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Best Famous Brittany Poems

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Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Merlin

 “Gawaine, Gawaine, what look ye for to see, 
So far beyond the faint edge of the world? 
D’ye look to see the lady Vivian, 
Pursued by divers ominous vile demons 
That have another king more fierce than ours?
Or think ye that if ye look far enough 
And hard enough into the feathery west 
Ye’ll have a glimmer of the Grail itself? 
And if ye look for neither Grail nor lady, 
What look ye for to see, Gawaine, Gawaine?”

So Dagonet, whom Arthur made a knight 
Because he loved him as he laughed at him, 
Intoned his idle presence on a day 
To Gawaine, who had thought himself alone, 
Had there been in him thought of anything
Save what was murmured now in Camelot 
Of Merlin’s hushed and all but unconfirmed 
Appearance out of Brittany.
It was heard At first there was a ghost in Arthur’s palace, But soon among the scullions and anon Among the knights a firmer credit held All tongues from uttering what all glances told— Though not for long.
Gawaine, this afternoon, Fearing he might say more to Lancelot Of Merlin’s rumor-laden resurrection Than Lancelot would have an ear to cherish, Had sauntered off with his imagination To Merlin’s Rock, where now there was no Merlin To meditate upon a whispering town Below him in the silence.
—Once he said To Gawaine: “You are young; and that being so, Behold the shining city of our dreams And of our King.
”—“Long live the King,” said Gawaine.
— “Long live the King,” said Merlin after him; “Better for me that I shall not be King; Wherefore I say again, Long live the King, And add, God save him, also, and all kings— All kings and queens.
I speak in general.
Kings have I known that were but weary men With no stout appetite for more than peace That was not made for them.
”—“Nor were they made For kings,” Gawaine said, laughing.
—“You are young, Gawaine, and you may one day hold the world Between your fingers, knowing not what it is That you are holding.
Better for you and me, I think, that we shall not be kings.
” Gawaine, Remembering Merlin’s words of long ago, Frowned as he thought, and having frowned again, He smiled and threw an acorn at a lizard: “There’s more afoot and in the air to-day Than what is good for Camelot.
Merlin May or may not know all, but he said well To say to me that he would not be King.
Nor more would I be King.
” Far down he gazed On Camelot, until he made of it A phantom town of many stillnesses, Not reared for men to dwell in, or for kings To reign in, without omens and obscure Familiars to bring terror to their days; For though a knight, and one as hard at arms As any, save the fate-begotten few That all acknowledged or in envy loathed, He felt a foreign sort of creeping up And down him, as of moist things in the dark,— When Dagonet, coming on him unawares, Presuming on his title of Sir Fool, Addressed him and crooned on till he was done: “What look ye for to see, Gawaine, Gawaine?” “Sir Dagonet, you best and wariest Of all dishonest men, I look through Time, For sight of what it is that is to be.
I look to see it, though I see it not.
I see a town down there that holds a king, And over it I see a few small clouds— Like feathers in the west, as you observe; And I shall see no more this afternoon Than what there is around us every day, Unless you have a skill that I have not To ferret the invisible for rats.
” “If you see what’s around us every day, You need no other showing to go mad.
Remember that and take it home with you; And say tonight, ‘I had it of a fool— With no immediate obliquity For this one or for that one, or for me.
’” Gawaine, having risen, eyed the fool curiously: “I’ll not forget I had it of a knight, Whose only folly is to fool himself; And as for making other men to laugh, And so forget their sins and selves a little, There’s no great folly there.
So keep it up, As long as you’ve a legend or a song, And have whatever sport of us you like Till havoc is the word and we fall howling.
For I’ve a guess there may not be so loud A sound of laughing here in Camelot When Merlin goes again to his gay grave In Brittany.
To mention lesser terrors, Men say his beard is gone.
” “Do men say that?” A twitch of an impatient weariness Played for a moment over the lean face Of Dagonet, who reasoned inwardly: “The friendly zeal of this inquiring knight Will overtake his tact and leave it squealing, One of these days.
