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Best Famous Easter Poems

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

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by Matthew Arnold |

The Forsaken Merman

 Come, dear children, let us away;
Down and away below!
Now my brothers call from the bay,
Now the great winds shoreward blow,
Now the salt tides seaward flow;
Now the wild white horses play,
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
Children dear, let us away! This way, this way! Call her once before you go— Call once yet! In a voice that she will know: 'Margaret! Margaret!' Children's voices should be dear (Call once more) to a mother's ear; Children's voices, wild with pain— Surely she will come again! Call her once and come away; This way, this way! 'Mother dear, we cannot stay! The wild white horses foam and fret.
' Margaret! Margaret! Come, dear children, come away down; Call no more! One last look at the white-walled town, And the little grey church on the windy shore; Then come down! She will not come though you call all day; Come away, come away! Children dear, was it yesterday We heard the sweet bells over the bay? In the caverns where we lay, Through the surf and through the swell, The far-off sound of a silver bell? Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, Where the winds are all asleep; Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, Where the salt weed sways in the stream, Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, Dry their mail and bask in the brine; Where great whales come sailing by, Sail and sail, with unshut eye, Round the world for ever and aye? When did music come this way? Children dear, was it yesterday? Children dear, was it yesterday (Call yet once) that she went away? Once she sate with you and me, On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, And the youngest sate on her knee.
She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of a far-off bell.
She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea; She said: 'I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little grey church on the shore today.
'Twill be Easter-time in the world—ah me! And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here with thee.
' I said: 'Go up, dear heart, through the waves; Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves!' She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.
Children dear, was it yesterday? Children dear, were we long alone? 'The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan; Long prayers,' I said, 'in the world they say; Come,' I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay.
We went up the beach, by the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town; Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, To the little grey church on the windy hill.
From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.
We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.
She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: 'Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here! Dear heart,' I said, 'we are long alone; The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.
' But, ah, she gave me never a look, For her eyes we sealed to the holy book! Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.
Come away, children, call no more! Come away, come down, call no more! Down, down, down! Down to the depths of the sea! She sits at her wheel in the humming town, Singing most joyfully.
Hark, what she sings: 'O joy, O joy, For the humming street, and the child with its toy! For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well; For the wheel where I spun, And the blessed light of the sun!' And so she sings her fill, Singing most joyfully, Till the shuttle drops from her hand, And the whizzing wheel stands still.
She steals to the window, and looks at the sand, And over the sand at the sea; And her eyes are set in a stare; And anon there breaks a sigh, And anon there drops a tear, From a sorrow-clouded eye, And a heart sorrow-laden, A long, long sigh; For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden, And the gleam of her golden hair.
Come away, away children; Come children, come down! The hoarse wind blows coldly; Lights shine in the town.
She will start from her slumber When gusts shake the door; She will hear the winds howling, Will hear the waves roar.
We shall see, while above us The waves roar and whirl, A ceiling of amber, A pavement of pearl, Singing: 'Here came a mortal, But faithless was she! And alone dwell for ever The kings of the sea.
' But, children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow, When clear fall the moonlight, When spring-tides are low; When sweet airs come seaward From heaths starred with broom, And high rocks throw mildly On the blanched sands a gloom; Up the still, glistening beaches, Up the creeks we will hie, Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand-hills, At the white sleeping town; At the church on the hillside— And then come back down.
Singing: 'There dwells a loved one, But cruel is she! She left lonely for ever The kings of the sea.

