Best Famous Dyed Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Dyed poems, articles about Dyed poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Dyed poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

• All Famous Dyed Poems

Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | The Poets Calendar January Janus am I; oldest of potentates; Forward I look, and backward, and below I count, as god of avenues and gates, The years that through my portals come and go. I block the roads, and drift the fields with snow; I chase the wild-fowl from the frozen fen; My frosts congeal the rivers in their flow, My fires light up the hearths and hearts of men. February I am lustration, and the sea is mine! I wash the sands and headlands with my tide; My brow is crowned with branches of the pine; Before my chariot-wheels the fishes glide. By me all things unclean are purified, By me the souls of men washed white again; E'en the unlovely tombs of those who died Without a dirge, I cleanse from every stain. March I Martius am! Once first, and now the third! To lead the Year was my appointed place; A mortal dispossessed me by a word, And set there Janus with the double face. Hence I make war on all the human race; I shake the cities with my hurricanes; I flood the rivers and their banks efface, And drown the farms and hamlets with my rains. April I open wide the portals of the Spring To welcome the procession of the flowers, With their gay banners, and the birds that sing Their song of songs from their aerial towers. I soften with my sunshine and my showers The heart of earth; with thoughts of love I glide Into the hearts of men; and with the Hours Upon the Bull with wreathed horns I ride. May Hark! The sea-faring wild-fowl loud proclaim My coming, and the swarming of the bees. These are my heralds, and behold! my name Is written in blossoms on the hawthorn-trees. I tell the mariner when to sail the seas; I waft o'er all the land from far away The breath and bloom of the Hesperides, My birthplace. I am Maia. I am May. June Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, and mine The Month of Marriages! All pleasant sights And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine, The foliage of the valleys and the heights. Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights; The mower's scythe makes music to my ear; I am the mother of all dear delights; I am the fairest daughter of the year. July My emblem is the Lion, and I breathe The breath of Libyan deserts o'er the land; My sickle as a sabre I unsheathe, And bent before me the pale harvests stand. The lakes and rivers shrink at my command, And there is thirst and fever in the air; The sky is changed to brass, the earth to sand; I am the Emperor whose name I bear. August The Emperor Octavian, called the August, I being his favorite, bestowed his name Upon me, and I hold it still in trust, In memory of him and of his fame. I am the Virgin, and my vestal flame Burns less intensely than the Lion's rage; Sheaves are my only garlands, and I claim The golden Harvests as my heritage. September I bear the Scales, where hang in equipoise The night and day; and whenunto my lips I put my trumpet, with its stress and noise Fly the white clouds like tattered sails of ships; The tree-tops lash the air with sounding whips; Southward the clamorous sea-fowl wing their flight; The hedges are all red with haws and hips, The Hunter's Moon reigns empress of the night. October My ornaments are fruits; my garments leaves, Woven like cloth of gold, and crimson dyed; I do no boast the harvesting of sheaves, O'er orchards and o'er vineyards I preside. Though on the frigid Scorpion I ride, The dreamy air is full, and overflows With tender memories of the summer-tide, And mingled voices of the doves and crows. November The Centaur, Sagittarius, am I, Born of Ixion's and the cloud's embrace; With sounding hoofs across the earth I fly, A steed Thessalian with a human face. Sharp winds the arrows are with which I chase The leaves, half dead already with affright; I shroud myself in gloom; and to the race Of mortals bring nor comfort nor delight. December Riding upon the Goat, with snow-white hair, I come, the last of all. This crown of mine Is of the holly; in my hand I bear The thyrsus, tipped with fragrant cones of pine. I celebrate the birth of the Divine, And the return of the Saturnian reign;-- My songs are carols sung at every shrine, Proclaiming "Peace on earth, good will to men. "

