Best Famous Gazer Poems

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Written by Charlotte Bronte | Mementos ARRANGING long-locked drawers and shelves Of cabinets, shut up for years, What a strange task we've set ourselves ! How still the lonely room appears ! How strange this mass of ancient treasures, Mementos of past pains and pleasures; These volumes, clasped with costly stone, With print all faded, gilding gone; These fans of leaves, from Indian trees­ These crimson shells, from Indian seas­ These tiny portraits, set in rings­ Once, doubtless, deemed such precious things; Keepsakes bestowed by Love on Faith, And worn till the receiver's death, Now stored with cameos, china, shells, In this old closet's dusty cells. I scarcely think, for ten long years, A hand has touched these relics old; And, coating each, slow-formed, appears, The growth of green and antique mould. All in this house is mossing over; All is unused, and dim, and damp; Nor light, nor warmth, the rooms discover­ Bereft for years of fire and lamp. The sun, sometimes in summer, enters The casements, with reviving ray; But the long rains of many winters Moulder the very walls away. And outside all is ivy, clinging To chimney, lattice, gable grey; Scarcely one little red rose springing Through the green moss can force its way. Unscared, the daw, and starling nestle, Where the tall turret rises high, And winds alone come near to rustle The thick leaves where their cradles lie. I sometimes think, when late at even I climb the stair reluctantly, Some shape that should be well in heaven, Or ill elsewhere, will pass by me. I fear to see the very faces, Familiar thirty years ago, Even in the old accustomed places Which look so cold and gloomy now. I've come, to close the window, hither, At twilight, when the sun was down, And Fear, my very soul would wither, Lest something should be dimly shown. Too much the buried form resembling, Of her who once was mistress here; Lest doubtful shade, or moonbeam trembling, Might take her aspect, once so dear. Hers was this chamber; in her time It seemed to me a pleasant room, For then no cloud of grief or crime Had cursed it with a settled gloom; I had not seen death's image laid In shroud and sheet, on yonder bed. Before she married, she was blest­ Blest in her youth, blest in her worth; Her mind was calm, its sunny rest Shone in her eyes more clear than mirth. And when attired in rich array, Light, lustrous hair about her brow, She yonder sat­a kind of day Lit up­what seems so gloomy now. These grim oak walls, even then were grim; That old carved chair, was then antique; But what around looked dusk and dim Served as a foil to her fresh cheek; Her neck, and arms, of hue so fair, Eyes of unclouded, smiling, light; Her soft, and curled, and floating hair, Gems and attire, as rainbow bright. Reclined in yonder deep recess, Ofttimes she would, at evening, lie Watching the sun; she seemed to bless With happy glance the glorious sky. She loved such scenes, and as she gazed, Her face evinced her spirit's mood; Beauty or grandeur ever raised In her, a deep-felt gratitude. But of all lovely things, she loved A cloudless moon, on summer night; Full oft have I impatience proved To see how long, her still delight Would find a theme in reverie. Out on the lawn, or where the trees Let in the lustre fitfully, As their boughs parted momently, To the soft, languid, summer breeze. Alas ! that she should e'er have flung Those pure, though lonely joys away­ Deceived by false and guileful tongue, She gave her hand, then suffered wrong; Oppressed, ill-used, she faded young, And died of grief by slow decay. Open that casket­look how bright Those jewels flash upon the sight; The brilliants have not lost a ray Of lustre, since her wedding day. But see­upon that pearly chain­ How dim lies time's discolouring stain ! I've seen that by her daughter worn: For, e'er she died, a child was born; A child that ne'er its mother knew, That lone, and almost friendless grew; For, ever, when its step drew nigh, Averted was the father's eye; And then, a life impure and wild Made him a stranger to his child; Absorbed in vice, he little cared On what she did, or how she fared. The love withheld, she never sought, She grew uncherished­learnt untaught; To her the inward life of thought Full soon was open laid. I know not if her friendlessness Did sometimes on her spirit press, But plaint she never made. The book-shelves were her darling treasure, She rarely seemed the time to measure While she could read alone. And she too loved the twilight wood, And often, in her mother's mood, Away to yonder hill would