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Best Famous Baby Poems

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

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by Sylvia Plath | |

Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.
One year in every ten I manage it_____ A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face featureless, fine Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin O my enemy.
Do I terrify?------- The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The Peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand in foot ------ The big strip tease.
Gentleman , ladies These are my hands My knees.
I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut As a seashell.
They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: 'A miracle!' That knocks me out.
There is a charge For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart--- It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair on my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash--- You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there---- A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware.
Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
(1962)


by Allen Ginsberg | |

Sunflower Sutra

I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look for the sunset over the box house hills and cry.
Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery.
The only water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily.
Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust-- --I rushed up enchanted--it was my first sunflower, memories of Blake--my visions--Harlem and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past-- and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye-- corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb, leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear, Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then! The grime was no man's grime but death and human locomotives, all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt--industrial-- modern--all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown-- and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos--all these entangled in your mummied roots--and you standing before me in the sunset, all your glory in your form! A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze! How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of your railroad and your flower soul? Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive? You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower! And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not! So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter, and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul too, and anyone who'll listen, --We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.


by Sylvia Plath | |

The Arrival of the Bee Box

I ordered this, clean wood box 
Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift.
I would say it was the coffin of a midget Or a square baby Were there not such a din in it.
The box is locked, it is dangerous.
I have to live with it overnight And I can't keep away from it.
There are no windows, so I can't see what is in there.
There is only a little grid, no exit.
I put my eye to the grid.
It is dark, dark, With the swarmy feeling of African hands Minute and shrunk for export, Black on black, angrily clambering.
How can I let them out? It is the noise that appalls me most of all, The unintelligible syllables.
It is like a Roman mob, Small, taken one by one, but my god, together! I lay my ear to furious Latin.
I am not a Caesar.
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
They can be sent back.
They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.
I wonder how hungry they are.
I wonder if they would forget me If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.
There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades, And the petticoats of the cherry.
They might ignore me immediately In my moon suit and funeral veil.
I am no source of honey So why should they turn on me? Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.
The box is only temporary.


by Elizabeth Bishop | |

The Armadillo

for Robert Lowell


This is the time of year
when almost every night
the frail, illegal fire balloons appear.
Climbing the mountain height, rising toward a saint still honored in these parts, the paper chambers flush and fill with light that comes and goes, like hearts.
Once up against the sky it's hard to tell them from the stars-- planets, that is--the tinted ones: Venus going down, or Mars, or the pale green one.
With a wind, they flare and falter, wobble and toss; but if it's still they steer between the kite sticks of the Southern Cross, receding, dwindling, solemnly and steadily forsaking us, or, in the downdraft from a peak, suddenly turning dangerous.
Last night another big one fell.
It splattered like an egg of fire against the cliff behind the house.
The flame ran down.
We saw the pair of owls who nest there flying up and up, their whirling black-and-white stained bright pink underneath, until they shrieked up out of sight.
The ancient owls' nest must have burned.
Hastily, all alone, a glistening armadillo left the scene, rose-flecked, head down, tail down, and then a baby rabbit jumped out, short-eared, to our surprise.
So soft!--a handful of intangible ash with fixed, ignited eyes.
Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry! O falling fire and piercing cry and panic, and a weak mailed fist clenched ignorant against the sky!


