Best Famous Flee Poems

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Written by Edna St Vincent Millay | Ode To Silence Aye, but she? Your other sister and my other soul Grave Silence, lovelier Than the three loveliest maidens, what of her? Clio, not you, Not you, Calliope, Nor all your wanton line, Not Beauty's perfect self shall comfort me For Silence once departed, For her the cool-tongued, her the tranquil-hearted, Whom evermore I follow wistfully, Wandering Heaven and Earth and Hell and the four seasons through; Thalia, not you, Not you, Melpomene, Not your incomparable feet, O thin Terpsichore, I seek in this great hall, But one more pale, more pensive, most beloved of you all. I seek her from afar, I come from temples where her altars are, From groves that bear her name, Noisy with stricken victims now and sacrificial flame, And cymbals struck on high and strident faces Obstreperous in her praise They neither love nor know, A goddess of gone days, Departed long ago, Abandoning the invaded shrines and fanes Of her old sanctuary, A deity obscure and legendary, Of whom there now remains, For sages to decipher and priests to garble, Only and for a little while her letters wedged in marble, Which even now, behold, the friendly mumbling rain erases, And the inarticulate snow, Leaving at last of her least signs and traces None whatsoever, nor whither she is vanished from these places. "She will love well," I said, "If love be of that heart inhabiter, The flowers of the dead; The red anemone that with no sound Moves in the wind, and from another wound That sprang, the heavily-sweet blue hyacinth, That blossoms underground, And sallow poppies, will be dear to her. And will not Silence know In the black shade of what obsidian steep Stiffens the white narcissus numb with sleep? (Seed which Demeter's daughter bore from home, Uptorn by desperate fingers long ago, Reluctant even as she, Undone Persephone, And even as she set out again to grow In twilight, in perdition's lean and inauspicious loam). She will love well," I said, "The flowers of the dead; Where dark Persephone the winter round, Uncomforted for home, uncomforted, Lacking a sunny southern slope in northern Sicily, With sullen pupils focussed on a dream, Stares on the stagnant stream That moats the unequivocable battlements of Hell, There, there will she be found, She that is Beauty veiled from men and Music in a swound. " "I long for Silence as they long for breath Whose helpless nostrils drink the bitter sea; What thing can be So stout, what so redoubtable, in Death What fury, what considerable rage, if only she, Upon whose icy breast, Unquestioned, uncaressed, One time I lay, And whom always I lack, Even to this day, Being by no means from that frigid bosom weaned away, If only she therewith be given me back?" I sought her down that dolorous labyrinth, Wherein no shaft of sunlight ever fell, And in among the bloodless everywhere I sought her, but the air, Breathed many times and spent, Was fretful with a whispering discontent, And questioning me, importuning me to tell Some slightest tidings of the light of day they know no more, Plucking my sleeve, the eager shades were with me where I went. I paused at every grievous door, And harked a moment, holding up my hand,—and for a space A hush was on them, while they watched my face; And then they fell a-whispering as before; So that I smiled at them and left them, seeing she was not there. I sought her, too, Among the upper gods, although I knew She was not like to be where feasting is, Nor near to Heaven's lord, Being a thing abhorred And shunned of him, although a child of his, (Not yours, not yours; to you she owes not breath, Mother of Song, being sown of Zeus upon a dream of Death). Fearing to pass unvisited some place And later learn, too late, how all the while, With her still face, She had been standing there and seen me pass, without a smile, I sought her even to the sagging board whereat The stout immortals sat; But such a laughter shook the mighty hall No one could hear me say: Had she been seen upon the Hill that day? And no one knew at all How long I stood, or when at last I sighed and went away. There is a garden lying in a lull Between the mountains and the mountainous sea, I know not where, but which a dream diurnal Paints on my lids a moment till the hull Be lifted from the kernel And Slumber fed to me. Your foot-print is not there, Mnemosene, Though it would seem a ruined place and after Your lichenous heart, being full Of broken