”—Gawaine looked hard at him: “If I be too familiar with a fool, I’m on the way to be another fool,” He mused, and owned a rueful qualm within him: “Yes, Dagonet,” he ventured, with a laugh, “Men tell me that his beard has vanished wholly, And that he shines now as the Lord’s anointed, And wears the valiance of an ageless youth Crowned with a glory of eternal peace.
” Dagonet, smiling strangely, shook his head: “I grant your valiance of a kind of youth To Merlin, but your crown of peace I question; For, though I know no more than any churl Who pinches any chambermaid soever In the King’s palace, I look not to Merlin For peace, when out of his peculiar tomb He comes again to Camelot.
Time swings A mighty scythe, and some day all your peace Goes down before its edge like so much clover.
No, it is not for peace that Merlin comes, Without a trumpet—and without a beard, If what you say men say of him be true— Nor yet for sudden war.
” Gawaine, for a moment, Met then the ambiguous gaze of Dagonet, And, making nothing of it, looked abroad As if at something cheerful on all sides, And back again to the fool’s unasking eyes: “Well, Dagonet, if Merlin would have peace, Let Merlin stay away from Brittany,” Said he, with admiration for the man Whom Folly called a fool: “And we have known him; We knew him once when he knew everything.
” “He knew as much as God would let him know Until he met the lady Vivian.
I tell you that, for the world knows all that; Also it knows he told the King one day That he was to be buried, and alive, In Brittany; and that the King should see The face of him no more.
Then Merlin sailed Away to Vivian in Broceliande, Where now she crowns him and herself with flowers And feeds him fruits and wines and many foods Of many savors, and sweet ortolans.
Wise books of every lore of every land Are there to fill his days, if he require them, And there are players of all instruments— Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols; and she sings To Merlin, till he trembles in her arms And there forgets that any town alive Had ever such a name as Camelot.
So Vivian holds him with her love, they say, And he, who has no age, has not grown old.
I swear to nothing, but that’s what they say.
That’s being buried in Broceliande For too much wisdom and clairvoyancy.
But you and all who live, Gawaine, have heard This tale, or many like it, more than once; And you must know that Love, when Love invites Philosophy to play, plays high and wins, Or low and loses.
And you say to me, ‘If Merlin would have peace, let Merlin stay Away from Brittany.
’ Gawaine, you are young, And Merlin’s in his grave.
” “Merlin said once That I was young, and it’s a joy for me That I am here to listen while you say it.
Young or not young, if that be burial, May I be buried long before I die.
I might be worse than young; I might be old.
”— Dagonet answered, and without a smile: “Somehow I fancy Merlin saying that; A fancy—a mere fancy.
” Then he smiled: “And such a doom as his may be for you, Gawaine, should your untiring divination Delve in the veiled eternal mysteries Too far to be a pleasure for the Lord.
And when you stake your wisdom for a woman, Compute the woman to be worth a grave, As Merlin did, and say no more about it.
But Vivian, she played high.
Oh, very high! Flutes, hautboys, drums, and viols,—and her love.
Gawaine, farewell.
” “Farewell, Sir Dagonet, And may the devil take you presently.
” He followed with a vexed and envious eye, And with an arid laugh, Sir Dagonet’s Departure, till his gaunt obscurity Was cloaked and lost amid the glimmering trees.
“Poor fool!” he murmured.
“Or am I the fool? With all my fast ascendency in arms, That ominous clown is nearer to the King Than I am—yet; and God knows what he knows, And what his wits infer from what he sees And feels and hears.
I wonder what he knows Of Lancelot, or what I might know now, Could I have sunk myself to sound a fool To springe a friend.
… No, I like not this day.
There’s a cloud coming over Camelot Larger than any that is in the sky,— Or Merlin would be still in Brittany, With Vivian and the viols.
It’s all too strange.
” And later, when descending to the city, Through unavailing casements he could hear The roaring of a mighty voice within, Confirming fervidly his own conviction: “It’s all too strange, and half the world’s half crazy!”— He scowled: “Well, I agree with Lamorak.
” He frowned, and passed: “And I like not this day.


Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Pencil Seller

 A pencil, sir; a penny -- won't you buy?
I'm cold and wet and tired, a sorry plight;
Don't turn your back, sir; take one just to try;
I haven't made a single sale to-night.
Oh, thank you, sir; but take the pencil too; I'm not a beggar, I'm a business man.
Pencils I deal in, red and black and blue; It's hard, but still I do the best I can.
Most days I make enough to pay for bread, A cup o' coffee, stretching room at night.
One needs so little -- to be warm and fed, A hole to kennel in -- oh, one's all right .
.
.
Excuse me, you're a painter, are you not? I saw you looking at that dealer's show, The croûtes he has for sale, a shabby lot -- What do I know of Art? What do I know .
.
.
Well, look! That David Strong so well displayed, "White Sorcery" it's called, all gossamer, And pale moon-magic and a dancing maid (You like the little elfin face of her?) -- That's good; but still, the picture as a whole, The values, -- Pah! He never painted worse; Perhaps because his fire was lacking coal, His cupboard bare, no money in his purse.
Perhaps .
.
.
they say he labored hard and long, And see now, in the harvest of his fame, When round his pictures people gape and throng, A scurvy dealer sells this on his name.
A wretched rag, wrung out of want and woe; A soulless daub, not David Strong a bit, Unworthy of his art.
.
.
.
How should I know? How should I know? I'm Strong -- I painted it.
There now, I didn't mean to let that out.
It came in spite of me -- aye, stare and stare.
You think I'm lying, crazy, drunk, no doubt -- Think what you like, it's neither here nor there.
It's hard to tell so terrible a truth, To gain to glory, yet be such as I.
It's true; that picture's mine, done in my youth, Up in a garret near the Paris sky.
The child's my daughter; aye, she posed for me.
That's why I come and sit here every night.
The painting's bad, but still -- oh, still I see Her little face all laughing in the light.
So now you understand.
-- I live in fear Lest one like you should carry it away; A poor, pot-boiling thing, but oh, how dear! "Don't let them buy it, pitying God!" I pray! And hark ye, sir -- sometimes my brain's awhirl.
Some night I'll crash into that window pane And snatch my picture back, my little girl, And run and run.
.
.
.
I'm talking wild again; A crab can't run.
I'm crippled, withered, lame, Palsied, as good as dead all down one side.
No warning had I when the evil came: It struck me down in all my strength and pride.
Triumph was mine, I thrilled with perfect power; Honor was mine, Fame's laurel touched my brow; Glory was mine -- within a little hour I was a god and .
.
.
what you find me now.
My child, that little, laughing girl you see, She was my nurse for all ten weary years; Her joy, her hope, her youth she gave for me; Her very smiles were masks to hide her tears.
And I, my precious art, so rich, so rare, Lost, lost to me -- what could my heart but break! Oh, as I lay and wrestled with despair, I would have killed myself but for her sake.
.
.
.
By luck I had some pictures I could sell, And so we fought the wolf back from the door; She painted too, aye, wonderfully well.
We often dreamed of brighter days in store.
And then quite suddenly she seemed to fail; I saw the shadows darken round her eyes.
So tired she was, so sorrowful, so pale, And oh, there came a day she could not rise.