by Alfred Lord Tennyson | |

Pelleas And Ettarre

 King Arthur made new knights to fill the gap 
Left by the Holy Quest; and as he sat 
In hall at old Caerleon, the high doors 
Were softly sundered, and through these a youth, 
Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the fields 
Past, and the sunshine came along with him.
`Make me thy knight, because I know, Sir King, All that belongs to knighthood, and I love.
' Such was his cry: for having heard the King Had let proclaim a tournament--the prize A golden circlet and a knightly sword, Full fain had Pelleas for his lady won The golden circlet, for himself the sword: And there were those who knew him near the King, And promised for him: and Arthur made him knight.
And this new knight, Sir Pelleas of the isles-- But lately come to his inheritance, And lord of many a barren isle was he-- Riding at noon, a day or twain before, Across the forest called of Dean, to find Caerleon and the King, had felt the sun Beat like a strong knight on his helm, and reeled Almost to falling from his horse; but saw Near him a mound of even-sloping side, Whereon a hundred stately beeches grew, And here and there great hollies under them; But for a mile all round was open space, And fern and heath: and slowly Pelleas drew To that dim day, then binding his good horse To a tree, cast himself down; and as he lay At random looking over the brown earth Through that green-glooming twilight of the grove, It seemed to Pelleas that the fern without Burnt as a living fire of emeralds, So that his eyes were dazzled looking at it.
Then o'er it crost the dimness of a cloud Floating, and once the shadow of a bird Flying, and then a fawn; and his eyes closed.
And since he loved all maidens, but no maid In special, half-awake he whispered, `Where? O where? I love thee, though I know thee not.
For fair thou art and pure as Guinevere, And I will make thee with my spear and sword As famous--O my Queen, my Guinevere, For I will be thine Arthur when we meet.
' Suddenly wakened with a sound of talk And laughter at the limit of the wood, And glancing through the hoary boles, he saw, Strange as to some old prophet might have seemed A vision hovering on a sea of fire, Damsels in divers colours like the cloud Of sunset and sunrise, and all of them On horses, and the horses richly trapt Breast-high in that bright line of bracken stood: And all the damsels talked confusedly, And one was pointing this way, and one that, Because the way was lost.
And Pelleas rose, And loosed his horse, and led him to the light.
There she that seemed the chief among them said, `In happy time behold our pilot-star! Youth, we are damsels-errant, and we ride, Armed as ye see, to tilt against the knights There at Caerleon, but have lost our way: To right? to left? straight forward? back again? Which? tell us quickly.
' Pelleas gazing thought, `Is Guinevere herself so beautiful?' For large her violet eyes looked, and her bloom A rosy dawn kindled in stainless heavens, And round her limbs, mature in womanhood; And slender was her hand and small her shape; And but for those large eyes, the haunts of scorn, She might have seemed a toy to trifle with, And pass and care no more.
But while he gazed The beauty of her flesh abashed the boy, As though it were the beauty of her soul: For as the base man, judging of the good, Puts his own baseness in him by default Of will and nature, so did Pelleas lend All the young beauty of his own soul to hers, Believing her; and when she spake to him, Stammered, and could not make her a reply.
For out of the waste islands had he come, Where saving his own sisters he had known Scarce any but the women of his isles, Rough wives, that laughed and screamed against the gulls, Makers of nets, and living from the sea.
Then with a slow smile turned the lady round And looked upon her people; and as when A stone is flung into some sleeping tarn, The circle widens till it lip the marge, Spread the slow smile through all her company.
Three knights were thereamong; and they too smiled, Scorning him; for the lady was Ettarre, And she was a great lady in her land.
Again she said, `O wild and of the woods, Knowest thou not the fashion of our speech? Or have the Heavens but given thee a fair face, Lacking a tongue?' `O damsel,' answered he, `I woke from dreams; and coming out of gloom Was dazzled by the sudden light, and crave Pardon: but will ye to Caerleon? I Go likewise: shall I lead you to the King?' `Lead then,' she said; and through the woods they went.
And while they rode, the meaning in his eyes, His tenderness of manner, and chaste awe, His broken utterances and bashfulness, Were all a burthen to her, and in her heart She muttered, `I have lighted on a fool, Raw, yet so stale!' But since her mind was bent On hearing, after trumpet blown, her name And title, `Queen of Beauty,' in the lists Cried--and beholding him so strong, she thought That peradventure he will fight for me, And win the circlet: therefore flattered him, Being so gracious, that he wellnigh deemed His wish by hers was echoed; and her knights And all her damsels too were gracious to him, For she was a great lady.
And when they reached Caerleon, ere they past to lodging, she, Taking his hand, `O the strong hand,' she said, `See! look at mine! but wilt thou fight for me, And win me this fine circlet, Pelleas, That I may love thee?' Then his helpless heart Leapt, and he cried, `Ay! wilt thou if I win?' `Ay, that will I,' she answered, and she laughed, And straitly nipt the hand, and flung it from her; Then glanced askew at those three knights of hers, Till all her ladies laughed along with her.
`O happy world,' thought Pelleas, `all, meseems, Are happy; I the happiest of them all.
' Nor slept that night for pleasure in his blood, And green wood-ways, and eyes among the leaves; Then being on the morrow knighted, sware To love one only.
And as he came away, The men who met him rounded on their heels And wondered after him, because his face Shone like the countenance of a priest of old Against the flame about a sacrifice Kindled by fire from heaven: so glad was he.
Then Arthur made vast banquets, and strange knights From the four winds came in: and each one sat, Though served with choice from air, land, stream, and sea, Oft in mid-banquet measuring with his eyes His neighbour's make and might: and Pelleas looked Noble among the noble, for he dreamed His lady loved him, and he knew himself Loved of the King: and him his new-made knight Worshipt, whose lightest whisper moved him more Than all the rangd reasons of the world.
Then blushed and brake the morning of the jousts, And this was called `The Tournament of Youth:' For Arthur, loving his young knight, withheld His older and his mightier from the lists, That Pelleas might obtain his lady's love, According to her promise, and remain Lord of the tourney.
And Arthur had the jousts Down in the flat field by the shore of Usk Holden: the gilded parapets were crowned With faces, and the great tower filled with eyes Up to the summit, and the trumpets blew.
There all day long Sir Pelleas kept the field With honour: so by that strong hand of his The sword and golden circlet were achieved.
Then rang the shout his lady loved: the heat Of pride and glory fired her face; her eye Sparkled; she caught the circlet from his lance, And there before the people crowned herself: So for the last time she was gracious to him.
Then at Caerleon for a space--her look Bright for all others, cloudier on her knight-- Lingered Ettarre: and seeing Pelleas droop, Said Guinevere, `We marvel at thee much, O damsel, wearing this unsunny face To him who won thee glory!' And she said, `Had ye not held your Lancelot in your bower, My Queen, he had not won.
' Whereat the Queen, As one whose foot is bitten by an ant, Glanced down upon her, turned and went her way.
But after, when her damsels, and herself, And those three knights all set their faces home, Sir Pelleas followed.
She that saw him cried, `Damsels--and yet I should be shamed to say it-- I cannot bide Sir Baby.
Keep him back Among yourselves.
Would rather that we had Some rough old knight who knew the worldly way, Albeit grizzlier than a bear, to ride And jest with: take him to you, keep him off, And pamper him with papmeat, if ye will, Old milky fables of the wolf and sheep, Such as the wholesome mothers tell their boys.
Nay, should ye try him with a merry one To find his mettle, good: and if he fly us, Small matter! let him.
' This her damsels heard, And mindful of her small and cruel hand, They, closing round him through the journey home, Acted her hest, and always from her side Restrained him with all manner of device, So that he could not come to speech with her.
And when she gained her castle, upsprang the bridge, Down rang the grate of iron through the groove, And he was left alone in open field.
