looking at her I was silent, I loved her alone And like gates into her country In the sky stood the dawn.
x x x I have ceased and desisted from smiling The frosty wind chills lips - say so long To one hope of which will be lesser, Instead there will be one more song.
And this song, without my volition, I will give out for laughter and parable, For this that the silence of love Is to me simply unbearable.
x x x They're on the way, the words of love and freedom, They're flying faster than the moment flies And I am in stage fright before singing - My lips have grown colder than ice.
But soon that place, where, leaning to the windows The tender birches make dry rustling sound, The voices will be ringing of the shadows And roses will in blackened wreaths be wound.
And further onward still -- the light is generous Unbearably as though ¡®t were red hot wine.
And now the wind, all redolent and heated, In perfect vigor has enflamed my mind.
x x x Oh, this was a cold day In Peter's wonderful town! The shadow grew dense, and the sundown Like purple fire lay.
Let him not want my eyes fair Prophetic and never-changing All life long verse he'll be catching - My conceited lips' empty prayer.
x x x This way I prayed: "Slake the dumb thirst Of singing with a sweet libation!" But to the earthling of the earth There can be no liberation.
Like smoke from sacrifice, that it could not Fly Strength- and Glory-ward -- alas - But only clouded at the feet And, as if praying, kissed the grass.
Thus I, O Lord, before thee bow: Will reach the fire of the sky My lashes that are closed for now And muteness utter and divine? x x x In intimacy there exists a line That can't be crossed by passion or love's art -- In awful silence lips melt into one And out of love to pieces bursts the heart.
And friendship here is impotent, and years Of happiness sublime in fire aglow, When soul is free and does not hear The dulling of sweet passion, long and slow.
Those who are striving toward it are in fever, But those that reach it struck with woe that lingers.
Now you have understood, why forever My heart does not beat underneath your fingers.
x x x All has been taken: strength as well as love.
Into the unloved town the corpse is thrown.
It does not love the sun.
I fear, that blood Inside of me already cold has grown.
I do not recognize sweet Muse's loving taste: She looks ahead and does not let a word pass, And bows a head in the dark garland dressed Onto my chest, exhausted from the haste.
And only conscience, scarier with each day, Wants a great ransom and for this abuses.
Closing the face, I answer her this way.
But there remain no tears and no excuses.
x x x To lose the freshness of the words and sense, for us, Is it same as for an artist to lose vision, Or for an actor -- voice and motion, Or for a gorgeous woman -- her finesse? But do not seek now for yourself to keep What heaven has given to you below: We have been judged -- and we ourselves both know -- To give away, and not to keep.
Or else alone you go to heal the blind, To know yourself in heavy hour of doubt The students' smug shaudenfreude And the uncaring of mankind.
Answer The quiet April day has sent me What a strange missive.
You knew that passionately in me The scary week is still alive.
I did not hear those ringing bells That swam along in glazier clear.
For seven days sounded copper laugh Or poured from eyes a silver tear.
And I, then having closed my face As for eternal parting's moment, Lay down and waited for her grace That was not known yet as torment.
x x x This city by the fearsome river Was my crib blessed and dear And a solemn wedding bed Which the garlands for the head Your young cherubs held above - A city loved with bitter love.
The subject of my prayers Were you, moody, calm, and austere.
There first the groom came to me Having shown me the pathway holy, And that sad muse of mine Led me like one blind.
 * II *  December 9, 1913 The darkest days of the year Must become the most clear.
I can't find words to compare - Your lips are so tender and dear.
Only to raise your eyes do not dare, Keeping the life of me.
They're lighter than vials premier, And deadlier for me.
I understand now, that we need no words, The snowed branches are light, and more, The birdcatcher, to catch birds, Has laid nets on the rivershore.
x x x How can you look at Nieva, How can on the bridges you rise? With a reason I'm sad since the time You appeared before my eyes.
Sharp are black angels' wings, The last judgment is coming soon, And raspberry fires, like roses, In the white snow bloom.
x x x I do not count mortal days Under the roof of a chilled empty building, I'm reading the Apostles' words, Words of Psalm-singer I am reading.
Sleet is fluffy, and stars turn blue, And more marvelous is each meeting -- And in the Bible a leaf On Song of Songs is sitting.
x x x All year long you are close to me And, like formerly, happy and young! Aren't you tortured already By the traumatized strings' dark song? Those now only lightly moan That once, taut, loudly rang And aimlessly they are torn By my dry, waxen hand.
Little is necessary to make happy One who is tender and loving yet, The young forehead is not touched yet By jealousy, rage or regret.
He is quiet, does not ask to be tender, Only stares and stares at me And with blissful smile does he bear My oblivion's dreadful insanity.
x x x Black road wove ahead of me, Drizzling rain fell, To accompany me Someone asked for a spell.
I agreed, but I forgot To see him in light of day, And then it was strange To remember the way.
Like incense of thousand censers Flowed the fog And the companion bothered The heart with a song.
Ancient gates I remember And the end of the way -- There the man who went with me "Forgive," did say.
He gave me a copper cross Like my brother very own And everywhere I hear the sound Of the steppe song.
Here I am at home like home -- I cry and I am in rue Answer to me, my stranger, I am looking for you! x x x How I love, how I loved to stare At the ironclad shores, On the balcony, where forever No foot stepped, not mine, not yours.
And in truth you are -- a capital For the mad and luminous us; But when over Nieva sail Those special, pure hours And the winds of May fly over You past the iron beams You are like a dying sinner Seeing heavenly dreams x x x Ancient city is as if dead, Strange's my coming here.
Vladimir has raised a black cross Over the river.
