Best Famous Clanged Poems

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

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• All Famous Clanged Poems

Written by Adelaide Crapsey | Release With swift Great sweep of her Magnificent arm my pain Clanged back the doors that shut my soul From life.

Written by Francis Thompson | The Hound of Heaven I fled Him down the nights and down the days I fled Him down the arches of the years I fled Him down the labyrinthine ways Of my own mind, and in the midst of tears I hid from him, and under running laughter. Up vistaed hopes I sped and shot precipitated Adown titanic glooms of chasme d hears From those strong feet that followed, followed after But with unhurrying chase and unperturbe d pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, They beat, and a Voice beat, More instant than the feet: All things betray thee who betrayest me. I pleaded, outlaw--wise by many a hearted casement, curtained red, trellised with inter-twining charities, For though I knew His love who followe d, Yet was I sore adread, lest having Him, I should have nought beside. But if one little casement parted wide, The gust of his approach would clash it to. Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue. Across the margent of the world I fled, And troubled the gold gateways of the stars, Smiting for shelter on their clange d bars, Fretted to dulcet jars and silvern chatter The pale ports of the moon. I said to Dawn --- be sudden, to Eve --- be soon, With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over From this tremendous Lover. Float thy vague veil about me lest He see. I tempted all His servitors but to find My own betrayal in their constancy, In faith to Him, their fickleness to me, Their traitorous trueness and their loyal deceit. To all swift things for swiftness did I sue, Clung to the whistling mane of every wind, But whether they swept, smoothly fleet, The long savannahs of the blue, Or whether, thunder-driven, They clanged His chariot thwart a heaven, Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn of their feet, Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue. Still with unhurrying chase and unperturbed pace Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, Came on the following feet, and a Voice above their beat: Nought shelters thee who wilt not shelter Me. I sought no more that after which I strayed In face of Man or Maid. But still within the little childrens' eyes Seems something, something that replies, They at least are for me, surely for me. But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair, With dawning answers there, Their angel plucked them from me by the hair. Come then, ye other children, Nature's Share with me, said I, your delicate fellowship. Let me greet you lip to lip, Let me twine with you caresses, Wantoning with our Lady Mother's vagrant tresses, Banqueting with her in her wind walled palace, Underneath her azured dai:s, Quaffing, as your taintless way is, From a chalice, lucent weeping out of the dayspring. So it was done. I in their delicate fellowship was one. Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies, I knew all the swift importings on the wilful face of skies, I knew how the clouds arise, Spume d of the wild sea-snortings. All that's born or dies, Rose and drooped with, Made them shapers of mine own moods, or wailful, or Divine. With them joyed and was bereaven. I was heavy with the Even, when she lit her glimmering tapers round the day's dead sanctities. I laughed in the morning's eyes. I triumphed and I saddened with all weather, Heaven and I wept together, and its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine. Against the red throb of its sunset heart, I laid my own to beat And share commingling heat. But not by that, by that was eased my human smart. In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's grey cheek. For ah! we know what each other says, these things and I; In sound I speak, Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences. Nature, poor step-dame, cannot slake my drouth. Let her, if she would owe me Drop yon blue-bosomed veil of sky And show me the breasts o' her tenderness. Never did any milk of hers once bless my thirsting mouth. Nigh and nigh draws the chase, with unperturbe d pace Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, And past those noise d feet, a Voice comes yet more fleet: Lo, nought contentst thee who content'st nought Me. Naked, I wait thy Love's uplifted stroke. My harness, piece by piece, thou'st hewn from me And smitten me to my knee, I am defenceless, utterly. I slept methinks, and awoke. And slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep. In the rash lustihead of my young powers, I