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Best Famous Circumstance Poems

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

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Written by A R Ammons | Create an image from this poem

Identity

 1) An individual spider web
identifies a species:

an order of instinct prevails
 through all accidents of circumstance,
  though possibility is
high along the peripheries of
spider
   webs:
   you can go all
  around the fringing attachments

  and find
disorder ripe,
entropy rich, high levels of random,
 numerous occasions of accident:

2) the possible settings
of a web are infinite:

 how does
the spider keep
  identity
 while creating the web
 in a particular place?

 how and to what extent
  and by what modes of chemistry
  and control?

it is
wonderful
 how things work: I will tell you
   about it
   because

it is interesting
and because whatever is
moves in weeds
 and stars and spider webs
and known
   is loved:
  in that love,
  each of us knowing it,
  I love you,

for it moves within and beyond us,
  sizzles in
to winter grasses, darts and hangs with bumblebees
by summer windowsills:

   I will show you
the underlying that takes no image to itself,
 cannot be shown or said,
but weaves in and out of moons and bladderweeds,
   is all and
 beyond destruction
 because created fully in no
particular form:

   if the web were perfectly pre-set,
   the spider could
  never find
  a perfect place to set it in: and

   if the web were
perfectly adaptable,
if freedom and possibility were without limit,
   the web would
lose its special identity:

 the row-strung garden web
keeps order at the center
where space is freest (intersecting that the freest
  "medium" should
  accept the firmest order)

and that
order
   diminishes toward the
periphery
 allowing at the points of contact
  entropy equal to entropy.


Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Suicide Note

 "You speak to me of narcissism but I reply that it is 
a matter of my life" - Artaud

"At this time let me somehow bequeath all the leftovers 
to my daughters and their daughters" - Anonymous

Better, 
despite the worms talking to 
the mare's hoof in the field; 
better, 
despite the season of young girls 
dropping their blood; 
better somehow 
to drop myself quickly 
into an old room.
Better (someone said) not to be born and far better not to be born twice at thirteen where the boardinghouse, each year a bedroom, caught fire.
Dear friend, I will have to sink with hundreds of others on a dumbwaiter into hell.
I will be a light thing.
I will enter death like someone's lost optical lens.
Life is half enlarged.
The fish and owls are fierce today.
Life tilts backward and forward.
Even the wasps cannot find my eyes.
Yes, eyes that were immediate once.
Eyes that have been truly awake, eyes that told the whole story— poor dumb animals.
Eyes that were pierced, little nail heads, light blue gunshots.
And once with a mouth like a cup, clay colored or blood colored, open like the breakwater for the lost ocean and open like the noose for the first head.
Once upon a time my hunger was for Jesus.
O my hunger! My hunger! Before he grew old he rode calmly into Jerusalem in search of death.
This time I certainly do not ask for understanding and yet I hope everyone else will turn their heads when an unrehearsed fish jumps on the surface of Echo Lake; when moonlight, its bass note turned up loud, hurts some building in Boston, when the truly beautiful lie together.
I think of this, surely, and would think of it far longer if I were not… if I were not at that old fire.
I could admit that I am only a coward crying me me me and not mention the little gnats, the moths, forced by circumstance to suck on the electric bulb.
But surely you know that everyone has a death, his own death, waiting for him.
So I will go now without old age or disease, wildly but accurately, knowing my best route, carried by that toy donkey I rode all these years, never asking, “Where are we going?” We were riding (if I'd only known) to this.
Dear friend, please do not think that I visualize guitars playing or my father arching his bone.
I do not even expect my mother's mouth.
I know that I have died before— once in November, once in June.
How strange to choose June again, so concrete with its green breasts and bellies.
Of course guitars will not play! The snakes will certainly not notice.
New York City will not mind.
At night the bats will beat on the trees, knowing it all, seeing what they sensed all day.
Written by Raymond Carver | Create an image from this poem