hie, Like her, to watch the setting sun, Or see the stars born, one by one, Out of the darkening sky. Nor would she leave that hill till night Trembled from pole to pole with light; Even then, upon her homeward way, Long­long her wandering steps delayed To quit the sombre forest shade, Through which her eerie pathway lay. You ask if she had beauty's grace ? I know not­but a nobler face My eyes have seldom seen; A keen and fine intelligence, And, better still, the truest sense Were in her speaking mien. But bloom or lustre was there none, Only at moments, fitful shone An ardour in her eye, That kindled on her cheek a flush, Warm as a red sky's passing blush And quick with energy. Her speech, too, was not common speech, No wish to shine, or aim to teach, Was in her words displayed: She still began with quiet sense, But oft the force of eloquence Came to her lips in aid; Language and voice unconscious changed, And thoughts, in other words arranged, Her fervid soul transfused Into the hearts of those who heard, And transient strength and ardour stirred, In minds to strength unused. Yet in gay crowd or festal glare, Grave and retiring was her air; 'Twas seldom, save with me alone, That fire of feeling freely shone; She loved not awe's nor wonder's gaze, Nor even exaggerated praise, Nor even notice, if too keen The curious gazer searched her mien. Nature's own green expanse revealed The world, the pleasures, she could prize; On free hill-side, in sunny field, In quiet spots by woods concealed, Grew wild and fresh her chosen joys, Yet Nature's feelings deeply lay In that endowed and youthful frame; Shrined in her heart and hid from day, They burned unseen with silent flame; In youth's first search for mental light, She lived but to reflect and learn, But soon her mind's maturer might For stronger task did pant and yearn; And stronger task did fate assign, Task that a giant's strength might strain; To suffer long and ne'er repine, Be calm in frenzy, smile at pain. Pale with the secret war of feeling, Sustained with courage, mute, yet high; The wounds at which she bled, revealing Only by altered cheek and eye; She bore in silence­but when passion Surged in her soul with ceaseless foam, The storm at last brought desolation, And drove her exiled from her home. And silent still, she straight assembled The wrecks of strength her soul retained; For though the wasted body trembled, The unconquered mind, to quail, disdained. She crossed the sea­now lone she wanders By Seine's, or Rhine's, or Arno's flow; Fain would I know if distance renders Relief or comfort to her woe. Fain would I know if, henceforth, ever, These eyes shall read in hers again, That light of love which faded never, Though dimmed so long with secret pain. She will return, but cold and altered, Like all whose hopes too soon depart; Like all on whom have beat, unsheltered, The bitter blasts that blight the heart. No more shall I behold her lying Calm on a pillow, smoothed by me; No more that spirit, worn with sighing, Will know the rest of infancy. If still the paths of lore she follow, 'Twill be with tired and goaded will; She'll only toil, the aching hollow, The joyless blank of life to fill. And oh ! full oft, quite spent and weary, Her hand will pause, her head decline; That labour seems so hard and dreary, On which no ray of hope may shine. Thus the pale blight of time and sorrow Will shade with grey her soft, dark hair Then comes the day that knows no morrow, And death succeeds to long despair. So speaks experience, sage and hoary; I see it plainly, know it well, Like one who, having read a story, Each incident therein can tell. Touch not that ring, 'twas his, the sire Of that forsaken child; And nought his relics can inspire Save memories, sin-defiled. I, who sat by his wife's death-bed, I, who his daughter loved, Could almost curse the guilty dead, For woes, the guiltless proved. And heaven did curse­they found him laid, When crime for wrath was rife, Cold­with the suicidal blade Clutched in his desperate gripe. 'Twas near that long deserted hut, Which in the wood decays, Death's axe, self-wielded, struck his root, And lopped his desperate days. You know the spot, where three black trees, Lift up their branches fell, And moaning, ceaseless as the seas, Still seem, in every passing breeze, The deed of blood to tell. They named him mad, and laid his bones Where holier ashes lie; Yet doubt not that his spirit groans, In hell's eternity. But, lo ! night, closing o'er the earth, Infects our thoughts with gloom; Come, let us strive to rally mirth, Where glows a clear and tranquil hearth In some more cheerful room.