Written by Algernon Charles Swinburne | A Ballad of Death Kneel down, fair Love, and fill thyself with tears, Girdle thyself with sighing for a girth Upon the sides of mirth, Cover thy lips and eyelids, let thine ears Be filled with rumour of people sorrowing; Make thee soft raiment out of woven sighs Upon the flesh to cleave, Set pains therein and many a grievous thing, And many sorrows after each his wise For armlet and for gorget and for sleeve. O Love's lute heard about the lands of death, Left hanged upon the trees that were therein; O Love and Time and Sin, Three singing mouths that mourn now underbreath, Three lovers, each one evil spoken of; O smitten lips wherethrough this voice of mine Came softer with her praise; Abide a little for our lady's love. The kisses of her mouth were more than wine, And more than peace the passage of her days. O Love, thou knowest if she were good to see. O Time, thou shalt not find in any land Till, cast out of thine hand, The sunlight and the moonlight fail from thee, Another woman fashioned like as this. O Sin, thou knowest that all thy shame in her Was made a goodly thing; Yea, she caught Shame and shamed him with her kiss, With her fair kiss, and lips much lovelier Than lips of amorous roses in late spring. By night there stood over against my bed Queen Venus with a hood striped gold and black, Both sides drawn fully back From brows wherein the sad blood failed of red, And temples drained of purple and full of death. Her curled hair had the wave of sea-water And the sea's gold in it. Her eyes were as a dove's that sickeneth. Strewn dust of gold she had shed over her, And pearl and purple and amber on her feet. Upon her raiment of dyed sendaline Were painted all the secret ways of love And covered things thereof, That hold delight as grape-flowers hold their wine; Red mouths of maidens and red feet of doves, And brides that kept within the bride-chamber Their garment of soft shame, And weeping faces of the wearied loves That swoon in sleep and awake wearier, With heat of lips and hair shed out like flame. The tears that through her eyelids fell on me Made mine own bitter where they ran between As blood had fallen therein, She saying; Arise, lift up thine eyes and see If any glad thing be or any good Now the best thing is taken forth of us; Even she to whom all praise Was as one flower in a great multitude, One glorious flower of many and glorious, One day found gracious among many days: Even she whose handmaiden was Love--to whom At kissing times across her stateliest bed Kings bowed themselves and shed Pale wine, and honey with the honeycomb, And spikenard bruised for a burnt-offering; Even she between whose lips the kiss became As fire and frankincense; Whose hair was as gold raiment on a king, Whose eyes were as the morning purged with flame, Whose eyelids as sweet savour issuing thence. Then I beheld, and lo on the other side My lady's likeness crowned and robed and dead. Sweet still, but now not red, Was the shut mouth whereby men lived and died. And sweet, but emptied of the blood's blue shade, The great curled eyelids that withheld her eyes. And sweet, but like spoilt gold, The weight of colour in her tresses weighed. And sweet, but as a vesture with new dyes, The body that was clothed with love of old. Ah! that my tears filled all her woven hair And all the hollow bosom of her gown-- Ah! that my tears ran down Even to the place where many kisses were, Even where her parted breast-flowers have place, Even where they are cloven apart--who knows not this? Ah! the flowers cleave apart And their sweet fills the tender interspace; Ah! the leaves grown thereof were things to kiss Ere their fine gold was tarnished at the heart. Ah! in the days when God did good to me, Each part about her was a righteous thing; Her mouth an almsgiving, The glory of her garments charity, The beauty of her bosom a good deed, In the good days when God kept sight of us; Love lay upon her eyes, And on that hair whereof the world takes heed; And all her body was more virtuous Than souls of women fashioned otherwise. Now, ballad, gather poppies in thine hands And sheaves of brier and many rusted sheaves Rain-rotten in rank lands, Waste marigold and late unhappy leaves And grass that fades ere any of it be mown; And when thy bosom is filled full thereof Seek out Death's face ere the light altereth, And say "My master that was thrall to Love Is become thrall to Death. " Bow down before him, ballad, sigh and groan. But make no sojourn in thy outgoing; For haply it may be That when thy feet return at evening Death shall come in with thee.

