Written by
Walt Whitman |
1
OF these years I sing,
How they pass and have pass’d, through convuls’d pains as through parturitions;
How America illustrates birth, muscular youth, the promise, the sure fulfillment, the
Absolute
Success, despite of people—Illustrates evil as well as good;
How many hold despairingly yet to the models departed, caste, myths, obedience,
compulsion, and
to infidelity;
How few see the arrived models, the Athletes, the Western States—or see freedom or
spirituality—or hold any faith in results,
(But I see the Athletes—and I see the results of the war glorious and
inevitable—and
they again leading to other results;)
How the great cities appear—How the Democratic masses, turbulent, wilful, as I love
them;
How the whirl, the contest, the wrestle of evil with good, the sounding and resounding,
keep on
and on;
How society waits unform’d, and is for awhile between things ended and things begun;
How America is the continent of glories, and of the triumph of freedom, and of the
Democracies,
and of the fruits of society, and of all that is begun;
And how The States are complete in themselves—And how all triumphs and glories are
complete in themselves, to lead onward,
And how these of mine, and of The States, will in their turn be convuls’d, and serve
other
parturitions and transitions,
And how all people, sights, combinations, the Democratic masses, too, serve—and how
every
fact, and war itself, with all its horrors, serves,
And how now, or at any time, each serves the exquisite transition of death.
2
OF seeds dropping into the ground—of birth,
Of the steady concentration of America, inland, upward, to impregnable and swarming
places,
Of what Indiana, Kentucky, Ohio and the rest, are to be,
Of what a few years will show there in Nebraska, Colorado, Nevada, and the rest;
(Or afar, mounting the Northern Pacific to Sitka or Aliaska;)
Of what the feuillage of America is the preparation for—and of what all sights,
North,
South, East and West, are;
Of This Union, soak’d, welded in blood—of the solemn price paid—of the
unnamed
lost, ever present in my mind;
—Of the temporary use of materials, for identity’s sake,
Of the present, passing, departing—of the growth of completer men than any yet,
Of myself, soon, perhaps, closing up my songs by these shores,
Of California, of Oregon—and of me journeying to live and sing there;
Of the Western Sea—of the spread inland between it and the spinal river,
Of the great pastoral area, athletic and feminine,
of all sloping down there where the fresh free giver, the mother, the Mississippi flows,
Of future women there—of happiness in those high plateaus, ranging three thousand
miles,
warm and cold;
Of mighty inland cities yet unsurvey’d and unsuspected, (as I am also, and as it must
be;)
Of the new and good names—of the modern developments—of inalienable homesteads;
Of a free and original life there—of simple diet and clean and sweet blood;
Of litheness, majestic faces, clear eyes, and perfect physique there;
Of immense spiritual results, future years, far west, each side of the Anahuacs;
Of these leaves, well understood there, (being made for that area;)
Of the native scorn of grossness and gain there;
(O it lurks in me night and day—What is gain, after all, to savageness and freedom?)
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Written by
Robert Desnos |
Far from me and like the stars, the sea and all the trappings of poetic myth,
Far from me but here all the same without your knowing,
Far from me and even more silent because I imagine you endlessly.
Far from me, my lovely mirage and eternal dream, you cannot know.
If you only knew.
Far from me and even farther yet from being unaware of me and still unaware.
Far from me because you undoubtedly do not love me or, what amounts to the
same thing, that I doubt you do.
Far from me because you consciously ignore my passionate desires.
Far from me because you are cruel.
If you only knew.
Far from me, joyful as a flower dancing in the river at the tip of its aquatic stem,
sad as seven p.m. in a mushroom bed.
Far from me yet silent in my presence and still joyful like a stork-shaped hour
falling from on high.
Far from me at the moment when the stills are singing, at the moment when the
silent and loud sea curls up on its white pillows.
If you only knew.
Far from me, o my ever-present torment, far from me in the magnificent noise of
oyster shells crushed by a night owl passing a restaurant at first light.