Written by Charlotte Bronte | Pilates Wifes Dream I've quenched my lamp, I struck it in that start Which every limb convulsed, I heard it fall­ The crash blent with my sleep, I saw depart Its light, even as I woke, on yonder wall; Over against my bed, there shone a gleam Strange, faint, and mingling also with my dream. It sunk, and I am wrapt in utter gloom; How far is night advanced, and when will day Retinge the dusk and livid air with bloom, And fill this void with warm, creative ray ? Would I could sleep again till, clear and red, Morning shall on the mountain-tops be spread! I'd call my women, but to break their sleep, Because my own is broken, were unjust; They've wrought all day, and well-earned slumbers steep Their labours in forgetfulness, I trust; Let me my feverish watch with patience bear, Thankful that none with me its sufferings share. Yet, Oh, for light ! one ray would tranquilise My nerves, my pulses, more than effort can; I'll draw my curtain and consult the skies: These trembling stars at dead of night look wan, Wild, restless, strange, yet cannot be more drear Than this my couch, shared by a nameless fear. All black­one great cloud, drawn from east to west, Conceals the heavens, but there are lights below; Torches burn in Jerusalem, and cast On yonder stony mount a lurid glow. I see men stationed there, and gleaming spears; A sound, too, from afar, invades my ears. Dull, measured, strokes of axe and hammer ring From street to street, not loud, but through the night Distinctly heard­and some strange spectral thing Is now upreared­and, fixed against the light Of the pale lamps; defined upon that sky, It stands up like a column, straight and high. I see it all­I know the dusky sign­ A cross on Calvary, which Jews uprear While Romans watch; and when the dawn shall shine Pilate, to judge the victim will appear, Pass sentence­yield him up to crucify; And on that cross the spotless Christ must die. Dreams, then, are true­for thus my vision ran; Surely some oracle has been with me, The gods have chosen me to reveal their plan, To warn an unjust judge of destiny: I, slumbering, heard and saw; awake I know, Christ's coming death, and Pilate's life of woe. I do not weep for Pilate­who could prove Regret for him whose cold and crushing sway No prayer can soften, no appeal can move; Who tramples hearts as others trample clay, Yet with a faltering, an uncertain tread, That might stir up reprisal in the dead. Forced to sit by his side and see his deeds; Forced to behold that visage, hour by hour, In whose gaunt lines, the abhorrent gazer reads A triple lust of gold, and blood, and power; A soul whom motives, fierce, yet abject, urge Rome's servile slave, and Judah's tyrant scourge. How can I love, or mourn, or pity him ? I, who so long my fettered hands have wrung; I, who for grief have wept my eye-sight dim; Because, while life for me was bright and young, He robbed my youth­he quenched my life's fair ray­ He crushed my mind, and did my freedom slay. And at this hour­although I be his wife­ He has no more of tenderness from me Than any other wretch of guilty life; Less, for I know his household privacy­ I see him as he is­without a screen; And, by the gods, my soul abhors his mien ! Has he not sought my presence, dyed in blood­ Innocent, righteous blood, shed shamelessly ? And have I not his red salute withstood ? Aye,­when, as erst, he plunged all Galilee In dark bereavement­in affliction sore, Mingling their very offerings with their gore. Then came he­in his eyes a serpent-smile, Upon his lips some false, endearing word, And, through the streets of Salem, clanged the while, His slaughtering, hacking, sacrilegious sword­ And I, to see a man cause men such woe, Trembled with ire­I did not fear to show. And now, the envious Jewish priests have brought Jesus­whom they in mockery call their king­ To have, by this grim power, their vengeance wrought; By this mean reptile, innocence to sting. Oh ! could I but the purposed doom avert, And shield the blameless head from cruel hurt! Accessible is Pilate's heart to fear, Omens will shake his soul, like autumn leaf; Could he this night's appalling vision hear, This just man's bonds were loosed, his life were safe, Unless that bitter priesthood should prevail, And make even terror to their malice quail. Yet if I tell the dream­but let me pause. What dream ? Erewhile the characters were clear, Graved on my brain­at once some unknown cause Has dimmed and rased the thoughts, which now appear, Like a vague remnant of some by-past scene;­ Not what will be, but what, long since, has been. I suffered many things, I heard foretold A dreadful doom for Pilate,­lingering woes, In far, barbarian climes, where mountains cold Built up a solitude of trackless snows, There, he and grisly wolves prowled side by side, There he lived famished­there methought he