columns, caryatides Thrown to the earth and fallen forward on their jointless knees, And urns funereal altered into dust Minuter than the ashes of the dead, And Psyche's lamp out of the earth up-thrust, Dripping itself in marble wax on what was once the bed Of Love, and his young body asleep, but now is dust instead. There twists the bitter-sweet, the white wisteria Fastens its fingers in the strangling wall, And the wide crannies quicken with bright weeds; There dumbly like a worm all day the still white orchid feeds; But never an echo of your daughters' laughter Is there, nor any sign of you at all Swells fungous from the rotten bough, grey mother of Pieria! Only her shadow once upon a stone I saw,—and, lo, the shadow and the garden, too, were gone. I tell you you have done her body an ill, You chatterers, you noisy crew! She is not anywhere! I sought her in deep Hell; And through the world as well; I thought of Heaven and I sought her there; Above nor under ground Is Silence to be found, That was the very warp and woof of you, Lovely before your songs began and after they were through! Oh, say if on this hill Somewhere your sister's body lies in death, So I may follow there, and make a wreath Of my locked hands, that on her quiet breast Shall lie till age has withered them! (Ah, sweetly from the rest I see Turn and consider me Compassionate Euterpe!) "There is a gate beyond the gate of Death, Beyond the gate of everlasting Life, Beyond the gates of Heaven and Hell," she saith, "Whereon but to believe is horror! Whereon to meditate engendereth Even in deathless spirits such as I A tumult in the breath, A chilling of the inexhaustible blood Even in my veins that never will be dry, And in the austere, divine monotony That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood. This is her province whom you lack and seek; And seek her not elsewhere. Hell is a thoroughfare For pilgrims,—Herakles, And he that loved Euridice too well, Have walked therein; and many more than these; And witnessed the desire and the despair Of souls that passed reluctantly and sicken for the air; You, too, have entered Hell, And issued thence; but thence whereof I speak None has returned;—for thither fury brings Only the driven ghosts of them that flee before all things. Oblivion is the name of this abode: and she is there. " Oh, radiant Song! Oh, gracious Memory! Be long upon this height I shall not climb again! I know the way you mean,—the little night, And the long empty day,—never to see Again the angry light, Or hear the hungry noises cry my brain! Ah, but she, Your other sister and my other soul, She shall again be mine; And I shall drink her from a silver bowl, A chilly thin green wine, Not bitter to the taste, Not sweet, Not of your press, oh, restless, clamorous nine,— To foam beneath the frantic hoofs of mirth— But savoring faintly of the acid earth, And trod by pensive feet From perfect clusters ripened without haste Out of the urgent heat In some clear glimmering vaulted twilight under the odorous vine . Lift up your lyres! Sing on! But as for me, I seek your sister whither she is gone.

Written by Henry Kendall | Mountains RIFTED mountains, clad with forests, girded round by gleaming pines, Where the morning, like an angel, robed in golden splendour shines; Shimmering mountains, throwing downward on the slopes a mazy glare Where the noonday glory sails through gulfs of calm and glittering air; Stately mountains, high and hoary, piled with blocks of amber cloud, Where the fading twilight lingers, when the winds are wailing loud; Grand old mountains, overbeetling brawling brooks and deep ravines, Where the moonshine, pale and mournful, flows on rocks and evergreens. Underneath these regal ridges - underneath the gnarly trees, I am sitting, lonely-hearted, listening to a lonely breeze! Sitting by an ancient casement, casting many a longing look Out across the hazy gloaming - out beyond the brawling brook! Over pathways leading skyward - over crag and swelling cone, Past long hillocks looking like to waves of ocean turned to stone; Yearning for a bliss unworldly, yearning for a brighter change, Yearning for the mystic Aidenn, built beyond this mountain range. Happy years, amongst these valleys, happy years have come and gone, And my youthful hopes and friendships withered with them one by one; Days and moments bearing onward many a bright and beauteous dream, All have passed me like to sunstreaks flying down a distant stream. Oh, the love returned by loved ones! Oh, the