If you only knew.
Far from me, willed, physical mirage.
Far from me there's an island that turns aside when ships pass.
Far from me a calm herd of cattle takes the wrong path, pulls up stubbornly at the
edge of a steep cliff, far from me, cruel woman.
Far from me, a shooting star falls into the poet's nightly bottle.
He corks it right away and from then on watches the star enclosed in the glass, the
constellations born on its walls, far from me, you are so far from me.
If you only knew.
Far from me a house has just been built.
A bricklayer in white coveralls at the top of the scaffolding sings a very sad little
song and, suddenly, in the tray full of mortar, the future of the house appears:
lovers' kisses and double suicides nakedness in the bedrooms strange beautiful
women
and their midnight dreams, voluptuous secrets caught in the act by the parquet
floors.
Far from me, If you only knew.
If you only knew how I love you and, though you do not love me, how happy I
am, how strong and proud I am, with your image in my mind,
to leave the universe.
How happy I am to die for it.
If you only knew how the world has yielded to me.
And you, beautiful unyielding woman, how you too are my prisoner.
O you, far-from-me, who I yield to.
If you only knew.
|
Written by
Emily Brontë |
NO coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere:
I see Heaven's glories shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.
O God within my breast,
Almighty, ever-present Deity!
Life--that in me has rest,
As I--undying Life--have power in Thee!
Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts: unutterably vain;
Worthless as wither'd weeds,
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,
To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by Thine infinity;
So surely anchor'd on
The steadfast rock of immortality.
With wide-embracing love
Thy Spirit animates eternal years,
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.
Though earth and man were gone,
And suns and universes cease to be,
And Thou were left alone,
Every existence would exist in Thee.
There is not room for Death,
Nor atom that his might could render void:
Thou--Thou art Being and Breath,
And what Thou art may never be destroyed.
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Written by
Emily Brontë |
Oh, thy bright eyes must answer now,
When Reason, with a scornful brow,
Is mocking at my overthrow!
Oh, thy sweet tongue must plead for me
And tell, why I have chosen thee!
Stern Reason is to judgment come,
Arrayed in all her forms of gloom:
Wilt thou, my advocate, be dumb?
No, radiant angel, speak and say,
Why I did cast the world away.
Why I have persevered to shun
The common paths that others run,
And on a strange road journeyed on,
Heedless, alike, of wealth and power -
Of glory's wreath and pleasure's flower.
These, once, indeed, seemed Beings Divine;
And they, perchance, heard vows of mine,
And saw my offerings on their shrine;
But, careless gifts are seldom prized,
And mine were worthily despised.
So, with a ready heart I swore
To seek their altar-stone no more;
And gave my spirit to adore
Thee, ever - present, phantom thing;
My slave, my comrade, and my king,
A slave, because I rule thee still;
Incline thee to my changeful will,
And make thy influence good or ill:
A comrade, for by day and night
Thou art my intimate delight, -
My darling pain that wounds and sears
And wrings a blessing out from tears
By deadening me to earthly cares;
And yet, a king, though Prudence well
Have taught thy subject to rebel.
And am I wrong to worship, where
Faith cannot doubt, nor hope despair,
Since my own soul can grant my prayer?
Speak, God of visions, plead for me,
And tell why I have chosen thee !
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Written by
Emily Brontë |
No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere:
I see Heaven's glories shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.
O God within my breast,
Almighty, ever-present Deity!
Life—that in me has rest,
As I—undying Life—have power in Thee!
Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts: unutterably vain;
Worthless as withered weeds,
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,
To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by Thine infinity;
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of immortality.
With wide-embracing love
Thy Spirit animates eternal years,
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.
Though earth and man were gone,
And suns and universes ceased to be,
And Thou were left alone,
Every existence would exist in Thee.