Circulation

 And all at length are gathered in.
--LOUISE BOGAN By the time I came around to feeling pain and woke up, moonlight flooded the room.
My arm lay paralyzed, propped up like an old anchor under your back.
You were in a dream, you said later, where you'd arrived early for the dance.
But after a moment's anxiety you were okay because it was really a sidewalk sale, and the shoes you were wearing, or not wearing, were fine for that.
* "Help me," I said.
And tried to hoist my arm.
But it just lay there, aching, unable to rise on its own.
Even after you said, "What is it? What's wrong?" it stayed put -- deaf, unmoved by any expression of fear or amazement.
We shouted at it, and grew afraid when it didn't answer.
"It's gone to sleep," I said, and hearing those words knew how absurd this was.
But I couldn't laugh.
Somehow, between the two of us, we managed to raise it.
This can't be my arm is what I kept thinking as we thumped it, squeezed it, and prodded it back to life.
Shook it until that stinging went away.
We said a few words to each other.
I don't remember what.
Whatever reassuring things people who love each other say to each other given the hour and such odd circumstance.
I do remember you remarked how it was light enough in the room that you could see circles under my eyes.
You said I needed more regular sleep, and I agreed.
Each of us went to the bathroom, and climbed back into bed on our respective sides.
Pulled the covers up.
"Good night," you said, for the second time that night.
And fell asleep.
Maybe into that same dream, or else another.
* I lay until daybreak, holding both arms fast across my chest.
Working my fingers now and then.
While my thoughts kept circling around and around, but always going back where they'd started from.
That one inescapable fact: even while we undertake this trip, there's another, far more bizarre, we still have to make.
Written by William Wordsworth | Create an image from this poem

THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN

[When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his journey with his companions; he is left behind, covered over with Deer-skins, and is supplied with water, food, and fuel if the situation of the place will afford it.
He is informed of the track which his companions intend to pursue, and if he is unable to follow, or overtake them, he perishes alone in the Desart; unless he should have the good fortune to fall in with some other Tribes of Indians.
It is unnecessary to add that the females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate.
See that very interesting work
, Hearne's Journey from Hudson's Bay to the Northern Ocean.
In the high Northern Latititudes, as the same writer informs us, when the Northern Lights vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling noise.
This circumstance is alluded to in the first stanza of the following poem.
]

THE COMPLAINT, etc.

  Before I see another day,
  Oh let my body die away!
  In sleep I heard the northern gleams;
  The stars they were among my dreams;
  In sleep did I behold the skies,
  I saw the crackling flashes drive;
  And yet they are upon my eyes,
  And yet I am alive.
  Before I see another day,
  Oh let my body die away!

  My fire is dead: it knew no pain;
  Yet is it dead, and I remain.
  All stiff with ice the ashes lie;
  And they are dead, and I will die.
  When I was well, I wished to live,
  For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire;
  But they to me no joy can give,
  No pleasure now, and no desire.
  Then here contented will I lie;
  Alone I cannot fear to die.

  Alas! you might have dragged me on
  Another day, a single one!
  Too soon despair o'er me prevailed;
  Too soon my heartless spirit failed;
  When you were gone my limbs were stronger,
  And Oh how grievously I rue,
  That, afterwards, a little longer,
  My friends, I did not follow you!
  For strong and without pain I lay,
  My friends, when you were gone away.

  My child! they gave thee to another,
  A woman who was not thy mother.
  When from my arms my babe they took,
  On me how strangely did he look!
  Through his whole body something ran,
  A most strange something did I see;
  —As if he strove to be a man,
  That he might pull the sledge for me.
  And then he stretched his arms, how wild!
  Oh mercy! like a little child.

  My little joy! my little pride!
  In two days more I must have died.
  Then do not weep and grieve for me;
  I feel I must have died with thee.
  Oh wind that o'er my head art flying,
  The way my friends their course did bend,
  I should not feel the pain of dying,
  Could I with thee a message send.
  Too soon, my friends, you went away;
  For I had many things to say.

  I'll follow you across the snow,
  You travel heavily and slow:
  In spite of all my weary pain,
  I'll look upon your tents again.
  My fire is dead, and snowy white
  The water which beside it stood;
  The wolf has come to me to-night,
  And he has stolen away my food.
  For ever left alone am I,
  Then wherefore should I fear to die?