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 William Butler Yeats |

The Hour Before Dawn

 A cursing rogue with a merry face,
A bundle of rags upon a crutch,
Stumbled upon that windy place
Called Cruachan, and it was as much
As the one sturdy leg could do
To keep him upright while he cursed.
He had counted, where long years ago Queen Maeve's nine Maines had been nursed, A pair of lapwings, one old sheep, And not a house to the plain's edge, When close to his right hand a heap Of grey stones and a rocky ledge Reminded him that he could make.
If he but shifted a few stones, A shelter till the daylight broke.
But while he fumbled with the stones They toppled over; 'Were it not I have a lucky wooden shin I had been hurt'; and toppling brought Before his eyes, where stones had been, A dark deep hollow in the rock.
He gave a gasp and thought to have fled, Being certain it was no right rock Because an ancient history said Hell Mouth lay open near that place, And yet stood still, because inside A great lad with a beery face Had tucked himself away beside A ladle and a tub of beer, And snored, no phantom by his look.
So with a laugh at his own fear He crawled into that pleasant nook.
'Night grows uneasy near the dawn Till even I sleep light; but who Has tired of his own company? What one of Maeve's nine brawling sons Sick of his grave has wakened me? But let him keep his grave for once That I may find the sleep I have lost.
' What care I if you sleep or wake? But I'Il have no man call me ghost.
' Say what you please, but from daybreak I'll sleep another century.
' And I will talk before I sleep And drink before I talk.
' And he Had dipped the wooden ladle deep Into the sleeper's tub of beer Had not the sleeper started up.
Before you have dipped it in the beer I dragged from Goban's mountain-top I'll have assurance that you are able To value beer; no half-legged fool Shall dip his nose into my ladle Merely for stumbling on this hole In the bad hour before the dawn.
' 'Why beer is only beer.
' 'But say 'I'll sleep until the winter's gone, Or maybe to Midsummer Day,' And drink and you will sleep that length.
' 'I'd like to sleep till winter's gone Or till the sun is in his srrength.
This blast has chilled me to the bone.
' 'I had no better plan at first.
I thought to wait for that or this; Maybe the weather was accursed Or I had no woman there to kiss; So slept for half a year or so; But year by year I found that less Gave me such pleasure I'd forgo Even a half-hour's nothingness, And when at one year's end I found I had not waked a single minute, I chosc this burrow under ground.
I'll sleep away all time within it: My sleep were now nine centuries But for those mornings when I find The lapwing at their foolish dies And the sheep bleating at the wind As when I also played the fool.
' The beggar in a rage began Upon his hunkers in the hole, 'It's plain that you are no right man To mock at everything I love As if it were not worth, the doing.
I'd have a merry life enough If a good Easter wind were blowing, And though the winter wind is bad I should not be too down in the mouth For anything you did or said If but this wind were in the south.
' 'You cry aloud, O would 'twere spring Or that the wind would shift a point, And do not know that you would bring, If time were suppler in the joint, Neither the spring nor the south wind But the hour when you shall pass away And leave no smoking wick behind, For all life longs for the Last Day And there's no man but cocks his ear To know when Michael's trumpet cries 'That flesh and bone may disappear, And souls as if they were but sighs, And there be nothing but God left; But, I aone being blessed keep Like some old rabbit to my cleft And wait Him in a drunken sleep.
' He dipped his ladle in the tub And drank and yawned and stretched him out, The other shouted, 'You would rob My life of every pleasant thought And every comfortable thing, And so take that and that.
' Thereon He gave him a great pummelling, But might have pummelled at a stone For all the sleeper knew or cared; And after heaped up stone on stone, And then, grown weary, prayed and cursed And heaped up stone on stone again, And prayed and cursed and cursed and bed From Maeve and all that juggling plain, Nor gave God thanks till overhead The clouds were brightening with the dawn.

by Rudyard Kipling |

A Nativity

The Babe was laid in the Manger
 Between the gentle kine --
All safe from cold and danger --
 "But it was not so with mine,
 (With mine! With mine!)
 "Is it well with the child, is it well?"
 The waiting mother prayed.
"For I know not how he fell, And I know not where he is laid.
" A Star stood forth in Heaven; The Watchers ran to see The Sign of the Promise given -- "But there comes no sign to me.
(To me! To me!) "My child died in the dark.
Is it well with the child, is it well? There was none to tend him or mark, And I know not how he fell.
" The Cross was raised on high; The Mother grieved beside -- "But the Mother saw Him die And took Him when He died.
(He died! He died!) "Seemly and undefiled His burial-place was made -- Is it well, is it well with the child? For I know not where he is laid.
" On the dawning of Easter Day Comes Mary Magdalene; But the Stone was rolled away, And the Body was not within -- (Within! Within!) "Ah, who will answer my word? The broken mother prayed.
"They have taken away my Lord, And I know not where He is laid.
" .
"The Star stands forth in Heaven.
The watchers watch in vain For Sign of the Promise given Of peace on Earth again -- (Again! Again!) "But I know for Whom he fell" -- The steadfast mother smiled, "Is it well with the child -- is it well? It is well -- it is well with the child!"