`These be the ways of ladies,' Pelleas thought, `To those who love them, trials of our faith.
Yea, let her prove me to the uttermost, For loyal to the uttermost am I.
' So made his moan; and darkness falling, sought A priory not far off, there lodged, but rose With morning every day, and, moist or dry, Full-armed upon his charger all day long Sat by the walls, and no one opened to him.
And this persistence turned her scorn to wrath.
Then calling her three knights, she charged them, `Out! And drive him from the walls.
' And out they came But Pelleas overthrew them as they dashed Against him one by one; and these returned, But still he kept his watch beneath the wall.
Thereon her wrath became a hate; and once, A week beyond, while walking on the walls With her three knights, she pointed downward, `Look, He haunts me--I cannot breathe--besieges me; Down! strike him! put my hate into your strokes, And drive him from my walls.
' And down they went, And Pelleas overthrew them one by one; And from the tower above him cried Ettarre, `Bind him, and bring him in.
' He heard her voice; Then let the strong hand, which had overthrown Her minion-knights, by those he overthrew Be bounden straight, and so they brought him in.
Then when he came before Ettarre, the sight Of her rich beauty made him at one glance More bondsman in his heart than in his bonds.
Yet with good cheer he spake, `Behold me, Lady, A prisoner, and the vassal of thy will; And if thou keep me in thy donjon here, Content am I so that I see thy face But once a day: for I have sworn my vows, And thou hast given thy promise, and I know That all these pains are trials of my faith, And that thyself, when thou hast seen me strained And sifted to the utmost, wilt at length Yield me thy love and know me for thy knight.
' Then she began to rail so bitterly, With all her damsels, he was stricken mute; But when she mocked his vows and the great King, Lighted on words: `For pity of thine own self, Peace, Lady, peace: is he not thine and mine?' `Thou fool,' she said, `I never heard his voice But longed to break away.
Unbind him now, And thrust him out of doors; for save he be Fool to the midmost marrow of his bones, He will return no more.
' And those, her three, Laughed, and unbound, and thrust him from the gate.
And after this, a week beyond, again She called them, saying, `There he watches yet, There like a dog before his master's door! Kicked, he returns: do ye not hate him, ye? Ye know yourselves: how can ye bide at peace, Affronted with his fulsome innocence? Are ye but creatures of the board and bed, No men to strike? Fall on him all at once, And if ye slay him I reck not: if ye fail, Give ye the slave mine order to be bound, Bind him as heretofore, and bring him in: It may be ye shall slay him in his bonds.
' She spake; and at her will they couched their spears, Three against one: and Gawain passing by, Bound upon solitary adventure, saw Low down beneath the shadow of those towers A villainy, three to one: and through his heart The fire of honour and all noble deeds Flashed, and he called, `I strike upon thy side-- The caitiffs!' `Nay,' said Pelleas, `but forbear; He needs no aid who doth his lady's will.
' So Gawain, looking at the villainy done, Forbore, but in his heat and eagerness Trembled and quivered, as the dog, withheld A moment from the vermin that he sees Before him, shivers, ere he springs and kills.
And Pelleas overthrew them, one to three; And they rose up, and bound, and brought him in.
Then first her anger, leaving Pelleas, burned Full on her knights in many an evil name Of craven, weakling, and thrice-beaten hound: `Yet, take him, ye that scarce are fit to touch, Far less to bind, your victor, and thrust him out, And let who will release him from his bonds.
And if he comes again'--there she brake short; And Pelleas answered, `Lady, for indeed I loved you and I deemed you beautiful, I cannot brook to see your beauty marred Through evil spite: and if ye love me not, I cannot bear to dream you so forsworn: I had liefer ye were worthy of my love, Than to be loved again of you--farewell; And though ye kill my hope, not yet my love, Vex not yourself: ye will not see me more.
' While thus he spake, she gazed upon the man Of princely bearing, though in bonds, and thought, `Why have I pushed him from me? this man loves, If love there be: yet him I loved not.
Why? I deemed him fool? yea, so? or that in him A something--was it nobler than myself? Seemed my reproach? He is not of my kind.
He could not love me, did he know me well.
Nay, let him go--and quickly.
' And her knights Laughed not, but thrust him bounden out of door.
Forth sprang Gawain, and loosed him from his bonds, And flung them o'er the walls; and afterward, Shaking his hands, as from a lazar's rag, `Faith of my body,' he said, `and art thou not-- Yea thou art he, whom late our Arthur made Knight of his table; yea and he that won The circlet? wherefore hast thou so defamed Thy brotherhood in me and all the rest, As let these caitiffs on thee work their will?' And Pelleas answered, `O, their wills are hers For whom I won the circlet; and mine, hers, Thus to be bounden, so to see her face, Marred though it be with spite and mockery now, Other than when I found her in the woods; And though she hath me bounden but in spite, And all to flout me, when they bring me in, Let me be bounden, I shall see her face; Else must I die through mine unhappiness.
' And Gawain answered kindly though in scorn, `Why, let my lady bind me if she will, And let my lady beat me if she will: But an she send her delegate to thrall These fighting hands of mine--Christ kill me then But I will slice him handless by the wrist, And let my lady sear the stump for him, Howl as he may.
But hold me for your friend: Come, ye know nothing: here I pledge my troth, Yea, by the honour of the Table Round, I will be leal to thee and work thy work, And tame thy jailing princess to thine hand.
Lend me thine horse and arms, and I will say That I have slain thee.
She will let me in To hear the manner of thy fight and fall; Then, when I come within her counsels, then From prime to vespers will I chant thy praise As prowest knight and truest lover, more Than any have sung thee living, till she long To have thee back in lusty life again, Not to be bound, save by white bonds and warm, Dearer than freedom.
Wherefore now thy horse And armour: let me go: be comforted: Give me three days to melt her fancy, and hope The third night hence will bring thee news of gold.
' Then Pelleas lent his horse and all his arms, Saving the goodly sword, his prize, and took Gawain's, and said, `Betray me not, but help-- Art thou not he whom men call light-of-love?' `Ay,' said Gawain, `for women be so light.
' Then bounded forward to the castle walls, And raised a bugle hanging from his neck, And winded it, and that so musically That all the old echoes hidden in the wall Rang out like hollow woods at hunting-tide.
Up ran a score of damsels to the tower; `Avaunt,' they cried, `our lady loves thee not.
' But Gawain lifting up his vizor said, `Gawain am I, Gawain of Arthur's court, And I have slain this Pelleas whom ye hate: Behold his horse and armour.
Open gates, And I will make you merry.
' And down they ran, Her damsels, crying to their lady, `Lo! Pelleas is dead--he told us--he that hath His horse and armour: will ye let him in? He slew him! Gawain, Gawain of the court, Sir Gawain--there he waits below the wall, Blowing his bugle as who should say him nay.
' And so, leave given, straight on through open door Rode Gawain, whom she greeted courteously.
`Dead, is it so?' she asked.
`Ay, ay,' said he, `And oft in dying cried upon your name.
' `Pity on him,' she answered, `a good knight, But never let me bide one hour at peace.
' `Ay,' thought Gawain, `and you be fair enow: But I to your dead man have given my troth, That whom ye loathe, him will I make you love.
' So those three days, aimless about the land, Lost in a doubt, Pelleas wandering Waited, until the third night brought a moon With promise of large light on woods and ways.
Hot was the night and silent; but a sound Of Gawain ever coming, and this lay-- Which Pelleas had heard sung before the Queen, And seen her sadden listening--vext his heart, And marred his rest--`A worm within the rose.
' `A rose, but one, none other rose had I, A rose, one rose, and this was wondrous fair, One rose, a rose that gladdened earth and sky, One rose, my rose, that sweetened all mine air-- I cared not for the thorns; the thorns were there.
`One rose, a rose to gather by and by, One rose, a rose, to gather and to wear, No rose but one--what other rose had I? One rose, my rose; a rose that will not die,-- He dies who loves it,--if the worm be there.