shook the pillaring hours, and pulled my life upon me. Grimed with smears, I stand amidst the dust o' the mounded years-- My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap. My days have crackled and gone up in smoke, Have puffed and burst like sunstarts on a stream. Yeah, faileth now even dream the dreamer and the lute, the lutanist. Even the linked fantasies in whose blossomy twist, I swung the Earth, a trinket at my wrist, Have yielded, cords of all too weak account, For Earth, with heavy grief so overplussed. Ah! is thy Love indeed a weed, albeit an Amaranthine weed, Suffering no flowers except its own to mount? Ah! must, Designer Infinite, Ah! must thou char the wood 'ere thou canst limn with it ? My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust. And now my heart is as a broken fount, Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever From the dank thoughts that shiver upon the sighful branches of my mind. Such is. What is to be ? The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind ? I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds, Yet ever and anon, a trumpet sounds From the hid battlements of Eternity. Those shaken mists a space unsettle, Then round the half-glimpse d turrets, slowly wash again. But not 'ere Him who summoneth I first have seen, enwound With glooming robes purpureal; Cypress crowned. His name I know, and what his trumpet saith. Whether Man's Heart or Life it be that yield thee harvest, Must thy harvest fields be dunged with rotten death ? Now of that long pursuit, Comes at hand the bruit. That Voice is round me like a bursting Sea: And is thy Earth so marred, Shattered in shard on shard? Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest me. Strange, piteous, futile thing; Wherefore should any set thee love apart? Seeing none but I makes much of Naught (He said). And human love needs human meriting --- How hast thou merited, Of all Man's clotted clay, the dingiest clot. Alack! Thou knowest not How little worthy of any love thou art. Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee, Save me, save only me? All which I took from thee, I did'st but take, Not for thy harms, But just that thou might'st seek it in my arms. All which thy childs mistake fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at Home. Rise, clasp my hand, and come. Halts by me that Footfall. Is my gloom, after all, Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly? Ah, Fondest, Blindest, Weakest, I am He whom thou seekest. Thou dravest Love from thee who dravest Me.

Written by Charlotte Bronte | Pilates Wifes Dream I've quenched my lamp, I struck it in that start Which every limb convulsed, I heard it fall­ The crash blent with my sleep, I saw depart Its light, even as I woke, on yonder wall; Over against my bed, there shone a gleam Strange, faint, and mingling also with my dream. It sunk, and I am wrapt in utter gloom; How far is night advanced, and when will day Retinge the dusk and livid air with bloom, And fill this void with warm, creative ray ? Would I could sleep again till, clear and red, Morning shall on the mountain-tops be spread! I'd call my women, but to break their sleep, Because my own is broken, were unjust; They've wrought all day, and well-earned slumbers steep Their labours in forgetfulness, I trust; Let me my feverish watch with patience bear, Thankful that none with me its sufferings share. Yet, Oh, for light ! one ray would tranquilise My nerves, my pulses, more than effort can; I'll draw my curtain and consult the skies: These trembling stars at dead of night look wan, Wild, restless, strange, yet cannot be more drear Than this my couch, shared by a nameless fear. All black­one great cloud, drawn from east to west, Conceals the heavens, but there are lights below; Torches burn in Jerusalem, and cast On yonder stony mount a lurid glow. I see men stationed there, and gleaming spears; A sound, too, from afar, invades my ears. Dull, measured, strokes of axe and hammer ring From street to street, not loud, but through the night Distinctly heard­and some strange spectral thing Is now upreared­and, fixed against the light Of the pale lamps; defined upon that sky, It stands up like a column, straight and high. I see it all­I know the dusky sign­ A cross on Calvary, which Jews uprear While Romans watch; and when the dawn shall shine Pilate, to judge the victim will appear, Pass sentence­yield him up to crucify; And on that cross the spotless Christ must die. Dreams, then, are true­for thus my vision ran; Surely some oracle has been with me, The gods have chosen me to reveal their plan, To warn an unjust judge of destiny: I, slumbering, heard and saw; awake I know, Christ's coming death, and Pilate's life of woe. I do