died; But not of hunger, nor by malady; I saw the snow around him, stained with gore; I said I had no tears for such as he, And, lo ! my cheek is wet­mine eyes run o'er; I weep for mortal suffering, mortal guilt, I weep the impious deed­the blood self-spilt. More I recall not, yet the vision spread Into a world remote, an age to come­ And still the illumined name of Jesus shed A light, a clearness, through the enfolding gloom­ And still I saw that sign, which now I see, That cross on yonder brow of Calvary. What is this Hebrew Christ ? To me unknown, His lineage­doctrine­mission­yet how clear, Is God-like goodness, in his actions shewn ! How straight and stainless is his life's career ! The ray of Deity that rests on him, In my eyes makes Olympian glory dim. The world advances, Greek, or Roman rite Suffices not the inquiring mind to stay; The searching soul demands a purer light To guide it on its upward, onward way; Ashamed of sculptured gods­Religion turns To where the unseen Jehovah's altar burns. Our faith is rotten­all our rites defiled, Our temples sullied, and methinks, this man, With his new ordinance, so wise and mild, Is come, even as he says, the chaff to fan And sever from the wheat; but will his faith Survive the terrors of to-morrow's death ? * * * * * I feel a firmer trust­a higher hope Rise in my soul­it dawns with dawning day; Lo ! on the Temple's roof­on Moriah's slope Appears at length that clear, and crimson ray, Which I so wished for when shut in by night; Oh, opening skies, I hail, I bless your light ! Part, clouds and shadows ! glorious Sun appear ! Part, mental gloom ! Come insight from on high ! Dusk dawn in heaven still strives with daylight clear, The longing soul, doth still uncertain sigh. Oh ! to behold the truth­that sun divine, How doth my bosom pant, my spirit pine ! This day, time travails with a mighty birth, This day, Truth stoops from heaven and visits earth, Ere night descends, I shall more surely know What guide to follow, in what path to go; I wait in hope­I wait in solemn fear, The oracle of God­the sole­true God­to hear.

Written by Thomas Warton | Verses on Sir Joshua Reynolds Painted Window at New College Oxford Ah, stay thy treacherous hand, forbear to trace Those faultless forms of elegance and grace! Ah, cease to spread the bright transparent mass, With Titian's pencil, o'er the speaking glass! Nor steal, by strokes of art with truth combin'd, The fond illusions of my wayward mind! For long, enamour'd of a barbarous age, A faithless truant to the classic page; Long have I lov'd to catch the simple chime Of minstrel-harps, and spell the fabling rime; To view the festive rites, the knightly play, That deck'd heroic Albion's elder day; To mark the mouldering halls of barons bold, And the rough castle, cast in giant mould; With Gothic manners Gothic arts explore, And muse on the magnificence of yore. But chief, enraptur'd have I lov'd to roam, A lingering votary, the vaulted dome, Where the tall shafts, that mount in massy pride, Their mingling branches shoot from side to side; Where elfin sculptors, with fantastic clew, O'er the long roof their wild embroidery drew; Where Superstition with capricious hand In many a maze the wreathed window plann'd, With hues romantic ting'd the gorgeous pane, To fill with holy light the wondrous fane; To aid the builder's model, richly rude, By no Vitruvian symmetry subdu'd; To suit the genius of the mystic pile: Whilst as around the far-retiring aisle, And fretted shrines, with hoary trophies hung, Her dark illumination wide she flung, With new solemnity, the nooks profound, The caves of death, and the dim arches frown'd. From bliss long felt unwillingly we part: Ah, spare the weakness of a lover's heart! Chase not the phantoms of my fairy dream, Phantoms that shrink at Reason's painful gleam! That softer touch, insidious artist, stay, Nor to new joys my struggling breast betray! Such was a pensive bard's mistaken strain.-- But, oh, of ravish'd pleasures why complain? No more the matchless skill I call unkind, That strives to disenchant my cheated mind. For when again I view thy chaste design, The just proportion, and the genuine line; Those native portraitures of Attic art, That from the lucid surface seem to start; Those tints, that steal no glories from the day, Nor ask the sun to lend his streaming ray: The doubtful radiance of contending dyes, That faintly mingle, yet distinctly rise; 'Twixt light and shade the transitory strife; The feature blooming with immortal life: The stole in casual foldings taught to flow, Not with ambitious ornaments to glow; The tread majestic, and the beaming eye, That lifted speaks its commerce with the sky; Heaven's golden emanation, gleaming mild O'er the mean cradle of the Virgin's child: Sudden, the sombrous imagery is fled, Which late my visionary rapture fed: Thy powerful