Best Famous Beamed Poems

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

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Written by Mark Doty | The Ancient World Today the Masons are auctioning their discarded pomp: a trunk of turbans, gemmed and ostrich-plumed, and operetta costumes labeled inside the collar "Potentate" and "Vizier." Here their chairs, blazoned with the Masons' sign, huddled like convalescents, lean against one another on the grass. In a casket are rhinestoned poles the hierophants carried in parades; here's a splendid golden staff some ranking officer waved, topped with a golden pyramid and a tiny, inquisitive sphinx. No one's worn this stuff for years, and it doesn't seem worth buying; where would we put it? Still, I want that staff. I used to love to go to the library -- the smalltown brick refuge of those with nothing to do, really, 'Carnegie' chiseled on the pediment above columns that dwarfed an inconsequential street. Embarrassed to carry the same book past the water fountain's plaster centaurs up to the desk again, I'd take The Wonders of the World to the Reading Room where Art and Industry met in the mural on the dome. The room smelled like two decades before I was born, when the name carved over the door meant something. I never read the second section, "Wonders of the Modern World"; I loved the promise of my father's blueprints, the unfulfilled turquoise schemes, but in the real structures you could hardly imagine a future. I wanted the density of history, which I confused with the smell of the book: Babylon's ziggurat tropical with ferns, engraved watercourses rippling; the Colossus of Rhodes balanced over the harbormouth on his immense ankles. Athena filled one end of the Parthenon, in an "artist's reconstruction", like an adult in a dollhouse. At Halicarnassus, Mausolus remembered himself immensely, though in the book there wasn't even a sketch, only a picture of huge fragments. In the pyramid's deep clockworks, did the narrow tunnels mount toward the eye of God? That was the year photos were beamed back from space; falling asleep I used to repeat a new word to myself, telemetry, liking the way it seemed to allude to something storied. The earth was whorled marble, at that distance. Even the stuck-on porticoes and collonades downtown were narrative, somehow, but the buildings my father engineered were without stories. All I wanted was something larger than our ordinary sadness -- greater not in scale but in context, memorable, true to a proportioned, subtle form. Last year I knew a student, a half mad boy who finally opened his arms with a razor, not because he wanted to die but because he wanted to design something grand on his own body. Once he said, When a child realizes his parents aren't enough, he turns to architecture. I think I know what he meant. Imagine the Masons parading, one of them, in his splendid get-up, striding forward with the golden staff, above his head Cheops' beautiful shape -- a form we cannot separate from the stories about the form, even if we hardly know them, even if it no longer signifies, if it only shines.

Written by Charlotte Bronte | Frances SHE will not sleep, for fear of dreams, But, rising, quits her restless bed, And walks where some beclouded beams Of moonlight through the hall are shed. Obedient to the goad of grief, Her steps, now fast, now lingering slow, In varying motion seek relief From the Eumenides of woe. Wringing her hands, at intervals­ But long as mute as phantom dim­ She glides along the dusky walls, Under the black oak rafters, grim. The close air of the grated tower Stifles a heart that scarce can beat, And, though so late and lone the hour, Forth pass her wandering, faltering feet; And on the pavement, spread before The long front of the mansion grey, Her steps imprint the night-frost hoar, Which pale on grass and granite lay. Not long she stayed where misty moon And shimmering stars could on her look, But through the garden arch-way, soon Her