There is not room for Death,
Nor atom that his might could render void:
Thou—Thou art Being and Breath,
And what Thou art may never be destroyed.
|
Written by
Emily Brontë |
O, thy bright eyes must answer now,
When Reason, with a scornful brow,
Is mocking at my overthrow!
O, thy sweet tongue must plead for me,
And tell why I have chosen thee!
Stern Reason is to judgment come,
Arrayed in all her forms of gloom:
Wilt thou, my advocate, be dumb?
No, radiant angel, speak and say
Why I did cast the world away;
Why I have presevered to shun
The common paths that others run,
And on a strange road journeyed on,
Heedless alike of wealth and power,
Of Glory's wreath and Pleasure's flower.
These once, indeed, seemed Beings Divine;
And they, perchance, heard vows of mine,
And saw my offerings on their shrine;
But careless gifts are seldom prized,
And mine were worthily despised.
So, with a ready heart I swore
To seek their altar-stone no more;
And gave my spirit to adore
Thee, ever-present, phantom thing—
My slave, my comrade, and my king.
A slave, because I rule thee still,
Incline thee to my changeful will,
And make thy influence good or ill;
A comrade, for by day and night
Thou art my intimate delight,—
My darling pain that wounds and sears,
And wrings a blessing out of tears
Be deadening me to earthly cares;
And yet, a king, though Prudence well
Have taught thy subject to rebel.
And I am wrong to worship where
Faith cannot doubt, nor Hope despair,
Since my own soul can grant my prayer?
Speak, God of Visions, plead for me,
And tell why I have chosen thee!
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
CANZONE XXI. I' vo pensando, e nel pensier m' assale. SELF-CONFLICT. Ceaseless I think, and in each wasting thoughtSo strong a pity for myself appears,[Pg 227]That often it has broughtMy harass'd heart to new yet natural tears;Seeing each day my end of life draw nigh,Instant in prayer, I ask of God the wingsWith which the spirit springs,Freed from its mortal coil, to bliss on high;But nothing, to this hour, prayer, tear, or sigh,Whatever man could do, my hopes sustain:And so indeed in justice should it be;Able to stay, who went and fell, that heShould prostrate, in his own despite, remain.But, lo! the tender armsIn which I trust are open to me still,Though fears my bosom fillOf others' fate, and my own heart alarms,Which worldly feelings spur, haply, to utmost ill. One thought thus parleys with my troubled mind—"What still do you desire, whence succour wait?Ah! wherefore to this great,This guilty loss of time so madly blind?Take up at length, wisely take up your part:Tear every root of pleasure from your heart,Which ne'er can make it blest,Nor lets it freely play, nor calmly rest.If long ago with tedium and disgustYou view'd the false and fugitive delightsWith which its tools a treacherous world requites,Why longer then repose in it your trust,Whence peace and firmness are in exile thrust?While life and vigour stay,The bridle of your thoughts is in your power:Grasp, guide it while you may:So clogg'd with doubt, so dangerous is delay,The best for wise reform is still the present hour. "Well known to you what rapture still has beenShed on your eyes by the dear sight of herWhom, for your peace it wereBetter if she the light had never seen;And you remember well (as well you ought)[Pg 228]Her image, when, as with one conquering bound,Your heart in prey she caught,Where flame from other light no entrance found.She fired it, and if that fallacious heatLasted long years, expecting still one day,Which for our safety came not, to repay,It lifts you now to hope more blest and sweet,Uplooking to that heaven around your headImmortal, glorious spread;If but a glance, a brief word, an old