The doctor looked at her; he shook his head, And spoke of wine and grapes and Southern air: "If you can get her out of this," he said, "She'll have a fighting chance with proper care.
" "With proper care!" When he had gone away, I sat there, trembling, twitching, dazed with grief.
Under my old and ragged coat she lay, Our room was bare and cold beyond belief.
"Maybe," I thought, "I still can paint a bit, Some lilies, landscape, anything at all.
" Alas! My brush, I could not steady it.
Down from my fumbling hand I let it fall.
"With proper care" -- how could I give her that, Half of me dead? .
.
.
I crawled down to the street.
Cowering beside the wall, I held my hat And begged of every one I chanced to meet.
I got some pennies, bought her milk and bread, And so I fought to keep the Doom away; And yet I saw with agony of dread My dear one sinking, sinking day by day.
And then I was awakened in the night: "Please take my hands, I'm cold," I heard her sigh; And soft she whispered, as she held me tight: "Oh daddy, we've been happy, you and I!" I do not think she suffered any pain, She breathed so quietly .
.
.
but though I tried, I could not warm her little hands again: And so there in the icy dark she died.
.
.
.
The dawn came groping in with fingers gray And touched me, sitting silent as a stone; I kissed those piteous lips, as cold as clay -- I did not cry, I did not even moan.
At last I rose, groped down the narrow stair; An evil fog was oozing from the sky; Half-crazed I stumbled on, I knew not where, Like phantoms were the folks that passed me by.
How long I wandered thus I do not know, But suddenly I halted, stood stock-still -- Beside a door that spilled a golden glow I saw a name, my name, upon a bill.
"A Sale of Famous Pictures," so it read, "A Notable Collection, each a gem, Distinguished Works of Art by painters dead.
" The folks were going in, I followed them.
I stood upon the outskirts of the crowd, I only hoped that none might notice me.
Soon, soon I heard them call my name aloud: "A `David Strong', his Fete in Brittany.
" (A brave big picture that, the best I've done, It glowed and kindled half the hall away, With all its memories of sea and sun, Of pipe and bowl, of joyous work and play.
I saw the sardine nets blue as the sky, I saw the nut-brown fisher-boats put out.
) "Five hundred pounds!" rapped out a voice near by; "Six hundred!" "Seven!" "Eight!" And then a shout: "A thousand pounds!" Oh, how I thrilled to hear! Oh, how the bids went up by leaps, by bounds! And then a silence; then the auctioneer: "It's going! Going! Gone! Three thousand pounds!" Three thousand pounds! A frenzy leapt in me.
"That picture's mine," I cried; "I'm David Strong.
I painted it, this famished wretch you see; I did it, I, and sold it for a song.
And in a garret three small hours ago My daughter died for want of Christian care.
Look, look at me! .
.
.
Is it to mock my woe You pay three thousand for my picture there?" .
.
.
O God! I stumbled blindly from the hall; The city crashed on me, the fiendish sounds Of cruelty and strife, but over all "Three thousand pounds!" I heard; "Three thousand pounds!" There, that's my story, sir; it isn't gay.
Tales of the Poor are never very bright .
.
.
You'll look for me next time you pass this way .
.
.
I hope you'll find me, sir; good-night, good-night.
Written by Alan Seeger | Create an image from this poem