faces that I knew! Oh, the wrecks of fond affection! Oh, the hearts so warm and true! But their voices I remember, and a something lingers still, Like a dying echo roaming sadly round a far off hill. I would sojourn here contented, tranquil as I was of yore, And would never wish to clamber, seeking for an unknown shore; I have dwelt within this cottage twenty summers, and mine eyes Never wandered erewhile round in search of undiscovered skies; But a spirit sits beside me, veiled in robes of dazzling white, And a dear one's whisper wakens with the symphonies of night; And a low sad music cometh, borne along on windy wings, Like a strain familiar rising from a maze of slumbering springs. And the Spirit, by my window, speaketh to my restless soul, Telling of the clime she came from, where the silent moments roll; Telling of the bourne mysterious, where the sunny summers flee Cliffs and coasts, by man untrodden, ridging round a shipless sea. There the years of yore are blooming - there departed life-dreams dwell, There the faces beam with gladness that I loved in youth so well; There the songs of childhood travel, over wave-worn steep and strand - Over dale and upland stretching out behind this mountain land. ``Lovely Being, can a mortal, weary of this changeless scene, Cross these cloudy summits to the land where man hath never been? Can he find a pathway leading through that wildering mass of pines, So that he shall reach the country where ethereal glory shines; So that he may glance at waters never dark with coming ships; Hearing round him gentle language floating from angelic lips; Casting off his earthly fetters, living there for evermore; All the blooms of Beauty near him, gleaming on that quiet shore? ``Ere you quit this ancient casement, tell me, is it well to yearn For the evanescent visions, vanished never to return? Is it well that I should with to leave this dreary world behind, Seeking for your fair Utopia, which perchance I may not find? Passing through a gloomy forest, scaling steeps like prison walls, Where the scanty sunshine wavers and the moonlight seldom falls? Oh, the feelings re-awakened! Oh, the hopes of loftier range! Is it well, thou friendly Being, well to wish for such a change?'' But the Spirit answers nothing! and the dazzling mantle fades; And a wailing whisper wanders out from dismal seaside shades! ``Lo, the trees are moaning loudly, underneath their hood-like shrouds, And the arch above us darkens, scarred with ragged thunder clouds!'' But the spirit answers nothing, and I linger all alone, Gazing through the moony vapours where the lovely Dream has flown; And my heart is beating sadly, and the music waxeth faint, Sailing up to holy Heaven, like the anthems of a Saint.

Written by Philip Levine | The Negatives On March 1, 1958, four deserters from the French Army of North Africa, August Rein, Henri Bruette, Jack Dauville, & Thomas Delain, robbed a government pay station at Orleansville. Because of the subsequent confession of Dauville the other three were captured or shot. Dauville was given his freedom and returned to the land of his birth, the U. S. A. AUGUST REIN: from a last camp near St. Remy I dig in the soft earth all afternoon, spacing the holes a foot or so from the wall. Tonight we eat potatoes, tomorrow rice and carrots. The earth here is like the earth nowhere, ancient with wood rot. How can anything come forth, I wonder; and the days are all alike, if there is more than one day. If there is more of this I will not endure. I have grown so used to being watched I can no longer sleep without my watcher. The thing I fought against, the dark cape, crimsoned with terror that I so hated comforts me now. Thomas is dead; insanity, prison, cowardice, or slow inner capitulation has found us all, and all men turn from us, knowing our pain is not theirs or caused by them. HENRI BRUETTE: from a hospital in Algiers Dear Suzanne: this letter will not reach you because I can't write it; I have no pencil, no paper, only the blunt end of my anger. My dear, if I had words how could I report the imperfect failure for which I began to die? I might begin by saying that it was for clarity, though I did not find it in terror: dubiously entered each act, unsure of who I was and what I did, touching my face for fear I was another inside my head I played back pictures of my childhood, of my wife even, for it was in her I found myself beaten, safe, and furthest from the present. It is her face I see now though all I say is meant for