Written by
Oscar Wilde |
Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.
All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.
Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone,
She is at rest.
Peace, Peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life's buried here,
Heap earth upon it.
AVIGNON
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CLXXIII. Rapido fiume che d' alpestra vena. JOURNEYING ALONG THE RHONE TO AVIGNON, PETRARCH BIDS THE RIVER KISS LAURA'S HAND, AS IT WILL ARRIVE AT HER DWELLING BEFORE HIM. Impetuous flood, that from the Alps' rude head,Eating around thee, dost thy name obtain;[V]Anxious like me both night and day to gainWhere thee pure nature, and me love doth lead;Pour on: thy course nor sleep nor toils impede;Yet, ere thou pay'st thy tribute to the main,Oh, tarry where most verdant looks the plain,Where most serenity the skies doth spread!There beams my radiant sun of cheering ray,Which deck thy left banks, and gems o'er with flowers;E'en now, vain thought! perhaps she chides my stay:Kiss then her feet, her hand so beauteous fair;In place of language let thy kiss declareStrong is my will, though feeble are my powers. Nott. O rapid flood! which from thy mountain bedGnawest thy shores, whence (in my tongue) thy name;[V]Thou art my partner, night and day the same,Where I by love, thou art by nature led:Precede me now; no weariness doth shedIts spell o'er thee, no sleep thy course can tame;Yet ere the ocean waves thy tribute claim,Pause, where the herb and air seem brighter fed.There beams our sun of life, whose genial rayWith brighter verdure thy left shore adorns;Perchance (vain hope!) e'en now my stay she mourns.Kiss then her foot, her lovely hand, and mayThy kiss to her in place of language speak,The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. Wollaston.
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Written by
Amy Lowell |
A Minstrel stands on a marble stair,
Blown by the bright wind, debonair;
Below lies the sea, a sapphire floor,
Above on the terrace a turret door
Frames a lady, listless and wan,
But fair for the eye to rest upon.
The minstrel plucks at his silver strings,
And looking up to the lady, sings: --
Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.
The octagon tower casts a shade
Cool and gray like a cutlass blade;
In sun-baked vines the cicalas spin,
The little green lizards run out and in.
A sail dips over the ocean's rim,
And bubbles rise to the fountain's brim.
The minstrel touches his silver strings,
And gazing up to the lady, sings: --
Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.
Slowly she walks to the balustrade,
Idly notes how the blossoms fade
In the sun's caress; then crosses where
The shadow shelters a carven chair.
Within its curve, supine she lies,
And wearily closes her tired eyes.
The minstrel beseeches his silver strings,
And holding the lady spellbound, sings: --
Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.
Clouds sail over the distant trees,
Petals are shaken down by the breeze,
They fall on the terrace tiles like snow;
The sighing of waves sounds, far below.
A humming-bird kisses the lips of a rose
Then laden with honey and love he goes.
The minstrel woos with his silver strings,
And climbing up to the lady, sings: --
Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.
Step by step, and he comes to her,
Fearful lest she suddenly stir.
Sunshine and silence, and each to each,
The lute and his singing their only speech;
He leans above her, her eyes unclose,
The humming-bird enters another rose.
The minstrel hushes his silver strings.
Hark! The beating of humming-birds' wings!
Down the road to Avignon,
The long, long road to Avignon,
Across the bridge to Avignon,
One morning in the spring.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
[Pg 406] SONNET FOUND IN LAURA'S TOMB. Qui reposan quei caste e felice ossa. Here peaceful sleeps the chaste, the happy shadeOf that pure spirit, which adorn'd this earth:Pure fame, true beauty, and transcendent worth,Rude stone! beneath thy rugged breast are laid.Death sudden snatch'd the dear lamented maid!Who first to all my tender woes gave birth,Woes! that estranged my sorrowing soul to mirth,While full four lustres time completely made.Sweet plant! that nursed on Avignon's sweet soil,There bloom'd, there died; when soon the weeping MuseThrew by the lute, forsook her wonted toil.Bright spark of beauty, that still fires my breast!What pitying mortal shall a prayer refuse,That Heaven may number thee amid the blest? Anon. 1777. Here rest the chaste, the dear, the blest remainsOf her most lovely; peerless while on earth:What late was beauty, spotless honour, worth,Stern marble, here thy chill embrace retains.The freshness of the laurel Death disdains;And hath its root thus wither'd.—Such the dearthO'ertakes me. Here I bury ease and mirth,And hope from twenty years of cares and pains.This happy plant Avignon lonely fedWith Life, and saw it die.—And with it liesMy pen, my verse, my reason;—useless, dead.O graceful form!—Fire, which consuming fliesThrough all my frame!—For blessings on thy headOh, may continual prayers to heaven rise! Capel Lofft. Here now repose those chaste, those blest remainsOf that most gentle spirit, sole in earth!Harsh monumental stone, that here confinestTrue honour, fame, and beauty, all o'erthrown!Death has destroy'd that Laurel green, and tornIts tender roots; and all the noble meedOf my long warfare, passing (if arightMy melancholy reckoning holds) four lustres.[Pg 407]O happy plant! Avignon's favour'd soilHas seen thee spring and die;—and here with theeThy poet's pen, and muse, and genius lies.O lovely, beauteous limbs! O vivid fire,That even in death hast power to melt the soul!Heaven be thy portion, peace with God on high! Woodhouselee.
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