Noisy elm trees, noisy lindens In the gardens dark, Raised to God, the needle-bearing Stars' bright diamond sparks.
Sacrificial and glorious Way, I am ending here, With me is but you, my equal, And my love so dear.
x x x It seems as though the voice of man Will never sound in this place, But only wind from age of stone Is knocking on black gates.
It seems to me that I alone Have kept good health under this sky, Because of this, that first I sought To drink the deadly wine.
Parting Evening and slanting, Downward goes my way.
Yesterday in love still, "Don't forget" you prayed.
Now there's only shepherds' Cry, and glancing winds, And the worried cedars Stand by clear springs.
x x x Yellow and fresh are the lanterns, Black is the road of the garden at sea.
I am very calm.
Only please, do not Talk about him with me.
You're tender and loyal, we'll be friends.
Have fun, kiss, together grow old.
And light months above us will fly like feathers, Like stars made of snow and as cold.
x x x We aren't in the forest, there is no need for calling -- You know your jokes do not shine.
Why don't you come to lull into quiet This wounded conscience of mine? You possess other worries You have another wife And, looking into my dry eyes, St.
Petersburg spring has arrived.
With harsh cough and with evening fever She will punish and she will kill.
Under the smoke on the river Nieva's ice is no longer still.
x x x God is unkind to gardeners and reapers.
Slanted rain coils and falls from up high And the wide raincoats catch water, That once had reflected the sky.
In underwater realm are fields and meadows And the free currents sing a lot, Plums rupture on bloated branches And grass strands, lying down, rot.
And through the dense and watery net I see your darling face, A quiet park, a round porch And a Chinese arbour-place.
x x x All promised him to me: The heaven's edge, dark and kind, And lovely Christmas sleep And multi-ringing Easter wind, And the red branches of a twig, And waterfalls inside a park, And two dragonflies On rusty iron of a bulwark.
And I could not disbelieve, That he'll befriend me all alone When on the mountain slopes I went Along hot pathway made of stone.
x x x Every evening I receive A letter like a bride To my friend I give Response late at night.
"I'll be guest of the white death On my journey down.
You, my tender one, don't do Harm to anyone.
" And there stands a giant star Between two wood beams, With such calmness promising To fulfil your dreams.
x x x Divine angel, who betrothed us Secretly on winter morn, From our sadness-free existence Does not take his darkened eyes.
For this reason we love sky, And fresh wind, and air so thin, And the dark tree branches Behind fence of iron.
For this reason we love the strict, Many-watered, and dark city, And we love the parting, And brief meetings' hour.
x x x Somewhere is light and happy, in elation, Transparent, warm and simple life there is.
A man across the fence has conversation With girl before the evening, and the bees Hear only the tenderest of conversation.
And we are living pompously and hard And follow bitter rituals like sun When, flight past us, the unreasoned wind Interrupts speech that's barely begun.
But not for anything will we change the pompous Granite city of glory, pain and lies, The glistening wide rivers' ice Sunless and murky gardens, and the voice, Though barely audible, of the Muse.
x x x I remember you only rarely And your fate I do not view But the mark won't be stripped from my soul Of the meaningless meeting with you.
Your red house I avoid on purpose, Your red house murky river beside, But I know, that I am disturbing Gravely your heart-pierced respite.
Would it weren't you that, on to my lips pressing, Prayed of love, and for love did wish, Would it weren't you that with golden verses Immortalized my anguish Over future I do secret magic If the evening is truly blue, And I divine a second meeting, Unavoidable meeting with you.
x x x How spacious are these squares, How resonant bridges and stark! Heavy, peaceful, and starless Is the covering of the dark.
And we walk on the fresh snow As if we were mortal people.
That we are together this hour Unseparable -- is it not a miracle? The knees go unwittingly weaker It seems there's no air -- so long! You are my life's only blessing, You are the sun of my song.
Now the dark buildings are stirring And I'll fall on earth as they shake -- Inside of my village garden I do not fear to awake.
Escape "My dear, if we could only Reach all the way to the seas" "Be quiet" and descended the stairs Losing breath and looking for keys.
Past the buildings, where sometime We danced and had fun and drank wine Past the white columns of Senate Where it's dark, dark again.
"What are you doing, you madman!" "No, I am only in love with thee! This evening is wide and noisy, Ship will have lots of fun at the sea!" Horror tightly clutches the throat, Shuttle took us at dusk on our turn.
The tough smell of ocean tightrope Inside trembling nostrils did burn.
"Say, you most probably know: I don't sleep? Thus in sleep it can be" Only oars splashed in measured manner Over Nieva's waves heavy.
And the black sky began to get lighter, Someone called from the bridge to us, As with both hands I was clutching On my chest the rim of the cross.
On your arms, as I lost all my power, Like a little girl you carried me, That on deck of a yacht alabaster Incorruptible day's light we'd meet.
x x x When with a strong but tired hand In dreary capital of nation Upon the whiteness of the page I did record my recantations, And wind into the window round Poured in a wet and silent stream The sky was burning, burning bright With smoky dawn, it so did seem.
I did not look at the Nieva, The dawn-drenched granite did not view, And it appeared that that I, awake, my Unforgettable, saw you.
But then the unexpected night Covered the before-autumn town, That, so as to assist my flight, The ashen shadows melted down.
I only took with me the cross, That you had given on day of treason That wormwood steppe should be in bloom And winds, like sirens, sing in season.
And here upon an empty wall He keeps me from the broodings dour And I don't fear to recall Anything - even the final hour.
Village of the Tsar Statue Upon the swan pond maple leaves Are gathered already, you see, And bloodied are the branches dark Of slowly blooming quicken-tree.
Blindingly elegant is she, Crossing her legs that don't feel cold Upon the northern stone sits she And calmly looks upon the road.