hand has broke the Gothic chain, And brought my bosom back to truth again; To truth, by no peculiar taste confin'd, Whose universal pattern strikes mankind; To truth, whose bold and unresisted aim Checks frail caprice, and fashion's fickle claim; To truth, whose charms deception's magic quell, And bind coy Fancy in a stronger spell. Ye brawny Prophets, that in robes so rich, At distance due, possess the crisped niche; Ye rows of Patriarchs, that sublimely rear'd Diffuse a proud primeval length of beard: Ye Saints, who clad in crimson's bright array, More pride than humble poverty display: Ye Virgins meek, that wear the palmy crown Of patient faith, and yet so fiercely frown: Ye Angels, that from clouds of gold recline, But boast no semblance to a race divine: Ye tragic tales of legendary lore, That draw devotion's ready tear no more; Ye martyrdoms of unenlighten'd days, Ye miracles, that now no wonder raise: Shapes, that with one broad glare the gazer strike, Kings, bishops, nuns, apostles, all alike! Ye colours, that th' unwary sight amaze, And only dazzle in the noontide blaze! No more the sacred window's round disgrace, But yield to Grecian groups the shining space. Lo, from the canvas Beauty shifts her throne, Lo, Picture's powers a new formation own! Behold, she prints upon the crystal plain, With her own energy, th' expressive stain! The mighty master spreads his mimic toil More wide, nor only blends the breathing oil; But calls the lineaments of life complete From genial alchymy's creative heat; Obedient forms to the bright fusion gives, While in the warm enamel Nature lives. Reynolds, 'tis thine, from the broad window's height, To add new lustre to religious light: Not of its pomp to strip this ancient shrine, But bid that pomp with purer radiance shine: With arts unknown before, to reconcile The willing Graces to the Gothic pile.

Written by Thomas Hardy | Afterwards When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay, And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings, Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say, "He was a man who used to notice such things"? If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid's soundless blink, The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alight Upon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think, "To him this must have been a familiar sight." If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm, When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn, One may say, "He strove that such innocent creatures should come to no harm, But he could do little for them; and now he is gone." If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door, Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees, Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more, "He was one who had an eye for such mysteries"? And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the gloom, And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings, Till they rise again, as they were a new bell's boom, "He hears it not now, but used to notice such things?"

Written by Anne Bronte | Self-Congratulation Ellen, you were thoughtless once Of beauty or of grace, Simple and homely in attire, Careless of form and face; Then whence this change? and wherefore now So often smooth your hair? And wherefore deck your youthful form With such unwearied care? Tell us -­ and cease to tire our ears With that familiar strain -­ Why will you play those simple tunes So often, o'er again? 'Indeed, dear friends, I can but say That childhood's thoughts are gone; Each year its own new feelings brings, And years move swiftly on: 'And for these little simple airs -- I love to play them o'er So much -­ I dare not promise, now, To play them never more.' I answered -­ and it was enough; They turned them to depart; They could not read my secret thoughts, Nor see my throbbing heart. I've noticed many a youthful form, Upon whose changeful face The inmost workings of the soul The gazer well might trace; The speaking eye, the changing lip, The ready blushing cheek, The smiling, or beclouded brow, Their different feelings speak. But, thank God! you might gaze on mine For hours, and never know The secret changes of my soul From joy to keenest woe. Last night, as we sat round the fire Conversing merrily, We heard, without, approaching steps Of one well known to me! There was no trembling in my voice, No blush upon my cheek, No lustrous sparkle in my eyes, Of hope, or joy, to speak; But, oh! my spirit burned within, My heart beat full and fast! He came not nigh -­ he went away -­ And then my joy was past. And yet my comrades marked it not: My voice was still the same; They saw me smile, and o'er my face No signs of sadness came. They little knew my hidden thoughts; And they will never know The aching anguish of my heart, The bitter burning woe!

