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Best Famous Effaced Poems

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Written by Kahlil Gibran | Create an image from this poem

Laughter and Tears IX

 As the Sun withdrew his rays from the garden, and the moon threw cushioned beams upon the flowers, I sat under the trees pondering upon the phenomena of the atmosphere, looking through the branches at the strewn stars which glittered like chips of silver upon a blue carpet; and I could hear from a distance the agitated murmur of the rivulet singing its way briskly into the valley.
When the birds took shelter among the boughs, and the flowers folded their petals, and tremendous silence descended, I heard a rustle of feet though the grass.
I took heed and saw a young couple approaching my arbor.
The say under a tree where I could see them without being seen.
After he looked about in every direction, I heard the young man saying, "Sit by me, my beloved, and listen to my heart; smile, for your happiness is a symbol of our future; be merry, for the sparkling days rejoice with us.
"My soul is warning me of the doubt in your heart, for doubt in love is a sin.
"Soon you will be the owner of this vast land, lighted by this beautiful moon; soon you will be the mistress of my palace, and all the servants and maids will obey your commands.
"Smile, my beloved, like the gold smiles from my father's coffers.
"My heart refuses to deny you its secret.
Twelve months of comfort and travel await us; for a year we will spend my father's gold at the blue lakes of Switzerland, and viewing the edifices of Italy and Egypt, and resting under the Holy Cedars of Lebanon; you will meet the princesses who will envy you for your jewels and clothes.
"All these things I will do for you; will you be satisfied?" In a little while I saw them walking and stepping on flowers as the rich step upon the hearts of the poor.
As they disappeared from my sight, I commenced to make comparison between love and money, and to analyze their position in the heart.
Money! The source of insincere love; the spring of false light and fortune; the well of poisoned water; the desperation of old age! I was still wandering in the vast desert of contemplation when a forlorn and specter-like couple passed by me and sat on the grass; a young man and a young woman who had left their farming shacks in the nearby fields for this cool and solitary place.
After a few moments of complete silence, I heard the following words uttered with sighs from weather-bitten lips, "Shed not tears, my beloved; love that opens our eyes and enslaves our hearts can give us the blessing of patience.
Be consoled in our delay our delay, for we have taken an oath and entered Love's shrine; for our love will ever grow in adversity; for it is in Love's name that we are suffering the obstacles of poverty and the sharpness of misery and the emptiness of separation.
I shall attack these hardships until I triumph and place in your hands a strength that will help over all things to complete the journey of life.
"Love - which is God - will consider our sighs and tears as incense burned at His altar and He will reward us with fortitude.
Good-bye, my beloved; I must leave before the heartening moon vanishes.
" A pure voice, combined of the consuming flame of love, and the hopeless bitterness of longing and the resolved sweetness of patience, said, "Good-bye, my beloved.
" They separated, and the elegy to their union was smothered by the wails of my crying heart.
I looked upon slumbering Nature, and with deep reflection discovered the reality of a vast and infinite thing -- something no power could demand, influence acquire, nor riches purchase.
Nor could it be effaced by the tears of time or deadened by sorrow; a thing which cannot be discovered by the blue lakes of Switzerland or the beautiful edifices of Italy.
It is something that gathers strength with patience, grows despite obstacles, warms in winter, flourishes in spring, casts a breeze in summer, and bears fruit in autumn -- I found Love.


Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

Introduction To The Song Of Hiawatha

 Should you ask me, 
whence these stories? 
Whence these legends and traditions, 
With the odors of the forest 
With the dew and damp of meadows,
With the curling smoke of wigwams,
With the rushing of great rivers,
With their frequent repetitions,
And their wild reverberations
As of thunder in the mountains?
I should answer, I should tell you,
"From the forests and the prairies,
From the great lakes of the Northland,
From the land of the Ojibways,
From the land of the Dacotahs,
From the mountains, moors, and fen-lands
Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
Feeds among the reeds and rushes.
I repeat them as I heard them From the lips of Nawadaha, The musician, the sweet singer.
" Should you ask where Nawadaha Found these songs so wild and wayward, Found these legends and traditions, I should answer, I should tell you, "In the bird's-nests of the forest, In the lodges of the beaver, In the hoofprint of the bison, In the eyry of the eagle! "All the wild-fowl sang them to him, In the moorlands and the fen-lands, In the melancholy marshes; Chetowaik, the plover, sang them, Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa, The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, And the grouse, the Mushkodasa!" If still further you should ask me, Saying, "Who was Nawadaha? Tell us of this Nawadaha," I should answer your inquiries Straightway in such words as follow.
"In the vale of Tawasentha, In the green and silent valley, By the pleasant water-courses, Dwelt the singer Nawadaha.
Round about the Indian village Spread the meadows and the corn-fields, And beyond them stood the forest, Stood the groves of singing pine-trees, Green in Summer, white in Winter, Ever sighing, ever singing.
"And the pleasant water-courses, You could trace them through the valley, By the rushing in the Spring-time, By the alders in the Summer, By the white fog in the Autumn, By the black line in the Winter; And beside them dwelt the singer, In the vale of Tawasentha, In the green and silent valley.
"There he sang of Hiawatha, Sang the Song of Hiawatha, Sang his wondrous birth and being, How he prayed and how be fasted, How he lived, and toiled, and suffered, That the tribes of men might prosper, That he might advance his people!" Ye who love the haunts of Nature, Love the sunshine of the meadow, Love the shadow of the forest, Love the wind among the branches, And the rain-shower and the snow-storm, And the rushing of great rivers Through their palisades of pine-trees, And the thunder in the mountains, Whose innumerable echoes Flap like eagles in their eyries;- Listen to these wild traditions, To this Song of Hiawatha! Ye who love a nation's legends, Love the ballads of a people, That like voices from afar off Call to us to pause and listen, Speak in tones so plain and childlike, Scarcely can the ear distinguish Whether they are sung or spoken;- Listen to this Indian Legend, To this Song of Hiawatha! Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, Who have faith in God and Nature, Who believe that in all ages Every human heart is human, That in even savage bosoms There are longings, yearnings, strivings For the good they comprehend not, That the feeble hands and helpless, Groping blindly in the darkness, Touch God's right hand in that darkness And are lifted up and strengthened;- Listen to this simple story, To this Song of Hiawatha! Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles Through the green lanes of the country, Where the tangled barberry-bushes Hang their tufts of crimson berries Over stone walls gray with mosses, Pause by some neglected graveyard, For a while to muse, and ponder On a half-effaced inscription, Written with little skill of song-craft, Homely phrases, but each letter Full of hope and yet of heart-break, Full of all the tender pathos Of the Here and the Hereafter; Stay and read this rude inscription, Read this Song of Hiawatha!
Written by Algernon Charles Swinburne | Create an image from this poem

Ave atque Vale (In memory of Charles Baudelaire)

 SHALL I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel, 
 Brother, on this that was the veil of thee? 
 Or quiet sea-flower moulded by the sea, 
Or simplest growth of meadow-sweet or sorrel, 
 Such as the summer-sleepy Dryads weave, 
 Waked up by snow-soft sudden rains at eve? 
Or wilt thou rather, as on earth before, 
 Half-faded fiery blossoms, pale with heat 
 And full of bitter summer, but more sweet 
To thee than gleanings of a northern shore 
 Trod by no tropic feet? 