Written by Maggie Estep | Bad Day At The Beauty Salon I was a 20 year old unemployed receptionist with dyed orange dreadlocks sprouting out of my skull. I needed a job, but first, I needed a haircut. So I head for this beauty salon on Avenue B. I'm gonna get a hairdo. I'm gonna look just like those hot Spanish haircut models, become brown and bodacious, grow some 7 inch fingernails painted ***** red and rake them down the chalkboard of the job market's soul. So I go in the beauty salon. This beautiful Puerto Rican girl in tight white spandex and a push-up bra sits me down and starts chopping my hair: "Girlfriend," she says, "what the hell you got growing outta your head there, what is that, hair implants? Yuck, you want me to touch that ****, whadya got in there, sandwiches?" I just go: "I'm sorry. " She starts snipping my carefully cultivated Johnny Lydon post-Pistols hairdo. My foul little dreadlocks are flying around all over the place but I'm not looking in the mirror cause I just don't want to know. "So what's your name anyway?" My stylist demands then. "Uh, Maggie. " "Maggie? Well, that's an okay name, but my name is Suzy. " "Yeah, so?" "Yeah so it ain't just Suzy S. U. Z. Y, I spell it S. U. Z. E. E, the extra "e" is for extra Suzee. " I nod emphatically. Suzee tells me when she's not busy chopping hair, she works as an exotic dancer at night to support her boyfriend named Rocco. Suzee loves Rocco, she loves him so much she's got her eyes closed as she describes him: "6 foot 2, 193 pounds and, girlfriend, his arms so big and long they wrap around me twice like I'm a little Suzee sandwich. " Little Suzee Sandwich is rapt, she blindly snips and clips at my poor punk head. She snips and clips and snips and clips, she pauses, I look in the mirror: "Holy ****, I'm bald. " "Holy ****, baby, you're bald. " Suzee says, finally opening her eyes and then gasping. All I've got left is little post-nuke clumps of orange fuzz. And I'll never get a receptionist job now. But Suzy waves her manicured finger in my face: "Don't you worry, baby, I'm gonna get you a job at the dancing club. " "What?" "Baby, let me tell you, the boys are gonna like a bald go go dancer. " That said, she whips out some clippers, shaves my head smooth and insists I'm gonna love getting naked for a living. None of this sounds like my idea of a good time, but I'm broke and I'm bald so I go home and get my best panties. Suzee lends me some 6 inch pumps, paints my lips bright red, and gives me 7 shots of Jack Daniels to relax me. 8pm that night I take the stage. I'm bald, I'm drunk, and by god, I'm naked. HOLY **** I'M NAKED IN A ROOM FULL OF STRANGERS THIS IS NOT ONE OF THOSE RECURRING NIGHTMARES WE ALL HAVE ABOUT BEING BUTT NAKED IN PUBLIC, I AM NAKED, I DON'T KNOW THESE PEOPLE, THIS REALLY SUCKS. A few guys feel sorry for me and risk getting their hands bitten off by sticking dollars in my garter belt. My disheveled pubic hairs stand at full attention, ready to poke the guys' eyes out if they get too close. Then I notice this bald guy in the audience, I've got a new empathy for bald people, I figure maybe it works both ways, maybe this guy will stick 10 bucks in my garter. I saunter over. I'm teetering around unrhythmically, I'm the surliest, unsexiest dancer that ever go-go across this hemisphere. The bald guy looks down into his beer, he'd much rather look at that than at my pubic mound which has now formed into one vicious spike so it looks like I've got a unicorn in my crotch. I stand there weaving through the air. The strobe light is illuminating my pubic unicorn. Madonna's song Borderline is pumping through the club's speaker system for the 5th time tonight: "BORDERLINE BORDERLINE BORDERLINE/LOVE ME TIL I JUST CAN'T SEE. " And suddenly, I start to wonder: What does that mean anyway? "LOVE ME TIL I JUST CAN'T SEE" What? Screw me so much my eyes pop out, I go blind, end up walking down 2nd Avenue crazy, horny, naked and blind? What? There's a glitch in the tape and it starts to skip. "Borderl. . . ooop. . . . . Borderl. . . . ooop. . . Borderlin. . . . . ooop" I stumble and twist my ankle. My g-string rides between my buttcheeks making me twitch with pain. My head starts spinning, my knees wobble, I go down on all fours and puke all over the bald guy's lap. So there I am. Butt naked on all fours. But before I have time to regain my composure, the strip club manager comes over, points his smarmy strip club manager finger at me and goes: "You're bald, you're drunk, you can't dance and you're fired. " I stand up. "Oh yeah, well you stink like a sneaker, pal. " I peel off one of my pumps and throw it in the direction of his fat head then I get the hell out of there. A few days later I run into Suzee on Avenue A. Turns out she got fired for getting me a job there in the first place. But she was completely undaunted, she dragged me up to this wig store on 14th Street, bought me a mouse brown shag wig, then got us both telemarketing jobs on Wall Street. And I never went to a beauty salon again.

