Written by
Spike Milligan |
Young are our dead
Like babies they lie
The wombs they blest once
Not healed dry
And yet - too soon
Into each space
A cold earth falls
On colder face.
Quite still they lie
These fresh-cut reeds
Clutched in earth
Like winter seeds
But they will not bloom
When called by spring
To burst with leaf
And blossoming
They sleep on
In silent dust
As crosses rot
And helmets rust.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
[Pg 34] SESTINA II Giovane donna sott' un verde lauro. THOUGH DESPAIRING OF PITY, HE VOWS TO LOVE HER UNTO DEATH. A youthful lady 'neath a laurel greenWas seated, fairer, colder than the snowOn which no sun has shone for many years:Her sweet speech, her bright face, and flowing hairSo pleased, she yet is present to my eyes,And aye must be, whatever fate prevail. These my fond thoughts of her shall fade and failWhen foliage ceases on the laurel green;Nor calm can be my heart, nor check'd these eyesUntil the fire shall freeze, or burns the snow:Easier upon my head to count each hairThan, ere that day shall dawn, the parting years. But, since time flies, and roll the rapid years,And death may, in the midst, of life, assail,With full brown locks, or scant and silver hair,I still the shade of that sweet laurel greenFollow, through fiercest sun and deepest snow,Till the last day shall close my weary eyes. Oh! never sure were seen such brilliant eyes,In this our age or in the older years,Which mould and melt me, as the sun melts snow,Into a stream of tears adown the vale,Watering the hard roots of that laurel green,Whose boughs are diamonds and gold whose hair. I fear that Time my mien may change and hair,Ere, with true pity touch'd, shall greet my eyesMy idol imaged in that laurel green:For, unless memory err, through seven long yearsTill now, full many a shore has heard my wail,By night, at noon, in summer and in snow. Thus fire within, without the cold, cold snow,Alone, with these my thoughts and her bright hair,Alway and everywhere I bear my ail,Haply to find some mercy in the eyesOf unborn nations and far future years,If so long flourishes our laurel green. [Pg 35]The gold and topaz of the sun on snowAre shamed by the bright hair above those eyes,Searing the short green of my life's vain years. Macgregor.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
[Pg 178] SONNET CLXIV. L' aura celeste che 'n quel verde Lauro. HER HAIR AND EYES. The heavenly airs from yon green laurel roll'd,Where Love to Phœbus whilom dealt his stroke,Where on my neck was placed so sweet a yoke,That freedom thence I hope not to behold,O'er me prevail, as o'er that Arab oldMedusa, when she changed him to an oak;Nor ever can the fairy knot be brokeWhose light outshines the sun, not merely gold;I mean of those bright locks the curlèd snareWhich folds and fastens with so sweet a graceMy soul, whose humbleness defends alone.Her mere shade freezes with a cold despairMy heart, and tinges with pale fear my face;And oh! her eyes have power to make me stone. Macgregor.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET II. Rotta è l' alta Colonna, e 'l verde Lauro. HE BEWAILS HIS DOUBLE LOSS IN THE DEATHS OF LAURA, AND OF COLONNA. Fall'n that proud Column, fall'n that Laurel tree,Whose shelter once relieved my wearied mind;I'm reft of what I ne'er again shall find,Though ransack'd every shore and every sea:Double the treasure death has torn from me,In which life's pride was with its pleasure join'd;Not eastern gems, nor the world's wealth combined,Can give it back, nor land, nor royalty.But, if so fate decrees, what can I more,Than with unceasing tears these eyes bedew,Abase my visage, and my lot deplore?Ah, what is life, so lovely to the view!How quickly in one little morn is lostWhat years have won with labour and with cost! Nott. My laurell'd hope! and thou, Colonna proud!Your broken strength can shelter me no more!Nor Boreas, Auster, Indus, Afric's shore,Can give me that, whose loss my soul hath bow'd:My step exulting, and my joy avow'd,Death now hath quench'd with ye, my heart's twin store;Nor earth's high rule, nor gems, nor gold's bright ore,Can e'er bring back what once my heart endow'd[Pg 236]But if this grief my destiny hath will'd,What else can I oppose but tearful eyes,A sorrowing bosom, and a spirit quell'd?O life! whose vista seems so brightly fill'd,A sunny breath, and that exhaling, diesThe hope, oft, many watchful years have swell'd. Wollaston.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CCVIII. L' aura che 'l verde Lauro e l' aureo crine. HE PRAYS THAT HE MAY DIE BEFORE LAURA. The balmy gale, that, with its tender sigh,Moves the green laurel and the golden hair,[Pg 216]Makes with its graceful visitings and rareThe gazer's spirit from his body fly.A sweet and snow-white rose in hard thorns set!Where in the world her fellow shall we find?The glory of our age! Creator kind!Grant that ere hers my death shall first be met.So the great public loss I may not see,The world without its sun, in darkness left,And from my desolate eyes their sole light reft,My mind with which no other thoughts agree,Mine ears which by no other sound are stirr'dExcept her ever pure and gentle word.
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