not weep for Pilate­who could prove Regret for him whose cold and crushing sway No prayer can soften, no appeal can move; Who tramples hearts as others trample clay, Yet with a faltering, an uncertain tread, That might stir up reprisal in the dead. Forced to sit by his side and see his deeds; Forced to behold that visage, hour by hour, In whose gaunt lines, the abhorrent gazer reads A triple lust of gold, and blood, and power; A soul whom motives, fierce, yet abject, urge Rome's servile slave, and Judah's tyrant scourge. How can I love, or mourn, or pity him ? I, who so long my fettered hands have wrung; I, who for grief have wept my eye-sight dim; Because, while life for me was bright and young, He robbed my youth­he quenched my life's fair ray­ He crushed my mind, and did my freedom slay. And at this hour­although I be his wife­ He has no more of tenderness from me Than any other wretch of guilty life; Less, for I know his household privacy­ I see him as he is­without a screen; And, by the gods, my soul abhors his mien ! Has he not sought my presence, dyed in blood­ Innocent, righteous blood, shed shamelessly ? And have I not his red salute withstood ? Aye,­when, as erst, he plunged all Galilee In dark bereavement­in affliction sore, Mingling their very offerings with their gore. Then came he­in his eyes a serpent-smile, Upon his lips some false, endearing word, And, through the streets of Salem, clanged the while, His slaughtering, hacking, sacrilegious sword­ And I, to see a man cause men such woe, Trembled with ire­I did not fear to show. And now, the envious Jewish priests have brought Jesus­whom they in mockery call their king­ To have, by this grim power, their vengeance wrought; By this mean reptile, innocence to sting. Oh ! could I but the purposed doom avert, And shield the blameless head from cruel hurt! Accessible is Pilate's heart to fear, Omens will shake his soul, like autumn leaf; Could he this night's appalling vision hear, This just man's bonds were loosed, his life were safe, Unless that bitter priesthood should prevail, And make even terror to their malice quail. Yet if I tell the dream­but let me pause. What dream ? Erewhile the characters were clear, Graved on my brain­at once some unknown cause Has dimmed and rased the thoughts, which now appear, Like a vague remnant of some by-past scene;­ Not what will be, but what, long since, has been. I suffered many things, I heard foretold A dreadful doom for Pilate,­lingering woes, In far, barbarian climes, where mountains cold Built up a solitude of trackless snows, There, he and grisly wolves prowled side by side, There he lived famished­there methought he died; But not of hunger, nor by malady; I saw the snow around him, stained with gore; I said I had no tears for such as he, And, lo ! my cheek is wet­mine eyes run o'er; I weep for mortal suffering, mortal guilt, I weep the impious deed­the blood self-spilt. More I recall not, yet the vision spread Into a world remote, an age to come­ And still the illumined name of Jesus shed A light, a clearness, through the enfolding gloom­ And still I saw that sign, which now I see, That cross on yonder brow of Calvary. What is this Hebrew Christ ? To me unknown, His lineage­doctrine­mission­yet how clear, Is God-like goodness, in his actions shewn ! How straight and stainless is his life's career ! The ray of Deity that rests on him, In my eyes makes Olympian glory dim. The world advances, Greek, or Roman rite Suffices not the inquiring mind to stay; The searching soul demands a purer light To guide it on its upward, onward way; Ashamed of sculptured gods­Religion turns To where the unseen Jehovah's altar burns. Our faith is rotten­all our rites defiled, Our temples sullied, and methinks, this man, With his new ordinance, so wise and mild, Is come, even as he says, the chaff to fan And sever from the wheat; but will his faith Survive the terrors of to-morrow's death ? * * * * * I feel a firmer trust­a higher hope Rise in my soul­it dawns with dawning day; Lo ! on the Temple's roof­on Moriah's slope Appears at length that clear, and crimson ray, Which I so wished for when shut in by night; Oh, opening skies, I hail, I bless your light ! Part, clouds and shadows ! glorious Sun appear ! Part, mental gloom ! Come insight from on high ! Dusk dawn in heaven still strives with daylight clear, The longing soul, doth still uncertain sigh. Oh ! to behold the truth­that sun divine, How doth my bosom pant, my spirit pine ! This day, time travails with a mighty birth, This day, Truth stoops from heaven and visits earth, Ere night descends, I shall more surely know What guide to follow, in what path to go; I wait in hope­I wait in solemn fear, The oracle of God­the sole­true God­to hear.