Ariosto. Orlando Furioso Canto X 91-99

 Ruggiero, to amaze the British host, 
And wake more wonder in their wondering ranks, 
The bridle of his winged courser loosed, 
And clapped his spurs into the creature's flanks; 
High in the air, even to the topmost banks 
Of crudded cloud, uprose the flying horse, 
And now above the Welsh, and now the Manx, 
And now across the sea he shaped his course, 
Till gleaming far below lay Erin's emerald shores.
There round Hibernia's fabled realm he coasted, Where the old saint had left the holy cave, Sought for the famous virtue that it boasted To purge the sinful visitor and save.
Thence back returning over land and wave, Ruggiero came where the blue currents flow, The shores of Lesser Brittany to lave, And, looking down while sailing to and fro, He saw Angelica chained to the rock below.
'Twas on the Island of Complaint -- well named, For there to that inhospitable shore, A savage people, cruel and untamed, Brought the rich prize of many a hateful war.
To feed a monster that bestead them sore, They of fair ladies those that loveliest shone, Of tender maidens they the tenderest bore, And, drowned in tears and making piteous moan, Left for that ravening beast, chained on the rocks alone.
Thither transported by enchanter's art, Angelica from dreams most innocent (As the tale mentioned in another part) Awoke, the victim for that sad event.
Beauty so rare, nor birth so excellent, Nor tears that make sweet Beauty lovelier still, Could turn that people from their harsh intent.
Alas, what temper is conceived so ill But, Pity moving not, Love's soft enthralment will? On the cold granite at the ocean's rim These folk had chained her fast and gone their way; Fresh in the softness of each delicate limb The pity of their bruising violence lay.
Over her beauty, from the eye of day To hide its pleading charms, no veil was thrown.
Only the fragments of the salt sea-spray Rose from the churning of the waves, wind-blown, To dash upon a whiteness creamier than their own.
Carved out of candid marble without flaw, Or alabaster blemishless and rare, Ruggiero might have fancied what he saw, For statue-like it seemed, and fastened there By craft of cunningest artificer; Save in the wistful eyes Ruggiero thought A teardrop gleamed, and with the rippling hair The ocean breezes played as if they sought In its loose depths to hide that which her hand might not.
Pity and wonder and awakening love Strove in the bosom of the Moorish Knight.
Down from his soaring in the skies above He urged the tenor of his courser's flight.
Fairer with every foot of lessening height Shone the sweet prisoner.
With tightening reins He drew more nigh, and gently as he might: "O lady, worthy only of the chains With which his bounden slaves the God of Love constrains, "And least for this or any ill designed, Oh, what unnatural and perverted race Could the sweet flesh with flushing stricture bind, And leave to suffer in this cold embrace That the warm arms so hunger to replace?" Into the damsel's cheeks such color flew As by the alchemy of ancient days If whitest ivory should take the hue Of coral where it blooms deep in the liquid blue.
Nor yet so tightly drawn the cruel chains Clasped the slim ankles and the wounded hands, But with soft, cringing attitudes in vain She strove to shield her from that ardent glance.
So, clinging to the walls of some old manse, The rose-vine strives to shield her tender flowers, When the rude wind, as autumn weeks advance, Beats on the walls and whirls about the towers And spills at every blast her pride in piteous showers.
And first for choking sobs she might not speak, And then, "Alas!" she cried, "ah, woe is me!" And more had said in accents faint and weak, Pleading for succor and sweet liberty.
But hark! across the wide ways of the sea Rose of a sudden such a fierce affray That any but the brave had turned to flee.
Ruggiero, turning, looked.
To his dismay, Lo, where the monster came to claim his quivering prey!
Written by Michael Drayton | Create an image from this poem