strange and gloomy path she took. Some firs, coeval with the tower, Their straight black boughs stretched o'er her head, Unseen, beneath this sable bower, Rustled her dress and rapid tread. There was an alcove in that shade, Screening a rustic-seat and stand; Weary she sat her down and laid Her hot brow on her burning hand. To solitude and to the night, Some words she now, in murmurs, said; And, trickling through her fingers white, Some tears of misery she shed. ' God help me, in my grievous need, God help me, in my inward pain; Which cannot ask for pity's meed, Which has no license to complain; Which must be borne, yet who can bear, Hours long, days long, a constant weight­ The yoke of absolute despair, A suffering wholly desolate ? Who can for ever crush the heart, Restrain its throbbing, curb its life ? Dissemble truth with ceaseless art, With outward calm, mask inward strife ?' She waited­as for some reply; The still and cloudy night gave none; Erelong, with deep-drawn, trembling sigh, Her heavy plaint again begun. ' Unloved­I love; unwept­I weep; Grief I restrain­hope I repress: Vain is this anguish­fixed and deep; Vainer, desires and dreams of bliss. My love awakes no love again, My tears collect, and fall unfelt; My sorrow touches none with pain, My humble hopes to nothing melt. For me the universe is dumb, Stone-deaf, and blank, and wholly blind; Life I must bound, existence sum In the strait limits of one mind; That mind my own. Oh ! narrow cell; Dark­imageless­a living tomb ! There must I sleep, there wake and dwell Content, with palsy, pain, and gloom.' Again she paused; a moan of pain, A stifled sob, alone was heard; Long silence followed­then again, Her voice the stagnant midnight stirred. ' Must it be so ? Is this my fate ? Can I nor struggle, nor contend ? And am I doomed for years to wait, Watching death's lingering axe descend ? And when it falls, and when I die, What follows ? Vacant nothingness ? The blank of lost identity ? Erasure both of pain and bliss ? I've heard of heaven­I would believe; For if this earth indeed be all, Who longest lives may deepest grieve, Most blest, whom sorrows soonest call. Oh ! leaving disappointment here, Will man find hope on yonder coast ? Hope, which, on earth, shines never clear, And oft in clouds is wholly lost. Will he hope's source of light behold, Fruition's spring, where doubts expire, And drink, in waves of living gold, Contentment, full, for long desire ? Will he find bliss, which here he dreamed ? Rest, which was weariness on earth ? Knowledge, which, if o'er life it beamed, Served but to prove it void of worth ? Will he find love without lust's leaven, Love fearless, tearless, perfect, pure, To all with equal bounty given, In all, unfeigned, unfailing, sure ? Will he, from penal sufferings free, Released from shroud and wormy clod, All calm and glorious, rise and see Creation's Sire­Existence' God ? Then, glancing back on Time's brief woes, Will he behold them, fading, fly; Swept from Eternity's repose, Like sullying cloud, from pure blue sky ? If so­endure, my weary frame; And when thy anguish strikes too deep, And when all troubled burns life's flame, Think of the quiet, final sleep; Think of the glorious waking-hour, Which will not dawn on grief and tears, But on a ransomed spirit's power, Certain, and free from mortal fears. Seek now thy couch, and lie till morn, Then from thy chamber, calm, descend, With mind nor tossed, nor anguish-torn, But tranquil, fixed, to wait the end. And when thy opening eyes shall see Mementos, on the chamber wall, Of one who has forgotten thee, Shed not the tear of acrid gall. The tear which, welling from the heart, Burns where its drop corrosive falls, And makes each nerve, in torture, start, At feelings it too well recalls: When the sweet hope of being loved, Threw Eden sunshine on life's way; When every sense and feeling proved Expectancy of brightest day. When the hand trembled to receive A thrilling clasp, which seemed so near, And the heart ventured