Written by Stephen Vincent Benet | Music My friend went to the piano; spun the stool A little higher; left his pipe to cool; Picked up a fat green volume from the chest; And propped it open. Whitely without rest, His fingers swept the keys that flashed like swords, . . . And to the brute drums of barbarian hordes, Roaring and thunderous and weapon-bare, An army stormed the bastions of the air! Dreadful with banners, fire to slay and parch, Marching together as the lightnings march, And swift as storm-clouds. Brazen helms and cars Clanged to a fierce resurgence of old wars Above the screaming horns. In state they passed, Trampling and splendid on and sought the vast -- Rending the darkness like a leaping knife, The flame, the noble pageant of our life! The burning seal that stamps man's high indenture To vain attempt and most forlorn adventure; Romance, and purple seas, and toppling towns, And the wind's valiance crying o'er the downs; That nerves the silly hand, the feeble brain, From the loose net of words to deeds again And to all courage! Perilous and sharp The last chord shook me as wind shakes a harp! . . . And my friend swung round on his stool, and from gods we were men, "How pretty!" we said; and went on with our talk again.

Written by Rudyard Kipling | As the Bell Clinks As I left the Halls at Lumley, rose the vision of a comely Maid last season worshipped dumbly, watched with fervor from afar; And I wondered idly, blindly, if the maid would greet me kindly. That was all -- the rest was settled by the clinking tonga-bar. Yea, my life and hers were coupled by the tonga coupling-bar. For my misty meditation, at the second changin-station, Suffered sudden dislocation, fled before the tuneless jar Of a Wagner obbligato, scherzo, doublehand staccato, Played on either pony's saddle by the clacking tonga-bar -- Played with human speech, I fancied, by the jigging, jolting bar. "She was sweet," thought I, "last season, but 'twere surely wild unreason Such tiny hope to freeze on as was offered by my Star, When she whispered, something sadly: 'I -- we feel your going badly!'" "And you let the chance escape you?" rapped the rattling tonga-bar. "What a chance and what an idiot!" clicked the vicious tonga-bar. Heart of man -- oh, heart of putty! Had I gone by Kakahutti, On the old Hill-road and rutty, I had 'scaped that fatal car. But his fortune each must bide by, so I watched the milestones slide by, To "You call on Her to-morrow!" -- fugue with cymbals by the bar -- You must call on Her to-morrow!" -- post-horn gallop by the bar. Yet a further stage my goal on -- we were whirling down to Solon, With a double lurch and roll on, best foot foremost, ganz und gar -- "She was very sweet," I hinted. "If a kiss had been imprinted?" -- "'Would ha' saved a world of trouble!" clashed the busy tonga-bar. "'Been accepted or rejected!" banged and clanged the tonga-bar. Then a notion wild and daring, 'spite the income tax's paring, And a hasty thought of sharing -- less than many incomes are, Made me put a question private, you can guess what I would drive at. "You must work the sum to prove it," clanked the careless tonga-bar. "Simple Rule of Two will prove it," litled back the tonga-bar. It was under Khyraghaut I muse. "Suppose the maid be haughty -- (There are lovers rich -- and roty) -- wait some wealthy Avatar? Answer monitor untiring, 'twixt the ponies twain perspiring!" "Faint heart never won fair lady," creaked the straining tonga-bar. "Can I tell you ere you ask Her?" pounded slow the tonga-bar. Last, the Tara Devi turning showed the lights of Simla burning, Lit my little lazy yearning to a fiercer flame by far. As below the Mall we jingled, through my very heart it tingled -- Did the iterated order of the threshing tonga-bar -- Truy your luck -- you can't do better!" twanged the loosened tongar-bar.