Written by Elinor Wylie | Wild Peaches 1 When the world turns completely upside down You say we'll emigrate to the Eastern Shore Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore; We'll live among wild peach trees, miles from town, You'll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown Homespun, dyed butternut's dark gold colour. Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor, We'll swim in milk and honey till we drown. The winter will be short, the summer long, The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot, Tasting of cider and of scuppernong; All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all. The squirrels in their silver fur will fall Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot. 2 The autumn frosts will lie upon the grass Like bloom on grapes of purple-brown and gold. The misted early mornings will be cold; The little puddles will be roofed with glass. The sun, which burns from copper into brass, Melts these at noon, and makes the boys unfold Their knitted mufflers; full as they can hold Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass. Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover; A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year; The spring begins before the winter's over. By February you may find the skins Of garter snakes and water moccasins Dwindled and harsh, dead-white and cloudy-clear. 3 When April pours the colours of a shell Upon the hills, when every little creek Is shot with silver from the Chesapeake In shoals new-minted by the ocean swell, When strawberries go begging, and the sleek Blue plums lie open to the blackbird's beak, We shall live well -- we shall live very well. The months between the cherries and the peaches Are brimming cornucopias which spill Fruits red and purple, sombre-bloomed and black; Then, down rich fields and frosty river beaches We'll trample bright persimmons, while you kill Bronze partridge, speckled quail, and canvasback. 4 Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones There's something in this richness that I hate. I love the look, austere, immaculate, Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones. There's something in my very blood that owns Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate, A thread of water, churned to milky spate Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones. I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray, Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meagre sheaves; That spring, briefer than apple-blossom's breath, Summer, so much too beautiful to stay, Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves, And sleepy winter, like the sleep of death.

Written by Barry Tebb | INFAMOUS POET I never did fit in – at six or sixty one – I stand out in a crowd, too young or old And gather pity like a shroud. "Is that real silk?" A teenager inquired. "As real as Oxfam ever is For one pound fifty. " The vast ballroom was growing misty And blurred with alcohol I’ve never had the taste for. "**** off" a forty-plus dyed blonde said half in jest. So I chose the only Asian girl in Squares with hair like jet And danced with her five minutes centre stage – I’ve lost all inhibitions in old age. A Malaysian architecture Student invited me to sit and get my breath back "Le Corbusier described a house as a machine for living in," I quipped; she slipped a smile and sipped her drink and said "I love Leeds and its people; in seven years I’ve never Heard a single racist comment, whatever the papers say" Malaysian girls are rightly known for their sensual beauty But I made my pitiful excuses and slipped away. I knew I couldn’t make it, couldn’t even fake it With all this damned depression in the way. Leeds boys are always friendlier than the girls, They see themselves grown older in my years And push the girls towards me with a glance "Go and give the poor old man a dance!" And dance I do and show my poems around Like calling cards and jot lines on my palms. Reading Lacan into the night I thought things through But somehow none of them was half as good as you.

Written by Robert Frost | A Hundred Collars Lancaster bore him--such a little town, Such a great man. It doesn't see him often Of late years, though he keeps the old homestead And sends the children down there with their mother To run wild in the summer--a little wild. Sometimes he joins them for a day or two And sees old friends he somehow can't get near. They meet him in the general store at night, Pre-occupied with formidable mail, Rifling a printed letter as he talks. They seem afraid. He wouldn't have it so: Though a great scholar, he's a democrat, If not at heart, at least on principle. Lately when coming up to Lancaster His train being late he missed another train And had four hours to wait at Woodsville Junction After eleven o'clock at night. Too tired To think of sitting such an ordeal out, He turned to the hotel to find a bed. "No room," the night clerk said. "Unless----" Woodsville's a place of shrieks and wandering lamps And cars that shook and rattle--and one hotel. "You say 'unless. '" "Unless you wouldn't mind Sharing a room with someone else. " "Who is it?" "A man. " "So I should hope. What kind of man?" "I know him: he's all right. A man's a man. Separate beds of course you understand. " The night clerk blinked his eyes and dared him on. "Who's that man sleeping in the office chair? Has he had the refusal of my chance?" "He was afraid of being robbed or murdered. What do you say?" "I'll have to have a bed. " The night clerk led him up three flights of stairs And down a narrow passage full of doors, At the last one of which he knocked and entered. "Lafe, here's a fellow wants to share your room. " "Show him this way. I'm not afraid of him. I'm not so drunk I can't take care of myself. " The night clerk clapped a bedstead on the foot. "This will be yours. Good-night," he said, and went. "Lafe was the name, I think?" "Yes, Layfayette. You got it the first time. And yours?" "Magoon. Doctor Magoon. " "A Doctor?" "Well, a teacher. " "Professor Square-the-circle-till-you're-tired? Hold on, there's something I don't think of now That I had on my mind to ask the first Man that knew anything I happened in with. I'll ask you later--don't let me forget it. " The Doctor looked at Lafe and looked away. A man? A brute. Naked above the waist, He sat there creased and shining in the light, Fumbling the buttons in a well-starched shirt. "I'm moving into a size-larger shirt. I've felt mean lately; mean's no name for it. I just found what the matter was to-night: I've been a-choking like a nursery tree When it outgrows the wire band of its name tag. I blamed it on the hot spell we've been having. 