Written by
John Dryden |
Farewell, ungrateful traitor!
Farewell, my perjur'd swain!
Let never injur'd woman
Believe a man again.
The pleasure of possessing
Surpasses all expressing,
But 'tis too short a blessing,
And love too long a pain.
'Tis easy to deceive us
In pity of your pain,
But when we love, you leave us
To rail at you in vain.
Before we have descried it,
There is no joy beside it,
But she that once has tried it
Will never love again.
The passion you pretended
Was only to obtain,
But once the charm is ended,
The charmer you disdain.
Your love by ours we measure
Till we have lost our treasure,
But dying is a pleasure
When living is a pain.
|
Written by
Aleister Crowley |
Uncharmable charmer
Of Bacchus and Mars
In the sounding rebounding
Abyss of the stars!
O virgin in armour,
Thine arrows unsling
In the brilliant resilient
First rays of the spring!
By the force of the fashion
Of love, when I broke
Through the shroud, through the cloud,
Through the storm, through the smoke,
To the mountain of passion
Volcanic that woke ---
By the rage of the mage
I invoke, I invoke!
By the midnight of madness: -
The lone-lying sea,
The swoon of the moon,
Your swoon into me,
The sentinel sadness
Of cliff-clinging pine,
That night of delight
You were mine, you were mine!
You were mine, O my saint,
My maiden, my mate,
By the might of the right
Of the night of our fate.
Though I fall, though I faint,
Though I char, though I choke,
By the hour of our power
I invoke, I invoke!
By the mystical union
Of fairy and faun,
Unspoken, unbroken -
The dust to the dawn! -
A secret communion
Unmeasured, unsung,
The listless, resistless,
Tumultuous tongue! -
O virgin in armour,
Thine arrows unsling,
In the brilliant resilient
First rays of the spring!
No Godhead could charm her,
But manhood awoke -
O fiery Valkyrie,
I invoke, I invoke!
|
Written by
Sidney Lanier |
Written for the Art Autograph during the Irish Famine, 1880.
Heartsome Ireland, winsome Ireland,
Charmer of the sun and sea,
Bright beguiler of old anguish,
How could Famine frown on thee?
As our Gulf-Stream, drawn to thee-ward,
Turns him from his northward flow,
And our wintry western headlands
Send thee summer from their snow,
Thus the main and cordial current
Of our love sets over sea, --
Tender, comely, valiant Ireland,
Songful, soulful, sorrowful Ireland, --
Streaming warm to comfort thee.
|
Written by
Sharon Olds |
The first ones were attached to my dress
at the waist, one on either side,
right at the point where hands could clasp you and
pick you up, as if you were a hot
squeeze bottle of tree syrup, and the
sashes that emerged like axil buds from the
angles of the waist were used to play horses, that
racing across the cement while someone
held your reins and you could feel your flesh
itself in your body wildly streaming.
You would come home, a torn-off sash
dangling from either hand, a snake-charmer—
each time, she sewed them back on with
thicker thread, until the seams of
sash and dress bulged like little
knots of gristle at your waist as you walked, you could
feel them like thumbs pressing into your body.
The next sash was the one Thee, Hannah!
borrowed from her be-ribboned friend
and hid in a drawer and got salve on it,
salve on a sash, like bacon grease on a snake,
God's lard on the ribbon a Quaker girl
should not want, Satan's jism on
silk delicate as the skin of a young girl's genital.
When Hannah gave up satin her father
told her she was beautiful
just as God made her.
But all sashes
lead to the sash, very sash of
very sash, begotten, not made, that my
aunt sent from Switzerland—
cobalt ripple of Swiss cotton with
clean boys and girls dancing on it.
I don't know why my mother chose it to
tie me to the chair with, her eye just
fell on it, but the whole day I
felt those blue children dance
around my wrists.
Later someone
told me they had found out
the universe is a kind of strip that
twists around and joins itself, and I believe it,
sometimes I can feel it, the way we are
pouring slowly toward a curve and around it
through something dark and soft, and we are bound to
each other.
|
Written by
Duncan Campbell Scott |
A ROBIN in the morning,
In the morning early,
Sang a song of warning,
"There'll be rain, there'll be rain.
"
Very,very clearly
From the orchard
Came the gentle horning,
"There'll be rain.
"
But the hasty farmer
Cut his hay down,
Did not heed the charmer
From the orchard,
And the mower's clatter
Ceased at noontide,
For with drip and spatter
Down came the rain.
Then the prophet robin
Hidden in the crab-tree
Railed upon the farmer,
"I told you so, I told you so.
"
As the rain grew stronger,
And his heart grew prouder,
Notes so full and slow
Coming blither, louder,
"I told you so, I told you so,"
"I told you so.
"
|
Written by
Lewis Carroll |
"WHAT'S this?" I pondered.
"Have I slept?
Or can I have been drinking?"
But soon a gentler feeling crept
Upon me, and I sat and wept
An hour or so, like winking.
"No need for Bones to hurry so!"
I sobbed.
"In fact, I doubt
If it was worth his while to go -
And who is Tibbs, I'd like to know,
To make such work about?
"If Tibbs is anything like me,
It's POSSIBLE," I said,
"He won't be over-pleased to be
Dropped in upon at half-past three,
After he's snug in bed.