Written by Dame Edith Sitwell | Clowns Houses BENEATH the flat and paper sky The sun, a demon's eye, Glowed through the air, that mask of glass; All wand'ring sounds that pass Seemed out of tune, as if the light Were fiddle-strings pulled tight. The market-square with spire and bell Clanged out the hour in Hell; The busy chatter of the heat Shrilled like a parakeet; And shuddering at the noonday light The dust lay dead and white As powder on a mummy's face, Or fawned with simian grace Round booths with many a hard bright toy And wooden brittle joy: The cap and bells of Time the Clown That, jangling, whistled down Young cherubs hidden in the guise Of every bird that flies; And star-bright masks for youth to wear, Lest any dream that fare --Bright pilgrim--past our ken, should see Hints of Reality. Upon the sharp-set grass, shrill-green, Tall trees like rattles lean, And jangle sharp and dissily; But when night falls they sign Till Pierrot moon steals slyly in, His face more white than sin, Black-masked, and with cool touch lays bare Each cherry, plum, and pear. Then underneath the veiled eyes Of houses, darkness lies-- Tall houses; like a hopeless prayer They cleave the sly dumb air. Blind are those houses, paper-thin Old shadows hid therein, With sly and crazy movements creep Like marionettes, and weep. Tall windows show Infinity; And, hard reality, The candles weep and pry and dance Like lives mocked at by Chance. The rooms are vast as Sleep within; When once I ventured in, Chill Silence, like a surging sea, Slowly enveloped me.

Written by Robert Pinsky | At Pleasure Bay In the willows along the river at Pleasure Bay A catbird singing, never the same phrase twice. Here under the pines a little off the road In 1927 the Chief of Police And Mrs. W. killed themselves together, Sitting in a roadster. Ancient unshaken pilings And underwater chunks of still-mortared brick In shapes like bits of puzzle strew the bottom Where the landing was for Price's Hotel and Theater. And here's where boats blew two blasts for the keeper To shunt the iron swing-bridge. He leaned on the gears Like a skipper in the hut that housed the works And the bridge moaned and turned on its middle pier To let them through. In the middle of the summer Two or three cars might wait for the iron trusswork Winching aside, with maybe a child to notice A name on the stern in black-and-gold on white, Sandpiper, Patsy Ann, Do Not Disturb, The Idler. If a boat was running whiskey, The bridge clanged shut behind it as it passed And opened up again for the Coast Guard cutter Slowly as a sundial, and always jammed halfway. The roadbed whole, but opened like a switch, The river pulling and coursing between the piers. Never the same phrase twice, the catbird filling The humid August evening near the inlet With borrowed music that he melds and changes. Dragonflies and sandflies, frogs in the rushes, two bodies Not moving in the open car among the pines, A sliver of story. The tenor at Price's Hotel, In clown costume, unfurls the sorrow gathered In ruffles at his throat and cuffs, high quavers That hold like splashes of light on the dark water, The aria's closing phrases, changed and fading. And after a gap of quiet, cheers and applause Audible in the houses across the river, Some in the audience weeping as if they had melted Inside the music. Never the same. In Berlin The daughter of an English lord, in love With Adolf Hitler, whom she has met. She is taking Possession of the apartment of a couple, Elderly well-off Jews. They survive the war To settle here in the Bay, the old lady Teaches piano, but the whole world swivels And gapes at their feet as the girl and a high-up Nazi Examine the furniture, the glass, the pictures, The elegant story that was theirs and now Is part of hers. A few months later the English Enter the war and she shoots herself in a park, An addled, upper-class girl, her life that passes Into the lives of others or into a place. The taking of lives--the Chief and Mrs. W. Took theirs to stay together, as local ghosts. Last flurries of kisses, the revolver's barrel, Shivers of a story that a child might hear And half remember, voices in the rushes, A singing in the willows. From across the river, Faint quavers of music, the same phrase twice and again, Ranging and building. Over the high new bridge The flashing of traffic homeward from the racetrack, With one boat chugging under the arches, outward Unnoticed through Pleasure Bay to the open sea. Here's where the people stood to watch the theater Burn on the water. All that night the fireboats Kept playing their spouts of water into the blaze. In the morning, smoking pilasters and beams. Black smell of char for weeks, the ruin already Soaking back into the river. After you die You hover near the ceiling above your body And watch the mourners awhile. A few days more You float above the heads of the ones you knew And watch them through a twilight. As it grows darker You wander off and find your way to the river And wade across. On the other side, night air, Willows, the smell of the river, and a mass Of sleeping bodies all along the bank, A kind of singing from among the rushes Calling you further forward in the dark. You lie down and embrace one body, the limbs Heavy with sleep reach eagerly up around you And you make love until your soul brims up And burns free out of you and shifts and spills Down over into that other body, and you Forget the life you had and begin again On the same crossing--maybe as a child who passes Through the same place. But never the same way twice. Here in the daylight, the catbird in the willows, The new café, with a terrace and a landing, Frogs in the cattails where the swing-bridge was-- Here's where you might have slipped across the water When you were only a presence, at Pleasure Bay.