you, her face in the slow agony of sexual release. I cannot see you. The dark wall ribbed with spittle on which I play my childhood brings me to this bed, mastered by what I was, betrayed by those I trusted. The one word my mouth must open to is why. JACK DAUVILLE: from a hotel in Tampa, Florida From Orleansville we drove south until we reached the hills, then east until the road stopped. I was nervous and couldn't eat. Thomas took over, told us when to think and when to ****. We turned north and reached Blida by first dawn and the City by morning, having dumped our weapons beside an empty road. We were free. We parted, and to this hour I haven't seen them, except in photographs: the black hair and torn features of Thomas Delain captured a moment before his death on the pages of the world, smeared in the act. I tortured myself with their betrayal: alone I hurled them into freedom, inner freedom which I can't find nor ever will until they are dead. In my mind Delain stands against the wall precise in detail, steadied for the betrayal. "La France C'Est Moi," he cried, but the irony was lost. Since I returned to the U. S. nothing goes well. I stay up too late, don't sleep, and am losing weight. Thomas, I say, is dead, but what use telling myself what I won't believe. The hotel quiets early at night, the aged brace themselves for another sleep, and offshore the sea quickens its pace. I am suddenly old, caught in a strange country for which no man would die. THOMAS DELAIN: from a journal found on his person At night wakened by the freight trains boring through the suburbs of Lyon, I watched first light corrode the darkness, disturb what little wildlife was left in the alleys: birds moved from branch to branch, and the dogs leapt at the garbage. Winter numbed even the hearts of the young who had only their hearts. We heard the war coming; the long wait was over, and we moved along the crowded roads south not looking for what lost loves fell by the roadsides. To flee at all cost, that was my youth. Here in the African night wakened by what I do not know and shivering in the heat, listen as the men fight with sleep. Loosed from their weapons they cry out, frightened and young, who have never been children. Once merely to be strong, to live, was moral. Within these uniforms we accept the evil we were chosen to deliver, and no act human or benign can free us from ourselves. Wait, sleep, blind soldiers of a blind will, and listen for that old command dreaming of authority.

Written by Anne Bronte | Power of Love Love, indeed thy strength is mighty Thus, alone, such strife to bear -- Three 'gainst one, and never ceasing -- Death, and Madness, and Despair! 'Tis not my own strength has saved me; Health, and hope, and fortitude, But for love, had long since failed me; Heart and soul had sunk subdued. Often, in my wild impatience, I have lost my trust in Heaven, And my soul has tossed and struggled, Like a vessel tempest-driven; But the voice of my beloved In my ear has seemed to say -- 'O, be patient if thou lov'st me!' And the storm has passed away. When outworn with weary thinking, Sight and thought were waxing dim, And my mind began to wander, And my brain began to swim, Then those hands outstretched to save me Seemed to call me back again -- Those dark eyes did so implore me To resume my reason's reign, That I could not but remember How her hopes were fixed on me, And, with one determined effort, Rose, and shook my spirit free. When hope leaves my weary spirit -- All the power to hold it gone -- That loved voice so loudly prays me, 'For my sake, keep hoping on,' That, at once my strength renewing, Though Despair had crushed me down, I can burst his bonds asunder, And defy his deadliest frown. When, from nights of restless tossing, Days of gloom and pining care, Pain and weakness, still increasing, Seem to whisper 'Death is near,' And I almost bid him welcome, Knowing he would bring release, Weary of this restless struggle -- Longing to repose in peace, Then a glance of fond reproval Bids such selfish longings flee And a voice of matchless music Murmurs 'Cherish life for me!' Roused to newborn strength and courage, Pain and grief, I cast away, Health and life, I keenly follow, Mighty Death is held at bay. Yes, my love, I will be patient! Firm and bold my heart shall be: Fear not -- though this life is dreary, I can bear it well for thee. Let our foes still rain upon me Cruel wrongs and taunting scorn; 'Tis for thee their hate pursues me, And for thee, it shall be borne!