'Twas nothing but my foolish hanging back, Not liking to own up I'd grown a size. Number eighteen this is. What size do you wear?" The Doctor caught his throat convulsively. "Oh--ah--fourteen--fourteen. " "Fourteen! You say so! I can remember when I wore fourteen. And come to think I must have back at home More than a hundred collars, size fourteen. Too bad to waste them all. You ought to have them. They're yours and welcome; let me send them to you. What makes you stand there on one leg like that? You're not much furtherer than where Kike left you. You act as if you wished you hadn't come. Sit down or lie down, friend; you make me nervous. " The Doctor made a subdued dash for it, And propped himself at bay against a pillow. "Not that way, with your shoes on Kike's white bed. You can't rest that way. Let me pull your shoes off. " "Don't touch me, please--I say, don't touch me, please. I'll not be put to bed by you, my man. " "Just as you say. Have it your own way then. 'My man' is it? You talk like a professor. Speaking of who's afraid of who, however, I'm thinking I have more to lose than you If anything should happen to be wrong. Who wants to cut your number fourteen throat! Let's have a show down as an evidence Of good faith. There is ninety dollars. Come, if you're not afraid. " "I'm not afraid. There's five: that's all I carry. " "I can search you? Where are you moving over to? Stay still. You'd better tuck your money under you And sleep on it the way I always do When I'm with people I don't trust at night. " "Will you believe me if I put it there Right on the counterpane--that I do trust you?" "You'd say so, Mister Man. --I'm a collector. My ninety isn't mine--you won't think that. I pick it up a dollar at a time All round the country for the Weekly News, Published in Bow. You know the Weekly News?" "Known it since I was young. " "Then you know me. Now we are getting on together--talking. I'm sort of Something for it at the front. My business is to find what people want: They pay for it, and so they ought to have it. Fairbanks, he says to me--he's editor-- Feel out the public sentiment--he says. A good deal comes on me when all is said. The only trouble is we disagree In politics: I'm Vermont Democrat-- You know what that is, sort of double-dyed; The News has always been Republican. Fairbanks, he says to me, 'Help us this year,' Meaning by us their ticket. 'No,' I says, 'I can't and won't. You've been in long enough: It's time you turned around and boosted us. You'll have to pay me more than ten a week If I'm expected to elect Bill Taft. I doubt if I could do it anyway. '" "You seem to shape the paper's policy. " "You see I'm in with everybody, know 'em all. I almost know their farms as well as they do. " "You drive around? It must be pleasant work. " "It's business, but I can't say it's not fun. What I like best's the lay of different farms, Coming out on them from a stretch of woods, Or over a hill or round a sudden corner. I like to find folks getting out in spring, Raking the dooryard, working near the house. Later they get out further in the fields. Everything's shut sometimes except the barn; The family's all away in some back meadow. There's a hay load a-coming--when it comes. And later still they all get driven in: The fields are stripped to lawn, the garden patches Stripped to bare ground, the apple trees To whips and poles. There's nobody about. The chimney, though, keeps up a good brisk smoking. And I lie back and ride. I take the reins Only when someone's coming, and the mare Stops when she likes: I tell her when to go. I've spoiled Jemima in more ways than one. She's got so she turns in at every house As if she had some sort of curvature, No matter if I have no errand there. She thinks I'm sociable. I maybe am. It's seldom I get down except for meals, though. Folks entertain me from the kitchen doorstep, All in a family row down to the youngest. " "One would suppose they might not be as glad To see you as you are to see them. " "Oh, Because I want their dollar. I don't want Anything they've not got. I never dun. I'm there, and they can pay me if they like. I go nowhere on purpose: I happen by. Sorry there is no cup to give you a drink. I drink out of the bottle--not your style. Mayn't I offer you----?" "No, no, no, thank you. " "Just as you say. Here's looking at you then. -- And now I'm leaving you a little while. You'll rest easier when I'm gone, perhaps-- Lie down--let yourself go and get some sleep. But first--let's see--what was I going to ask you? Those collars--who shall I address them to, Suppose you aren't awake when I come back?" "Really, friend, I can't let you. You--may need them. " "Not till I shrink, when they'll be out of style. " "But really I--I have so many collars. " "I don't know who I rather would have have them. They're only turning yellow where they are. But you're the doctor as the saying is. I'll put the light out. Don't you wait for me: I've just begun the night. You get some sleep. I'll knock so-fashion and peep round the door When I come back so you'll know who it is. There's nothing I'm afraid of like scared people. I don't want you should shoot me in the head. What am I doing carrying off this bottle? There now, you get some sleep. " He shut the door. The Doctor slid a little down the pillow.