  My journey will be shortly run,
  I shall not see another sun,
  I cannot lift my limbs to know
  If they have any life or no.
  My poor forsaken child! if I
  For once could have thee close to me,
  With happy heart I then should die,
  And my last thoughts would happy be.
  I feel my body die away,
  I shall not see another day.

Written by Sidney Lanier | Create an image from this poem

Corn

 To-day the woods are trembling through and through
With shimmering forms, that flash before my view,
Then melt in green as dawn-stars melt in blue.
The leaves that wave against my cheek caress Like women's hands; the embracing boughs express A subtlety of mighty tenderness; The copse-depths into little noises start, That sound anon like beatings of a heart, Anon like talk 'twixt lips not far apart.
The beech dreams balm, as a dreamer hums a song; Through that vague wafture, expirations strong Throb from young hickories breathing deep and long With stress and urgence bold of prisoned spring And ecstasy of burgeoning.
Now, since the dew-plashed road of morn is dry, Forth venture odors of more quality And heavenlier giving.
Like Jove's locks awry, Long muscadines Rich-wreathe the spacious foreheads of great pines, And breathe ambrosial passion from their vines.
I pray with mosses, ferns and flowers shy That hide like gentle nuns from human eye To lift adoring perfumes to the sky.
I hear faint bridal-sighs of brown and green Dying to silent hints of kisses keen As far lights fringe into a pleasant sheen.
I start at fragmentary whispers, blown From undertalks of leafy souls unknown, Vague purports sweet, of inarticulate tone.
Dreaming of gods, men, nuns and brides, between Old companies of oaks that inward lean To join their radiant amplitudes of green I slowly move, with ranging looks that pass Up from the matted miracles of grass Into yon veined complex of space Where sky and leafage interlace So close, the heaven of blue is seen Inwoven with a heaven of green.
I wander to the zigzag-cornered fence Where sassafras, intrenched in brambles dense, Contests with stolid vehemence The march of culture, setting limb and thorn As pikes against the army of the corn.
There, while I pause, my fieldward-faring eyes Take harvests, where the stately corn-ranks rise, Of inward dignities And large benignities and insights wise, Graces and modest majesties.
Thus, without theft, I reap another's field; Thus, without tilth, I house a wondrous yield, And heap my heart with quintuple crops concealed.
Look, out of line one tall corn-captain stands Advanced beyond the foremost of his bands, And waves his blades upon the very edge And hottest thicket of the battling hedge.
Thou lustrous stalk, that ne'er mayst walk nor talk, Still shalt thou type the poet-soul sublime That leads the vanward of his timid time And sings up cowards with commanding rhyme -- Soul calm, like thee, yet fain, like thee, to grow By double increment, above, below; Soul homely, as thou art, yet rich in grace like thee, Teaching the yeomen selfless chivalry That moves in gentle curves of courtesy; Soul filled like thy long veins with sweetness tense, By every godlike sense Transmuted from the four wild elements.
Drawn to high plans, Thou lift'st more stature than a mortal man's, Yet ever piercest downward in the mould And keepest hold Upon the reverend and steadfast earth That gave thee birth; Yea, standest smiling in thy future grave, Serene and brave, With unremitting breath Inhaling life from death, Thine epitaph writ fair in fruitage eloquent, Thyself thy monument.
As poets should, Thou hast built up thy hardihood With universal food, Drawn in select proportion fair From honest mould and vagabond air; From darkness of the dreadful night, And joyful light; From antique ashes, whose departed flame In thee has finer life and longer fame; From wounds and balms, From storms and calms, From potsherds and dry bones And ruin-stones.
Into thy vigorous substance thou hast wrought Whate'er the hand of Circumstance hath brought; Yea, into cool solacing green hast spun White radiance hot from out the sun.