Written by Friedrich von Schiller | Friendship Friend!--the Great Ruler, easily content, Needs not the laws it has laborious been The task of small professors to invent; A single wheel impels the whole machine Matter and spirit;--yea, that simple law, Pervading nature, which our Newton saw. This taught the spheres, slaves to one golden rein, Their radiant labyrinths to weave around Creation's mighty hearts: this made the chain, Which into interwoven systems bound All spirits streaming to the spiritual sun As brooks that ever into ocean run! Did not the same strong mainspring urge and guide Our hearts to meet in love's eternal bond? Linked to thine arm, O Raphael, by thy side Might I aspire to reach to souls beyond Our earth, and bid the bright ambition go To that perfection which the angels know! Happy, O happy--I have found thee--I Have out of millions found thee, and embraced; Thou, out of millions, mine!--Let earth and sky Return to darkness, and the antique waste-- To chaos shocked, let warring atoms be, Still shall each heart unto the other flee! Do I not find within thy radiant eyes Fairer reflections of all joys most fair? In thee I marvel at myself--the dyes Of lovely earth seem lovelier painted there, And in the bright looks of the friend is given A heavenlier mirror even of the heaven! Sadness casts off its load, and gayly goes From the intolerant storm to rest awhile, In love's true heart, sure haven of repose; Does not pain's veriest transports learn to smile From that bright eloquence affection gave To friendly looks?--there, finds not pain a grave? In all creation did I stand alone, Still to the rocks my dreams a soul should find, Mine arms should wreathe themselves around the stone, My griefs should feel a listener in the wind; My joy--its echo in the caves should be! Fool, if ye will--Fool, for sweet sympathy! We are dead groups of matter when we hate; But when we love we are as gods!--Unto The gentle fetters yearning, through each state And shade of being multiform, and through All countless spirits (save of all the sire)-- Moves, breathes, and blends, the one divine desire. Lo! arm in arm, through every upward grade, From the rude mongrel to the starry Greek, Who the fine link between the mortal made, And heaven's last seraph--everywhere we seek Union and bond--till in one sea sublime Of love be merged all measure and all time! Friendless ruled God His solitary sky; He felt the want, and therefore souls were made, The blessed mirrors of his bliss!--His eye No equal in His loftiest works surveyed; And from the source whence souls are quickened, He Called His companion forth--ETERNITY!

Written by Anne Bronte | Last Lines Jan 7th A dreadful darkness closes in On my bewildered mind; O let me suffer and not sin, Be tortured yet resigned. Through all this world of whelming mist Still let me look to Thee, And give me courage to resist The Tempter till he flee. Weary I am -- O give me strength And leave me not to faint; Say Thou wilt comfort me at length And pity my complaint. I've begged to serve Thee heart and soul, To sacrifice to Thee No niggard portion, but the whole Of my identity. I hoped amid the brave and strong My portioned task might lie, To toil amid the labouring throng With purpose pure and high. But Thou hast fixed another part, And Thou hast fixed it well; I said so with my breaking heart When first the anguish fell. For Thou hast taken my delight And hope of life away, And bid me watch the painful night And wait the weary day. The hope and the delight were Thine; I bless Thee for their loan; I gave Thee while I deemed them mine Too little thanks, I own. Shall I with joy Thy blessings share And not endure their loss? Or hope the martyr's crown to wear And cast away the cross? These weary hours will not be lost, These days of passive misery, These nights of darkness anguish tost If I can fix my heart on Thee. Weak and weary though I lie, Crushed with sorrow, worn with pain, Still I may lift to Heaven mine eyes And strive and labour not in vain, That inward strife against the sins That ever wait on suffering; To watch and strike where first begins Each ill that would corruption bring, That secret labour to sustain With humble patience every blow, To gather fortitude from pain And hope and holiness from woe. Thus let me serve Thee from my heart Whatever be my written fate, Whether thus early to depart Or yet awhile to wait. If Thou shouldst bring me back to life More humbled I should be; More wise, more strengthened for the strife, More apt to lean on Thee. Should Death be standing at the gate Thus should I keep my vow; But, Lord, whate'er my future fate So let me serve Thee now. Finished. Jan. 28, 1849.