Written by William Vaughn Moody | The Daguerreotype This, then, is she, My mother as she looked at seventeen, When she first met my father. Young incredibly, Younger than spring, without the faintest trace Of disappointment, weariness, or tean Upon the childlike earnestness and grace Of the waiting face. Those close-wound ropes of pearl (Or common beads made precious by their use) Seem heavy for so slight a throat to wear; But the low bodice leaves the shoulders bare And half the glad swell of the breast, for news That now the woman stirs within the girl. And yet, Even so, the loops and globes Of beaten gold And jet Hung, in the stately way of old, From the ears' drooping lobes On festivals and Lord's-day of the week, Show all too matron-sober for the cheek, -- Which, now I look again, is perfect child, Or no -- or no -- 't is girlhood's very self, Moulded by some deep, mischief-ridden elf So meek, so maiden mild, But startling the close gazer with the sense Of passions forest-shy and forest-wild, And delicate delirious merriments. As a moth beats sidewise And up and over, and tries To skirt the irresistible lure Of the flame that has him sure, My spirit, that is none too strong to-day, Flutters and makes delay, -- Pausing to wonder on the perfect lips, Lifting to muse upon the low-drawn hair And each hid radiance there, But powerless to stem the tide-race bright, The vehement peace which drifts it toward the light Where soon -- ah, now, with cries Of grief and giving-up unto its gain It shrinks no longer nor denies, But dips Hurriedly home to the exquisite heart of pain, -- And all is well, for I have seen them plain, The unforgettable, the unforgotten eyes! Across the blinding gush of these good tears They shine as in the sweet and heavy years When by her bed and chair We children gathered jealously to share The sunlit aura breathing myrrh and thyme, Where the sore-stricken body made a clime Gentler than May and pleasanter than rhyme, Holier and more mystical than prayer. God, how thy ways are strange! That this should be, even this, The patient head Which suffered years ago the dreary change! That these so dewy lips should be the same As those I stooped to kiss And heard my harrowing half-spoken name, A little ere the one who bowed above her, Our father and her very constant lover, Rose stoical, and we knew that she was dead. Then I, who could not understand or share His antique nobleness, Being unapt to bear The insults which time flings us for our proof, Fled from the horrible roof Into the alien sunshine merciless, The shrill satiric fields ghastly with day, Raging to front God in his pride of sway And hurl across the lifted swords of fate That ringed Him where He sat My puny gage of scorn and desolate hate Which somehow should undo Him, after all! That this girl face, expectant, virginal, Which gazes out at me Boon as a sweetheart, as if nothing loth (Save for the eyes, with other presage stored) To pledge me troth, And in the kingdom where the heart is lord Take sail on the terrible gladness of the deep Whose winds the gray Norns keep, -- That this should be indeed The flesh which caught my soul, a flying seed, Out of the to and fro Of scattering hands where the seedsman Mage, Stooping from star to star and age to age Sings as he sows! That underneath this breast Nine moons I fed Deep of divine unrest, While over and over in the dark she said, "Blessed! but not as happier children blessed" -- That this should be Even she . . . God, how with time and change Thou makest thy footsteps strange! Ah, now I know They play upon me, and it is not so. Why, 't is a girl I never saw before, A little thing to flatter and make weep, To tease until her heart is sore, Then kiss and clear the score; A gypsy run-the-fields, A little liberal daughter of the earth, Good for what hour of truancy and mirth The careless season yields Hither-side the flood of the year and yonder of the neap; Then thank you, thanks again, and twenty light good-byes. -- O shrined above the skies, Frown not, clear brow, Darken not, holy eyes! Thou knowest well I know that it is thou Only to save me from such memories As would unman me quite, Here in this web of strangeness caught And prey to troubled thought Do I devise These foolish shifts and slight; Only to shield me from the afflicting sense Of some waste influence Which from this morning face and lustrous hair Breathes on me sudden ruin and despair. In any other guise, With any but this girlish depth of gaze, Your coming had not so unsealed and poured The dusty amphoras where I had stored The drippings of the winepress of my days. I think these eyes foresee, Now in their