to believe, Another heart esteemed it dear. When words, half love, all tenderness, Were hourly heard, as hourly spoken, When the long, sunny days of bliss, Only by moonlight nights were broken. Till drop by drop, the cup of joy Filled full, with purple light, was glowing, And Faith, which watched it, sparkling high, Still never dreamt the overflowing. It fell not with a sudden crashing, It poured not out like open sluice; No, sparkling still, and redly flashing, Drained, drop by drop, the generous juice. I saw it sink, and strove to taste it, My eager lips approached the brim; The movement only seemed to waste it, It sank to dregs, all harsh and dim. These I have drank, and they for ever Have poisoned life and love for me; A draught from Sodom's lake could never More fiery, salt, and bitter, be. Oh ! Love was all a thin illusion; Joy, but the desert's flying stream; And, glancing back on long delusion, My memory grasps a hollow dream. Yet, whence that wondrous change of feeling, I never knew, and cannot learn, Nor why my lover's eye, congealing, Grew cold, and clouded, proud, and stern. Nor wherefore, friendship's forms forgetting, He careless left, and cool withdrew; Nor spoke of grief, nor fond regretting, Nor even one glance of comfort threw. And neither word nor token sending, Of kindness, since the parting day, His course, for distant regions bending, Went, self-contained and calm, away. Oh, bitter, blighting, keen sensation, Which will not weaken, cannot die, Hasten thy work of desolation, And let my tortured spirit fly ! Vain as the passing gale, my crying; Though lightning-struck, I must live on; I know, at heart, there is no dying Of love, and ruined hope, alone. Still strong, and young, and warm with vigour, Though scathed, I long shall greenly grow, And many a storm of wildest rigour Shall yet break o'er my shivered bough. Rebellious now to blank inertion, My unused strength demands a task; Travel, and toil, and full exertion, Are the last, only boon I ask. Whence, then, this vain and barren dreaming Of death, and dubious life to come ? I see a nearer beacon gleaming Over dejection's sea of gloom. The very wildness of my sorrow Tells me I yet have innate force; My track of life has been too narrow, Effort shall trace a broader course. The world is not in yonder tower, Earth is not prisoned in that room, 'Mid whose dark pannels, hour by hour, I've sat, the slave and prey of gloom. One feeling­turned to utter anguish, Is not my being's only aim; When, lorn and loveless, life will languish, But courage can revive the flame. He, when he left me, went a roving To sunny climes, beyond the sea; And I, the weight of woe removing, Am free and fetterless as he. New scenes, new language, skies less clouded, May once more wake the wish to live; Strange, foreign towns, astir, and crowded, New pictures to the mind may give. New forms and faces, passing ever, May hide the one I still retain, Defined, and fixed, and fading never, Stamped deep on vision, heart, and brain. And we might meet­time may have changed him; Chance may reveal the mystery, The secret influence which estranged him; Love may restore him yet to me. False thought­false hope­in scorn be banished ! I am not loved­nor loved have been; Recall not, then, the dreams scarce vanished, Traitors ! mislead me not again ! To words like yours I bid defiance, 'Tis such my mental wreck have made; Of God alone, and self-reliance, I ask for solace­hope for aid. Morn comes­and ere meridian glory O'er these, my natal woods, shall smile, Both lonely wood and mansion hoary I'll leave behind, full many a mile.

Written by William Henry Davies | The Villain While joy gave clouds the light of stars, That beamed wher'er they looked; And calves and lambs had tottering knees, Excited, while they sucked; While every bird enjoyed his song, Without one thought of harm or wrong-- I turned my head and saw the wind, Not far from where I stood, Dragging the corn by her golden hair, Into a dark and lonely wood.