So thou dost mutually leaven Strength of earth with grace of heaven; So thou dost marry new and old Into a one of higher mould; So thou dost reconcile the hot and cold, The dark and bright, And many a heart-perplexing opposite, And so, Akin by blood to high and low, Fitly thou playest out thy poet's part, Richly expending thy much-bruised heart In equal care to nourish lord in hall Or beast in stall: Thou took'st from all that thou mightst give to all.
O steadfast dweller on the selfsame spot Where thou wast born, that still repinest not -- Type of the home-fond heart, the happy lot! -- Deeply thy mild content rebukes the land Whose flimsy homes, built on the shifting sand Of trade, for ever rise and fall With alternation whimsical, Enduring scarce a day, Then swept away By swift engulfments of incalculable tides Whereon capricious Commerce rides.
Look, thou substantial spirit of content! Across this little vale, thy continent, To where, beyond the mouldering mill, Yon old deserted Georgian hill Bares to the sun his piteous aged crest And seamy breast, By restless-hearted children left to lie Untended there beneath the heedless sky, As barbarous folk expose their old to die.
Upon that generous-rounding side, With gullies scarified Where keen Neglect his lash hath plied, Dwelt one I knew of old, who played at toil, And gave to coquette Cotton soul and soil.
Scorning the slow reward of patient grain, He sowed his heart with hopes of swifter gain, Then sat him down and waited for the rain.
He sailed in borrowed ships of usury -- A foolish Jason on a treacherous sea, Seeking the Fleece and finding misery.
Lulled by smooth-rippling loans, in idle trance He lay, content that unthrift Circumstance Should plough for him the stony field of Chance.
Yea, gathering crops whose worth no man might tell, He staked his life on games of Buy-and-Sell, And turned each field into a gambler's hell.
Aye, as each year began, My farmer to the neighboring city ran; Passed with a mournful anxious face Into the banker's inner place; Parleyed, excused, pleaded for longer grace; Railed at the drought, the worm, the rust, the grass; Protested ne'er again 'twould come to pass; With many an `oh' and `if' and `but alas' Parried or swallowed searching questions rude, And kissed the dust to soften Dives's mood.
At last, small loans by pledges great renewed, He issues smiling from the fatal door, And buys with lavish hand his yearly store Till his small borrowings will yield no more.
Aye, as each year declined, With bitter heart and ever-brooding mind He mourned his fate unkind.
In dust, in rain, with might and main, He nursed his cotton, cursed his grain, Fretted for news that made him fret again, Snatched at each telegram of Future Sale, And thrilled with Bulls' or Bears' alternate wail -- In hope or fear alike for ever pale.
And thus from year to year, through hope and fear, With many a curse and many a secret tear, Striving in vain his cloud of debt to clear, At last He woke to find his foolish dreaming past, And all his best-of-life the easy prey Of squandering scamps and quacks that lined his way With vile array, From rascal statesman down to petty knave; Himself, at best, for all his bragging brave, A gamester's catspaw and a banker's slave.
Then, worn and gray, and sick with deep unrest, He fled away into the oblivious West, Unmourned, unblest.
Old hill! old hill! thou gashed and hairy Lear Whom the divine Cordelia of the year, E'en pitying Spring, will vainly strive to cheer -- King, that no subject man nor beast may own, Discrowned, undaughtered and alone -- Yet shall the great God turn thy fate, And bring thee back into thy monarch state And majesty immaculate.
Lo, through hot waverings of the August morn, Thou givest from thy vasty sides forlorn Visions of golden treasuries of corn -- Ripe largesse lingering for some bolder heart That manfully shall take thy part, And tend thee, And defend thee, With antique sinew and with modern art.