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 Robert Louis Stevenson | Behold As Goblins Dark Of Mien BEHOLD, as goblins dark of mien And portly tyrants dyed with crime Change, in the transformation scene, At Christmas, in the pantomime, Instanter, at the prompter's cough, The fairy bonnets them, and they Throw their abhorred carbuncles off And blossom like the flowers in May. - So mankind, to angelic eyes, So, through the scenes of life below, In life's ironical disguise, A travesty of man, ye go: But fear not: ere the curtain fall, Death in the transformation scene Steps forward from her pedestal, Apparent, as the fairy Queen; And coming, frees you in a trice From all your lendings - lust of fame, Ungainly virtue, ugly vice, Terror and tyranny and shame. So each, at last himself, for good In that dear country lays him down, At last beloved and understood And pure in feature and renown.

Written by Rudyard Kipling | Cleared Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt, Help for an honourable clan sore trampled in the dirt! From Queenstown Bay to Donegal, O listen to my song, The honourable gentlemen have suffered grievous wrong. Their noble names were mentioned -- O the burning black disgrace! -- By a brutal Saxon paper in an Irish shooting-case; They sat upon it for a year, then steeled their heart to brave it, And "coruscating innocence" the learned Judges gave it. Bear witness, Heaven, of that grim crime beneath the surgeon's knife, The honourable gentlemen deplored the loss of life! Bear witness of those chanting choirs that burk and shirk and snigger, No man laid hand upon the knife or finger to the trigger! Cleared in the face of all mankind beneath the winking skies, Like ph]oenixes from Ph]oenix Park (and what lay there) they rise! Go shout it to the emerald seas -- give word to Erin now, Her honourable gentlemen are cleared -- and this is how: -- They only paid the Moonlighter his cattle-hocking price, They only helped the murderer with counsel's best advice, But -- sure it keeps their honour white -- the learned Court believes They never gave a piece of plate to murderers and thieves. They never told the ramping crowd to card a woman's hide, They never marked a man for death -- what fault of theirs he died? -- They only said "intimidate", and talked and went away -- By God, the boys that did the work were braver men than they! Their sin it was that fed the fire -- small blame to them that heard -- The "bhoys" get drunk on rhetoric, and madden at a word -- They knew whom they were talking at, if they were Irish too, The gentlemen that lied in Court, they knew, and well they knew. They only took the Judas-gold from Fenians out of jail, They only fawned for dollars on the blood-dyed Clanna-Gael. If black is black or white is white, in black and white it's down, They're only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown. "Cleared", honourable gentlemen! Be thankful it's no more: -- The widow's curse is on your house, the dead are at your door. On you the shame of open shame, on you from North to South The hand of every honest man flat-heeled across your mouth. "Less black than we were painted"? -- Faith, no word of black was said; The lightest touch was human blood, and that, you know, runs red. It's sticking to your fist to-day for all your sneer and scoff, And by the Judge's well-weighed word you cannot wipe it off. Hold up those hands of innocence -- go, scare your sheep together, The blundering, tripping tups that bleat behind the old bell-wether; And if they snuff the taint and break to find another pen, Tell them it's tar that glistens so, and daub them yours again! "The charge is old"? -- As old as Cain -- as fresh as yesterday; Old as the Ten Commandments -- have ye talked those laws away? If words are words, or death is death, or powder sends the ball, You spoke the words that sped the shot -- the curse be on you all. "Our friends believe"? -- Of course they do -- as sheltered women may; But have they seen the shrieking soul ripped from the quivering clay? They! -- If their own front door is shut, they'll swear the whole world's warm; What do