' This tender rhyme, and evermore the doubt, `Why lingers Gawain with his golden news?' So shook him that he could not rest, but rode Ere midnight to her walls, and bound his horse Hard by the gates.
Wide open were the gates, And no watch kept; and in through these he past, And heard but his own steps, and his own heart Beating, for nothing moved but his own self, And his own shadow.
Then he crost the court, And spied not any light in hall or bower, But saw the postern portal also wide Yawning; and up a slope of garden, all Of roses white and red, and brambles mixt And overgrowing them, went on, and found, Here too, all hushed below the mellow moon, Save that one rivulet from a tiny cave Came lightening downward, and so spilt itself Among the roses, and was lost again.
Then was he ware of three pavilions reared Above the bushes, gilden-peakt: in one, Red after revel, droned her lurdane knights Slumbering, and their three squires across their feet: In one, their malice on the placid lip Frozen by sweet sleep, four of her damsels lay: And in the third, the circlet of the jousts Bound on her brow, were Gawain and Ettarre.
Back, as a hand that pushes through the leaf To find a nest and feels a snake, he drew: Back, as a coward slinks from what he fears To cope with, or a traitor proven, or hound Beaten, did Pelleas in an utter shame Creep with his shadow through the court again, Fingering at his sword-handle until he stood There on the castle-bridge once more, and thought, `I will go back, and slay them where they lie.
' And so went back, and seeing them yet in sleep Said, `Ye, that so dishallow the holy sleep, Your sleep is death,' and drew the sword, and thought, `What! slay a sleeping knight? the King hath bound And sworn me to this brotherhood;' again, `Alas that ever a knight should be so false.
' Then turned, and so returned, and groaning laid The naked sword athwart their naked throats, There left it, and them sleeping; and she lay, The circlet of her tourney round her brows, And the sword of the tourney across her throat.
And forth he past, and mounting on his horse Stared at her towers that, larger than themselves In their own darkness, thronged into the moon.
Then crushed the saddle with his thighs, and clenched His hands, and maddened with himself and moaned: `Would they have risen against me in their blood At the last day? I might have answered them Even before high God.
O towers so strong, Huge, solid, would that even while I gaze The crack of earthquake shivering to your base Split you, and Hell burst up your harlot roofs Bellowing, and charred you through and through within, Black as the harlot's heart--hollow as a skull! Let the fierce east scream through your eyelet-holes, And whirl the dust of harlots round and round In dung and nettles! hiss, snake--I saw him there-- Let the fox bark, let the wolf yell.
Who yells Here in the still sweet summer night, but I-- I, the poor Pelleas whom she called her fool? Fool, beast--he, she, or I? myself most fool; Beast too, as lacking human wit--disgraced, Dishonoured all for trial of true love-- Love?--we be all alike: only the King Hath made us fools and liars.
O noble vows! O great and sane and simple race of brutes That own no lust because they have no law! For why should I have loved her to my shame? I loathe her, as I loved her to my shame.
I never loved her, I but lusted for her-- Away--' He dashed the rowel into his horse, And bounded forth and vanished through the night.
Then she, that felt the cold touch on her throat, Awaking knew the sword, and turned herself To Gawain: `Liar, for thou hast not slain This Pelleas! here he stood, and might have slain Me and thyself.
' And he that tells the tale Says that her ever-veering fancy turned To Pelleas, as the one true knight on earth, And only lover; and through her love her life Wasted and pined, desiring him in vain.
But he by wild and way, for half the night, And over hard and soft, striking the sod From out the soft, the spark from off the hard, Rode till the star above the wakening sun, Beside that tower where Percivale was cowled, Glanced from the rosy forehead of the dawn.
For so the words were flashed into his heart He knew not whence or wherefore: `O sweet star, Pure on the virgin forehead of the dawn!' And there he would have wept, but felt his eyes Harder and drier than a fountain bed In summer: thither came the village girls And lingered talking, and they come no more Till the sweet heavens have filled it from the heights Again with living waters in the change Of seasons: hard his eyes; harder his heart Seemed; but so weary were his limbs, that he, Gasping, `Of Arthur's hall am I, but here, Here let me rest and die,' cast himself down, And gulfed his griefs in inmost sleep; so lay, Till shaken by a dream, that Gawain fired The hall of Merlin, and the morning star Reeled in the smoke, brake into flame, and fell.
He woke, and being ware of some one nigh, Sent hands upon him, as to tear him, crying, `False! and I held thee pure as Guinevere.
' But Percivale stood near him and replied, `Am I but false as Guinevere is pure? Or art thou mazed with dreams? or being one Of our free-spoken Table hast not heard That Lancelot'--there he checked himself and paused.
Then fared it with Sir Pelleas as with one Who gets a wound in battle, and the sword That made it plunges through the wound again, And pricks it deeper: and he shrank and wailed, `Is the Queen false?' and Percivale was mute.
`Have any of our Round Table held their vows?' And Percivale made answer not a word.
`Is the King true?' `The King!' said Percivale.
`Why then let men couple at once with wolves.
What! art thou mad?' But Pelleas, leaping up, Ran through the doors and vaulted on his horse And fled: small pity upon his horse had he, Or on himself, or any, and when he met A cripple, one that held a hand for alms-- Hunched as he was, and like an old dwarf-elm That turns its back upon the salt blast, the boy Paused not, but overrode him, shouting, `False, And false with Gawain!' and so left him bruised And battered, and fled on, and hill and wood Went ever streaming by him till the gloom, That follows on the turning of the world, Darkened the common path: he twitched the reins, And made his beast that better knew it, swerve Now off it and now on; but when he saw High up in heaven the hall that Merlin built, Blackening against the dead-green stripes of even, `Black nest of rats,' he groaned, `ye build too high.
' Not long thereafter from the city gates Issued Sir Lancelot riding airily, Warm with a gracious parting from the Queen, Peace at his heart, and gazing at a star And marvelling what it was: on whom the boy, Across the silent seeded meadow-grass Borne, clashed: and Lancelot, saying, `What name hast thou That ridest here so blindly and so hard?' `No name, no name,' he shouted, `a scourge am I To lash the treasons of the Table Round.
' `Yea, but thy name?' `I have many names,' he cried: `I am wrath and shame and hate and evil fame, And like a poisonous wind I pass to blast And blaze the crime of Lancelot and the Queen.
' `First over me,' said Lancelot, `shalt thou pass.
' `Fight therefore,' yelled the youth, and either knight Drew back a space, and when they closed, at once The weary steed of Pelleas floundering flung His rider, who called out from the dark field, `Thou art as false as Hell: slay me: I have no sword.
' Then Lancelot, `Yea, between thy lips--and sharp; But here I will disedge it by thy death.
' `Slay then,' he shrieked, `my will is to be slain,' And Lancelot, with his heel upon the fallen, Rolling his eyes, a moment stood, then spake: `Rise, weakling; I am Lancelot; say thy say.
' And Lancelot slowly rode his warhorse back To Camelot, and Sir Pelleas in brief while Caught his unbroken limbs from the dark field, And followed to the city.
It chanced that both Brake into hall together, worn and pale.
There with her knights and dames was Guinevere.
Full wonderingly she gazed on Lancelot So soon returned, and then on Pelleas, him Who had not greeted her, but cast himself Down on a bench, hard-breathing.
`Have ye fought?' She asked of Lancelot.
`Ay, my Queen,' he said.
`And hast thou overthrown him?' `Ay, my Queen.
' Then she, turning to Pelleas, `O young knight, Hath the great heart of knighthood in thee failed So far thou canst not bide, unfrowardly, A fall from HIM?' Then, for he answered not, `Or hast thou other griefs? If I, the Queen, May help them, loose thy tongue, and let me know.
' But Pelleas lifted up an eye so fierce She quailed; and he, hissing `I have no sword,' Sprang from the door into the dark.
The Queen Looked hard upon her lover, he on her; And each foresaw the dolorous day to be: And all talk died, as in a grove all song Beneath the shadow of some bird of prey; Then a long silence came upon the hall, And Modred thought, `The time is hard at hand.
'