unawakened virgin time, Their mother's pride in me, And dream even now, unconsciously, Upon each soaring peak and sky-hung lea You pictured I should climb. Broken premonitions come, Shapes, gestures visionary, Not as once to maiden Mary The manifest angel with fresh lilies came Intelligibly calling her by name; But vanishingly, dumb, Thwarted and bright and wild, As heralding a sin-defiled, Earth-encumbered, blood-begotten, passionate man-child, Who yet should be a trump of mighty call Blown in the gates of evil kings To make them fall; Who yet should be a sword of flame before The soul's inviolate door To beat away the clang of hellish wings; Who yet should be a lyre Of high unquenchable desire In the day of little things. -- Look, where the amphoras, The yield of many days, Trod by my hot soul from the pulp of self, And set upon the shelf In sullen pride The Vineyard-master's tasting to abide -- O mother mine! Are these the bringings-in, the doings fine, Of him you used to praise? Emptied and overthrown The jars lie strown. These, for their flavor duly nursed, Drip from the stopples vinegar accursed; These, I thought honied to the very seal, Dry, dry, -- a little acid meal, A pinch of mouldy dust, Sole leavings of the amber-mantling must; These, rude to look upon, But flasking up the liquor dearest won, Through sacred hours and hard, With watching and with wrestlings and with grief, Even of these, of these in chief, The stale breath sickens reeking from the shard. Nothing is left. Aye, how much less than naught! What shall be said or thought Of the slack hours and waste imaginings, The cynic rending of the wings, Known to that froward, that unreckoning heart Whereof this brewage was the precious part, Treasured and set away with furtive boast? O dear and cruel ghost, Be merciful, be just! See, I was yours and I am in the dust. Then look not so, as if all things were well! Take your eyes from me, leave me to my shame, Or else, if gaze they must, Steel them with judgment, darken them with blame; But by the ways of light ineffable You bade me go and I have faltered from, By the low waters moaning out of hell Whereto my feet have come, Lay not on me these intolerable Looks of rejoicing love, of pride, of happy trust! Nothing dismayed? By all I say and all I hint not made Afraid? O then, stay by me! Let These eyes afflict me, cleanse me, keep me yet, Brave eyes and true! See how the shrivelled heart, that long has lain Dead to delight and pain, Stirs, and begins again To utter pleasant life, as if it knew The wintry days were through; As if in its awakening boughs it heard The quick, sweet-spoken bird. Strong eyes and brave, Inexorable to save!

Written by Victor Hugo | Marriage And Feasts ("La salle est magnifique.") {IV. Aug. 23, 1839.} The hall is gay with limpid lustre bright— The feast to pampered palate gives delight— The sated guests pick at the spicy food, And drink profusely, for the cheer is good; And at that table—where the wise are few— Both sexes and all ages meet the view; The sturdy warrior with a thoughtful face— The am'rous youth, the maid replete with grace, The prattling infant, and the hoary hair Of second childhood's proselytes—are there;— And the most gaudy in that spacious hall, Are e'er the young, or oldest of them all Helmet and banner, ornament and crest, The lion rampant, and the jewelled vest, The silver star that glitters fair and white, The arms that tell of many a nation's might— Heraldic blazonry, ancestral pride, And all mankind invents for pomp beside, The wingèd leopard, and the eagle wild— All these encircle woman, chief and child; Shine on the carpet burying their feet, Adorn the dishes that contain their meat; And hang upon the drapery, which around Falls from the lofty ceiling to the ground, Till on the floor its waving fringe is spread, As the bird's wing may sweep the roses' bed.— Thus is the banquet ruled by Noise and Light, Since Light and Noise are foremost on the site. The chamber echoes to the joy of them Who throng around, each with his diadem— Each seated on proud throne—but, lesson vain! Each sceptre holds its master with a chain! Thus hope of flight were futile from that hall, Where chiefest guest was most enslaved of all! The godlike-making draught that fires the soul The Love—sweet poison-honey—past control, (Formed of the sexual breath—an idle name, Offspring of Fancy and a nervous frame)— Pleasure, mad daughter of the darksome Night, Whose languid eye flames when is fading light— The gallant chases where a man is borne By stalwart charger, to the sounding horn— The sheeny silk, the bed of leaves of rose, Made more to soothe the sight than court