Written by William Ernest Henley | Create an image from this poem

Invictus

 Out of the night that covers me, 
 Black as the Pit from pole to pole, 
I thank whatever gods may be 
 For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.
Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

A Wasted Illness

 Through vaults of pain, 
Enribbed and wrought with groins of ghastliness, 
I passed, and garish spectres moved my brain 
 To dire distress.
And hammerings, And quakes, and shoots, and stifling hotness, blent With webby waxing things and waning things As on I went.
"Where lies the end To this foul way?" I asked with weakening breath.
Thereon ahead I saw a door extend - The door to death.
It loomed more clear: "At last!" I cried.
"The all-delivering door!" And then, I knew not how, it grew less near Than theretofore.
And back slid I Along the galleries by which I came, And tediously the day returned, and sky, And life--the same.
And all was well: Old circumstance resumed its former show, And on my head the dews of comfort fell As ere my woe.
I roam anew, Scarce conscious of my late distress .
.
.
And yet Those backward steps through pain I cannot view Without regret.
For that dire train Of waxing shapes and waning, passed before, And those grim aisles, must be traversed again To reach that door.
Written by Delmore Schwartz | Create an image from this poem

Prothalamion

 "little soul, little flirting,
 little perverse one
 where are you off to now?
 little wan one, firm one
 little exposed one.
.
.
and never make fun of me again.
" Now I must betray myself.
The feast of bondage and unity is near, And none engaged in that great piety When each bows to the other, kneels, and takes Hand in hand, glance and glance, care and care, None may wear masks or enigmatic clothes, For weakness blinds the wounded face enough.
In sense, see my shocking nakedness.
I gave a girl an apple when five years old, Saying, Will you be sorry when I am gone? Ravenous for such courtesies, my name Is fed like a raving fire, insatiate still.
But do not be afraid.
For I forget myself.
I do indeed Before each genuine beauty, and I will Forget myself before your unknown heart.
I will forget the speech my mother made In a restaurant, trapping my father there At dinner with his whore.
Her spoken rage Struck down the child of seven years With shame for all three, with pity for The helpless harried waiter, with anger for The diners gazing, avid, and contempt And great disgust for every human being.
I will remember this.
My mother's rhetoric Has charmed my various tongue, but now I know Love's metric seeks a rhyme more pure and sure.
For thus it is that I betray myself, Passing the terror of childhood at second hand Through nervous, learned fingertips.
At thirteen when a little girl died, I walked for three weeks neither alive nor dead, And could not understand and still cannot The adult blind to the nearness of the dead, Or carefully ignorant of their own death.
--This sense could shadow all the time's curving fruits, But we will taste of them the whole night long, Forgetting no twelfth night, no fete of June, But in the daylight knowing our nothingness.
Let Freud and Marx be wedding guests indeed! Let them mark out masks that face us there, For of all anguish, weakness, loss and failure, No form is cruel as self-deception, none Shows day-by-day a bad dream long lived And unbroken like the lies We tell each other because we are rich or poor.
Though from the general guilt not free We can keep honor by being poor.
The waste, the evil, the abomination Is interrupted.
the perfect stars persist Small in the guilty night, and Mozart shows The irreducible incorruptible good Risen past birth and death, though he is dead.
Hope, like a face reflected on the windowpane, Remote and dim, fosters a myth or dream, And in that dream, I speak, I summon all Who are our friends somehow and thus I say: "Bid the jewellers come with monocles, Exclaiming, Pure! Intrinsic! Final! Summon the children eating ice cream To speak the chill thrill of immediacy.
Call for the acrobats who tumble The ecstasy of the somersault.
Bid the self-sufficient stars be piercing In the sublime and inexhaustible blue.
"Bring a mathematician, there is much to count, The unending continuum of my attention: Infinity will hurry his multiplied voice! Bring the poised impeccable diver, Summon the skater, precise in figure, He knows the peril of circumstance, The risk of movement and the hard ground.
Summon the florist! And the tobacconist! All who have known a plant-like beauty: Summon the charming bird for ignorant song.
"You, Athena, with your tired beauty, Will you give me away? For you must come In a bathing suit with that white owl Whom, as I walk, I will hold in my hand.
You too, Crusoe, to utter the emotion Of finding Friday, no longer alone; You too, Chaplin, muse of the curbstone, Mummer of hope, you understand!" But this is fantastic and pitiful, And no one comes, none will, we are alone, And what is possible is my own voice, Speaking its wish, despite its lasting fear; Speaking of its hope, its promise and its fear, The voice drunk with itself and rapt in fear, Exaggeration, braggadocio, Rhetoric and hope, and always fear: "For fifty-six or for a thousand years, I will live with you and be your friend, And what your body and what your spirit bears I will like my own body cure and tend.
But you are heavy and my body's weight Is great and heavy: when I carry you I lift upon my back time like a fate Near as my heart, dark when I marry you.
"The voice's promise is easy, and hope Is drunk, and wanton, and unwilled; In time's quicksilver, where our desires grope, The dream is warped or monstrously fulfilled, In this sense, listen, listen, and draw near: Love is inexhaustible and full of fear.
" This life is endless and my eyes are tired, So that, again and again, I touch a chair, Or go to the window, press my face Against it, hoping with substantial touch, Colorful sight, or turning things to gain once more The look of actuality, the certainty Of those who run down stairs and drive a car.
Then let us be each other's truth, let us Affirm the other's self, and be The other's audience, the other's state, Each to the other his sonorous fame.
Now you will be afraid, when, waking up, Before familiar morning, by my mute side Wan and abandoned then, when, waking up, You see the lion or lamb upon my face Or see the daemon breathing heavily His sense of ignorance, his wish to die, For I am nothing because my circus self Divides its love a million times.
I am the octopus in love with God, For thus is my desire inconclusible, Until my mind, deranged in swimming tubes, Issues its own darkness, clutching seas ---O God of my perfect ignorance, Bring the New Year to my only sister soon, Take from me strength and power to bless her head, Give her the magnitude of secular trust, Until she turns to me in her troubled sleep, Seeing me in my wish, free from self-wrongs.
Written by Amy Levy | Create an image from this poem