Written by Lawrence Ferlinghetti | The Plough Of Time Night closed my windows and The sky became a crystal house The crystal windows glowed The moon shown through them through the whole house of crystal A single star beamed down its crystal cable and drew a plough through the earth unearthing bodies clasped together couples embracing around the earth They clung together everywhere emitting small cries that did not reach the stars The crystal earth turned and the bodies with it And the sky did not turn nor the stars with it The stars remained fixed each with its crystal cable beamed to earth each attached to the immense plough furrowing our lives

Written by Anne Bronte | Alexander And Zenobia Fair was the evening and brightly the sun Was shining on desert and grove, Sweet were the breezes and balmy the flowers And cloudless the heavens above. It was Arabia's distant land And peaceful was the hour; Two youthful figures lay reclined Deep in a shady bower. One was a boy of just fourteen Bold beautiful and bright; Soft raven curls hung clustering round A brow of marble white. The fair brow and ruddy cheek Spoke of less burning skies; Words cannot paint the look that beamed In his dark lustrous eyes. The other was a slender girl, Blooming and young and fair. The snowy neck was shaded with The long bright sunny hair. And those deep eyes of watery blue, So sweetly sad they seemed. And every feature in her face With pensive sorrow teemed. The youth beheld her saddened air And smiling cheerfully He said, 'How pleasant is the land Of sunny Araby! 'Zenobia, I never saw A lovelier eve than this; I never felt my spirit raised With more unbroken bliss! 'So deep the shades, so calm the hour, So soft the breezes sigh, So sweetly Philomel begins Her heavenly melody. 'So pleasant are the scents that rise From flowers of loveliest hue, And more than all -- Zenobia, I am alone with you! Are we not happy here alone In such a healthy spot?' He looked to her with joyful smile But she returned it not. 'Why are you sorrowful?' he asked And heaved a bitter sigh, 'O tell me why those drops of woe Are gathering in your eye.' 'Gladly would I rejoice,' she said, 'But grief weighs down my heart. 'Can I be happy when I know Tomorrow we must part? 'Yes, Alexander, I must see This happy land no more. At break of day I must return To distant Gondal's shore. 'At morning we must bid farewell, And at the close of day You will be wandering alone And I shall be away. 'I shall be sorrowing for you On the wide weltering sea, And you will perhaps have wandered here To sit and think of me.' 'And shall we part so soon?' he cried, 'Must we be torn away? Shall I be left to mourn alone? Will you no longer stay? 'And shall we never meet again, Hearts that have grown together? Must they at once be rent away And kept apart for ever?' 'Yes, Alexander, we must part, But we may meet again, For when I left my native land I wept in anguish then. 'Never shall I forget the day I left its rocky shore. We thought that we had bid adieu To meet on earth no more. 'When we had parted how I wept To see the mountains blue Grow dimmer and more distant -- till They faded from my view. 'And you too wept -- we little thought After so long a time, To meet again so suddenly In such a distant clime. 'We met on Grecia's classic plain, We part in Araby. And let us hope to meet again Beneath our Gondal's sky.' 'Zenobia, do you remember A little lonely spring Among Exina's woody hills Where blackbirds used to sing, 'And when they ceased as daylight faded From the dusky sky The pensive nightingale began Her matchless melody? 'Sweet bluebells used to flourish there And tall trees waved on high, And through their ever sounding leaves The soft wind used to sigh. 'At morning we have often played Beside that lonely well; At evening we have lingered there Till dewy twilight fell. 'And when your fifteenth birthday comes, Remember me, my love, And think of what I said to you In this sweet spicy grove. 'At evening wander to that spring And sit and wait for me; And 'ere the sun has ceased to shine I will return to thee. 