I felt the gloomy, dusky fear Before this woman of delight As on her shoulders played alone The rays of miserable light.
And how could I forgive her yet Your shining praise by love deluded Look, she is happily in sorrow, And in such elegance denuded.
x x x In the sleep to me is given Our last eden of stars up high City of clean water towers, Golden Bakchisarai There behind a colored fencing By the pensive water stalled Village of the Tsar's gardens With rejoicing we recalled.
And the eagles of Catherine Suddenly recognized - it's that! He had flown to valley bottom From the ornate bronze-clad gate.
That the song of parting heartache In the memory longer lives, The dark-bodied mother autumn Brought to me the redding leaves And she sprinkled on her soles Where we parted in the sun And from where for land of shadows You had left, my soothing one.
x x x I have visions of hilly Pavlovsk, Meadow circular, water dead, With most heavy and most shady, All of this I will never forget.
In the cast-iron gates you will enter, Blissful tremor the flesh does rile, You don't live, but you're screaming and ranting Or you live in another style.
In late autumn fresh and biting Wanders wind, for its loneliness glad.
In white gowns dressed the black fir trees On the molten snow stand.
And, filled up with a burning fever, Dear voice sounds like song without word, And on copper shoulder of Cytharus Sits the red-chested bird.
x x x Immortelle's dry and pink.
On the fresh heaven The clouds are roughly pasted, almost dark.
The leaves of only oak within the park Are still colorless and thin.
The rays of dusk are burning until midnight.
How nice it is inside my cramped abode! Today with me converse many-a-bird About the most tender, in delight.
I'm happy.
But the way, Forest and smooth, is to me most dear, The crippled bridge, curved a bit here, And that remain only several days.
x x x She came up.
I did not show my worry, Calmly looking outside the windows.
She sat down, like ceramic idol In a long-ago-chosen pose.
To be happy -- is well-accustomed, But attentive -- is harder just might.
Or the dark shadow has been overpowered After many a jasmine March night? Tiring din of the conversations, Yellow chandelier's lifeless light And the glimmer of crafty gadgets Underneath the arm raised and light.
My companion looks at her with hope And to her flashes a smile.
O my happy and wealthy heir, Read from my will.
 * III *  May Snow Upon fresh ground falls and melts At once unnoticed a thin film.
The harsh and chilly spring The ripened buds does kill.
Sight of early death is so horrid That I can't look at God's creation, and am riven With sadness, to which king David Millenia of life has given.
x x x Why do you pretend to be A wind, a bird, or a stone? Why do you smile at me From the sky with a sudden dawn? Do not torment me, do not touch! Leave me to wise cares, away! The inebriated flame sways Over dried-up marshes gray.
And Muse in a torn kerchief Sings disconsolate and at length.
In harsh and youthful anguish Is her miraculous strength.
x x x Transparent glass of empty sky The bleached-out bulky prison building And churchgoers' solemn singing Over Volkhov, growing blue with light.
September wind tore leaves birch off Through branches tossed and screamed with hate And city recollects its fate: Here ruled Martha and Arackcheyev.
July 1914 I Smells like burning.
For four weeks now The dry ground on the swamplands bakes.
Today even birds did not sing songs And the aspen-tree does not shake.
Sun has stopped in divine displeasure Easter rain did not pelt fields hard.
A one-legged passerby came here And alone said in the yard: "Awful times near.
For freshly dug graves There will be not be enough place soon.
Expect pest, expect plague, expect coward, And eclipses of Sun and Moon.
But the enemy won't get to divide Our lands for his fun: Holy Mary will spread on her own Over great sorrows a white gown" II From the burning forests is flying Sweet smell of the evergreens.
Over children soldiers' wives are moaning Cry of widows through village rings.
Not in vain were the prayers rendered, The earth was thirsty for rain: The stomped-over fields with red dampness Were covered and covered remain.
Low, low is the empty heaven, And quiet is the praying one's voice: "They will wound your most holy body And cast dice about your acts of choice.
" x x x That voice, with great quietude arguing, Had a victory over her.
In me still, like song or woe, Is last winter before the war.
She was whiter than Smolny Cathedral More mysterious than summer garden festooned We didn't know that in parting sadness We'd be looking back soon.
x x x To say goodbye we don't know - It's already nearing night, We are walking shoulder to shoulder, You are pensive and I am quiet We'll walk into church, we'll witness The singing, the wedding, the cross, Not seeing each other, we'll exit.
Why are things not working for us? Or we'll sit on the pressed-down snow In a cemetery, lightly sigh, And you with your stick paint the palace Where together we'll be for all time.
Consolation You won't hear about him any longer, You won't hear about him in the wind, In the mournful fire-consumed Poland His grave you will not find.
May your spirit be still an peaceful, There will be no losses now: He is new warrior of God's army, Do not be about him in sorrow.
In the dear, beloved home It's sinful to cry and feel blue.
Think, now you can make prayer To the man who stood up for you.
x x x Did for this, and for this only, In my arms I carry you, Did for this the strength flash In your gorgeous eyes of blue? Tall and elegant you have grown, You sang songs, Madeira drank, To the far-off Anatolia You have driven your mine tank.
On the Malahov's kurgan They shot an officer with a gun.
Less than a week for 20 years He saw God's light with eyes so dear.
Prayer Give me bitter years in malady Breathlessness, sleeplessness, fever, Both a friend and a child and mysterious Gift take away forever -- Thus I pray after your liturgy After many exhausting days, That the cloud over dark Russia Become cloud in the glory of rays.
x x x "Where is your gypsy boy, tall one, That over black kerchief did weep, Where is your small first child What memory of him do you keep?" "Mother's role is a sweet torture, I was not worthy of it.
The gate dissolved into white heaven, Magdalene took the kid.