they know of dread of death or hanging fear of harm? The secret half a county keeps, the whisper in the lane, The shriek that tells the shot went home behind the broken pane, The dry blood crisping in the sun that scares the honest bees, And shows the "bhoys" have heard your talk -- what do they know of these? But you -- you know -- ay, ten times more; the secrets of the dead, Black terror on the country-side by word and whisper bred, The mangled stallion's scream at night, the tail-cropped heifer's low. Who set the whisper going first? You know, and well you know! My soul! I'd sooner lie in jail for murder plain and straight, Pure crime I'd done with my own hand for money, lust, or hate, Than take a seat in Parliament by fellow-felons cheered, While one of those "not provens" proved me cleared as you are cleared. Cleared -- you that "lost" the League accounts -- go, guard our honour still, Go, help to make our country's laws that broke God's law at will -- One hand stuck out behind the back, to signal "strike again"; The other on your dress-shirt-front to show your heart is clane. If black is black or white is white, in black and white it's down, You're only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown. If print is print or words are words, the learned Court perpends: -- We are not ruled by murderers, but only -- by their friends.

Written by Barry Tebb | GROTTY AND THE QUARRYMAN (To Paul Sykes, author of 'Sweet Agony') He demolished five doors at a sitting And topped it off with an outsize window One Christmas afternoon, when drunk; Sober he smiled like an angel, bowed, Kissed ladies’ hands and courtesy Was his middle name. She tried to pass for thirty at fifty-six, Called him "My Sweet piglet" and laid out Dainty doylies for his teatime treats; always She wore black from toe to top and especially Underneath, her hair dyed black, stuck up in a Bun, her lipstick caked and smeared, drawling From the corner of her mouth like a Thirties gangsters’ moll, her true ambition. "Kill him, kill him, the bastard!" she’d scream As all Wakefield watched, "It’s Grotty, Grotty’s at it again!" as pubs and clubs Banned them, singly or together and they Moved lodgings yet again, landlords and Landladies left reeling behind broken doors. Blood-smeared walls covered with a shiny Patina of carefully applied deceits! "It was The cat, the kids, them druggies, lads from Football", anyone, anywhere but him and her. Once I heard them fight, "Barry, Barry, get The police," she thumped my door, double Five-lever mortice locked against them, "Call t’ police ‘e’s murderin’ me!" I went And calmed her down, pathetic in black Underwear and he, suddenly sober, sorry, Muttering, "Elaine, Elaine, it were only fun, Give me a kiss, just one. " Was this her fourth or fifth husband, I’d Lost count and so had she, each one she said Was worse than the last, they’d all pulled her Down, one put her through a Dorothy Perkins Plate-glass window in Wakefield’s midnight, Leaving her strewn amongst the furs and Bridal gowns, blood everywhere, such perfection Of evidence they nearly let her bleed to death Getting all the photographs. Rumour flew and grew around her, finally They said it was all in a book one ‘husband’ Wrote in prison, how she’d had a great house, Been a brothel madame, had servants even. For years I chased that book, "Lynch," they Told me, "It’s by Paul Lynch" but it wasn’t, Then finally, "I remember, Sykes, they allus Called him Sykesy" and so it was, Sweet Agony, Written in prison by one Paul Sykes, her most Famous inamorato, amateur boxing champion Of all England, twenty years inside, fly-pitcher Supreme, king of spielers; how she hated you For beating her, getting it all down on paper, Even making money for doing it, "That bastard Cheated me, writing lying filth about me and I never saw a penny!" she’d mutter, side-mouthed, To her pals. But that book, that bloody book, was no pub myth, It even won an Arthur Koestler Literary Award And is compulsive reading; hardly, as a poet, My cup of tea but I couldn’t put it down. Paul Sykes, I salute you, immortaliser of Elaine, Your book became and is my sweetest pain.