repose; The mighty palaces that raise the sneer Of jealous mendicants and wretches near— The spacious parks, from which horizon blue Arches o'er alabaster statues new; Where Superstition still her walk will take, Unto soft music stealing o'er the lake— The innocent modesty by gems undone— The qualms of judges by small brib'ry won— The dread of children, trembling while they play— The bliss of monarchs, potent in their sway— The note of war struck by the culverin, That snakes its brazen neck through battle din— The military millipede That tramples out the guilty seed— The capital all pleasure and delight— And all that like a town or army chokes The gazer with foul dust or sulphur smokes. The budget, prize for which ten thousand bait A subtle hook, that ever, as they wait Catches a weed, and drags them to their fate, While gleamingly its golden scales still spread— Such were the meats by which these guests were fed. A hundred slaves for lazy master cared, And served each one with what was e'er prepared By him, who in a sombre vault below, Peppered the royal pig with peoples' woe, And grimly glad went laboring till late— The morose alchemist we know as Fate! That ev'ry guest might learn to suit his taste, Behind had Conscience, real or mock'ry, placed; Conscience a guide who every evil spies, But royal nurses early pluck out both his eyes! Oh! at the table there be all the great, Whose lives are bubbles that best joys inflate! Superb, magnificent of revels—doubt That sagest lose their heads in such a rout! In the long laughter, ceaseless roaming round, Joy, mirth and glee give out a maelström's sound; And the astonished gazer casts his care, Where ev'ry eyeball glistens in the flare. But oh! while yet the singing Hebes pour Forgetfulness of those without the door— At very hour when all are most in joy, And the hid orchestra annuls annoy, Woe—woe! with jollity a-top the heights, With further tapers adding to the lights, And gleaming 'tween the curtains on the street, Where poor folks stare—hark to the heavy feet! Some one smites roundly on the gilded grate, Some one below will be admitted straight, Some one, though not invited, who'll not wait! Close not the door! Your orders are vain breath— That stranger enters to be known as Death— Or merely Exile—clothed in alien guise— Death drags away—with his prey Exile flies! Death is that sight. He promenades the hall, And casts a gloomy shadow on them all, 'Neath which they bend like willows soft, Ere seizing one—the dumbest monarch oft, And bears him to eternal heat and drouth, While still the toothsome morsel's in his mouth. G.W.M. REYNOLDS.

Written by Thomas Hardy | The Impercipient (at a Cathedral Service) THAT from this bright believing band An outcast I should be, That faiths by which my comrades stand Seem fantasies to me, And mirage-mists their Shining Land, Is a drear destiny. Why thus my soul should be consigned To infelicity, Why always I must feel as blind To sights my brethren see, Why joys they've found I cannot find, Abides a mystery. Since heart of mine knows not that ease Which they know; since it be That He who breathes All's Well to these Breathes no All's Well to me, My lack might move their sympathies And Christian charity! I am like a gazer who should mark An inland company Standing upfingered, with, "Hark! hark! The glorious distant sea!" And feel, "Alas, 'tis but yon dark And wind-swept pine to me!" Yet I would bear my shortcomings With meet tranquillity, But for the charge that blessed things I'd liefer have unbe. O, doth a bird deprived of wings Go earth-bound wilfully! . . . . Enough. As yet disquiet clings About us. Rest shall we.

Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Love's Humility As some rapt gazer on the lowly earth, Looks up to radiant planets, ranging far, So I, whose soul doth know thy wondrous worth Look longing up to thee as to a star.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet CLXVII SONNET CLXVII. Non pur quell' una bella ignuda mano. HE RETURNS THE GLOVE, BEWAILING THE EFFECT OF HER BEAUTY. Not of one dear hand only I complain,Which hides it, to my loss, again from view,But its fair fellow and her soft arms tooAre prompt my meek and passive heart to pain.Love spreads a thousand toils, nor one in vain,Amid the many charms, bright, pure, and new,That so her high and heavenly part endue,No style can equal it, no mind attain.That starry forehead and those tranquil eyes,The fair angelic mouth, where pearl and roseContrast each other, whence rich music flows,These fill the gazer with a fond surprise,The fine head, the bright tresses which defiedThe sun to match them in his noonday pride. Macgregor.