Written by Sir Thomas Wyatt | They Flee from Me They flee from me that sometime did me seek With naked foot stalking in my chamber. I have seen them gentle tame and meek That now are wild and do not remember That sometime they put themselves in danger To take bread at my hand; and now they range Busily seeking with a continual change. Thanked be fortune, it hath been otherwise Twenty times better; but once in special, In thin array after a pleasant guise, When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall, And she me caught in her arms long and small; And therewithal sweetly did me kiss, And softly said, Dear heart, how like you this? It was no dream, I lay broad waking. But all is turned thorough my gentleness Into a strange fashion of forsaking; And I have leave to go of her goodness And she also to use newfangleness. But since that I so kindely am served, I would fain know what she hath deserved.

Written by Charlotte Bronte | The Missionary Lough, vessel, plough the British main, Seek the free ocean's wider plain; Leave English scenes and English skies, Unbind, dissever English ties; Bear me to climes remote and strange, Where altered life, fast-following change, Hot action, never-ceasing toil, Shall stir, turn, dig, the spirit's soil; Fresh roots shall plant, fresh seed shall sow, Till a new garden there shall grow, Cleared of the weeds that fill it now,­ Mere human love, mere selfish yearning, Which, cherished, would arrest me yet. I grasp the plough, there's no returning, Let me, then, struggle to forget. But England's shores are yet in view, And England's skies of tender blue Are arched above her guardian sea. I cannot yet Remembrance flee; I must again, then, firmly face That task of anguish, to retrace. Wedded to home­I home forsake, Fearful of change­I changes make; Too fond of ease­I plunge in toil; Lover of calm­I seek turmoil: Nature and hostile Destiny Stir in my heart a conflict wild; And long and fierce the war will be Ere duty both has reconciled. What other tie yet holds me fast To the divorced, abandoned past? Smouldering, on my heart's altar lies The fire of some great sacrifice, Not yet half quenched. The sacred steel But lately struck my carnal will, My life-long hope, first joy and last, What I loved well, and clung to fast; What I wished wildly to retain, What I renounced with soul-felt pain; What­when I saw it, axe-struck, perish­ Left me no joy on earth to cherish; A man bereft­yet sternly now I do confirm that Jephtha vow: Shall I retract, or fear, or flee ? Did Christ, when rose the fatal tree Before him, on Mount Calvary ? 'Twas a long fight, hard fought, but won, And what I did was justly done. Yet, Helen ! from thy love I turned, When my heart most for thy heart burned; I dared thy tears, I dared thy scorn­ Easier the death-pang had been borne. Helen ! thou mightst not go with me, I could not­dared not stay for thee ! I heard, afar, in bonds complain The savage from beyond the main; And that wild sound rose o'er the cry Wrung out by passion's agony; And even when, with the bitterest tear I ever shed, mine eyes were dim, Still, with the spirit's vision clear, I saw Hell's empire, vast and grim, Spread on each Indian river's shore, Each realm of Asia covering o'er. There the weak, trampled by the strong, Live but to suffer­hopeless die; There pagan-priests, whose creed is Wrong, Extortion, Lust, and Cruelty, Crush our lost race­and brimming fill The bitter cup of human ill; And I­who have the healing creed, The faith benign of Mary's Son; Shall I behold my brother's need And selfishly to aid him shun ? I­who upon my mother's knees, In childhood, read Christ's written word, Received his legacy of peace, His holy rule of action heard; I­in whose heart the sacred sense Of Jesus' love was early felt; Of his pure full benevolence, His pitying tenderness for guilt; His shepherd-care for wandering sheep, For all weak, sorrowing, trembling things, His mercy vast, his passion deep Of anguish for man's sufferings; I­schooled from childhood in such lore­ Dared I draw back or hesitate, When called to heal the sickness sore Of those far off and desolate ? Dark, in the realm and shades of Death, Nations and tribes and empires lie, But even to them the light of Faith Is breaking on their sombre sky: And be it mine to bid them raise Their drooped heads to the kindling scene, And know and hail the sunrise blaze Which heralds Christ the Nazarene. I know how Hell the veil will spread Over their brows and filmy eyes, And earthward crush the lifted head That would look up and seek the skies; I know what