Written by Thomas Hardy | The Dance At The Phoenix To Jenny came a gentle youth From inland leazes lone; His love was fresh as apple-blooth By Parrett, Yeo, or Tone. And duly he entreated her To be his tender minister, And call him aye her own. Fair Jenny's life had hardly been A life of modesty; At Casterbridge experience keen Of many loves had she From scarcely sixteen years above: Among them sundry troopers of The King's-Own Cavalry. But each with charger, sword, and gun, Had bluffed the Biscay wave; And Jenny prized her gentle one For all the love he gave. She vowed to be, if they were wed, His honest wife in heart and head From bride-ale hour to grave. Wedded they were. Her husband's trust In Jenny knew no bound, And Jenny kept her pure and just, Till even malice found No sin or sign of ill to be In one who walked so decently The duteous helpmate's round. Two sons were born, and bloomed to men, And roamed, and were as not: Alone was Jenny left again As ere her mind had sought A solace in domestic joys, And ere the vanished pair of boys Were sent to sun her cot. She numbered near on sixty years, And passed as elderly, When, in the street, with flush of fears, On day discovered she, From shine of swords and thump of drum, Her early loves from war had come, The King's Own Cavalry. She turned aside, and bowed her head Anigh Saint Peter's door; "Alas for chastened thoughts!" she said; "I'm faded now, and hoar, And yet those notes--they thrill me through, And those gay forms move me anew As in the years of yore!"... --'Twas Christmas, and the Phoenix Inn Was lit with tapers tall, For thirty of the trooper men Had vowed to give a ball As "Theirs" had done (fame handed down) When lying in the self-same town Ere Buonaparté's fall. That night the throbbing "Soldier's Joy," The measured tread and sway Of "Fancy-Lad" and "Maiden Coy," Reached Jenny as she lay Beside her spouse; till springtide blood Seemed scouring through her like a flood That whisked the years away. She rose, and rayed, and decked her head To hide her ringlets thin; Upon her cap two bows of red She fixed with hasty pin; Unheard descending to the street, She trod the flags with tune-led feet, And stood before the Inn. Save for the dancers', not a sound Disturbed the icy air; No watchman on his midnight round Or traveller was there; But over All-Saints', high and bright, Pulsed to the music Sirius white, The Wain by Bullstake Square. She knocked, but found her further stride Checked by a sergeant tall: "Gay Granny, whence come you?" he cried; "This is a private ball." --"No one has more right here than me! Ere you were born, man," answered she, "I knew the regiment all!" "Take not the lady's visit ill!" Upspoke the steward free; "We lack sufficient partners still, So, prithee let her be!" They seized and whirled her 'mid the maze, And Jenny felt as in the days Of her immodesty. Hour chased each hour, and night advanced; She sped as shod with wings; Each time and every time she danced-- Reels, jigs, poussettes, and flings: They cheered her as she soared and swooped (She'd learnt ere art in dancing drooped From hops to slothful swings). The favorite Quick-step "Speed the Plough"-- (Cross hands, cast off, and wheel)-- "The Triumph," "Sylph," "The Row-dow dow," Famed "Major Malley's Reel," "The Duke of York's," "The Fairy Dance," "The Bridge of Lodi" (brought from France), She beat out, toe and heel. The "Fall of Paris" clanged its close, And Peter's chime told four, When Jenny, bosom-beating, rose To seek her silent door. They tiptoed in escorting her, Lest stroke of heel or chink of spur Should break her goodman's snore. The fire that late had burnt fell slack When lone at last stood she; Her nine-and-fifty years came back; She sank upon her knee Beside the durn, and like a dart A something arrowed through her heart In shoots of agony. Their footsteps died as she leant there, Lit by the morning star Hanging above the moorland, where The aged elm-rows are; And, as o'ernight, from Pummery Ridge To Maembury Ring and Standfast Bridge No life stirred, near or far. Though inner mischief worked amain, She reached her husband's side; Where, toil-weary, as he had lain Beneath the patchwork pied When yestereve she'd forthward crept, And as unwitting, still he slept Who did in