A Minor Poet

 "What should such fellows as I do,
Crawling between earth and heaven?"


Here is the phial; here I turn the key
Sharp in the lock.
Click!--there's no doubt it turned.
This is the third time; there is luck in threes-- Queen Luck, that rules the world, befriend me now And freely I'll forgive you many wrongs! Just as the draught began to work, first time, Tom Leigh, my friend (as friends go in the world), Burst in, and drew the phial from my hand, (Ah, Tom! ah, Tom! that was a sorry turn!) And lectured me a lecture, all compact Of neatest, newest phrases, freshly culled From works of newest culture: "common good ;" "The world's great harmonies;""must be content With knowing God works all things for the best, And Nature never stumbles.
" Then again, "The common good," and still, "the common, good;" And what a small thing was our joy or grief When weigh'd with that of thousands.
Gentle Tom, But you might wag your philosophic tongue From morn till eve, and still the thing's the same: I am myself, as each man is himself-- Feels his own pain, joys his own joy, and loves With his own love, no other's.
Friend, the world Is but one man; one man is but the world.
And I am I, and you are Tom, that bleeds When needles prick your flesh (mark, yours, not mine).
I must confess it; I can feel the pulse A-beating at my heart, yet never knew The throb of cosmic pulses.
I lament The death of youth's ideal in my heart; And, to be honest, never yet rejoiced In the world's progress--scarce, indeed, discerned; (For still it seems that God's a Sisyphus With the world for stone).
You shake your head.
I'm base, Ignoble? Who is noble--you or I? I was not once thus? Ah, my friend, we are As the Fates make us.
This time is the third; The second time the flask fell from my hand, Its drowsy juices spilt upon the board; And there my face fell flat, and all the life Crept from my limbs, and hand and foot were bound With mighty chains, subtle, intangible; While still the mind held to its wonted use, Or rather grew intense and keen with dread, An awful dread--I thought I was in Hell.
In Hell, in Hell ! Was ever Hell conceived By mortal brain, by brain Divine devised, Darker, more fraught with torment, than the world For such as I? A creature maimed and marr'd From very birth.
A blot, a blur, a note All out of tune in this world's instrument.
A base thing, yet not knowing to fulfil Base functions.
A high thing, yet all unmeet For work that's high.
A dweller on the earth, Yet not content to dig with other men Because of certain sudden sights and sounds (Bars of broke music; furtive, fleeting glimpse Of angel faces 'thwart the grating seen) Perceived in Heaven.
Yet when I approach To catch the sound's completeness, to absorb The faces' full perfection, Heaven's gate, Which then had stood ajar, sudden falls to, And I, a-shiver in the dark and cold, Scarce hear afar the mocking tones of men: "He would not dig, forsooth ; but he must strive For higher fruits than what our tillage yields; Behold what comes, my brothers, of vain pride!" Why play with figures? trifle prettily With this my grief which very simply's said, "There is no place for me in all the world"? The world's a rock, and I will beat no more A breast of flesh and blood against a rock.
.
.
A stride across the planks for old time's sake.
Ah, bare, small room that I have sorrowed in; Ay, and on sunny days, haply, rejoiced; We know some things together, you and I! Hold there, you rangèd row of books ! In vain You beckon from your shelf.
You've stood my friends Where all things else were foes; yet now I'll turn My back upon you, even as the world Turns it on me.
And yet--farewell, farewell! You, lofty Shakespere, with the tattered leaves And fathomless great heart, your binding's bruised Yet did I love you less? Goethe, farewell; Farewell, triumphant smile and tragic eyes, And pitiless world-wisdom! For all men These two.
And 'tis farewell with you, my friends, More dear because more near: Theokritus; Heine that stings and smiles; Prometheus' bard; (I've grown too coarse for Shelley latterly:) And one wild singer of to-day, whose song Is all aflame with passionate bard's blood Lash'd into foam by pain and the world's wrong.
At least, he has a voice to cry his pain; For him, no silent writhing in the dark, No muttering of mute lips, no straining out Of a weak throat a-choke with pent-up sound, A-throb with pent-up passion.
.
.
Ah, my sun! That's you, then, at the window, looking in To beam farewell on one who's loved you long And very truly.
Up, you creaking thing, You squinting, cobwebbed casement! So, at last, I can drink in the sunlight.