For always thee the fervid languid glories 
 Allured of heavier suns in mightier skies; 
 Thine ears knew all the wandering watery sighs 
Where the sea sobs round Lesbian promontories, 
 The barren kiss of piteous wave to wave 
 That knows not where is that Leucadian grave 
Which hides too deep the supreme head of song.
Ah, salt and sterile as her kisses were, The wild sea winds her and the green gulfs bear Hither and thither, and vex and work her wrong, Blind gods that cannot spare.
Thou sawest, in thine old singing season, brother, Secrets and sorrows unbeheld of us: Fierce loves, and lovely leaf-buds poisonous, Bare to thy subtler eye, but for none other Blowing by night in some unbreathed-in clime; The hidden harvest of luxurious time, Sin without shape, and pleasure without speech; And where strange dreams in a tumultuous sleep Make the shut eyes of stricken spirits weep; And with each face thou sawest the shadow on each, Seeing as men sow men reap.
O sleepless heart and sombre soul unsleeping, That were athirst for sleep and no more life And no more love, for peace and no more strife! Now the dim gods of death have in their keeping Spirit and body and all the springs of song, Is it well now where love can do no wrong, Where stingless pleasure has no foam or fang Behind the unopening closure of her lips? Is it not well where soul from body slips And flesh from bone divides without a pang As dew from flower-bell drips? It is enough; the end and the beginning Are one thing to thee, who art past the end.
O hand unclasp'd of unbeholden friend, For thee no fruits to pluck, no palms for winning, No triumph and no labour and no lust, Only dead yew-leaves and a little dust.
O quiet eyes wherein the light saith naught, Whereto the day is dumb, nor any night With obscure finger silences your sight, Nor in your speech the sudden soul speaks thought, Sleep, and have sleep for light.
Now all strange hours and all strange loves are over, Dreams and desires and sombre songs and sweet, Hast thou found place at the great knees and feet Of some pale Titan-woman like a lover, Such as thy vision here solicited, Under the shadow of her fair vast head, The deep division of prodigious breasts, The solemn slope of mighty limbs asleep, The weight of awful tresses that still keep The savour and shade of old-world pine-forests Where the wet hill-winds weep? Hast thou found any likeness for thy vision? O gardener of strange flowers, what bud, what bloom, Hast thou found sown, what gather'd in the gloom? What of despair, of rapture, of derision, What of life is there, what of ill or good? Are the fruits gray like dust or bright like blood? Does the dim ground grow any seed of ours, The faint fields quicken any terrene root, In low lands where the sun and moon are mute And all the stars keep silence? Are there flowers At all, or any fruit? Alas, but though my flying song flies after, O sweet strange elder singer, thy more fleet Singing, and footprints of thy fleeter feet, Some dim derision of mysterious laughter From the blind tongueless warders of the dead, Some gainless glimpse of Proserpine's veil'd head, Some little sound of unregarded tears Wept by effaced unprofitable eyes, And from pale mouths some cadence of dead sighs-- These only, these the hearkening spirit hears, Sees only such things rise.
Thou art far too far for wings of words to follow, Far too far off for thought or any prayer.
What ails us with thee, who art wind and air? What ails us gazing where all seen is hollow? Yet with some fancy, yet with some desire, Dreams pursue death as winds a flying fire, Our dreams pursue our dead and do not find.
Still, and more swift than they, the thin flame flies, The low light fails us in elusive skies, Still the foil'd earnest ear is deaf, and blind Are still the eluded eyes.
Not thee, O never thee, in all time's changes, Not thee, but this the sound of thy sad soul, The shadow of thy swift spirit, this shut scroll I lay my hand on, and not death estranges My spirit from communion of thy song-- These memories and these melodies that throng Veil'd porches of a Muse funereal-- These I salute, these touch, these clasp and fold As though a hand were in my hand to hold, Or through mine ears a mourning musical Of many mourners roll'd.
I among these, I also, in such station As when the pyre was charr'd, and piled the sods.
And offering to the dead made, and their gods, The old mourners had, standing to make libation, I stand, and to the Gods and to the dead Do reverence without prayer or praise, and shed Offering to these unknown, the gods of gloom, And what of honey and spice my seed-lands bear, And what I may of fruits in this chill'd air, And lay, Orestes-like, across the tomb A curl of sever'd hair.
But by no hand nor any treason stricken, Not like the low-lying head of Him, the King, The flame that made of Troy a ruinous thing, Thou liest and on this dust no tears could quicken.
There fall no tears like theirs that all men hear Fall tear by sweet imperishable tear Down the opening leaves of holy poets' pages.
Thee not Orestes, not Electra mourns; But bending us-ward with memorial urns The most high Muses that fulfil all ages Weep, and our God's heart yearns.
For, sparing of his sacred strength, not often Among us darkling here the lord of light Makes manifest his music and his might In hearts that open and in lips that soften With the soft flame and heat of songs that shine.
Thy lips indeed he touch'd with bitter wine, And nourish'd them indeed with bitter bread; Yet surely from his hand thy soul's food came, The fire that scarr'd thy spirit at his flame Was lighted, and thine hungering heart he fed Who feeds our hearts with fame.
Therefore he too now at thy soul's sunsetting, God of all suns and songs, he too bends down To mix his laurel with thy cypress crown, And save thy dust from blame and from forgetting.
Therefore he too, seeing all thou wert and art, Compassionate, with sad and sacred heart, Mourns thee of many his children the last dead, And hollows with strange tears and alien sighs Thine unmelodious mouth and sunless eyes, And over thine irrevocable head Sheds light from the under skies.
And one weeps with him in the ways Lethean, And stains with tears her changing bosom chill; That obscure Venus of the hollow hill, That thing transform'd which was the Cytherean, With lips that lost their Grecian laugh divine Long since, and face no more call'd Erycine-- A ghost, a bitter and luxurious god.
Thee also with fair flesh and singing spell Did she, a sad and second prey, compel Into the footless places once more trod, And shadows hot from hell.
And now no sacred staff shall break in blossom, No choral salutation lure to light A spirit sick with perfume and sweet night And love's tired eyes and hands and barren bosom.
There is no help for these things; none to mend, And none to mar; not all our songs, O friend, Will make death clear or make life durable.
Howbeit with rose and ivy and wild vine And with wild notes about this dust of thine At least I fill the place where white dreams dwell And wreathe an unseen shrine.
Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live; And to give thanks is good, and to forgive.
Out of the mystic and the mournful garden Where all day through thine hands in barren braid Wove the sick flowers of secrecy and shade, Green buds of sorrow and sin, and remnants gray, Sweet-smelling, pale with poison, sanguine-hearted, Passions that sprang from sleep and thoughts that started, Shall death not bring us all as thee one day Among the days departed? For thee, O now a silent soul, my brother, Take at my hands this garland, and farewell.
Thin is the leaf, and chill the wintry smell, And chill the solemn earth, a fatal mother, With sadder than the Niobean womb, And in the hollow of her breasts a tomb.
Content thee, howsoe'er, whose days are done; There lies not any troublous thing before, Nor sight nor sound to war against thee more, For whom all winds are quiet as the sun, All waters as the shore.
Written by Eugene Field | Create an image from this poem