'Two years is a weary time But it will soon be fled. And if you do not meet me -- know I am not false but dead.' * * * Sweetly the summer day declines On forest, plain, and hill And in that spacious palace hall So lonely, wide and still. Beside a window's open arch, In the calm evening air All lonely sits a stately girl, Graceful and young and fair. The snowy lid and lashes long Conceal her downcast eye, She's reading and till now I have Passed unnoticed by. But see she cannot fix her thoughts, They are wandering away; She looks towards a distant dell Where sunny waters play. And yet her spirit is not with The scene she looks upon; She muses with a mournful smile On pleasures that are gone. She looks upon the book again That chained her thoughts before, And for a moment strives in vain To fix her mind once more. Then gently drops it on her knee And looks into the sky, While trembling drops are shining in Her dark celestial eye. And thus alone and still she sits Musing on years gone by. Till with a sad and sudden smile She rises up to go; And from the open window springs On to the grass below. Why does she fly so swiftly now Adown the meadow green, And o'er the gently swelling hills And the vale that lies between? She passes under giant trees That lift their arms on high And slowly wave their mighty boughs In the clear evening sky, And now she threads a path that winds Through deeply shaded groves Where nought is heard but sighing gales And murmuring turtle doves. She hastens on through sunless gloom To a vista opening wide; A marble fountain sparkles there With sweet flowers by its side. At intervals in the velvet grass A few old elm trees rise, While a warm flood of yellow light Streams from the western skies. Is this her resting place? Ah, no, She hastens onward still, The startled deer before her fly As she ascends the hill. She does not rest till she has gained A lonely purling spring, Where zephyrs wave the verdant trees And birds in concert sing. And there she stands and gazes round With bright and searching eye, Then sadly sighing turns away And looks upon the sky. She sits down on the flowery turf Her head drooped on her hand; Her soft luxuriant golden curls Are by the breezes fanned. A sweet sad smile plays on her lips; Her heart is far away, And thus she sits till twilight comes To take the place of day. But when she looks towards the west And sees the sun is gone And hears that every bird but one To its nightly rest is flown, And sees that over nature's face A sombre veil is cast With mournful voice and tearful eye She says, 'The time is past! 'He will not come! I might have known It was a foolish hope; But it was so sweet to cherish I could not yield it up. 'It may be foolish thus to weep But I cannot check my tears To see in one short hour destroyed The darling hope of years. 'He is not false, but he was young And time rolls fast away. Has he forgotten the vow he made To meet me here today? 'No. If he lives he loves me still And still remembers me. If he is dead -- my joys are sunk In utter misery. 'We parted in the spicy groves Beneath Arabia's sky. How could I hope to meet him now Where Gondal's breezes sigh? 'He was a shining meteor light That faded from the skies, But I mistook him for a star That only set to rise. 'And with a firm yet trembling hand I've clung to this false hope; I dared not surely trust in it Yet would not yield it up. 'And day and night I've thought of him And loved him constantly, And prayed that Heaven would prosper him Wherever he might be. 'He will not come; he's wandering now On some far distant shore, Or else he sleeps the sleep of death And cannot see me more! 'O, Alexander, is it thus? Did we but meet to part? Long as I live thy name will be Engraven on my heart. 'I shall not cease to think of thee While life and thought remain, For well I know that I can never See thy like again!' She ceases now and dries her tears But still she lingers there In silent thought till night is come And silver stars appear. But lo! a tall and stately youth Ascends the grassy slope; His bright dark eyes are glancing round, His heart beats high with hope. He has journyed on unweariedly From dawn of day till now, The warm blood kindles in his cheek, The sweat is on his brow. But he has gained the green hill top Where lies that lonely spring, And lo! he pauses when he hears Its gentle murmuring. He dares not enter through the trees That veil it from his eye; He listens for some other sound In deep anxiety. But vainly -- all is calm and still; Are his bright day dreams o'er? Has he thus hoped and longed in vain, And must they meet no more? One moment more of sad suspense And those dark trees are past; The lonely well bursts on his sight And they are met at last!