"Each day for me is happy and jolly, I got lost in a too-long spring, Only arms pine away for a burden Only his cries in my sleep ring.
"The heart will be restless and weary And no memory cross my mind, I still wander in rooms dark and bleary And his crib still attempt to find.
" x x x How often did I curse This sky, this earth as well, The slowly waving arms Of this ancient windmill.
In a wing there lies a dead man, Straight and grayhaired, on a bench, As he did three years ago.
Thus the mice whet with their teeth Books, thus the stearine candle Leans its flame to the left.
And the odious tambourine From the Nizhny Novgorod Sings an uningenious song Of my bitter happiness.
And the brightly painted Dahlias stood straight Along silver road.
Where are snails and wormwood.
Thus it was: Incarceration Became second country, And the first I cannot dare Recollect even in prayer.
x x x In boat or in horsecart This way you cannot go Deep water stands and lingers In the decrepit snow Surrounding the mansion From every side by now.
Ah! Closely wails it over The same Robinson Crusoe.
The sled, the skies, the horse He will come by to see, And later on the couch He sits and waits for me And with a short spore He tears the rug in two.
Now the brief smile of mine The mirror will not view.
x x x Bow of moon I see, I see Through dense canopy of groves, Level sound I hear, I hear Of the free horse's hooves.
What? And you don't want to sleep, In a year could you forget Me, nor are you used to find Empty and unmade your bed? Not with you then do I speak Through sharp cries of hunting birds, Not in your eyes do I look From white pages full of words? Why you circle, like a thief At the quiet habitat? Or recall the verdict and Wait for me alive like that? I'm asleep.
In dense dark, moon Threw a blade just like a dart.
There is knocking.
In this way Beats my warm and precious heart.
x x x We noiselessly walked through the house, Not waiting for anything.
They showed me way to the sick man, And I did not recognize him.
He said, "Now let God have the glory" And became more thoughtful and blue.
"It's long time that I hit the road, I've only been waiting for you.
So you bother me in my fever, I keep those words from you.
Tell me: can you not forgive me?" And I said, "I can do.
" It seemed, that the walls were shining From floor to the ceiling that day.
Upon the silken blanket A withered arm lay.
And the thrown-over predatory profile Became horribly heavy and stark, And one could not hear the breathing Through the bitten-up lips turned dark.
But suddenly the last bit of strength Came alive in the eyes of blue: "It is good that you released me, Not always kind were you.
" And then the face became younger, And I recognized him once more.
And then I said, "Holy Father, Accept a slave of yours.
" x x x I came over to the pine forest.
It is hot, and the road is not short.
He pushed back the door and came out Greyhaired, luminous, short.
He looked at me, insolent bastard, And muttered at once, "Christ's bride! Do not envy success of the happy, A place for you there does hide.
Do forget your parents' abode, Get accustomed to open heaven You will sleep on the straw and dirty, And will meet a blissful end.
" Truly, the priest must have heard On the way back my singing voice As I of untold happiness Marveled and rejoiced.
x x x The other cranes shout "Cour-lee" Calling a wounded one When autumn fields around Are fallow and warm.
And I, being sick, hear calling, The noise of golden wings From dense and low clouds And thick underbrush.
"It's time to fly, it's time to fly, Over the field and river.
For you already cannot sing And wipe a tear from a cheek With a weakened arm.
" x x x I will quietly in the churchyard Sleep on wooden boards in the sun, On the Sunday as guest to mother You will come, my dear one -- Through the river over the mountain Can't catch up to grown ones From afar, the sharp-eyed fellow, This my cross you'll recognize.
I know, dear one, very little Can you now recall of me: Did not scold you, did not fawn you, Did not hold the cup to thee.
x x x With pride your spirit is darkened For this you won't know world at all.
You say that this faith is a dream And mirage is this capital.
You say that my country is sinful, Your country is godless, I scream.
May the guilt still lie upon us -- We can correct and redeem.
Around you are water and flowers Why seek a beggar and sinner, my dear? I know that you're sick very badly: You seek death and the end you fear.
x x x The early chills are most pleasant to me.
Torment releases me when I come there.
Mysterious, dark places of habitation -- Are storehouses of labor and prayer.
The calm and confident loving I can't surmount in this side of mine: A drop of Novgorod blood inside me Is like a piece of ice in foamy wine.
And this can not in any way be corrected, She has not been melted by great heat, And what ever I began to glory -- You, quiet one, shine before me yet.
x x x I dream less of him, dear God be gloried, Does not shimmer everywhere any more.
Fog has fallen on the whitened road, Shadows run over water to the shore.
And all day the ringing did not quiet Over the expanse of ploughed up soil, Here most powerfully from Jonah Distant Laurel belltowers do recoil.
I am trimming on the lilac bushes Branches, that are now in full flower; Ramparts of the ancient fortifying Two old monks are slowly walking over.
Dear world, understood and corporeal, For me, one unseeing, set alive.
Heal this soul of mine, the King of Heaven, With the icy comfort of not love.
x x x We'll be with each other, dear, All now know we are together, And the wily laughs and putdowns Like a distant tambourine Can't insult us any longer And can't give us injury.
Where we married -- we don't know, But this church at once did glimmer With that furious beaming light That only the angels know How to bring upon white wings.
And the time is now such, Fearful city, fearful year.
How can now be parted Me from you and you from me? In Memory of June 19, 1914 We have grown old by hundred years, and this Happened to us in one hour then: The brief summer was already ending, Steamed the body of ploughed-up plain.
Suddenly glistened the quiet road, Cry flew, ringing silverly.
Closing my face, I was praying to God Before first battle to murder me.
From mind the shades of songs and passions Disappeared like load from misuse.
To her -- descended -- the Almighty ordered To be the fearful book of menacing news.