Apple-Pie and Cheese

 Full many a sinful notion
Conceived of foreign powers
Has come across the ocean
To harm this land of ours;
And heresies called fashions
Have modesty effaced,
And baleful, morbid passions
Corrupt our native taste.
O tempora! O mores! What profanations these That seek to dim the glories Of apple-pie and cheese! I'm glad my education Enables me to stand Against the vile temptation Held out on every hand; Eschewing all the tittles With vanity replete, I'm loyal to the victuals Our grandsires used to eat! I'm glad I've got three willing boys To hang around and tease Their mother for the filling joys Of apple-pie and cheese! Your flavored creams and ices And your dainty angel-food Are mighty fine devices To regale the dainty dude; Your terrapin and oysters, With wine to wash 'em down, Are just the thing for roisters When painting of the town; No flippant, sugared notion Shall my appetite appease, Or bate my soul's devotion To apple-pie and cheese! The pie my Julia makes me (God bless her Yankee ways!) On memory's pinions takes me To dear Green Mountain days; And seems like I see Mother Lean on the window-sill, A-handin' me and brother What she knows 'll keep us still; And these feelings are so grateful, Says I, "Julia, if you please, I'll take another plateful Of that apple-pie and cheese!" And cheese! No alien it, sir, That's brought across the sea,-- No Dutch antique, nor Switzer, Nor glutinous de Brie; There's nothing I abhor so As mawmets of this ilk-- Give me the harmless morceau That's made of true-blue milk! No matter what conditions Dyspeptic come to feaze, The best of all physicians Is apple-pie and cheese! Though ribalds may decry 'em, For these twin boons we stand, Partaking thrice per diem Of their fulness out of hand; No enervating fashion Shall cheat us of our right To gratify our passion With a mouthful at a bite! We'll cut it square or bias, Or any way we please, And faith shall justify us When we carve our pie and cheese! De gustibus, 't is stated, Non disputandum est.
Which meaneth, when translated, That all is for the best.
So let the foolish choose 'em The vapid sweets of sin, I will not disabuse 'em Of the heresy they're in; But I, when I undress me Each night, upon my knees Will ask the Lord to bless me With apple-pie and cheese!
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

EARLY LOVE REVISITED

 ("O douleur! j'ai voulu savoir.") 
 