Written by Barry Tebb | To Brenda Williams ‘writing Against The Grain' It was Karl Shapiro who wrote in his ‘Defence of Ignorance’ how many poets Go mad or seem to be so and the majority think we should all be in jail Or mental hospital and you have ended up in both places - fragile as bone china, Your pale skin taut, your fingers clasped tight round a cup, sitting in a pool Of midnight light, your cats stretched flat on your desk top’s scatter Under the laughing eyes of Sexton and Lowell beneath Rollie McKenna’s seamless shutter. Other nights you hunch in your rocking chair, spilling rhythms Silently as a bat weaves through midnight’s jade waves Your sibylline tongue tapping every twist or the syllable count Deftly as Whistler mixed tints for Nocturnes’ nuances or shade Or Hokusai tipped every wave crest. You pause when down the hall a cat snatches at a forbidden plant, “Schubert, Schubert”, you whisper urgently for it is night and there are neighbours. The whistle of the forgotten kettle shrills: you turn down the gas And scurry back to your poem as you would to a sick child And ease the pain of disordered lines. The face of your mother smiles like a Madonna bereft And the faces of our children are always somewhere As you focus your midnight eyes soft with tears. You create to survive, a Balzac writing against the clock A Baudelaire writing against the bailiff’s knock A Val?ry in the throes of ‘Narcisse Parle’. When a far clock chimes you sigh and set aside the page: There is no telephone to ring or call: I am distant and sick, Frail as an old stick Our spirits rise and fall like the barometer’s needle Jerk at a finger tapping on glass Flashbacks or inspiration cry out at memory loss. You peer through a magnifying glass at the typeface Your knuckles white with pain as the sonnet starts to strain Like a child coming to birth, the third you never bore. All births, all babies, all poems are the same in coming The spark of inspiration or spurt of semen, The silent months of gestation, the waiting and worrying Until the final agony of creation: for our first son’s Birth at Oakes we had only a drawer for a crib. Memories blur: all I know is that it was night And at home as you always insisted, against all advice But mine. I remember feebly holding the mask in place As the Indian woman doctor brutally stitched you without an anaesthetic And the silence like no other when even the midwives Had left: the child slept and we crept round his make-shift cradle. At Brudenell Road again it was night in the cold house With bare walls and plug-in fires: Bob, the real father Paced the front, deep in symphonic thought: Isaiah slept: I waited and watched - an undiagnosed breech The doctor’s last minute discovery - made us rush And scatter to have you admitted. I fell asleep in the silent house and woke to a chaos Of blood and towels and discarded dressings and a bemused five year old. We brought you armsful of daffodils, Easter’s remainders. “Happy Easter, are the father?” Staff beamed As we sat by the bedside, Bob, myself and John MacKendrick, Brecht and Rilke’s best translator Soon to die by his own hand. Poetry is born in the breech position Poems beget poems.

Written by David Lehman | Big Hair Ithaca, October 1993: Jorie went on a lingerie tear, wanting to look like a moll in a Chandler novel. Dinner, consisting of three parts gin and one part lime juice cordial, was a prelude to her hair. There are, she said, poems that can be written only when the poet is clad in black underwear. But that's Jorie for you. Always cracking wise, always where the action is, the lights, and the sexy lingerie. Poems, she said, were meant to be written on the run, like ladders on the stockings of a gun moll at a bar. Jorie had to introduce the other poet with the fabulous hair that night. She'd have preferred to work out at the gym. She'd have preferred to work out with Jim. She'd have preferred to be anywhere but here, where young men gawked at her hair and old men swooned at the thought of her lingerie. "If you've seen one, you've seen the moll," Jorie said when asked about C. "Everything she's written is an imitation of E." Some poems can be written only when the poet has fortified herself with gin. Others come easily to one as feckless as Moll Flanders. Jorie beamed. "It happened here," she said. She had worn her best lingerie, and D. made the expected pass at her. "My hair was big that night, not that I make a fetish of hair, but some poems must not be written by bald sopranos." That night she lectured on lingerie to an enthusiastic audience of female gymnasts and gin- drinking males. "Utopia," she said, "is nowhere." This prompted one critic to declare that, of them all, all the poets with hair, Jorie was the fairest moll. The New York Times voted her "best hair." Iowa City was said to be the place where all aspiring poets went, their poems written on water, with blanks instead of words, a tonic of silence in the heart of noise, and a vision of lingerie in the bright morning -- the lingerie to be worn by a moll holding a tumbler of gin, with her hair wet from the shower and her best poems waiting to be written.