her confide. A tear sprang as she turned and viewed His features free from guile; She kissed him long, as when, just wooed. She chose his domicile. Death menaced now; yet less for life She wished than that she were the wife That she had been erstwhile. Time wore to six. Her husband rose And struck the steel and stone; He glanced at Jenny, whose repose Seemed deeper than his own. With dumb dismay, on closer sight, He gathered sense that in the night, Or morn, her soul had flown. When told that some too mighty strain For one so many-yeared Had burst her bosom's master-vein, His doubts remained unstirred. His Jenny had not left his side Betwixt the eve and morning-tide: --The King's said not a word. Well! times are not as times were then, Nor fair ones half so free; And truly they were martial men, The King's-Own Cavalry. And when they went from Casterbridge And vanished over Mellstock Ridge, 'Twas saddest morn to see.

Written by Stanley Kunitz | The Dark and the Fair A roaring company that festive night; The beast of dialectic dragged his chains, Prowling from chair to chair is the smoking light, While the snow hissed against the windowpanes. Our politics, our science, and our faith Were whiskey on the tongue; I, being rent By the fierce divisions of our time, cried death And death again, and my own dying meant. Out of her secret life, the griffin-land Where ivory empires build their stage she came, Putting in mine her small impulsive hand, Five-fingered gift, and the palm not tame. The moment clanged: beauty and terror danced Tot he wild vibration of a sister-bell, Whose unremitting stroke discountenanced The marvel that the mirrors blazed to tell. A darker image took this fairer form Who once, in the purgatory of my pride, When innocence betrayed me in a room Of mocking elders, swept handsome to my side, Until we rose together, arm in arm, And fled together back into the world. What brought her now, in the semblance of the warm, Out of cold spaces, damned by colder blood? That furied woman did me grievous wrong, But does it matter much, given our years? We learn, as the thread plays out, that we belong Less to what flatters us than to what scars; So, freshly turning, as the turn condones, For her I killed the propitiatory bird, Kissing her down. Peace to her bitter bones, Who taught me the serpent's word, but yet the word.

Written by Stephen Vincent Benet | The Hemp (A Virginia Legend.) The Planting of the Hemp. Captain Hawk scourged clean the seas (Black is the gap below the plank) From the Great North Bank to the Caribbees (Down by the marsh the hemp grows rank). His fear was on the seaport towns, The weight of his hand held hard the downs. And the merchants cursed him, bitter and black, For a red flame in the sea-fog's wrack Was all of their ships that might come back. For all he had one word alone, One clod of dirt in their faces thrown, "The hemp that shall hang me is not grown!" His name bestrode the seas like Death. The waters trembled at his breath. This is the tale of how he fell, Of the long sweep and the heavy swell, And the rope that dragged him down to hell. The fight was done, and the gutted ship, Stripped like a shark the sea-gulls strip, Lurched blindly, eaten out with flame, Back to the land from where she came, A skimming horror, an eyeless shame. And Hawk stood upon his quarter-deck, And saw the sky and saw the wreck. Below, a butt for sailors' jeers, White as the sky when a white squall nears, Huddled the crowd of the prisoners. Over the bridge of the tottering plank, Where the sea shook and the gulf yawned blank, They shrieked and struggled and dropped and sank, Pinioned arms and hands bound fast. One girl alone was left at last. Sir Henry Gaunt was a mighty lord. He sat in state at the Council board; The governors were as nought to him. From one rim to the other rim Of his great plantations, flung out wide Like a purple cloak, was a full month's ride. Life and death in his white hands lay, And his only daughter stood at bay, Trapped like a hare in the toils that day. He sat at wine in his gold and his lace, And far away, in a bloody place, Hawk came near, and she covered her face. He rode in the fields, and the hunt was brave, And far away his daughter gave A shriek that the seas cried out to hear, And