by Rudyard Kipling |

Christmas in India

 Dim dawn behind the tamerisks -- the sky is saffron-yellow --
 As the women in the village grind the corn,
And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow
 That the Day, the staring Easter Day is born.
Oh the white dust on the highway! Oh the stenches in the byway! Oh the clammy fog that hovers And at Home they're making merry 'neath the white and scarlet berry -- What part have India's exiles in their mirth? Full day begind the tamarisks -- the sky is blue and staring -- As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke, And they bear One o'er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring, To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke.
Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly -- Call on Rama -- he may hear, perhaps, your voice! With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars, And to-day we bid "good Christian men rejoice!" High noon behind the tamarisks -- the sun is hot above us -- As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan.
They will drink our healths at dinner -- those who tell us how they love us, And forget us till another year be gone! Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching! Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain! Youth was cheap -- wherefore we sold it.
Gold was good -- we hoped to hold it, And to-day we know the fulness of our gain.
Grey dusk behind the tamarisks -- the parrots fly together -- As the sun is sinking slowly over Home; And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether.
That drags us back how'er so far we roam.
Hard her service, poor her payment -- she is ancient, tattered raiment -- India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind.
If a year of life be lent her, if her temple's shrine we enter, The door is hut -- we may not look behind.
Black night behind the tamarisks -- the owls begin their chorus -- As the conches from the temple scream and bray.
With the fruitless years behind us, and the hopeless years before us, Let us honor, O my brother, Christmas Day! Call a truce, then, to our labors -- let us feast with friends and neighbors, And be merry as the custom of our caste; For if "faint and forced the laughter," and if sadness follow after, We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.

by Rudyard Kipling |

The Ballad of Fishers Boarding-House

 'T was Fultah Fisher's boarding-house,
 Where sailor-men reside,
And there were men of all the ports
 From Mississip to Clyde,
And regally they spat and smoked,
 And fearsomely they lied.
They lied about the purple Sea That gave them scanty bread, They lied about the Earth beneath, The Heavens overhead, For they had looked too often on Black rum when that was red.
They told their tales of wreck and wrong, Of shame and lust and fraud, They backed their toughest statements with The Brimstone of the Lord, And crackling oaths went to and fro Across the fist-banged board.
And there was Hans the blue-eyed Dane, Bull-throated, bare of arm, Who carried on his hairy chest The maid Ultruda's charm -- The little silver crucifix That keeps a man from harm.
And there was Jake Withouth-the-Ears, And Pamba the Malay, And Carboy Gin the Guinea cook, And Luz from Vigo Bay, And Honest Jack who sold them slops And harvested their pay.
And there was Salem Hardieker, A lean Bostonian he -- Russ, German, English, Halfbreed, Finn, Yank, Dane, and Portuguee, At Fultah Fisher's boarding-house The rested from the sea.
Now Anne of Austria shared their drinks, Collinga knew her fame, From Tarnau in Galicia To Juan Bazaar she came, To eat the bread of infamy And take the wage of shame.
She held a dozen men to heel -- Rich spoil of war was hers, In hose and gown and ring and chain, From twenty mariners, And, by Port Law, that week, men called her Salem Hardieker's.
But seamen learnt -- what landsmen know -- That neither gifts nor gain Can hold a winking Light o' Love Or Fancy's flight restrain, When Anne of Austria rolled her eyes On Hans the blue-eyed Dane.
Since Life is strife, and strife means knife, From Howrah to the Bay, And he may die before the dawn Who liquored out the day, In Fultah Fisher's boarding-house We woo while yet we may.
But cold was Hans the blue-eyed Dane, Bull-throated, bare of arm, And laughter shook the chest beneath The maid Ultruda's charm -- The little silver crucifix That keeps a man from harm.
"You speak to Salem Hardieker; "You was his girl, I know.
"I ship mineselfs to-morrow, see, "Und round the Skaw we go, "South, down the Cattegat, by Hjelm, "To Besser in Saro.
" When love rejected turns to hate, All ill betide the man.
"You speak to Salem Hardieker" -- She spoke as woman can.
A scream -- a sob -- "He called me -- names!" And then the fray began.
An oath from Salem Hardieker, A shriek upon the stairs, A dance of shadows on the wall, A knife-thrust unawares -- And Hans came down, as cattle drop, Across the broken chairs.
In Anne of Austria's trembling hands The weary head fell low: -- "I ship mineselfs to-morrow, straight "For Besser in Saro; "Und there Ultruda comes to me "At Easter, und I go "South, down the Cattegat -- What's here? "There -- are -- no -- lights -- to guide!" The mutter ceased, the spirit passed, And Anne of Austria cried In Fultah Fisher's boarding-house When Hans the mighty died.
Thus slew they Hans the blue-eyed Dane, Bull-throated, bare of arm, But Anne of Austria looted first The maid Ultruda's charm -- The little silver crucifix That keeps a man from harm.