by Emily Dickinson | |

Trudging to Eden looking backward

 Trudging to Eden, looking backward,
I met Somebody's little Boy
Asked him his name -- He lisped me "Trotwood" --
Lady, did He belong to thee?

Would it comfort -- to know I met him --
And that He didn't look afraid?
I couldn't weep -- for so many smiling
New Acquaintance -- this Baby made --


by Robert Burns | |

89. The Ordination

 KILMARNOCK wabsters, fidge an’ claw,
 An’ pour your creeshie nations;
An’ ye wha leather rax an’ draw,
 Of a’ denominations;
Swith to the Ligh Kirk, ane an’ a’
 An’ there tak up your stations;
Then aff to Begbie’s in a raw,
 An’ pour divine libations
 For joy this day.
Curst Common-sense, that imp o’ hell, Cam in wi’ Maggie Lauder; 1 But Oliphant 2 aft made her yell, An’ Russell 3 sair misca’d her: This day Mackinlay 4 taks the flail, An’ he’s the boy will blaud her! He’ll clap a shangan on her tail, An’ set the bairns to daud her Wi’ dirt this day.
Mak haste an’ turn King David owre, And lilt wi’ holy clangor; O’ double verse come gie us four, An’ skirl up the Bangor: This day the kirk kicks up a stoure; Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, For Heresy is in her pow’r, And gloriously she’ll whang her Wi’ pith this day.
Come, let a proper text be read, An’ touch it aff wi’ vigour, How graceless Ham 5 leugh at his dad, Which made Canaan a nigger; Or Phineas 6 drove the murdering blade, Wi’ whore-abhorring rigour; Or Zipporah, 7 the scauldin jad, Was like a bluidy tiger I’ th’ inn that day.
There, try his mettle on the creed, An’ bind him down wi’ caution, That stipend is a carnal weed He taks by for the fashion; And gie him o’er the flock, to feed, And punish each transgression; Especial, rams that cross the breed, Gie them sufficient threshin; Spare them nae day.
Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, An’ toss thy horns fu’ canty; Nae mair thou’lt rowt out-owre the dale, Because thy pasture’s scanty; For lapfu’s large o’ gospel kail Shall fill thy crib in plenty, An’ runts o’ grace the pick an’ wale, No gi’en by way o’ dainty, But ilka day.
Nae mair by Babel’s streams we’ll weep, To think upon our Zion; And hing our fiddles up to sleep, Like baby-clouts a-dryin! Come, screw the pegs wi’ tunefu’ cheep, And o’er the thairms be tryin; Oh, rare to see our elbucks wheep, And a’ like lamb-tails flyin Fu’ fast this day.
Lang, Patronage, with rod o’ airn, Has shor’d the Kirk’s undoin; As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, Has proven to its ruin: 8 Our patron, honest man! Glencairn, He saw mischief was brewin; An’ like a godly, elect bairn, He’s waled us out a true ane, And sound, this day.
Now Robertson 9 harangue nae mair, But steek your gab for ever; Or try the wicked town of Ayr, For there they’ll think you clever; Or, nae reflection on your lear, Ye may commence a shaver; Or to the Netherton 10 repair, An’ turn a carpet weaver Aff-hand this day.
Mu’trie 11 and you were just a match, We never had sic twa drones; Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, Just like a winkin baudrons, And aye he catch’d the tither wretch, To fry them in his caudrons; But now his Honour maun detach, Wi’ a’ his brimstone squadrons, Fast, fast this day.
See, see auld Orthodoxy’s faes She’s swingein thro’ the city! Hark, how the nine-tail’d cat she plays! I vow it’s unco pretty: There, Learning, with his Greekish face, Grunts out some Latin ditty; And Common-sense is gaun, she says, To mak to Jamie Beattie Her plaint this day.
But there’s Morality himsel’, Embracing all opinions; Hear, how he gies the tither yell, Between his twa companions! See, how she peels the skin an’ fell, As ane were peelin onions! Now there, they’re packed aff to hell, An’ banish’d our dominions, Henceforth this day.
O happy day! rejoice, rejoice! Come bouse about the porter! Morality’s demure decoys Shall here nae mair find quarter: Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys That heresy can torture; They’ll gie her on a rape a hoyse, And cowe her measure shorter By th’ head some day.
Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, And here’s—for a conclusion— To ev’ry New Light 12 mother’s son, From this time forth, Confusion! If mair they deave us wi’ their din, Or Patronage intrusion, We’ll light a spunk, and ev’ry skin, We’ll rin them aff in fusion Like oil, some day.
Note 1.
Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the admission of the late reverend and worthy Mr.
Lihdsay to the “Laigh Kirk.
”—R.
B.
[back] Note 2.
Rev.
James Oliphant, minister of Chapel of Ease, Kilmarnock.
[back] Note 3.
Rev.
John Russell of Kilmarnock.
[back] Note 4.
Rev.
James Mackinlay.
[back] Note 5.
Genesis ix.
22.
—R.
B.
[back] Note 6.
Numbers xxv.
8.
—R.
B.
[back] Note 7.
Exodus iv.
52.
—R.
B.
[back] Note 8.
Rev.
Wm.
Boyd, pastor of Fenwick.
[back] Note 9.
Rev.
John Robertson.
[back] Note 10.
A district of Kilmarnock.
[back] Note 11.
The Rev.
John Multrie, a “Moderate,” whom Mackinlay succeeded.
[back] Note 12.
“New Light” is a cant phrase in the west of Scotland for those religious opinions which Dr.
Taylor of Norwich has so strenuously defended.
—R.
B.
[back]