"And if Bones plagues him anyhow -
Squeaking and all the rest of it,
As he was doing here just now -
I prophesy there'll be a row,
And Tibbs will have the best of it!"
Then, as my tears could never bring
The friendly Phantom back,
It seemed to me the proper thing
To mix another glass, and sing
The following Coronach.
'AND ART THOU GONE, BELOVED GHOST?
BEST OF FAMILIARS!
NAY THEN, FAREWELL, MY DUCKLING ROAST,
FAREWELL, FAREWELL, MY TEA AND TOAST,
MY MEERSCHAUM AND CIGARS!
THE HUES OF LIFE ARE DULL AND GRAY,
THE SWEETS OF LIFE INSIPID,
WHEN thou, MY CHARMER, ART AWAY -
OLD BRICK, OR RATHER, LET ME SAY,
OLD PARALLELEPIPED!'
Instead of singing Verse the Third,
I ceased - abruptly, rather:
But, after such a splendid word
I felt that it would be absurd
To try it any farther.
So with a yawn I went my way
To seek the welcome downy,
And slept, and dreamed till break of day
Of Poltergeist and Fetch and Fay
And Leprechaun and Brownie!
For year I've not been visited
By any kind of Sprite;
Yet still they echo in my head,
Those parting words, so kindly said,
"Old Turnip-top, good-night!"
|
Written by
Robert Burns |
NOW westlin winds and slaught’ring guns
Bring Autumn’s pleasant weather;
The moorcock springs on whirring wings
Amang the blooming heather:
Now waving grain, wide o’er the plain,
Delights the weary farmer;
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night,
To muse upon my charmer.
The partridge loves the fruitful fells,
The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells,
The soaring hern the fountains:
Thro’ lofty groves the cushat roves,
The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o’erhangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.
Thus ev’ry kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine,
Some solitary wander:
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
Tyrannic man’s dominion;
The sportsman’s joy, the murd’ring cry,
The flutt’ring, gory pinion!
But, Peggy dear, the ev’ning’s clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow,
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow:
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of Nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And ev’ry happy creature.
We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I’ll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal show’rs to budding flow’rs,
Not Autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely charmer!
|
Written by
T Wignesan |
For J.
C.
Alldridge
Piccolo and been-throated pibroch
Dilating dimpled hood
Spreading photometric darkroom eyes
Waxing waxing matching
Venomous lip to music's piping lip
O Queen of stung dragon mouthed Po
Dancing girl of nuanceless ancient reliefs
The apotheosis Brahman curling on the neck
Must you now sink sink
Dread watched
Spineless
Into the winding womb wickerwork
Watching watching pipe-eyed watching
Until you slip
Over the sill of the pipe and the lip
Anathema! Amorphous piteous anathema!
Amulet of Siva!
Licking the boneless air companionless
Then slithering to lie on the trodden path
Must you have this one last lick
A lick that
Stills the
Unheeding
Child astray
Or ripple tailless
In the reedy gust
To the squat charmer's
Hypnotical pibroch
|
Written by
Robert Burns |
ADOWN winding Nith I did wander,
To mark the sweet flowers as they spring;
Adown winding Nith I did wander,
Of Phillis to muse and to sing.
Chorus.
—Awa’ wi’ your belles and your beauties,
They never wi’ her can compare,
Whaever has met wi’ my Phillis,
Has met wi’ the queen o’ the fair.
The daisy amus’d my fond fancy,
So artless, so simple, so wild;
Thou emblem, said I, o’ my Phillis—
For she is Simplicity’s child.
Awa’ wi’ your belles, &c.
The rose-bud’s the blush o’ my charmer,
Her sweet balmy lip when ’tis prest:
How fair and how pure is the lily!
But fairer and purer her breast.
Awa’ wi’ your belles, &c.
Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour,
They ne’er wi’ my Phillis can vie:
Her breath is the breath of the woodbine,
Its dew-drop o’ diamond her eye.
Awa’ wi’ your belles, &c.
Her voice is the song o’ the morning,
That wakes thro’ the green-spreading grove
When Phoebus peeps over the mountains,
On music, and pleasure, and love.
Awa’ wi’ your belles, &c.
But beauty, how frail and how fleeting!
The bloom of a fine summer’s day;
While worth in the mind o’ my Phillis,
Will flourish without a decay.
Awa’ wi’ your belles, &c.
|
Written by
Victor Hugo |
("L'aube naît et ta porte est close.")
{XXIII., February, 18—.}
Though heaven's gate of light uncloses,
Thou stirr'st not—thou'rt laid to rest,
Waking are thy sister roses,
One only dreamest on thy breast.
Hear me, sweet dreamer!
Tell me all thy fears,
Trembling in song,
But to break in tears.
Lo! to greet thee, spirits pressing,
Soft music brings the gentle dove,
And fair light falleth like a blessing,
While my poor heart can bring thee only love.
Worship thee, angels love thee, sweet woman?
Yes; for that love perfects my soul.
None the less of heaven that my heart is human,
Blent in one exquisite, harmonious whole.
H.B. FARNIE.
{Footnote 1: Set to music by Sir Arthur Sullivan.}
|