by Robert Herrick |


 Down with the rosemary and bays,
Down with the misletoe;
Instead of holly, now up-raise
The greener box, for show.
The holly hitherto did sway; Let box now domineer, Until the dancing Easter-day, Or Easter's eve appear.
Then youthful box, which now hath grace Your houses to renew, Grown old, surrender must his place Unto the crisped yew.
When yew is out, then birch comes in, And many flowers beside, Both of a fresh and fragrant kin, To honour Whitsuntide.
Green rushes then, and sweetest bents, With cooler oaken boughs, Come in for comely ornaments, To re-adorn the house.
Thus times do shift; each thing his turn does hold; New things succeed, as former things grow old.

by Lewis Carroll |

Another Acrostic ( In the style of Father William )

 "Are you deaf, Father William!" the young man said, 
"Did you hear what I told you just now? 
"Excuse me for shouting! Don't waggle your head 
"Like a blundering, sleepy old cow! 
"A little maid dwelling in Wallington Town, 
"Is my friend, so I beg to remark: 
"Do you think she'd be pleased if a book were sent down 
"Entitled 'The Hunt of the Snark?'" 

"Pack it up in brown paper!" the old man cried, 
"And seal it with olive-and-dove.
"I command you to do it!" he added with pride, "Nor forget, my good fellow to send her beside "Easter Greetings, and give her my love.

by Emily Dickinson |

If He dissolve -- then

 If He dissolve -- then --
there is nothing -- more --
Eclipse -- at Midnight --
It was dark -- before --

Sunset -- at Easter --
Blindness -- on the Dawn --
Faint Star of Bethlehem --
Gone down!

Would but some God -- inform Him --
Or it be too late!
Say -- that the pulse just lisps --
The Chariots wait --

Say -- that a little life -- for His --
Is leaking -- red --
His little Spaniel -- tell Him!
Will He heed?

by Robert Browning |

The Boy And the Angel

 Morning, evening, noon and night,
``Praise God!; sang Theocrite.
Then to his poor trade he turned, Whereby the daily meal was earned.
Hard he laboured, long and well; O'er his work the boy's curls fell.
But ever, at each period, He stopped and sang, ``Praise God!'' Then back again his curls he threw, And cheerful turned to work anew.
Said Blaise, the listening monk, ``Well done; ``I doubt not thou art heard, my son: ``As well as if thy voice to-day ``Were praising God, the Pope's great way.
``This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome ``Praises God from Peter's dome.
'' Said Theocrite, ``Would God that I ``Might praise him, that great way, and die!'' Night passed, day shone, And Theocrite was gone.
With God a day endures alway, A thousand years are but a day.
God said in heaven, ``Nor day nor night ``Now brings the voice of my delight.
'' Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth, Spread his wings and sank to earth; Entered, in flesh, the empty cell, Lived there, and played the craftsman well; And morning, evening, noon and night, Praised God in place of Theocrite.
And from a boy, to youth he grew: The man put off the stripling's hue: The man matured and fell away Into the season of decay: And ever o'er the trade he bent, And ever lived on earth content.
(He did God's will; to him, all one If on the earth or in the sun.
) God said, ``A praise is in mine ear; ``There is no doubt in it, no fear: ``So sing old worlds, and so ``New worlds that from my footstool go.
``Clearer loves sound other ways: ``I miss my little human praise.
'' Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell The flesh disguise, remained the cell.
'Twas Easter Day: he flew to Rome, And paused above Saint Peter's dome.
In the tiring-room close by The great outer gallery, With his holy vestments dight, Stood the new Pope, Theocrite: And all his past career Came back upon him clear, Since when, a boy, he plied his trade, Till on his life the sickness weighed; And in his cell, when death drew near, An angel in a dream brought cheer: And rising from the sickness drear He grew a priest, and now stood here.
To the East with praise he turned, And on his sight the angel burned.
``I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell ``And set thee here; I did not well.
``Vainly I left my angel-sphere, ``Vain was thy dream of many a year.
``Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped--- ``Creation's chorus stopped! ``Go back and praise again ``The early way, while I remain.
``With that weak voice of our disdain, ``Take up creation's pausing strain.
``Back to the cell and poor employ: ``Resume the craftsman and the boy!'' Theocrite grew old at home; A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.
One vanished as the other died: They sought God side by side.