 * IV *  x x x Before the spring arrives there are such days: Under the thick snow cover rests the lawn, The dry-and-jolly trees are making noise, Tender and strong, the wind is warm.
And body is amazed at its own lightness, And your own home is alien to you, And song that had just previously been tiring With worry you are singing just like new.
x x x The fifth time of the year, Only the praise of his.
Breathe with the final freedom, Because love is this.
The sky has flown up high, The objects' contours are light, And the body does not celebrate any longer The anniversary of its plight.
x x x I myself have freely chosen Fate of the friend of my heart: To the freedom under gospel I allowed him to depart.
And the pigeon came back, beating On the window with all might Like from shine of divine restments, In the room it became light.
Sleep I know that you dreamed of me, That's why I could not sleep.
The muddy light had turned blue And showed me the path to keep.
You saw the queen's garden, White palace, luxurious one, And the black patterned fence Before resounding stone perron.
You went, not knowing the way, And thinking, "Faster, faster! If only to find her now, Not wake before meeting her.
" And the janitor at the red gate Shouted at you, "Where to, alack!" The ice crackled and broke, Underfoot, water went black.
"This is the lake, and inside There's an island," thus thought you.
And then suddenly from the dark Appeared a fire hot-blue.
Awakening, you did moan In harsh light of a nasty day, And then at once you called For me loudly by my name.
White House Sun is frosty.
In parade Soldiers march with all their might.
I am glad at the January noon, And my fear is very light.
Here they remember each branch And every silhouette.
The raspberry light is dripping Through a snow-whitened net.
Almost white was the house, Made of glass was the wing.
How many times with numb arm Did I hold the doorbell's ring.
How many times.
play, soldiers, I'll make my house, I'll espy You from a roof that's inclined, From the ivy that does not die.
But who at last did remove it, Took away into foreign lands Or took out from the memory Forever the road thence.
Snow flies, like a cherry blossom, Distant bagpipes desist.
And, it seems like, nobody knows That the white house does not exist.
x x x He walked over fields and over village, And asked people from afar: "Where is she, where is the happy glimmer Of her eyes that are gray stars? Here the final days of spring Come along, in turbid fire.
Still more frequent, still more tender Are the dreams I have of her.
" And he came in the dark city In the quiet evening time He was thinking then of Venice And of London all the same.
At the church both tall and dark Stepped on shining stairs' granite And he prayed then of the coming Meeting with his first delight.
And above the altar made of gold Flamed away the garden of God's rays: "Here she is, here is the happy glimmer Of gray joyous stars that are her eyes.
" x x x Wide and yellow's evening light, Tender is the April chill, You are late by many years But I am glad of you still.
Come and sit right next to me, With the happy eyes come look: Here, my childhood poetry Is in this blue notebook.
That I lived sorrowful and little Was I glad of the sun, forgive.
And forgive, that in your stead I Many others did receive.
x x x Whether to look for you on earth -- I don't know if you're dead or you live -- Or about you in the evening I should for you, departed, grieve.
All is for you: and the daily prayer And the sleeplessness' swooning flame And the white flock of my poems And my eyes' blue violent flame.
No one was dearer to me, no one, No one left me this bereft, Not even he who betrayed me to torment, Not even he who caressed, then left.
x x x No, my prince, I am not the one On whom you'd rather lay your eyes, And for long these lips of mine Do not kiss, but prophesize.
Do not think I'm in delirium Or with boredom I do whine Loudly I speak of pain: It's the very trade of mine.
And I know how to teach, That the unexpected happened, How to tame for centuries Her, whose love is so rapid.
You want glory? Ask from me For advice for this your plight, Only it is but a trap, There's no joy here and no light.
Well, go home, and forget This our meeting, I implore, And for your sin, my dear one, I'll respond before the Lord.
x x x From memory of you I will remove that day, So that your helpless-foggy look will ask this: Where did I see the Persian lilac bush, The swallows and the wooden house? Oh, how often will you recollect The sudden angst of the uncalled desires And in the pensive cities you did seek That street which was not on the map entire! Upon the sound of voice behind an open door, Upon the sight of every accidental letter, You will remember: "Here has she herself Come to assist my disbelief unfettered.
" x x x Did not scold me, did not praise me, Like friends and like enemies.
Only left his soul to me And then said, "Now keep in peace.
" And one thing worries me so: If this moment he will die, God's archangel will come to me For his soul from the sky.
How then will I hide her so, How to hide it from God's eyes? She, the soul, that cries and sings so Must be in His paradise.
x x x My shadow has remained there and is angstful, In that blue room she still to this day lives, She waits for guests from city beyond midnight And to enamel image gives a kiss.
And things are not quite well around the house: It still is dark, although they lit the flame.
Not from all this the hostess is in boredom, Not from all this the host drinks all the same And hears how on the other side of the thin wall The guest arrived talks to me at all? x x x I see capital through the flurry On this Monday night twenty-first.
Some do-nothing has made up the story That love exists on the earth.
And from laziness or from boredom All believed, and thus they live: Wait for meeting, fear the parting, And sing songs of love.
But to others opens a secret And upon them descends a still.
I by accident came upon this And since then am as if I'm ill.
x x x On the blooming lilac bushes Sky is sowing the light rain.
Beats with wings upon the window The white, the white Spirits' day.
For a friend to be returning From the sea - especial hour.
I am dreaming of the far shore, Of the stone, sand and tower.
I will enter, meeting light, On the top of one of these towers.
In the land of swamps and fields There are in memory no towers.