song,Had here such power to charmYour eager passion, glad of its own harm,How far 'twill then exceed if now the joy so strong." Another thought the while, severe and sweet,Laborious, yet delectable in scope,Takes in my heart its seat,Filling with glory, feeding it with hope;Till, bent alone on bright and deathless fame,It feels not when I freeze, or burn in flame,When I am pale or ill,And if I crush it rises stronger still.This, from my helpless cradle, day by day,Has strengthen'd with my strength, grown with my growth,Till haply now one tomb must cover both:When from the flesh the soul has pass'd away,No more this passion comrades it as here;For fame—if, after death,Learning speak aught of me—is but a breath:Wherefore, because I fearHopes to indulge which the next hour may chase,I would old error leave, and the one truth embrace. But the third wish which fills and fires my heartO'ershadows all the rest which near it spring:Time, too, dispels a part,While, but for her, self-reckless grown, I sing.And then the rare light of those beauteous eyes,Sweetly before whose gentle heat I melt,As a fine curb is felt,To combat which avails not wit or force;[Pg 229]What boots it, trammell'd by such adverse ties,If still between the rocks must lie her course,To trim my little bark to new emprize?Ah! wilt Thou never, Lord, who yet dost keepMe safe and free from common chains, which bind,In different modes, mankind,Deign also from my brow this shame to sweep?For, as one sunk in sleep,Methinks death ever present to my sight,Yet when I would resist I have no arms to fight. Full well I see my state, in nought deceivedBy truth ill known, but rather forced by Love,Who leaves not him to moveIn honour, who too much his grace believed:For o'er my heart from time to time I feelA subtle scorn, a lively anguish, steal,Whence every hidden thought,Where all may see, upon my brow is writ.For with such faith on mortal things to dote,As unto God alone is just and fit,Disgraces worst the prize who covets most:Should reason, amid things of sense, be lost.This loudly calls her to the proper track:But, when she would obeyAnd home return, ill habits keep her back,And to my view portrayHer who was only born my death to be,Too lovely in herself, too loved, alas! by me. I neither know, to me what term of lifeHeaven destined when on earth I came at firstTo suffer this sharp strife,'Gainst my own peace which I myself have nursed,Nor can I, for the veil my body throws,Yet see the time when my sad life may close.I feel my frame beginTo fail, and vary each desire within:And now that I believe my parting dayIs near at hand, or else not distant lies,Like one whom losses wary make and wise,I travel back in thought, where first the way,[Pg 230]The right-hand way, I left, to peace which led.While through me shame and grief,Recalling the vain past on this side spread,On that brings no relief,Passion, whose strength I now from habit, feel,So great that it would dare with death itself to deal. Song! I am here, my heart the while more coldWith fear than frozen snow,Feels in its certain core death's coming blow;For thus, in weak self-communing, has roll'dOf my vain life the better portion by:Worse burden surely ne'erTried mortal man than that which now I bear;Though death be seated nigh,For future life still seeking councils new,I know and love the good, yet, ah! the worse pursue. Macgregor.
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Written by
James Whitcomb Riley |
Friends, my heart is half aweary
Of its happiness to-night:
Though your songs are gay and cheery,
And your spirits feather-light,
There's a ghostly music haunting
Still the heart of every guest
And a voiceless chorus chanting
That the Old Times were the best.