How it falls.
Across that endless sea of London roofs, Weaving such golden wonders on the grey, That almost, for the moment, we forget The world of woe beneath them.
Underneath, For all the sunset glory, Pain is king.
Yet, the sun's there, and very sweet withal; And I'll not grumble that it's only sun, But open wide my lips--thus--drink it in; Turn up my face to the sweet evening sky (What royal wealth of scarlet on the blue So tender toned, you'd almost think it green) And stretch my hands out--so--to grasp it tight.
Ha, ha! 'tis sweet awhile to cheat the Fates, And be as happy as another man.
The sun works in my veins like wine, like wine! 'Tis a fair world: if dark, indeed, with woe, Yet having hope and hint of such a joy, That a man, winning, well might turn aside, Careless of Heaven .
.
.
O enough; I turn From the sun's light, or haply I shall hope.
I have hoped enough; I would not hope again: 'Tis hope that is most cruel.
Tom, my friend, You very sorry philosophic fool; 'Tis you, I think, that bid me be resign'd, Trust, and be thankful.
Out on you! Resign'd? I'm not resign'd, not patient, not school'd in To take my starveling's portion and pretend I'm grateful for it.
I want all, all, all; I've appetite for all.
I want the best: Love, beauty, sunlight, nameless joy of life.
There's too much patience in the world, I think.
We have grown base with crooking of the knee.
Mankind--say--God has bidden to a feast; The board is spread, and groans with cates and drinks; In troop the guests; each man with appetite Keen-whetted with expectance.
In they troop, Struggle for seats, jostle and push and seize.
What's this? what's this? There are not seats for all! Some men must stand without the gates; and some Must linger by the table, ill-supplied With broken meats.
One man gets meat for two, The while another hungers.
If I stand Without the portals, seeing others eat Where I had thought to satiate the pangs Of mine own hunger; shall I then come forth When all is done, and drink my Lord's good health In my Lord's water? Shall I not rather turn And curse him, curse him for a niggard host? O, I have hungered, hungered, through the years, Till appetite grows craving, then disease; I am starved, wither'd, shrivelled.
Peace, O peace! This rage is idle; what avails to curse The nameless forces, the vast silences That work in all things.
This time is the third, I wrought before in heat, stung mad with pain, Blind, scarcely understanding; now I know What thing I do.
There was a woman once; Deep eyes she had, white hands, a subtle smile, Soft speaking tones: she did not break my heart, Yet haply had her heart been otherwise Mine had not now been broken.
Yet, who knows? My life was jarring discord from the first: Tho' here and there brief hints of melody, Of melody unutterable, clove the air.
From this bleak world, into the heart of night, The dim, deep bosom of the universe, I cast myself.
I only crave for rest; Too heavy is the load.
I fling it down.
EPILOGUE.
We knocked and knocked; at last, burst in the door, And found him as you know--the outstretched arms Propping the hidden face.
The sun had set, And all the place was dim with lurking shade.
There was no written word to say farewell, Or make more clear the deed.
I search'd and search'd; The room held little: just a row of books Much scrawl'd and noted; sketches on the wall, Done rough in charcoal; the old instrument (A violin, no Stradivarius) He played so ill on; in the table drawer Large schemes of undone work.
Poems half-writ; Wild drafts of symphonies; big plans of fugues; Some scraps of writing in a woman's hand: No more--the scattered pages of a tale, A sorry tale that no man cared to read.
Alas, my friend, I lov'd him well, tho' he Held me a cold and stagnant-blooded fool, Because I am content to watch, and wait With a calm mind the issue of all things.
Certain it is my blood's no turbid stream; Yet, for all that, haply I understood More than he ever deem'd; nor held so light The poet in him.
Nay, I sometimes doubt If they have not, indeed, the better part-- These poets, who get drunk with sun, and weep Because the night or a woman's face is fair.
Meantime there is much talk about my friend.
The women say, of course, he died for love; The men, for lack of gold, or cavilling Of carping critics.
I, Tom Leigh, his friend I have no word at all to say of this.
Nay, I had deem'd him more philosopher; For did he think by this one paltry deed To cut the knot of circumstance, and snap The chain which binds all being?
Written by Aleister Crowley | Create an image from this poem