Only I will sit on the porch, There, where dense shadows lay.
Help me in my fright, at last, The white, the white Spirits' day.
x x x I know, that you are my reward For years of labor and of pain, For that unto the earthly pleasures I never did myself betray, For that I never ever told Unto my loved one, "You are loved.
" For that I did forgive all people You'll be my angel from above.
x x x Yes, I had loved them, those meetings of the nights - Upon small table a glass filled with ice, Above black coffee thick and smelly steam, From the red heater heavy winter heat, The stinging mirth of literary parable And first look of the friend, helpless and terrible.
x x x Not mystery and not sadness, Not the wise will of fate - These meetings have always given Impression of fight and hate.
And I, having guessed your coming's Minute and circumstance, In the bent arms the slightly Tingling feeling did sense.
And with dry fingers I mangled The colorful tablecloth.
I understood even then How small was this earth.
To my dear one Do not send a dove in my direction, Do not write tumultuous notes at all, Do not fan my face with the March breeze.
I have now entered a green heaven, Where there's calm for body and for soul Underneath the shady maple trees.
And from here I can see a town, Booths and barracks of a palace made of stone Chinese yellow bridge over the ice.
For three hours now you wait for me -- you're frozen, But you cannot move from the perron, At the stars you marvel with your eyes.
Like a gray squirrel you'll jump on the alder, Like a frightful swallow I will go, I will then call for you like a swan, So that the bridegroom would not fear In the blue and swirling falling snow To await his deceased bride alone.
x x x Has my fate really been so altered, Or is this game truly truly over? Where are winters, when I fell asleep In the morning in the sixth hour? In a new way, severely and calmly, I now live on the wild shore.
I can no longer pronounce The tender or idle word.
I can't believe that Christmas-tide is coming.
Touchingly green is this the steppe before The beaming sun.
Like a warm Wave, licks the tender shore.
When from happiness languid and tired I was, then of such quiet With trembling inexpressible I dreamed And this in my imagining I deemed The after-mortal wandering of the soul.
x x x Like a white stone at the bottom of the well, One memory lies in me.
I cannot and I do not want to struggle, It is both joy and suffering.
I think that anyone who looks into my Eyes will all at once see him.
More sad and pensive he'll become That heard the story of this suffering.
I know that the gods had turned People to objects, without killing mind, That divine sadness lived eternally.
You're turned into my memory, I find.
x x x The first ray -- as the blessing of the Lord -- Across the face of the beloved did creep, Who, sleeping, went a little pale, And then again more tightly went to sleep.
It seemed that warmth of ray of sun Appeared to him just like a kiss.
And long with these my lips I have not touched The tan strong shoulder or the dear lips.
And now, the deceased spirits in my long Disconsolate wandering along the way, I am now flying toward him as a song And I caress him with a morning ray.
x x x Not thus, from cursed lightness having disembarked, I look with worry on the chambers dark? Already used to ringing high and raw, Already judged not by the earthly law, I, like a criminal, am being drawn along To place of shame and execution long.
I see the glorious city, and the voice most dear, As though there is no secret grave to fear, Where day and night, in heat and in cold bent, I must await the Final Judgment.
x x x I was born not late and not early, This time is blessed and meet, Only God did not allow a heart To live long without deceit.
And from this it is dark in the light room, And from this do the friends I've sought, Like the sorrowful birds of evening, Sing of love that was not.
x x x Best for me loudly the gaming-poems to say, And for you the hoarse harmonica to play! And having left, hugging, for the night of late, Lose a band from a stiff, tight plait.
Best for me your child to rock and sway, And for you to make fifty rubles in a day, And to go on memory day to cemetery There to look upon the white God's lilac tree.
x x x I will lead a man to dear one -- I don't want the little joy -- And I'll quietly lay to sleep The glad, tired little boy.
In a chilly room once more I will pray to Mother of God, It is hard to be a hermit, To be happy is also hard.
Only fiery sleep will come to me, I'll enter a temple on the hill, Five-domed, white, and stone-hewn, On the paths remembered well.
x x x The spring was still mysteriously swooning, Across the hills wandered transparent wind And the deep lake was growing blue among us -- A temple forged and kept not by mankind.
You were affrighted of our first encounter, And prayed already for the second one, And now today once more is the hot evening -- How low over the mountain dropped the sun.
You aren't with me, but this is not a parting: For me triumphant news is in each moment.
I know that you can't even pronounce a word For so complete within you is the torment.
x x x In Kievan temple of the divine wisdom Falling to my knees, I did before thee vow That your way will be my way Wherever it will go.
Thus heard Yaroslav in a white coffin And angels made of gold in his stead.
Like pigeons, weave the simple words And now near the sunny heads.
And if I get weak, I dream of an icon And there are ten steps on it, all are blessed.
In menacing voice of the Sofian ringing I hear the sound of your unrest.
x x x City vanished, the last house's window Stared like one living and stark.
This place is totally unfamiliar, Smells of burning, and field is dark.
But when the curtain of thunder Moon had cut, indecisive and wan, We could see: On the hill, to the forest, Hobbled a handicapped man.
It was frightening, that he's overcoming The three horses, sated and glad, He stood up and then again waddled Under his heavy load.
We had almost failed to notice him Before the nomad-tent taking his place.
Just like stars the blue eyes were shining, Lighting the tormented face.
And I proffered to him the child, Raising arms with the trace of a chain He pronounced with joy and with ringing: "May your son live and healthy remain.
" x x x Oh, there are unrepeated words, Who ever said wasted more than he should.
Inexhaustible only is the blue Of sky and generosity of God.