 {XXXIV. i., October, 183-.} 


 I have wished in the grief of my heart to know 
 If the vase yet treasured that nectar so clear, 
 And to see what this beautiful valley could show 
 Of all that was once to my soul most dear. 
 In how short a span doth all Nature change, 
 How quickly she smoothes with her hand serene— 
 And how rarely she snaps, in her ceaseless range, 
 The links that bound our hearts to the scene. 
 
 Our beautiful bowers are all laid waste; 
 The fir is felled that our names once bore; 
 Our rows of roses, by urchins' haste, 
 Are destroyed where they leap the barrier o'er. 
 The fount is walled in where, at noonday pride, 
 She so gayly drank, from the wood descending; 
 In her fairy hand was transformed the tide, 
 And it turned to pearls through her fingers wending 
 
 The wild, rugged path is paved with spars, 
 Where erst in the sand her footsteps were traced, 
 When so small were the prints that the surface mars, 
 That they seemed to smile ere by mine effaced. 
 The bank on the side of the road, day by day, 
 Where of old she awaited my loved approach, 
 Is now become the traveller's way 
 To avoid the track of the thundering coach. 
 
 Here the forest contracts, there the mead extends, 
 Of all that was ours, there is little left— 
 Like the ashes that wildly are whisked by winds, 
 Of all souvenirs is the place bereft. 
 Do we live no more—is our hour then gone? 
 Will it give back naught to our hungry cry? 
 The breeze answers my call with a mocking tone, 
 The house that was mine makes no reply. 
 
 True! others shall pass, as we have passed, 
 As we have come, so others shall meet, 
 And the dream that our mind had sketched in haste, 
 Shall others continue, but never complete. 
 For none upon earth can achieve his scheme, 
 The best as the worst are futile here: 
 We awake at the selfsame point cf the dream— 
 All is here begun, and finished elsewhere. 
 
 Yes! others shall come in the bloom of the heart, 
 To enjoy in this pure and happy retreat, 
 All that nature to timid love can impart 
 Of solemn repose and communion sweet. 
 In our fields, in our paths, shall strangers stray, 
 In thy wood, my dearest, new lovers go lost, 
 And other fair forms in the stream shall play 
 Which of old thy delicate feet have crossed. 
 
 Author of "Critical Essays." 


 






Written by Thomas Moore | Create an image from this poem

And Doth Not a Meeting Like This

 And doth not a meeting like this make amends 
For all the long years I've been wandering away -- 
To see thus around me my youth's early friends, 
As smiling and kind as in that happy day? 
Though haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine, 
The snow -- fall of time may be stealing -- what then? 
Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine, 
We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.
What soften'd remembrances come o'er the heart, In gazing on those we've been lost to so long! The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part, Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng.
As letters some hand hath invisibly traced, When held to the flame, will steal out on the sight, So many a feeling, that long seem'd effaced, The warmth of a meeting like this brings to the light.
And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide, To visit the scenes of your boyhood anew, Though oft we may see, looking down on the tide, The wreck of full many a hope shining through; Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers, That once made a garden of all the gay shore, Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours, And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more.
So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most, Is all we can have of the few we hold dear; And oft even joy is unheeded and lost, For want of some heart, that could echo it, near.
Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone, To meet in some world of more permanent bliss, For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hastening on, Is all we enjoy of each other in this.
But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart, The more we should welcome and bless them the more; They're ours, when we meet -- they are lost when we part, Like birds that bring Summer, and fly when 'tis o'er.
Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink, Let Sympathy pledge us, through pleasure, through pain, That, fast as a feeling but touches one link, Her magic shall send it direct through the chain.
Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Create an image from this poem

