Written by
Philip Larkin |
At last you yielded up the album, which
Once open, sent me distracted. All your ages
Matt and glossy on the thick black pages!
Too much confectionery, too rich:
I choke on such nutritious images.
My swivel eye hungers from pose to pose --
In pigtails, clutching a reluctant cat;
Or furred yourself, a sweet girl-graduate;
Or lifting a heavy-headed rose
Beneath a trellis, or in a trilby-hat
(Faintly disturbing, that, in several ways) --
From every side you strike at my control,
Not least through those these disquieting chaps who loll
At ease about your earlier days:
Not quite your class, I'd say, dear, on the whole.
But o, photography! as no art is,
Faithful and disappointing! that records
Dull days as dull, and hold-it smiles as frauds,
And will not censor blemishes
Like washing-lines, and Hall's-Distemper boards,
But shows a cat as disinclined, and shades
A chin as doubled when it is, what grace
Your candour thus confers upon her face!
How overwhelmingly persuades
That this is a real girl in a real place,
In every sense empirically true!
Or is it just the past? Those flowers, that gate,
These misty parks and motors, lacerate
Simply by being you; you
Contract my heart by looking out of date.
Yes, true; but in the end, surely, we cry
Not only at exclusion, but because
It leaves us free to cry. We know what was
Won't call on us to justify
Our grief, however hard we yowl across
The gap from eye to page. So I am left
To mourn (without a chance of consequence)
You, balanced on a bike against a fence;
To wonder if you'd spot the theft
Of this one of you bathing; to condense,
In short, a past that no one now can share,
No matter whose your future; calm and dry,
It holds you like a heaven, and you lie
Unvariably lovely there,
Smaller and clearer as the years go by.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
[Pg 76] CANZONE X. Poichè per mio destino. IN PRAISE OF LAURA'S EYES: IN THEM HE FINDS EVERY GOOD, AND HE CAN NEVER CEASE TO PRAISE THEM. Since then by destinyI am compell'd to sing the strong desire,Which here condemns me ceaselessly to sigh,May Love, whose quenchless fireExcites me, be my guide and point the way,And in the sweet task modulate my lay:But gently be it, lest th' o'erpowering themeInflame and sting me, lest my fond heart mayDissolve in too much softness, which I deem,From its sad state, may be:For in me—hence my terror and distress!Not now as erst I seeJudgment to keep my mind's great passion less:Nay, rather from mine own thoughts melt I so,As melts before the summer sun the snow. At first I fondly thoughtCommuning with mine ardent flame to winSome brief repose, some time of truce within:This was the hope which broughtMe courage what I suffer'd to explain,Now, now it leaves me martyr to my pain:But still, continuing mine amorous song,Must I the lofty enterprise maintain;So powerful is the wish that in me glows,That Reason, which so longRestrain'd it, now no longer can oppose.Then teach me, Love, to singIn such frank guise, that ever if the earOf my sweet foe should chance the notes to hear,Pity, I ask no more, may in her spring. If, as in other times,When kindled to true virtue was mankind,The genius, energy of man could findEntrance in divers climes,Mountains and seas o'erpassing, seeking thereHonour, and culling oft its garland fair,[Pg 77]Mine were such wish, not mine such need would be.From shore to shore my weary course to trace,Since God, and Love, and Nature deign for meEach virtue and each graceIn those dear eyes where I rejoice to place.In life to them must ITurn as to founts whence peace and safety swell:And e'en were death, which else I fear not, nigh,Their sight alone would teach me to be well. As, vex'd by the fierce wind,The weary sailor lifts at night his gazeTo the twin lights which still our pole displays,So, in the storms unkindOf Love which I sustain, in those bright eyesMy guiding light and only solace lies:But e'en in this far more is due to theft,Which, taught by Love, from time to time, I makeOf secret glances than their gracious gift:Yet that, though rare and slight,Makes me from them perpetual model take;Since first they blest my sightNothing of good without them have I tried,Placing them over me to guard and guide,Because mine own worth held itself but light. Never the full effectCan I imagine, and describe it lessWhich o'er my heart those soft eyes still possess!As worthless I rejectAnd mean all other joys that life confers,E'en as all other beauties yield to hers.A tranquil peace, alloy'd by no distress,Such as in heaven eternally abides,Moves from their lovely and bewitching smile.So could I gaze, the whileLove, at his sweet will, governs them and guides,—E'en though the sun were nigh,Resting above us on his onward wheel—On her, intensely with undazzled eye,Nor of myself nor others think or feel. Ah! that I should desireThings that can never in this world be won,[Pg 78]Living on wishes hopeless to acquire.Yet, were the knot undone,Wherewith my weak tongue Love is wont to bind,Checking its speech, when her sweet face puts onAll its great charms, then would I courage find,Words on that point so apt and new to use,As should make weep whoe'er might hear the tale.But the old wounds I bear,Stamp'd on my tortured heart, such power refuse;Then grow I weak and pale,And my blood hides itself I know not where;Nor as I was remain I: hence I knowLove dooms my death and this the fatal blow. Farewell, my song! already do I seeHeavily in my hand the tired pen moveFrom its long dear discourse with her I love;Not so my thoughts from communing with me. Macgregor.
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Written by
Victor Hugo |
("Puisqu'ici-bas tout âme.")
{XL, May 19, 1836.}
Since everything below,
Doth, in this mortal state,
Its tone, its fragrance, or its glow
Communicate;
Since all that lives and moves
Upon the earth, bestows
On what it seeks and what it loves
Its thorn or rose;
Since April to the trees
Gives a bewitching sound,
And sombre night to grief gives ease,
And peace profound;
Since day-spring on the flower
A fresh'ning drop confers,
And the fresh air on branch and bower
Its choristers;
Since the dark wave bestows
A soft caress, imprest
On the green bank to which it goes
Seeking its rest;
I give thee at this hour,
Thus fondly bent o'er thee,
The best of all the things in dow'r
That in me be.
Receive,-poor gift, 'tis true,
Which grief, not joy, endears,—
My thoughts, that like a shower of dew,
Reach thee in tears.
My vows untold receive,
All pure before thee laid;
Receive of all the days I live
The light or shade!
My hours with rapture fill'd,
Which no suspicion wrongs;
And all the blandishments distill'd
From all my songs.
My spirit, whose essay
Flies fearless, wild, and free,
And hath, and seeks, to guide its way
No star but thee.
No pensive, dreamy Muse,
Who, though all else should smile,
Oft as thou weep'st, with thee would choose,
To weep the while.
Oh, sweetest mine! this gift
Receive;—'tis throe alone;—
My heart, of which there's nothing left
When Love is gone!
Fraser's Magazine.
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Written by
Emile Verhaeren |
Perhaps, when my last day comes, perhaps, if only for a moment, a frail and quavering sun will stoop down at my window.
My hands then, my poor faded hands, will even so be gilded once again by his glory; he will touch my mouth and my forehead a last time with his slow, bright, deep kiss; and the pale, but still proud flowers of my eyes will return his light before they close.
Sun, have I not worshipped your strength and your brightness! My torrid, gentle art, in its supreme achievement has held you captive in the heart of my poems; like a field of ripe wheat that surges in the summer wind, this page and that of my books confers life on you and exhalts you:
O Sun, who bring forth and deliver, O immense friend of whom our pride has need, be it that at the new, solemn and imperious hour when my old human heart will be heavy under the proof, you will come once more to visit it and witness.
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