by Eugene Field |

The delectable ballad of the waller lot

 Up yonder in Buena Park
There is a famous spot,
In legend and in history
Yclept the Waller Lot.
There children play in daytime And lovers stroll by dark, For 't is the goodliest trysting-place In all Buena Park.
Once on a time that beauteous maid, Sweet little Sissy Knott, Took out her pretty doll to walk Within the Waller Lot.
While thus she fared, from Ravenswood Came Injuns o'er the plain, And seized upon that beauteous maid And rent her doll in twain.
Oh, 't was a piteous thing to hear Her lamentations wild; She tore her golden curls and cried: "My child! My child! My child!" Alas, what cared those Injun chiefs How bitterly wailed she? They never had been mothers, And they could not hope to be! "Have done with tears," they rudely quoth, And then they bound her hands; For they proposed to take her off To distant border lands.
But, joy! from Mr.
Eddy's barn Doth Willie Clow behold The sight that makes his hair rise up And all his blood run cold.
He put his fingers in his mouth And whistled long and clear, And presently a goodly horde Of cow-boys did appear.
Cried Willie Clow: "My comrades bold, Haste to the Waller Lot, And rescue from that Injun band Our charming Sissy Knott!" "Spare neither Injun buck nor squaw, But smite them hide and hair! Spare neither sex nor age nor size, And no condition spare!" Then sped that cow-boy band away, Full of revengeful wrath, And Kendall Evans rode ahead Upon a hickory lath.
And next came gallant Dady Field And Willie's brother Kent, The Eddy boys and Robbie James, On murderous purpose bent.
For they were much beholden to That maid - in sooth, the lot Were very, very much in love With charming Sissy Knott.
What wonder? She was beauty's queen, And good beyond compare; Moreover, it was known she was Her wealthy father's heir! Now when the Injuns saw that band They trembled with affright, And yet they thought the cheapest thing To do was stay and fight.
So sturdily they stood their ground, Nor would their prisoner yield, Despite the wrath of Willie Clow And gallant Dady Field.
Oh, never fiercer battle raged Upon the Waller Lot, And never blood more freely flowed Than flowed for Sissy Knott! An Injun chief of monstrous size Got Kendall Evans down, And Robbie James was soon o'erthrown By one of great renown.
And Dady Field was sorely done, And Willie Clow was hurt, And all that gallant cow-boy band Lay wallowing in the dirt.
But still they strove with might and main Till all the Waller Lot Was strewn with hair and gouts of gore - All, all for Sissy Knott! Then cried the maiden in despair: "Alas, I sadly fear The battle and my hopes are lost, Unless some help appear!" Lo, as she spoke, she saw afar The rescuer looming up - The pride of all Buena Park, Clow's famous yellow pup! "Now, sick'em, Don," the maiden cried, "Now, sick'em, Don!" cried she; Obedient Don at once complied - As ordered, so did he.
He sicked'em all so passing well That, overcome by fright, The Indian horde gave up the fray And safety sought in flight.
They ran and ran and ran and ran O'er valley, plain, and hill; And if they are not walking now, Why, then, they're running still.
The cow-boys rose up from the dust With faces black and blue; "Remember, beauteous maid," said they, "We've bled and died for you!" "And though we suffer grievously, We gladly hail the lot That brings us toils and pains and wounds For charming Sissy Knott!" But Sissy Knott still wailed and wept, And still her fate reviled; For who could patch her dolly up - Who, who could mend her child? Then out her doting mother came, And soothed her daughter then; "Grieve not, my darling, I will sew Your dolly up again!" Joy soon succeeded unto grief, And tears were soon dried up, And dignities were heaped upon Clow's noble yellow pup.
Him all that goodly company Did as deliverer hail - They tied a ribbon round his neck, Another round his tail.
And every anniversary day Upon the Waller Lot They celebrate the victory won For charming Sissy Knott.
And I, the poet of these folk, Am ordered to compile This truly famous history In good old ballad style.
Which having done as to have earned The sweet rewards of fame, In what same style I did begin I now shall end the same.
So let us sing: Long live the King, Long live the Queen and Jack, Long live the ten-spot and the ace, And also all the pack.