CHORUS
All about is bright and pleasant
With the sound of song and jest,
Yet a feeling's ever present
That the Old Times were the best.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
CANZONE XV. In quella parte dov' Amor mi sprona. HE FINDS HER IMAGE EVERYWHERE. When Love, fond Love, commands the strain,The coyest muse must sure obey;Love bids my wounded breast complain,And whispers the melodious lay:Yet when such griefs restrain the muse's wing,How shall she dare to soar, or how attempt to sing? Oh! could my heart express its woe,How poor, how wretched should I seem!But as the plaintive accents flow,Soft comfort spreads her golden gleam;And each gay scene, that Nature holds to view,Bids Laura's absent charms to memory bloom anew. Though Fate's severe decrees removeHer gladsome beauties from my sight,[Pg 122]Yet, urged by pity, friendly LoveBids fond reflection yield delight;If lavish spring with flowerets strews the mead,Her lavish beauties all to fancy are displayed! When to this globe the solar beamsTheir full meridian blaze impart,It pictures Laura, that inflamesWith passion's fires each human heart:And when the sun completes his daily race,I see her riper age complete each growing grace. When milder planets, warmer skiesO'er winter's frozen reign prevail;When groves are tinged with vernal dyes,And violets scent the wanton gale;Those flowers, the verdure, then recall that day,In which my Laura stole this heedless heart away. The blush of health, that crimson'd o'erHer youthful cheek; her modest mien;The gay-green garment that she wore,Have ever dear to memory been;More dear they grow as time the more inflamesThis tender breast o'ercome by passion's wild extremes! The sun, whose cheering lustre warmsThe bosom of yon snow-clad hill,Seems a just emblem of the charms,Whose power controls my vanquish'd will;When near, they gild with joy this frozen heart,Where ceaseless winter reigns, whene'er those charms depart. Yon sun, too, paints the locks of gold,That play around her face so fair—Her face which, oft as I behold,Prompts the soft sigh of amorous care!While Laura smiles, all-conscious of that loveWhich from this faithful breast no time can e'er remove. If to the transient storm of nightSucceeds a star-bespangled sky,And the clear rain-drops catch the light,Glittering on all the foliage nigh;[Pg 123]Methinks her eyes I view, as on that dayWhen through the envious veil they shot their magic ray. With brightness making heaven more bright,As then they did, I see them now;I see them, when the morning lightPurples the misty mountain's brow:When day declines, and darkness spreads the pole;Methinks 'tis Laura flies, and sadness wraps my soul. In stately jars of burnish'd goldShould lilies spread their silvery pride,With fresh-blown roses that unfoldTheir leaves, in heaven's own crimson dyed;Then Laura's bloom I see, and sunny hairFlowing adown her neck than ivory whiter far. The flowerets brush'd by zephyr's wing,Waving their heads in frolic play,Oft to my fond remembrance bringThe happy spot, the happier day,In which, disporting with the gale, I view'dThose sweet unbraided locks, that all my heart subdued. Oh! could I count those orbs that shineNightly o'er yon ethereal plain,Or in some scanty vase confineEach drop that ocean's bounds contain,Then might I hope to fly from beauty's rays,Laura o'er flaming worlds can spread bright beauty's blaze. Should I all heaven, all earth explore,I still should lovely Laura find;Laura, whose beauties I adore,Is ever present to my mind:She's seen in all that strikes these partial eyes,And her dear name still dwells in all my tender sighs. But soft, my song,—not thine the powerTo paint that never-dying flame,Which gilds through life the gloomy hour,Which nurtures this love-wasted frame;For since with Laura dwells my wander'd heart,Cheer'd by that fostering flame, I brave Death's ebon dart.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
BALLATA I. Amor, quando fioria. HIS GRIEF AT SURVIVING HER IS MITIGATED BY THE CONSCIOUSNESS THAT SHE NOW KNOWS HIS HEART. Yes, Love, at that propitious timeWhen hope was in its bloomy prime,And when I vainly fancied nighThe meed of all my constancy;Then sudden she, of whom I soughtCompassion, from my sight was caught.O ruthless Death! O life severe!The one has sunk me deep in care,And darken'd cruelly my day,That shone with hope's enlivening ray:The other, adverse to my will,Doth here on earth detain me still;And interdicts me to pursueHer, who from all its scenes withdrew:Yet in my heart resides the fair,For ever, ever present there;Who well perceives the ills that waitUpon my wretched, mortal state. Nott. Yes, Love, while hope still bloom'd with me in pride,While seem'd of all my faith the guerdon nigh,She, upon whom for mercy I relied,Was ravish'd from my doting desolate eye.[Pg 280]O ruthless Death! O life unwelcome! thisPlunged me in deepest woe,And rudely crush'd my every hope of bliss;Against my will that keeps me here below,Who else would yearn to go,And join the sainted fair who left us late;Yet present every hourIn my heart's core there wields she her old power,And knows, whate'er my life, its every state! Macgregor.
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