Sirena

 NEAR to the silver Trent 
 SIRENA dwelleth; 
She to whom Nature lent 
 All that excelleth; 
By which the Muses late 
 And the neat Graces 
Have for their greater state 
 Taken their places; 
Twisting an anadem 
 Wherewith to crown her, 
As it belong'd to them 
 Most to renown her.
On thy bank, In a rank, Let thy swans sing her, And with their music Along let them bring her.
Tagus and Pactolus Are to thee debtor, Nor for their gold to us Are they the better: Henceforth of all the rest Be thou the River Which, as the daintiest, Puts them down ever.
For as my precious one O'er thee doth travel, She to pearl paragon Turneth thy gravel.
On thy bank.
.
.
Our mournful Philomel, That rarest tuner, Henceforth in Aperil Shall wake the sooner, And to her shall complain From the thick cover, Redoubling every strain Over and over: For when my Love too long Her chamber keepeth, As though it suffer'd wrong, The Morning weepeth.
On thy bank.
.
.
Oft have I seen the Sun, To do her honour, Fix himself at his noon To look upon her; And hath gilt every grove, Every hill near her, With his flames from above Striving to cheer her: And when she from his sight Hath herself turned, He, as it had been night, In clouds hath mourned.
On thy bank.
.
.
The verdant meads are seen, When she doth view them, In fresh and gallant green Straight to renew them; And every little grass Broad itself spreadeth, Proud that this bonny lass Upon it treadeth: Nor flower is so sweet In this large cincture, But it upon her feet Leaveth some tincture.
On thy bank.
.
.
The fishes in the flood, When she doth angle, For the hook strive a-good Them to entangle; And leaping on the land, From the clear water, Their scales upon the sand Lavishly scatter; Therewith to pave the mould Whereon she passes, So herself to behold As in her glasses.
On thy bank.
.
.
When she looks out by night, The stars stand gazing, Like comets to our sight Fearfully blazing; As wond'ring at her eyes With their much brightness, Which so amaze the skies, Dimming their lightness.
The raging tempests are calm When she speaketh, Such most delightsome balm From her lips breaketh.
On thy bank.
.
.
In all our Brittany There 's not a fairer, Nor can you fit any Should you compare her.
Angels her eyelids keep, All hearts surprising; Which look whilst she doth sleep Like the sun's rising: She alone of her kind Knoweth true measure, And her unmatched mind Is heaven's treasure.
On thy bank.
.
.
Fair Dove and Darwen clear, Boast ye your beauties, To Trent your mistress here Yet pay your duties: My Love was higher born Tow'rds the full fountains, Yet she doth moorland scorn And the Peak mountains; Nor would she none should dream Where she abideth, Humble as is the stream Which by her slideth.
On thy bank.
.
.
Yet my pour rustic Muse Nothing can move her, Nor the means I can use, Though her true lover: Many a long winter's night Have I waked for her, Yet this my piteous plight Nothing can stir her.
All thy sands, silver Trent, Down to the Humber, The sighs that I have spent Never can number.
On thy bank, In a rank, Let thy swans sing her, And with their music Along let them bring her.
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

THE CYMBALEER'S BRIDE

 ("Monseigneur le Duc de Bretagne.") 
 
 {VI., October, 1825.} 


 My lord the Duke of Brittany 
 Has summoned his barons bold— 
 Their names make a fearful litany! 
 Among them you will not meet any 
 But men of giant mould. 
 
 Proud earls, who dwell in donjon keep, 
 And steel-clad knight and peer, 
 Whose forts are girt with a moat cut deep— 
 But none excel in soldiership 
 My own loved cymbaleer. 
 
 Clashing his cymbals, forth he went, 
 With a bold and gallant bearing; 
 Sure for a captain he was meant, 
 To judge his pride with courage blent, 
 And the cloth of gold he's wearing. 
 
 But in my soul since then I feel 
 A fear in secret creeping; 
 And to my patron saint I kneel, 
 That she may recommend his weal 
 To his guardian-angel's keeping. 
 
 I've begged our abbot Bernardine 
 His prayers not to relax; 
 And to procure him aid divine 
 I've burnt upon Saint Gilda's shrine 
 Three pounds of virgin wax. 
 
 Our Lady of Loretto knows 
 The pilgrimage I've vowed: 
 "To wear the scallop I propose, 
 If health and safety from the foes 
 My lover be allowed." 
 
 No letter (fond affection's gage!) 
 From him could I require, 
 The pain of absence to assuage— 
 A vassal-maid can have no page, 
 A liegeman has no squire. 
 
 This day will witness, with the duke's, 
 My cymbaleer's return: 
 Gladness and pride beam in my looks, 
 Delay my heart impatient brooks, 
 All meaner thoughts I spurn. 
 
 Back from the battlefield elate 
 His banner brings each peer; 
 Come, let us see, at the ancient gate, 
 The martial triumph pass in state— 
 With the princes my cymbaleer. 
 