by William Butler Yeats |

Supernatural Songs

Ribh at the Tomb of Baile and Aillinn Because you have found me in the pitch-dark night With open book you ask me what I do.
Mark and digest my tale, carry it afar To those that never saw this tonsured head Nor heard this voice that ninety years have cracked.
Of Baile and Aillinn you need not speak, All know their tale, all know what leaf and twig, What juncture of the apple and the yew, Surmount their bones; but speak what none have heard.
The miracle that gave them such a death Transfigured to pure substance what had once Been bone and sinew; when such bodies join There is no touching here, nor touching there, Nor straining joy, but whole is joined to whole; For the intercourse of angels is a light Where for its moment both seem lost, consumed.
Here in the pitch-dark atmosphere above The trembling of the apple and the yew, Here on the anniversary of their death, The anniversary of their first embrace, Those lovers, purified by tragedy, Hurry into each other's arms; these eyes, By water, herb and solitary prayer Made aquiline, are open to that light.
Though somewhat broken by the leaves, that light Lies in a circle on the grass; therein I turn the pages of my holy book.
Ribh denounces Patrick An abstract Greek absurdity has crazed the man - Recall that masculine Trinity.
Man, woman, child (daughter or son), That's how all natural or supernatural stories run.
Natural and supernatural with the self-same ring are wed.
As man, as beast, as an ephemeral fly begets, Godhead begets Godhead, For things below are copies, the Great Smaragdine Tablet said.
Yet all must copy copies, all increase their kind; When the conflagration of their passion sinks, damped by the body or the mind, That juggling nature mounts, her coil in their embraces twined.
The mirror-scaled serpent is multiplicity, But all that run in couples, on earth, in flood or air, share God that is but three, And could beget or bear themselves could they but love as He.
Ribh in Ecstasy What matter that you understood no word! Doubtless I spoke or sang what I had heard In broken sentences.
My soul had found All happiness in its own cause or ground.
Godhead on Godhead in sexual spasm begot Godhead.
Some shadow fell.
My soul forgot Those amorous cries that out of quiet come And must the common round of day resume.
There There all the barrel-hoops are knit, There all the serpent-tails are bit, There all the gyres converge in one, There all the planets drop in the Sun.
Ribh considers Christian Love insufficient Why should I seek for love or study it? It is of God and passes human wit.
I study hatred with great diligence, For that's a passion in my own control, A sort of besom that can clear the soul Of everything that is not mind or sense.
Why do I hate man, woman or event? That is a light my jealous soul has sent.
From terror and deception freed it can Discover impurities, can show at last How soul may walk when all such things are past, How soul could walk before such things began.
Then my delivered soul herself shall learn A darker knowledge and in hatred turn From every thought of God mankind has had.
Thought is a garment and the soul's a bride That cannot in that trash and tinsel hide: Hatred of God may bring the soul to God.
At stroke of midnight soul cannot endure A bodily or mental furniture.
What can she take until her Master give! Where can she look until He make the show! What can she know until He bid her know! How can she live till in her blood He live! VI.
He and She As the moon sidles up Must she sidle up, As trips the scared moon Away must she trip: 'His light had struck me blind Dared I stop".
She sings as the moon sings: 'I am I, am I; The greater grows my light The further that I fly.
' All creation shivers With that sweet cry.
What Magic Drum? He holds him from desire, all but stops his breathing lest primordial Motherhood forsake his limbs, the child no longer rest, Drinking joy as it were milk upon his breast.
Through light-obliterating garden foliage what magic drum? Down limb and breast or down that glimmering belly move his mouth and sinewy tongue.
What from the forest came? What beast has licked its young? VIII.
Whence had they come? Eternity is passion, girl or boy Cry at the onset of their sexual joy 'For ever and for ever'; then awake Ignorant what Dramatis personae spake; A passion-driven exultant man sings out Sentences that he has never thought; The Flagellant lashes those submissive loins Ignorant what that dramatist enjoins, What master made the lash.
Whence had they come, The hand and lash that beat down frigid Rome? What sacred drama through her body heaved When world-transforming Charlemagne was conceived? IX.
The Four Ages of Man He with body waged a fight, But body won; it walks upright.
Then he struggled with the heart; Innocence and peace depart.
Then he struggled with the mind; His proud heart he left behind.
Now his wars on God begin; At stroke of midnight God shall win.
Conjunctions If Jupiter and Saturn meet, What a cop of mummy wheat! The sword's a cross; thereon He died: On breast of Mars the goddess sighed.
A Needle's Eye All the stream that's roaring by Came out of a needle's eye; Things unborn, things that are gone, From needle's eye still goad it on.
Meru Civilisation is hooped together, brought Under a mle, under the semblance of peace By manifold illusion; but man's life is thought, And he, despite his terror, cannot cease Ravening through century after century, Ravening, raging, and uprooting that he may come Into the desolation of reality: Egypt and Greece, good-bye, and good-bye, Rome! Hermits upon Mount Meru or Everest, Caverned in night under the drifted snow, Or where that snow and winter's dreadful blast Beat down upon their naked bodies, know That day brings round the night, that before dawn His glory and his monuments are gone.

by Thomas Hardy |

Lausanne In Gibbons Old Garden: 11-12 p.m.

 (The 110th anniversary of the completion of the "Decline and Fall" at the same hour and place) 

 A spirit seems to pass, 
 Formal in pose, but grave and grand withal: 
 He contemplates a volume stout and tall, 
And far lamps fleck him through the thin acacias.
Anon the book is closed, With "It is finished!" And at the alley's end He turns, and soon on me his glances bend; And, as from earth, comes speech--small, muted, yet composed.
"How fares the Truth now?--Ill? --Do pens but slily further her advance? May one not speed her but in phrase askance? Do scribes aver the Comic to be Reverend still? "Still rule those minds on earth At whom sage Milton's wormwood words were hurled: 'Truth like a bastard comes into the world Never without ill-fame to him who gives her birth'?"

by Thomas Hardy |

Her Immortality

 UPON a noon I pilgrimed through
A pasture, mile by mile,
Unto the place where I last saw
My dead Love's living smile.
And sorrowing I lay me down Upon the heated sod: It seemed as if my body pressed The very ground she trod.
I lay, and thought; and in a trance She came and stood me by-- The same, even to the marvellous ray That used to light her eye.
"You draw me, and I come to you, My faithful one," she said, In voice that had the moving tone It bore in maidenhead.
She said: "'Tis seven years since I died: Few now remember me; My husband clasps another bride; My children mothers she.
My brethren, sisters, and my friends Care not to meet my sprite: Who prized me most I did not know Till I passed down from sight.
" I said: "My days are lonely here; I need thy smile alway: I'll use this night my ball or blade, And join thee ere the day.
" A tremor stirred her tender lips, Which parted to dissuade: "That cannot be, O friend," she cried; "Think, I am but a Shade! "A Shade but in its mindful ones Has immortality; By living, me you keep alive, By dying you slay me.
"In you resides my single power Of sweet continuance here; On your fidelity I count Through many a coming year.
" --I started through me at her plight, So suddenly confessed: Dismissing late distaste for life, I craved its bleak unrest.
"I will not die, my One of all!-- To lengthen out thy days I'll guard me from minutest harms That may invest my ways!" She smiled and went.
Since then she comes Oft when her birth-moon climbs, Or at the seasons' ingresses Or anniversary times; But grows my grief.
When I surcease, Through whom alone lives she, Ceases my Love, her words, her ways, Never again to be!

by Emily Dickinson |

One Year ago -- jots what?

 One Year ago -- jots what?
God -- spell the word! I -- can't --
Was't Grace? Not that --
Was't Glory? That -- will do --
Spell slower -- Glory --

Such Anniversary shall be --