by Robert Browning | |

Protus

 Among these latter busts we count by scores,
Half-emperors and quarter-emperors,
Each with his bay-leaf fillet, loose-thonged vest,
Loricand low-browed Gorgon on the breast,---
One loves a baby face, with violets there,
Violets instead of laurel in the hair,
As those were all the little locks could bear.
Now read here.
``Protus ends a period ``Of empery beginning with a god; ``Born in the porphyry chamber at Byzant, ``Queens by his cradle, proud and ministrant: ``And if he quickened breath there, 'twould like fire ``Pantingly through the dim vast realm transpire.
``A fame that he was missing spread afar: ``The world from its four corners, rose in war, ``Till he was borne out on a balcony ``To pacify the world when it should see.
``The captains ranged before him, one, his hand ``Made baby points at, gained the chief command.
``And day by day more beautiful he grew ``In shape, all said, in feature and in hue, ``While young Greek sculptors, gazing on the child, ``Because with old Greek sculptore reconciled.
``Already sages laboured to condense ``In easy tomes a life's experience: ``And artists took grave counsel to impart ``In one breath and one hand-sweep, all their art--- ``To make his graces prompt as blossoming ``Of plentifully-watered palms in spring: ``Since well beseems it, whoso mounts the throne, ``For beauty, knowledge, strength, should stand alone, ``And mortals love the letters of his name.
'' ---Stop! Have you turned two pages? Still the same.
New reign, same date.
The scribe goes on to say How that same year, on such a month and day, ``John the Pannonian, groundedly believed ``A Blacksmith's bastard, whose hard hand reprieved ``The Empire from its fate the year before,--- ``Came, had a mind to take the crown, and wore ``The same for six years (during which the Huns ``Kept off their fingers from us), till his sons ``Put something in his liquor''---and so forth.
Then a new reign.
Stay---``Take at its just worth'' (Subjoins an annotator) ``what I give ``As hearsay.
Some think, John let Protus live ``And slip away.
'Tis said, he reached man's age ``At some blind northern court; made, first a page, ``Then tutor to the children; last, of use ``About the hunting-stables.
I deduce ``He wrote the little tract `On worming dogs,' ``Whereof the name in sundry catalogues ``Is extant yet.
A Protus of the race ``Is rumoured to have died a monk in Thrace,--- ``And if the same, he reached senility.
'' Here's John the Smith's rough-hammered head.
Great eye, Gross jaw and griped lips do what granite can To give you the crown-grasper.
What a man!