 We'll have from the rampart walls a glance 
 Of the air his steed assumes; 
 His proud neck swells, his glad hoofs prance, 
 And on his head unceasing dance, 
 In a gorgeous tuft, red plumes! 
 
 Be quick, my sisters! dress in haste! 
 Come, see him bear the bell, 
 With laurels decked, with true love graced, 
 While in his bold hands, fitly placed, 
 The bounding cymbals swell! 
 
 Mark well the mantle that he'll wear, 
 Embroidered by his bride! 
 Admire his burnished helmet's glare, 
 O'ershadowed by the dark horsehair 
 That waves in jet folds wide! 
 
 The gypsy (spiteful wench!) foretold, 
 With a voice like a viper hissing. 
 (Though I had crossed her palm with gold), 
 That from the ranks a spirit bold 
 Would be to-day found missing. 
 
 But I have prayed so much, I trust 
 Her words may prove untrue; 
 Though in a tomb the hag accurst 
 Muttered: "Prepare thee for the worst!" 
 Whilst the lamp burnt ghastly blue. 
 
 My joy her spells shall not prevent. 
 Hark! I can hear the drums! 
 And ladies fair from silken tent 
 Peep forth, and every eye is bent 
 On the cavalcade that comes! 
 
 Pikemen, dividing on both flanks, 
 Open the pageantry; 
 Loud, as they tread, their armor clanks, 
 And silk-robed barons lead the ranks— 
 The pink of gallantry! 
 
 In scarfs of gold the priests admire; 
 The heralds on white steeds; 
 Armorial pride decks their attire, 
 Worn in remembrance of some sire 
 Famed for heroic deeds. 
 
 Feared by the Paynim's dark divan, 
 The Templars next advance; 
 Then the tall halberds of Lausanne, 
 Foremost to stand in battle van 
 Against the foes of France. 
 
 Now hail the duke, with radiant brow, 
 Girt with his cavaliers; 
 Round his triumphant banner bow 
 Those of his foe. Look, sisters, now! 
 Here come the cymbaleers! 
 
 She spoke—with searching eye surveyed 
 Their ranks—then, pale, aghast, 
 Sunk in the crowd! Death came in aid— 
 'Twas mercy to that loving maid— 
 The cymbaleers had passed! 
 
 "FATHER PROUT" (FRANK S. MAHONY) 


 






Written by Ernest Dowson | Create an image from this poem

Yvonne Of Brittany

 In your mother's apple-orchard,
Just a year ago, last spring:
Do you remember, Yvonne!
The dear trees lavishing
Rain of their starry blossoms
To make you a coronet?
Do you ever remember, Yvonne,
As I remember yet?

In your mother's apple-orchard,
When the world was left behind:
You were shy, so shy, Yvonne!
But your eyes were calm and kind.
We spoke of the apple harvest, When the cider press is set, And such-like trifles, Yvonne, That doubtless you forget.
In the still, soft Breton twilight, We were silent; words were few, Till your mother came out chiding, For the grass was bright with dew: But I know your heart was beating, Like a fluttered, frightened dove.
Do you ever remember, Yvonne, That first faint flush of love? In the fulness of midsummer, When the apple-bloom was shed, Oh, brave was your surrender, Though shy the words you said.
I was glad, so glad, Yvonne! To have led you home at last; Do you ever remember, Yvonne, How swiftly the days passed? In your mother's apple-orchard It is grown too dark to stray, There is none to chide you, Yvonne! You are over far away.
There is dew on your grave grass, Yvonne! But your feet it shall not wet: No, you never remember, Yvonne! And I shall soon forget.
Written by Dorothy Parker | Create an image from this poem

Iseult Of Brittany

 So delicate my hands, and long,
They might have been my pride.
And there were those to make them song Who for their touch had died.
Too frail to cup a heart within, Too soft to hold the free- How long these lovely hands have been A bitterness to me!

Book: Reflection on the Important Things