Written by Sidney Lanier | The Tournament Joust First. I. Bright shone the lists, blue bent the skies, And the knights still hurried amain To the tournament under the ladies' eyes, Where the jousters were Heart and Brain. II. Flourished the trumpets: entered Heart, A youth in crimson and gold. Flourished again: Brain stood apart, Steel-armored, dark and cold. III. Heart's palfrey caracoled gayly round, Heart tra-li-ra'd merrily; But Brain sat still, with never a sound, So cynical-calm was he. IV. Heart's helmet-crest bore favors three From his lady's white hand caught; While Brain wore a plumeless casque; not he Or favor gave or sought. V. The herald blew; Heart shot a glance To find his lady's eye, But Brain gazed straight ahead his lance To aim more faithfully. VI. They charged, they struck; both fell, both bled. Brain rose again, ungloved, Heart, dying, smiled and faintly said, "My love to my beloved!" ____ Camp French, Wilmington, N.C., May, 1862. Joust Second. I. A-many sweet eyes wept and wept, A-many bosoms heaved again; A-many dainty dead hopes slept With yonder Heart-knight prone o' the plain. II. Yet stars will burn through any mists, And the ladies' eyes, through rains of fate, Still beamed upon the bloody lists And lit the joust of Love and Hate. III. O strange! or ere a trumpet blew, Or ere a challenge-word was given, A knight leapt down i' the lists; none knew Whether he sprang from earth or heaven. IV. His cheek was soft as a lily-bud, His grey eyes calmed his youth's alarm; Nor helm nor hauberk nor even a hood Had he to shield his life from harm. V. No falchion from his baldric swung, He wore a white rose in its place. No dagger at his girdle hung, But only an olive-branch, for grace. VI. And "Come, thou poor mistaken knight," Cried Love, unarmed, yet dauntless there, "Come on, God pity thee! -- I fight Sans sword, sans shield; yet, Hate, beware!" VII. Spurred furious Hate; he foamed at mouth, His breath was hot upon the air, His breath scorched souls, as a dry drought Withers green trees and burns them bare. VIII. Straight drives he at his enemy, His hairy hands grip lance in rest, His lance it gleams full bitterly, God! -- gleams, true-point, on Love's bare breast! IX. Love's grey eyes glow with a heaven-heat, Love lifts his hand in a saintly prayer; Look! Hate hath fallen at his feet! Look! Hate hath vanished in the air! X. Then all the throng looked kind on all; Eyes yearned, lips kissed, dumb souls were freed; Two magic maids' hands lifted a pall And the dead knight, Heart, sprang on his steed. XI. Then Love cried, "Break me his lance, each knight! Ye shall fight for blood-athirst Fame no more!" And the knights all doffed their mailed might And dealt out dole on dole to the poor. XII. Then dove-flights sanctified the plain, And hawk and sparrow shared a nest. And the great sea opened and swallowed Pain, And out of this water-grave floated Rest!

Written by Alan Seeger | The Sultans Palace My spirit only lived to look on Beauty's face, As only when they clasp the arms seem served aright; As in their flesh inheres the impulse to embrace, To gaze on Loveliness was my soul's appetite. I have roamed far in search; white road and plunging bow Were keys in the blue doors where my desire was set; Obedient to their lure, my lips and laughing brow The hill-showers and the spray of many seas have wet. Hot are enamored hands, the fragrant zone unbound, To leave no dear delight unfelt, unfondled o'er, The will possessed my heart to girdle Earth around With their insatiate need to wonder and adore. The flowers in the fields, the surf upon the sands, The sunset and the clouds it turned to blood and wine, Were shreds of the thin veil behind whose beaded strands A radiant visage rose, serene, august, divine. A noise of summer wind astir in starlit trees, A song where sensual love's delirium rose and fell, Were rites that moved my soul more than the devotee's When from the blazing choir rings out the altar bell. I woke amid the pomp of a proud palace; writ In tinted arabesque on walls that gems o'erlay, The names of caliphs were who once held court in it, Their baths and bowers were mine to dwell in for a day. Their robes and rings were mine to draw from shimmering trays--- Brocades and broidered silks, topaz and tourmaline-- Their turban-cloths to wind in proud capricious ways, And fasten plumes and pearls and pendent sapphires in. I rose; far music drew my steps in fond pursuit Down tessellated floors and towering peristyles: Through groves of colonnades fair lamps were blushing fruit, On seas of green mosaic soft rugs were flowery isles. And there were verdurous courts that scalloped arches