by Robert Browning | |

Fra Lippo Lippi

 I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave! 
You need not clap your torches to my face.
Zooks, what's to blame? you think you see a monk! What, 'tis past midnight, and you go the rounds, And here you catch me at an alley's end Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar? The Carmine's my cloister: hunt it up, Do,--harry out, if you must show your zeal, Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole, And nip each softling of a wee white mouse, Weke, weke, that's crept to keep him company! Aha, you know your betters! Then, you'll take Your hand away that's fiddling on my throat, And please to know me likewise.
Who am I? Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend Three streets off--he's a certain .
.
.
how d'ye call? Master--a .
.
.
Cosimo of the Medici, I' the house that caps the corner.
Boh! you were best! Remember and tell me, the day you're hanged, How you affected such a gullet's-gripe! But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves Pick up a manner nor discredit you: Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets And count fair price what comes into their net? He's Judas to a tittle, that man is! Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends.
Lord, I'm not angry! Bid your hang-dogs go Drink out this quarter-florin to the health Of the munificent House that harbours me (And many more beside, lads! more beside!) And all's come square again.
I'd like his face-- His, elbowing on his comrade in the door With the pike and lantern,--for the slave that holds John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair With one hand ("Look you, now," as who should say) And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped! It's not your chance to have a bit of chalk, A wood-coal or the like? or you should see! Yes, I'm the painter, since you style me so.
What, brother Lippo's doings, up and down, You know them and they take you? like enough! I saw the proper twinkle in your eye-- 'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first.
Let's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch.
Here's spring come, and the nights one makes up bands To roam the town and sing out carnival, And I've been three weeks shut within my mew, A-painting for the great man, saints and saints And saints again.
I could not paint all night-- Ouf! I leaned out of window for fresh air.
There came a hurry of feet and little feet, A sweep of lute strings, laughs, and whifts of song, -- Flower o' the broom, Take away love, and our earth is a tomb! Flower o' the quince, I let Lisa go, and what good in life since? Flower o' the thyme--and so on.
Round they went.
Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight,--three slim shapes, And a face that looked up .
.
.
zooks, sir, flesh and blood, That's all I'm made of! Into shreds it went, Curtain and counterpane and coverlet, All the bed-furniture--a dozen knots, There was a ladder! Down I let myself, Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped, And after them.
I came up with the fun Hard by Saint Laurence, hail fellow, well met,-- Flower o' the rose, If I've been merry, what matter who knows? And so as I was stealing back again To get to bed and have a bit of sleep Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast With his great round stone to subdue the flesh, You snap me of the sudden.
Ah, I see! Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head-- Mine's shaved--a monk, you say--the sting 's in that! If Master Cosimo announced himself, Mum's the word naturally; but a monk! Come, what am I a beast for? tell us, now! I was a baby when my mother died And father died and left me in the street.
I starved there, God knows how, a year or two On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks, Refuse and rubbish.
One fine frosty day, My stomach being empty as your hat, The wind doubled me up and down I went.
Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand, (Its fellow was a stinger as I knew) And so along the wall, over the bridge, By the straight cut to the convent.
Six words there, While I stood munching my first bread that month: "So, boy, you're minded," quoth the good fat father Wiping his own mouth, 'twas refection-time,-- "To quit this very miserable world? Will you renounce" .
.
.
"the mouthful of bread?" thought I; By no means! Brief, they made a monk of me; I did renounce the world, its pride and greed, Palace, farm, villa, shop, and banking-house, Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici Have given their hearts to--all at eight years old.
Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure, 'T#was not for nothing--the good bellyful, The warm serge and the rope that goes all round, And day-long blessed idleness beside! "Let's see what the urchin's fit for"--that came next.
Not overmuch their way, I must confess.
Such a to-do! They tried me with their books: Lord, they'd have taught me Latin in pure waste! Flower o' the clove.
All the Latin I construe is, "amo" I love! But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets Eight years together, as my fortune was, Watching folk's faces to know who will fling The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires, And who will curse or kick him for his pains,-- Which gentleman processional and fine, Holding a candle to the Sacrament, Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch The droppings of the wax to sell again, Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped,-- How say I?--nay, which dog bites, which lets drop His bone from the heap of offal in the street,-- Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike, He learns the look of things, and none the less For admonition from the hunger-pinch.
I had a store of such remarks, be sure, Which, after I found leisure, turned to use.
I drew men's faces on my copy-books, Scrawled them within the antiphonary's marge, Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes, Found eyes and nose and chin for A's and B's, And made a string of pictures of the world Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun, On the wall, the bench, the door.
The monks looked black.
"Nay," quoth the Prior, "turn him out, d'ye say? In no wise.
Lose a crow and catch a lark.
What if at last we get our man of parts, We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese And Preaching Friars, to do our church up fine And put the front on it that ought to be!" And hereupon he bade me daub away.
Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank, Never was such prompt disemburdening.
First, every sort of monk, the black and white, I drew them, fat and lean: then, folk at church, From good old gossips waiting to confess Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle-ends,-- To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot, Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there With the little children round him in a row Of admiration, half for his beard and half For that white anger of his victim's son Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm, Signing himself with the other because of Christ (Whose sad face on the cross sees only this After the passion of a thousand years) Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head, (Which the intense eyes looked through) came at eve On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf, Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers (The brute took growling), prayed, and so was gone.
I painted all, then cried " `T#is ask and have; Choose, for more's ready!"--laid the ladder flat, And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall.
The monks closed in a circle and praised loud Till checked, taught what to see and not to see, Being simple bodies,--"That's the very man! Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog! That woman's like the Prior's niece who comes To care about his asthma: it's the life!'' But there my triumph's straw-fire flared and funked; Their betters took their turn to see and say: The Prior and the learned pulled a face And stopped all that in no time.
"How? what's here? Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all! Faces, arms, legs, and bodies like the true As much as pea and pea! it's devil's-game! Your business is not to catch men with show, With homage to the perishable clay, But lift them over it, ignore it all, Make them forget there's such a thing as flesh.
Your business is to paint the souls of men-- Man's soul, and it's a fire, smoke .
.
.
no, it's not .
.
.
It's vapour done up like a new-born babe-- (In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth) It's .
.
.
well, what matters talking, it's the soul! Give us no more of body than shows soul! Here's Giotto, with his Saint a-praising God, That sets us praising--why not stop with him? Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head With wonder at lines, colours, and what not? Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms! Rub all out, try at it a second time.
Oh, that white smallish female with the breasts, She's just my niece .
.
.
Herodias, I would say,-- Who went and danced and got men's heads cut off! Have it all out!" Now, is this sense, I ask? A fine way to paint soul, by painting body So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further And can't fare worse! Thus, yellow does for white When what you put for yellow's simply black, And any sort of meaning looks intense When all beside itself means and looks nought.
Why can't a painter lift each foot in turn, Left foot and right foot, go a double step, Make his flesh liker and his soul more like, Both in their order? Take the prettiest face, The Prior's niece .
.
.
patron-saint--is it so pretty You can't discover if it means hope, fear, Sorrow or joy? won't beauty go with these? Suppose I've made her eyes all right and blue, Can't I take breath and try to add life's flash, And then add soul and heighten them three-fold? Or say there's beauty with no soul at all-- (I never saw it--put the case the same--) If you get simple beauty and nought else, You get about the best thing God invents: That's somewhat: and you'll find the soul you have missed, Within yourself, when you return him thanks.
"Rub all out!" Well, well, there's my life, in short, And so the thing has gone on ever since.
I'm grown a man no doubt, I've broken bounds: You should not take a fellow eight years old And make him swear to never kiss the girls.
I'm my own master, paint now as I please-- Having a friend, you see, in the Corner-house! Lord, it's fast holding by the rings in front-- Those great rings serve more purposes than just To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse! And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work, The heads shake still--"It's art's decline, my son! You're not of the true painters, great and old; Brother Angelico's the man, you'll find; Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer: Fag on at flesh, you'll never make the third!" Flower o' the pine, You keep your mistr .
.
.
manners, and I'll stick to mine! I'm not the third, then: bless us, they must know! Don't you think they're the likeliest to know, They with their Latin? So, I swallow my rage, Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint To please them--sometimes do and sometimes don't; For, doing most, there's pretty sure to come A turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints-- A laugh, a cry, the business of the world-- (Flower o' the peach Death for us all, and his own life for each!) And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over, The world and life's too big to pass for a dream, And I do these wild things in sheer despite, And play the fooleries you catch me at, In pure rage! The old mill-horse, out at grass After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so, Although the miller does not preach to him The only good of grass is to make chaff.
What would men have? Do they like grass or no-- May they or mayn't they? all I want's the thing Settled for ever one way.
As it is, You tell too many lies and hurt yourself: You don't like what you only like too much, You do like what, if given you at your word, You find abundantly detestable.
For me, I think I speak as I was taught; I always see the garden and God there A-making man's wife: and, my lesson learned, The value and significance of flesh, I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards.
You understand me: I'm a beast, I know.
But see, now--why, I see as certainly As that the morning-star's about to shine, What will hap some day.
We've a youngster here Comes to our convent, studies what I do, Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop: His name is Guidi--he'll not mind the monks-- They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk-- He picks my practice up--he'll paint apace.
I hope so--though I never live so long, I know what's sure to follow.
You be judge! You speak no Latin more than I, belike; However, you're my man, you've seen the world --The beauty and the wonder and the power, The shapes of things, their colours, lights and shades, Changes, surprises,--and God made it all! --For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no, For this fair town's face, yonder river's line, The mountain round it and the sky above, Much more the figures of man, woman, child, These are the frame to? What's it all about? To be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon, Wondered at? oh, this last of course!--you say.
But why not do as well as say,--paint these Just as they are, careless what comes of it? God's works--paint any one, and count it crime To let a truth slip.
Don't object, "His works Are here already; nature is complete: Suppose you reproduce her--(which you can't) There's no advantage! you must beat her, then.
" For, don't you mark? we're made so that we love First when we see them painted, things we have passed Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see; And so they are better, painted--better to us, Which is the same thing.
Art was given for that; God uses us to help each other so, Lending our minds out.
Have you noticed, now, Your cullion's hanging face? A bit of chalk, And trust me but you should, though! How much more, If I drew higher things with the same truth! That were to take the Prior's pulpit-place, Interpret God to all of you! Oh, oh, It makes me mad to see what men shall do And we in our graves! This world's no blot for us, Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good: To find its meaning is my meat and drink.
"Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer!" Strikes in the Prior: "when your meaning's plain It does not say to folk--remember matins, Or, mind you fast next Friday!" Why, for this What need of art at all? A skull and bones, Two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, what's best, A bell to chime the hour with, does as well.
I painted a Saint Laurence six months since At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style: "How looks my painting, now the scaffold's down?" I ask a brother: "Hugely," he returns-- "Already not one phiz of your three slaves Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side, But's scratched and prodded to our heart's content, The pious people have so eased their own With coming to say prayers there in a rage: We get on fast to see the bricks beneath.
Expect another job this time next year, For pity and religion grow i' the crowd-- Your painting serves its purpose!" Hang the fools! --That is--you'll not mistake an idle word Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, God wot, Tasting the air this spicy night which turns The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine! Oh, the church knows! don't misreport me, now! It's natural a poor monk out of bounds Should have his apt word to excuse himself: And hearken how I plot to make amends.
I have bethought me: I shall paint a piece .
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There's for you! Give me six months, then go, see Something in Sant' Ambrogio's! Bless the nuns! They want a cast o' my office.
I shall paint God in the midst, Madonna and her babe, Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel-brood, Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet As puff on puff of grated orris-root When ladies crowd to Church at midsummer.
And then i' the front, of course a saint or two-- Saint John' because he saves the Florentines, Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and white The convent's friends and gives them a long day, And Job, I must have him there past mistake, The man of Uz (and Us without the z, Painters who need his patience).
Well, all these Secured at their devotion, up shall come Out of a corner when you least expect, As one by a dark stair into a great light, Music and talking, who but Lippo! I!-- Mazed, motionless, and moonstruck--I'm the man! Back I shrink--what is this I see and hear? I, caught up with my monk's-things by mistake, My old serge gown and rope that goes all round, I, in this presence, this pure company! Where's a hole, where's a corner for escape? Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing Forward, puts out a soft palm--"Not so fast!" --Addresses the celestial presence, "nay-- He made you and devised you, after all, Though he's none of you! Could Saint John there draw-- His camel-hair make up a painting brush? We come to brother Lippo for all that, Iste perfecit opus! So, all smile-- I shuffle sideways with my blushing face Under the cover of a hundred wings Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you're gay And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut, Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops The hothead husband! Thus I scuttle off To some safe bench behind, not letting go The palm of her, the little lily thing That spoke the good word for me in the nick, Like the Prior's niece .
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Saint Lucy, I would say.
And so all's saved for me, and for the church A pretty picture gained.
Go, six months hence! Your hand, sir, and good-bye: no lights, no lights! The street's hushed, and I know my own way back, Don't fear me! There's the grey beginning.
Zooks!