war the fiend will wage Against that soldier of the cross, Who comes to dare his demon-rage, And work his kingdom shame and loss. Yes, hard and terrible the toil Of him who steps on foreign soil, Resolved to plant the gospel vine, Where tyrants rule and slaves repine; Eager to lift Religion's light Where thickest shades of mental night Screen the false god and fiendish rite; Reckless that missionary blood, Shed in wild wilderness and wood, Has left, upon the unblest air, The man's deep moan­the martyr's prayer. I know my lot­I only ask Power to fulfil the glorious task; Willing the spirit, may the flesh Strength for the day receive afresh. May burning sun or deadly wind Prevail not o'er an earnest mind; May torments strange or direst death Nor trample truth, nor baffle faith. Though such blood-drops should fall from me As fell in old Gethsemane, Welcome the anguish, so it gave More strength to work­more skill to save. And, oh ! if brief must be my time, If hostile hand or fatal clime Cut short my course­still o'er my grave, Lord, may thy harvest whitening wave. So I the culture may begin, Let others thrust the sickle in; If but the seed will faster grow, May my blood water what I sow ! What ! have I ever trembling stood, And feared to give to God that blood ? What ! has the coward love of life Made me shrink from the righteous strife ? Have human passions, human fears Severed me from those Pioneers, Whose task is to march first, and trace Paths for the progress of our race ? It has been so; but grant me, Lord, Now to stand steadfast by thy word ! Protected by salvation's helm, Shielded by faith­with truth begirt, To smile when trials seek to whelm And stand 'mid testing fires unhurt ! Hurling hell's strongest bulwarks down, Even when the last pang thrills my breast, When Death bestows the Martyr's crown, And calls me into Jesus' rest. Then for my ultimate reward­ Then for the world-rejoicing word­ The voice from Father­Spirit­Son: " Servant of God, well hast thou done !"

Written by Emily Dickinson | A Bee his burnished Carriage A Bee his burnished Carriage Drove boldly to a Rose -- Combinedly alighting -- Himself -- his Carriage was -- The Rose received his visit With frank tranquillity Withholding not a Crescent To his Cupidity -- Their Moment consummated -- Remained for him -- to flee -- Remained for her -- of rapture But the humility.

Written by Anne Sexton | Flee On Your Donkey Because there was no other place to flee to, I came back to the scene of the disordered senses, came back last night at midnight, arriving in the thick June night without luggage or defenses, giving up my car keys and my cash, keeping only a pack of Salem cigarettes the way a child holds on to a toy. I signed myself in where a stranger puts the inked-in X's— for this is a mental hospital, not a child's game. Today an intern knocks my knees, testing for reflexes. Once I would have winked and begged for dope. Today I am terribly patient. Today crows play black-jack on the stethoscope. Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse. The curtains, lazy and delicate, billow and flutter and drop like the Victorian skirts of my two maiden aunts who kept an antique shop. Hornets have been sent. They cluster like floral arrangements on the screen. Hornets, dragging their thin stingers, hover outside, all knowing, hissing: the hornet knows. I heard it as a child but what was it that he meant? The hornet knows! What happened to Jack and Doc and Reggy? Who remembers what lurks in the heart of man? What did The Green Hornet mean, he knows? Or have I got it wrong? Is it The Shadow who had seen me from my bedside radio? Now it's Dinn, Dinn, Dinn! while the ladies in the next room argue and pick their teeth. Upstairs a girl curls like a snail; in another room someone tries to eat a shoe; meanwhile an adolescent pads up and down the hall in his white tennis socks. A new doctor makes rounds advertising tranquilizers, insulin, or shock to the uninitiated. Six years of such small preoccupations! Six years of shuttling in and out of this place! O my hunger! My hunger! I could have gone around the world twice or had new children - all boys. It was a long trip with little days in it and no new places. In here, it's the same old crowd, the same ruined scene. The alcoholic arrives with his gold culbs. The suicide arrives with extra pills sewn into the lining of her dress. The permanent guests have done nothing new. Their faces are still small like babies with jaundice. Meanwhile, they carried out my mother, wrapped like somebody's doll, in sheets, bandaged her