THE WANDERER

 [Published in the Gottingen Musen Almanach, 
having been written "to express his feelings and caprices" after 
his separation from Frederica.
] WANDERER.
YOUNG woman, may God bless thee, Thee, and the sucking infant Upon thy breast! Let me, 'gainst this rocky wall, Neath the elm-tree's shadow, Lay aside my burden, Near thee take my rest.
WOMAN.
What vocation leads thee, While the day is burning, Up this dusty path? Bring'st thou goods from out the town Round the country? Smil'st thou, stranger, At my question? WANDERER.
From the town no goods I bring.
Cool is now the evening; Show to me the fountain 'Whence thou drinkest, Woman young and kind! WOMAN.
Up the rocky pathway mount; Go thou first! Across the thicket Leads the pathway tow'rd the cottage That I live in, To the fountain Whence I drink.
WANDERER.
Signs of man's arranging hand See I 'mid the trees! Not by thee these stones were join'd, Nature, who so freely scatterest! WOMAN.
Up, still up! WANDERER.
Lo, a mossy architrave is here! I discern thee, fashioning spirit! On the stone thou hast impress'd thy seal.
WOMAN.
Onward, stranger! WANDERER.
Over an inscription am I treading! 'Tis effaced! Ye are seen no longer, Words so deeply graven, Who your master's true devotion Should have shown to thousand grandsons! WOMAN.
At these stones, why Start'st thou, stranger? Many stones are lying yonder Round my cottage.
WANDERER.
Yonder? WOMAN.
Through the thicket, Turning to the left, Here! WANDERER.
Ye Muses and ye Graces! WOMAN.
This, then, is my cottage.
WANDERER.
'Tis a ruin'd temple! * WOMAN.
Just below it, see, Springs the fountain Whence I drink.
WANDERER.
Thou dost hover O'er thy grave, all glowing, Genius! while upon thee Hath thy master-piece Fallen crumbling, Thou Immortal One! WOMAN.
Stay, a cup I'll fetch thee Whence to drink.
WANDERER.
Ivy circles thy slender Form so graceful and godlike.
How ye rise on high From the ruins, Column-pair And thou, their lonely sister yonder,-- How thou, Dusky moss upon thy sacred head,-- Lookest down in mournful majesty On thy brethren's figures Lying scatter'd At thy feet! In the shadow of the bramble Earth and rubbish veil them, Lofty grass is waving o'er them Is it thus thou, Nature, prizest Thy great masterpiece's masterpiece? Carelessly destroyest thou Thine own sanctuary, Sowing thistles there? WOMAN.
How the infant sleeps! Wilt thou rest thee in the cottage, Stranger? Wouldst thou rather In the open air still linger? Now 'tis cool! take thou the child While I go and draw some water.
Sleep on, darling! sleep! WANDERER.
Sweet is thy repose! How, with heaven-born health imbued, Peacefully he slumbers! Oh thou, born among the ruins Spread by great antiquity, On thee rest her spirit! He whom it encircles Will, in godlike consciousness, Ev'ry day enjoy.
Full, of germ, unfold, As the smiling springtime's Fairest charm, Outshining all thy fellows! And when the blossom's husk is faded, May the full fruit shoot forth From out thy breast, And ripen in the sunshine! WOMAN.
God bless him!--Is he sleeping still? To the fresh draught I nought can add, Saving a crust of bread for thee to eat.
WANDERER.
I thank thee well.
How fair the verdure all around! How green! WOMAN.
My husband soon Will home return From labour.
Tarry, tarry, man, And with us eat our evening meal.
WANDERER.
Is't here ye dwell? WOMAN.
Yonder, within those walls we live.
My father 'twas who built the cottage Of tiles and stones from out the ruins.
'Tis here we dwell.
He gave me to a husbandman, And in our arms expired.
-- Hast thou been sleeping, dearest heart How lively, and how full of play! Sweet rogue! WANDERER.
Nature, thou ever budding one, Thou formest each for life's enjoyments, And, like a mother, all thy children dear, Blessest with that sweet heritage,--a home The swallow builds the cornice round, Unconscious of the beauties She plasters up.
The caterpillar spins around the bough, To make her brood a winter house; And thou dost patch, between antiquity's Most glorious relics, For thy mean use, Oh man, a humble cot,-- Enjoyest e'en mid tombs!-- Farewell, thou happy woman! WOMAN.
Thou wilt not stay, then? WANDERER.
May God preserve thee, And bless thy boy! WOMAN.
A happy journey! WANDERER.
Whither conducts the path Across yon hill? WOMAN.
To Cuma.
WANDERER.
How far from hence? WOMAN.
'Tis full three miles.
WANDERER.
Farewell! Oh Nature, guide me on my way! The wandering stranger guide, Who o'er the tombs Of holy bygone times Is passing, To a kind sheltering place, From North winds safe, And where a poplar grove Shuts out the noontide ray! And when I come Home to my cot At evening, Illumined by the setting sun, Let me embrace a wife like this, Her infant in her arms! 1772.
* Compare with the beautiful description contained in the subsequent lines, an account of a ruined temple of Ceres, given by Chamberlayne in his Pharonnida (published in 1659) ".
.
.
.
With mournful majesiy A heap of solitary ruins lie, Half sepulchred in dust, the bankrupt heir To prodigal antiquity.
.
.
.
"
Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID

 Vogelweid the Minnesinger,
When he left this world of ours,
Laid his body in the cloister,
Under Wurtzburg's minster towers.
And he gave the monks his treasures, Gave them all with this behest: They should feed the birds at noontide Daily on his place of rest; Saying, "From these wandering minstrels I have learned the art of song; Let me now repay the lessons They have taught so well and long.
" Thus the bard of love departed; And, fulfilling his desire, On his tomb the birds were feasted By the children of the choir.
Day by day, o'er tower and turret, In foul weather and in fair, Day by day, in vaster numbers, Flocked the poets of the air.
On the tree whose heavy branches Overshadowed all the place, On the pavement, on the tombstone, On the poet's sculptured face, On the cross-bars of each window, On the lintel of each door, They renewed the War of Wartburg, Which the bard had fought before.
There they sang their merry carols, Sang their lauds on every side; And the name their voices uttered Was the name of Vogelweid.
Till at length the portly abbot Murmured, "Why this waste of food? Be it changed to loaves henceforward For our tasting brotherhood.
" Then in vain o'er tower and turret, From the walls and woodland nests, When the minster bells rang noontide, Gathered the unwelcome guests.
Then in vain, with cries discordant, Clamorous round the Gothic spire, Screamed the feathered Minnesingers For the children of the choir.
Time has long effaced the inscriptions On the cloister's funeral stones, And tradition only tells us Where repose the poet's bones.
But around the vast cathedral, By sweet echoes multiplied, Still the birds repeat the legend, And the name of Vogelweid.
Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Create an image from this poem