by Robert Browning | |

Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came

My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the working of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.
What else should he be set for, with his staff? What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare All travellers who might find him posted there, And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare, If at his council I should turn aside Into that ominous tract which, all agree, Hides the Dark Tower.
Yet acquiescingly I did turn as he pointed: neither pride Nor hope rekindling at the end descried, So much as gladness that some end might be.
For, what with my whole world-wide wandering, What with my search drawn out through years, my hope Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope With that obstreperous joy success would bring, - I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring My heart made, finding failure in its scope.
As when a sick man very near to death Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end The tears and takes the farewell of each friend, And hears one bid the other go, draw breath Freelier outside, ('since all is o'er,' he saith, 'And the blow fallen no grieving can amend';) While some discuss if near the other graves Be room enough for this, and when a day Suits best for carrying the corpse away, With care about the banners, scarves and staves: And still the man hears all, and only craves He may not shame such tender love and stay.
Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest, Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ So many times among 'The Band' - to wit, The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed Their steps - that just to fail as they, seemed best, And all the doubt was now - should I be fit? So, quiet as despair, I turned from him, That hateful cripple, out of his highway Into the path he pointed.
All the day Had been a dreary one at best, and dim Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.
For mark! no sooner was I fairly found Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, Than, pausing to throw backward a last view O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round: Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.
I might go on; naught else remained to do.
So, on I went.
I think I never saw Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve: For flowers - as well expect a cedar grove! But cockle, spurge, according to their law Might propagate their kind, with none to awe, You'd think: a burr had been a treasure-trove.
No! penury, inertness and grimace, In some strange sort, were the land's portion.
'See Or shut your eyes,' said Nature peevishly, 'It nothing skills: I cannot help my case: 'Tis the Last Judgement's fire must cure this place, Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free.
' If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents Were jealous else.
What made those holes and rents In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to balk All hope of greeness? 'tis a brute must walk Pushing their life out, with a brute's intents.
As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.
One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, Stood stupefied, however he came there: Thrust out past service from the devil's stud! Alive? he might be dead for aught I know, With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane; Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain.
I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.
As a man calls for wine before he fights, I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.
Think first, fight afterwards - this soldier's art: One taste of the old time sets all to rights.
Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face Beneath its garniture of curly gold, Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold An arm in mine to fix me to the place, That way he used.
Alas, one night's disgrace! Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.
Giles then, the soul of honour - there he stands Frank as ten years ago when knighted first.
What honest man should dare (he said) he durst.
Good - but the scene shifts - faugh! what hangman-hands Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands Read it.
Poor traitor, spit upon and curst! Better this present than a past like that; Back therefore to my darkening path again! No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.
Will the night send a howlet or a bat? I asked: when something on the dismal flat Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.
A sudden little river crossed my path As unexpected as a serpent comes.
No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms; This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath For the fiend's glowing hoof - to see the wrath Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.
So petty yet so spiteful! All along, Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it; Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit Of mute despair, a suicidal throng: The river which had done them all the wrong, Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.
Which, while I forded, - good saints, how I feared To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek, Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard! - It may have been a water-rat I speared, But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.
Glad was I when I reached the other bank.
Now for a better country.
Vain presage! Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage, Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank, Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage - The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque.
What penned them there, with all the plain to choose? No foot-print leading to that horrid mews, None out of it.
Mad brewage set to work Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.
And more than that - a furlong on - why, there! What bad use was that engine for, that wheel, Or brake, not wheel - that harrow fit to reel Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware, Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.
Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth, Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood Changes and off he goes!) within a rood - Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.
Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim, Now patches where some leanness of the soil's Broke into moss or substances like boils; Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.
And just as far as ever from the end! Naught in the distance but the evening, naught To point my footstep further! At the thought, A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend, Sailed past, not beat his wide wing dragon-penned That brushed my cap - perchance the guide I sought.
For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, 'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place All round to mountains - with such name to grace Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.
How thus they had surprised me, - solve it, you! How to get from then was no clearer case.
Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick Of mischief happened to me, God knows when - In a bad dream perhaps.
Here ended, the, Progress this way.
When, in the very nick Of giving up, one time more, came a click As when a trap shuts - you're inside the den! Burningly it came on me all at once, This was the place! those two hills on the right, Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight; While to the left, a tall scalped mountain.
.
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Dunce, Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, After a life spent training for the sight! What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart, Built of brown stone, without a counterpart In the whole world.
The tempest's mocking elf Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf He strikes on, only when the timbers start.
Not see? because of night perhaps? - why, day Came back again for that! before it left, The dying sunset kindled through a cleft: The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, - 'Now stab and end the creature - to the heft!' Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled Increasing like a bell.
Names in my ears Of all the lost adventurers my peers, - How such a one was strong, and such was bold, And such was fortunate, yet each of old Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.
There they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, met To view the last of me, a living frame For one more picture! in a sheet of flame I saw them and I knew them all.
And yet Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, And blew.
'Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.
'