jaw and stuffed up her holes. My father, too. He went out on the rotten blood he used up on other women in the Middle West. He went out, a cured old alcoholic on crooked feet and useless hands. He went out calling for his father who died all by himself long ago - that fat banker who got locked up, his genes suspened like dollars, wrapped up in his secret, tied up securely in a straitjacket. But you, my doctor, my enthusiast, were better than Christ; you promised me another world to tell me who I was. I spent most of my time, a stranger, damned and in trance—that little hut, that naked blue-veined place, my eyes shut on the confusing office, eyes circling into my childhood, eyes newly cut. Years of hints strung out—a serialized case history— thirty-three years of the same dull incest that sustained us both. You, my bachelor analyst, who sat on Marlborough Street, sharing your office with your mother and giving up cigarettes each New Year, were the new God, the manager of the Gideon Bible. I was your third-grader with a blue star on my forehead. In trance I could be any age, voice, gesture—all turned backward like a drugstore clock. Awake, I memorized dreams. Dreams came into the ring like third string fighters, each one a bad bet who might win because there was no other. I stared at them, concentrating on the abyss the way one looks down into a rock quarry, uncountable miles down, my hands swinging down like hooks to pull dreams up out of their cage. O my hunger! My hunger! Once, outside your office, I collapsed in the old-fashioned swoon between the illegally parked cars. I threw myself down, pretending dead for eight hours. I thought I had died into a snowstorm. Above my head chains cracked along like teeth digging their way through the snowy street. I lay there like an overcoat that someone had thrown away. You carried me back in, awkwardly, tenderly, with help of the red-haired secretary who was built like a lifeguard. My shoes, I remember, were lost in the snowbank as if I planned never to walk again. That was the winter that my mother died, half mad on morphine, blown up, at last, like a pregnant pig. I was her dreamy evil eye. In fact, I carried a knife in my pocketbook— my husband's good L. L. Bean hunting knife. I wasn't sure if I should slash a tire or scrape the guts out of some dream. You taught me to believe in dreams; thus I was the dredger. I held them like an old woman with arthritic fingers, carefully straining the water out— sweet dark playthings, and above all, mysterious until they grew mournful and weak. O my hunger! My hunger! I was the one who opened the warm eyelid like a surgeon and brought forth young girls to grunt like fish. I told you, I said— but I was lying— that the kife was for my mother . . . and then I delivered her. The curtains flutter out and slump against the bars. They are my two thin ladies named Blanche and Rose. The grounds outside are pruned like an estate at Newport. Far off, in the field, something yellow grows. Was it last month or last year that the ambulance ran like a hearse with its siren blowing on suicide— Dinn, dinn, dinn!— a noon whistle that kept insisting on life all the way through the traffic lights? I have come back but disorder is not what it was. I have lost the trick of it! The innocence of it! That fellow-patient in his stovepipe hat with his fiery joke, his manic smile— even he seems blurred, small and pale. I have come back, recommitted, fastened to the wall like a bathroom plunger, held like a prisoner who was so poor he fell in love with jail. I stand at this old window complaining of the soup, examining the grounds, allowing myself the wasted life. Soon I will raise my face for a white flag, and when God enters the fort, I won't spit or gag on his finger. I will eat it like a white flower. Is this the old trick, the wasting away, the skull that waits for its dose of electric power? This is madness but a kind of hunger. What good are my questions in this hierarchy of death where the earth and the stones go Dinn! Dinn! Dinn! It is hardly a feast. It is my stomach that makes me suffer. Turn, my hungers! For once make a deliberate decision. There are brains that rot here like black bananas. Hearts have grown as flat as dinner plates. Anne, Anne, flee on your donkey, flee this sad hotel, ride out on some hairy beast, gallop backward pressing your buttocks to his withers, sit to his clumsy gait somehow. Ride out any old way you please! In this place everyone talks to his own mouth. That's what it means to be crazy. Those I loved best died of it— the fool's disease.