Written by
Aleister Crowley |
Come to my arms --- is it eve? is it morn?
Is Apollo awake? Is Diana reborn?
Are the streams in full song? Do the woods whisper hush
Is it the nightingale? Is it the thrush?
Is it the smile of the autumn, the blush
Of the spring? Is the world full of peace or alarms?
Come to my arms, Laylah, come to my arms!
Come to my arms, though the hurricane blow.
Thunder and summer, or winter and snow,
It is one to us, one, while our spirits are curled
In the crimson caress: we are fond, we are furled
Like lilies away from the war of the world.
Are there spells beyond ours? Are there alien charms?
Come to my arms, Laylah, come to my arms!
Come to my arms! is it life? is it death?
Is not all immortality born of your breath?
Are not heaven and hell but as handmaids of yours
Who are all that enflames, who are all that allures,
Who are all that destroys, who are all that endures?
I am yours, do I care if it heals me or harms?
Come to my arms, Laylah, come to my arms!
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CLXXII. Dolci ire, dolci sdegni e dolci paci. HE CONSOLES HIMSELF WITH THE THOUGHT THAT HE WILL BE ENVIED BY POSTERITY. Sweet scorn, sweet anger, and sweet misery,Forgiveness sweet, sweet burden, and sweet ill;Sweet accents that mine ear so sweetly thrill,That sweetly bland, now sweetly fierce can be.[Pg 183]Mourn not, my soul, but suffer silently;And those embitter'd sweets thy cup that fillWith the sweet honour blend of loving stillHer whom I told: "Thou only pleasest me."Hereafter, moved with envy, some may say:"For that high-boasted beauty of his dayEnough the bard has borne!" then heave a sigh.Others: "Oh! why, most hostile Fortune, whyCould not these eyes that lovely form survey?Why was she early born, or wherefore late was I?" Nott. Sweet anger, sweet disdain, and peace as sweet,Sweet ill, sweet pain, sweet burthen that I bear,Sweet speech as sweetly heard; sweet speech, my fair!That now enflames my soul, now cools its heat.Patient, my soul! endure the wrongs you meet;And all th' embitter'd sweets you're doomed to shareBlend with that sweetest bliss, the maid to greetIn these soft words, "Thou only art my care!"Haply some youth shall sighing envious say,"Enough has borne the bard so fond, so true,For that bright beauty, brightest of his day!"While others cry, "Sad eyes! how hard your fate,Why could I ne'er this matchless beauty view?Why was she born so soon, or I so late?" Anon. 1777.
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Written by
Alan Seeger |
A cloud has lowered that shall not soon pass o'er.
The world takes sides: whether for impious aims
With Tyranny whose bloody toll enflames
A generous people to heroic war;
Whether with Freedom, stretched in her own gore,
Whose pleading hands and suppliant distress
Still offer hearts that thirst for Righteousness
A glorious cause to strike or perish for.
England, which side is thine? Thou hast had sons
Would shrink not from the choice however grim,
Were Justice trampled on and Courage downed;
Which will they be -- cravens or champions?
Oh, if a doubt intrude, remember him
Whose death made Missolonghi holy ground.
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