he could not see and he could not save. Her white soul withered in the mire As paper shrivels up in fire, And Hawk laughed, and he kissed her mouth, And her body he took for his desire. The Growing of the Hemp. Sir Henry stood in the manor room, And his eyes were hard gems in the gloom. And he said, "Go dig me furrows five Where the green marsh creeps like a thing alive -- There at its edge, where the rushes thrive." And where the furrows rent the ground, He sowed the seed of hemp around. And the blacks shrink back and are sore afraid At the furrows five that rib the glade, And the voodoo work of the master's spade. For a cold wind blows from the marshland near, And white things move, and the night grows drear, And they chatter and crouch and are sick with fear. But down by the marsh, where the gray slaves glean, The hemp sprouts up, and the earth is seen Veiled with a tenuous mist of green. And Hawk still scourges the Caribbees, And many men kneel at his knees. Sir Henry sits in his house alone, And his eyes are hard and dull like stone. And the waves beat, and the winds roar, And all things are as they were before. And the days pass, and the weeks pass, And nothing changes but the grass. But down where the fireflies are like eyes, And the damps shudder, and the mists rise, The hemp-stalks stand up toward the skies. And down from the poop of the pirate ship A body falls, and the great sharks grip. Innocent, lovely, go in grace! At last there is peace upon your face. And Hawk laughs loud as the corpse is thrown, "The hemp that shall hang me is not grown!" Sir Henry's face is iron to mark, And he gazes ever in the dark. And the days pass, and the weeks pass, And the world is as it always was. But down by the marsh the sickles beam, Glitter on glitter, gleam on gleam, And the hemp falls down by the stagnant stream. And Hawk beats up from the Caribbees, Swooping to pounce in the Northern seas. Sir Henry sits sunk deep in his chair, And white as his hand is grown his hair. And the days pass, and the weeks pass, And the sands roll from the hour-glass. But down by the marsh in the blazing sun The hemp is smoothed and twisted and spun, The rope made, and the work done. The Using of the Hemp. Captain Hawk scourged clean the seas (Black is the gap below the plank) From the Great North Bank to the Caribbees (Down by the marsh the hemp grows rank). He sailed in the broad Atlantic track, And the ships that saw him came not back. And once again, where the wide tides ran, He stooped to harry a merchantman. He bade her stop. Ten guns spake true From her hidden ports, and a hidden crew, Lacking his great ship through and through. Dazed and dumb with the sudden death, He scarce had time to draw a breath Before the grappling-irons bit deep, And the boarders slew his crew like sheep. Hawk stood up straight, his breast to the steel; His cutlass made a bloody wheel. His cutlass made a wheel of flame. They shrank before him as he came. And the bodies fell in a choking crowd, And still he thundered out aloud, "The hemp that shall hang me is not grown!" They fled at last. He was left alone. Before his foe Sir Henry stood. "The hemp is grown, and my word made good!" And the cutlass clanged with a hissing whir On the lashing blade of the rapier. Hawk roared and charged like a maddened buck. As the cobra strikes, Sir Henry struck, Pouring his life in a single thrust, And the cutlass shivered to sparks and dust. Sir Henry stood on the blood-stained deck, And set his foot on his foe's neck. Then from the hatch, where the rent decks slope, Where the dead roll and the wounded grope, He dragged the serpent of the rope. The sky was blue, and the sea was still, The waves lapped softly, hill on hill, And between one wave and another wave The doomed man's cries were little and shrill. The sea was blue, and the sky was calm; The air dripped with a golden balm. Like a wind-blown fruit between sea and sun, A black thing writhed at a yard-arm. Slowly then, and awesomely, The ship sank, and the gallows-tree, And there was nought between sea and sun -- Nought but the sun and the sky and the sea. But down by the marsh where the fever breeds, Only the water chuckles and pleads; For the hemp clings fast to a dead man's throat, And blind Fate gathers back her seeds.