Lyric of Love to Leah

 Come, my darling, let us dance
To the moon that beckons us
To dissolve our love in trance
Heedless of the hideous
Heat & hate of Sirius-
Shun his baneful brilliance!

Let us dance beneath the palm
Moving in the moonlight, frond
Wooing frond above the calm
Of the ocean diamond
Sparkling to the sky beyond
The enchantment of our psalm.
Let us dance, my mirror of Perfect passion won to peace, Let us dance, my treasure trove, On the marble terraces Carven in pallid embroeideries For the vestal veil of Love.
Heaven awakes to encompass us, Hell awakes its jubilance In our hearts mysterious Marriage of the azure expanse, With the scarlet brilliance Of the Moon with Sirius.
Velvet swatches our lissome limbs Languid lapped by sky & sea Soul through sense & spirit swims Through the pregnant porphyry Dome of lapiz-lazuli:- Heart of silence, hush our hymns.
Come my darling; let us dance Through the golden galaxies Rythmic swell of circumstance Beaming passion’s argosies: Ecstacy entwined with ease, Terrene joy transcending trance! Thou my scarlet concubine Draining heart’s blood to the lees To empurple those divine Lips with living luxuries Life importunate to appease Drought insatiable of wine! Tunis in the tremendous trance Rests from day’s incestuous Traffic with the radiance Of her sire-& over us Gleams the intoxicating glance Of the Moon & Sirius.
Take the ardour of my impearled Essence that my shoulders seek To intensify the curled Candour of the eyes oblique, Eyes that see the seraphic sleek Lust bewitch the wanton world.
Come, my love, my dove, & pour From thy cup the serpent wine Brimmed & breathless -secret store Of my crimson concubine Surfeit spirit in the shrine- Devil -Godess -Virgin -Whore.
Afric sands ensorcel us, Afric seas & skies entrance Velvet, lewd & luminous Night surveys our soul askance! Come my love, & let us dance To the Moon and Sirius!
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