wreathed, Where fountains plashed in bowls of lapis lazuli. Through enigmatic doors voluptuous accents breathed, And having Youth I had their Open Sesame. I paused where shadowy walls were hung with cloths of gold, And tinted twilight streamed through storied panes above. In lamplit alcoves deep as flowers when they unfold Soft cushions called to rest and fragrant fumes to love. I hungered; at my hand delicious dainties teemed--- Fair pyramids of fruit; pastry in sugared piles. I thirsted; in cool cups inviting vintage beamed--- Sweet syrups from the South; brown muscat from the isles. I yearned for passionate Love; faint gauzes fell away. Pillowed in rosy light I found my heart's desire. Over the silks and down her florid beauty lay, As over orient clouds the sunset's coral fire. Joys that had smiled afar, a visionary form, Behind the ranges hid, remote and rainbow-dyed, Drew near unto my heart, a wonder soft and warm, To touch, to stroke, to clasp, to sleep and wake beside. Joy, that where summer seas and hot horizons shone Had been the outspread arms I gave my youth to seek, Drew near; awhile its pulse strove sweetly with my own, Awhile I felt its breath astir upon my cheek. I was so happy there; so fleeting was my stay, What wonder if, assailed with vistas so divine, I only lived to search and sample them the day When between dawn and dusk the sultan's courts were mine ! Speak not of other worlds of happiness to be, As though in any fond imaginary sphere Lay more to tempt man's soul to immortality Than ripens for his bliss abundant now and here! Flowerlike I hope to die as flowerlike was my birth. Rooted in Nature's just benignant law like them, I want no better joys than those that from green Earth My spirit's blossom drew through the sweet body's stem. I see no dread in death, no horror to abhor. I never thought it else than but to cease to dwell Spectator, and resolve most naturally once more Into the dearly loved eternal spectacle. Unto the fields and flowers this flesh I found so fair I yield; do you, dear friend, over your rose-crowned wine, Murmur my name some day as though my lips were there, And frame your mouth as though its blushing kiss were mine. Yea, where the banquet-hall is brilliant with young men, You whose bright youth it might have thrilled my breast to know, Drink . . . and perhaps my lips, insatiate even then Of lips to hang upon, may find their loved ones so. Unto the flush of dawn and evening I commend This immaterial self and flamelike part of me,--- Unto the azure haze that hangs at the world's end, The sunshine on the hills, the starlight on the sea,--- Unto angelic Earth, whereof the lives of those Who love and dream great dreams and deeply feel may be The elemental cells and nervules that compose Its divine consciousness and joy and harmony.

Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Tegners Drapa Heard a voice, that cried, "Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!" And through the misty air Passed like the mournful cry Of sunward sailing cranes. I saw the pallid corpse Of the dead sun Borne through the Northern sky. Blasts from Niffelheim Lifted the sheeted mists Around him as he passed. And the voice forever cried, "Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!" And died away Through the dreary night, In accents of despair. Balder the Beautiful, God of the summer sun, Fairest of all the Gods! Light from his forehead beamed, Runes were upon his tongue, As on the warrior's sword. All things in earth and air Bound were by magic spell Never to do him harm; Even the plants and stones; All save the mistletoe, The sacred mistletoe! Hoeder, the blind old God, Whose feet are shod with silence, Pierced through that gentle breast With his sharp spear, by fraud, Made of the mistletoe! The accursed mistletoe! They laid him in his ship, With horse and harness, As on a funeral pyre. Odin placed A ring upon his finger, And whispered in his ear. They launched the burning ship! It floated far away Over the misty sea, Till like the sun it seemed, Sinking beneath the waves. Balder returned no more! So perish the old Gods! But out of the sea of Time Rises a new land of song, Fairer than the old. Over its meadows green Walk the young bards and sing. Build it again, O ye bards, Fairer than before; Ye fathers of the new race, Feed upon morning dew, Sing the new Song of Love! The law of force is dead! The law of love prevails! Thor, the thunderer, Shall rule the earth no more, No more, with threats, Challenge the meek Christ. Sing no more, O ye bards of the North, Of Vikings and of Jarls! Of the days of Eld Preserve the freedom only, Not the deeds of blood!