Trilogy of Passion: II. ELEGY

 When man had ceased to utter his lament,

 A god then let me tell my tale of sorrow.
WHAT hope of once more meeting is there now In the still-closed blossoms of this day? Both heaven and hell thrown open seest thou; What wav'ring thoughts within the bosom play No longer doubt! Descending from the sky, She lifts thee in her arms to realms on high.
And thus thou into Paradise wert brought, As worthy of a pure and endless life; Nothing was left, no wish, no hope, no thought, Here was the boundary of thine inmost strife: And seeing one so fair, so glorified, The fount of yearning tears was straightway dried.
No motion stirr'd the day's revolving wheel, In their own front the minutes seem'd to go; The evening kiss, a true and binding seal, Ne'er changing till the morrow's sunlight glow.
The hours resembled sisters as they went.
Yet each one from another different.
The last hour's kiss, so sadly sweet, effac'd A beauteous network of entwining love.
Now on the threshold pause the feet, now haste.
As though a flaming cherub bade them move; The unwilling eye the dark road wanders o'er, Backward it looks, but closed it sees the door.
And now within itself is closed this breast, As though it ne'er were open, and as though, Vying with ev'ry star, no moments blest Had, in its presence, felt a kindling glow; Sadness, reproach, repentance, weight of care, Hang heavy on it in the sultry air.
Is not the world still left? The rocky steeps, Are they with holy shades no longer crown'd? Grows not the harvest ripe? No longer creeps The espalier by the stream,--the copse around? Doth not the wondrous arch of heaven still rise, Now rich in shape, now shapeless to the eyes? As, seraph-like, from out the dark clouds' chorus, With softness woven, graceful, light, and fair, Resembling Her, in the blue aether o'er us, A slender figure hovers in the air,-- Thus didst thou see her joyously advance, The fairest of the fairest in the dance.
Yet but a moment dost thou boldly dare To clasp an airy form instead of hers; Back to thine heart! thou'lt find it better there, For there in changeful guise her image stirs What erst was one, to many turneth fast, In thousand forms, each dearer than the last.
As at the door, on meeting lingerd she, And step by step my faithful ardour bless'd, For the last kiss herself entreated me, And on my lips the last last kiss impress'd,-- Thus clearly traced, the lov'd one's form we view, With flames engraven on a heart so true,-- A heart that, firm as some embattled tower, Itself for her, her in itself reveres, For her rejoices in its lasting power, Conscious alone, when she herself appears; Feels itself freer in so sweet a thrall, And only beats to give her thanks in all.
The power of loving, and all yearning sighs For love responsive were effaced and drown'd; While longing hope for joyous enterprise Was form'd, and rapid action straightway found; If love can e'er a loving one inspire, Most lovingly it gave me now its fire; And 'twas through her!--an inward sorrow lay On soul and body, heavily oppress'd; To mournful phantoms was my sight a prey, In the drear void of a sad tortured breast; Now on the well-known threshold Hope hath smil'd, Herself appeareth in the sunlight mild.
Unto the peace of God, which, as we read, Blesseth us more than reason e'er bath done, Love's happy peace would I compare indeed, When in the presence of the dearest one.
There rests the heart, and there that sweetest thought, The thought of being hers, is check'd by nought.
In the pure bosom doth a yearning float, Unto a holier, purer, unknown Being Its grateful aspiration to devote, The Ever-Nameless then unriddled seeing; We call it: piety!--such blest delight I feel a share in, when before her sight.
Before her sight, as 'neath the sun's hot ray, Before her breath, as 'neath the spring's soft wind, In its deep wintry cavern melts away Self-love, so long in icy chains confin'd; No selfishness and no self-will are nigh, For at her advent they were forced to fly.
It seems as though she said: "As hours pass by They spread before us life with kindly plan; Small knowledge did the yesterday supply, To know the morrow is conceal'd from man; And if the thought of evening made me start, The sun at setting gladden'd straight my heart.
"Act, then, as I, and look, with joyous mind, The moment in the face; nor linger thou! Meet it with speed, so fraught with life, so kind In action, and in love so radiant now; Let all things be where thou art, childlike ever, Thus thoult be all, thus, thou'lt be vanquish'd never.
" Thou speakest well, methought, for as thy guide The moment's favour did a god assign, And each one feels himself when by thy side, Fate's fav'rite in a moment so divine; I tremble at thy look that bids me go, Why should I care such wisdom vast to know? Now am I far! And what would best befit The present minute? I could scarcely tell; Full many a rich possession offers it, These but offend, and I would fain repel.
Yearnings unquenchable still drive me on, All counsel, save unbounded tears, is gone.
Flow on, flow on in never-ceasing course, Yet may ye never quench my inward fire! Within my bosom heaves a mighty force, Where death and life contend in combat dire.
Medicines may serve the body's pangs to still; Nought but the spirit fails in strength of will,-- Fails in conception; wherefore fails it so? A thousand times her image it portrays; Enchanting now, and now compell'd to go, Now indistinct, now clothed in purest rays! How could the smallest comfort here be flowing? The ebb and flood, the coming and the going! * * * * * * Leave me here now, my life's companions true! Leave me alone on rock, in moor and heath; But courage! open lies the world to you, The glorious heavens above, the earth beneath; Observe, investigate, with searching eyes, And nature will disclose her mysteries.
To me is all, I to myself am lost, Who the immortals' fav'rite erst was thought; They, tempting, sent Pandoras to my cost, So rich in wealth, with danger far more fraught; They urged me to those lips, with rapture crown'd, Deserted me, and hurl'd me to the ground.
1823.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

All forgot for recollecting

 All forgot for recollecting
Just a paltry One --
All forsook, for just a Stranger's
New Accompanying --

Grace of Wealth, and Grace of Station
Less accounted than
An unknown Esteem possessing --
Estimate -- Who can --

Home effaced -- Her faces dwindled --
Nature -- altered small --
Sun -- if shone -- or Storm -- if shattered --
Overlooked I all --

Dropped -- my fate -- a timid Pebble --
In thy bolder Sea --
Prove -- me -- Sweet -- if I regret it --
Prove Myself -- of Thee --