Written by
Hayden Carruth |
Just over the horizon a great machine of death is roaring and
rearing.
One can hear it always. Earthquake, starvation, the ever-
renewing field of corpse-flesh.
In this valley the snow falls silently all day and out our window
We see the curtain of it shifting and folding, hiding us away in
our little house,
We see earth smoothened and beautified, made like a fantasy, the
snow-clad trees
So graceful in a dream of peace. In our new bed, which is big
enough to seem like the north pasture almost
With our two cats, Cooker and Smudgins, lying undisturbed in
the southeastern and southwestern corners,
We lie loving and warm, looking out from time to time.
"Snowbound," we say. We speak of the poet
Who lived with his young housekeeper long ago in the
mountains of the western province, the kingdom
Of complete cruelty, where heads fell like wilted flowers and
snow fell for many months across the mouth
Of the pass and drifted deep in the vale. In our kitchen the
maple-fire murmurs
In our stove. We eat cheese and new-made bread and jumbo
Spanish olives
That have been steeped in our special brine of jalapeños and
garlic and dill and thyme.
We have a nip or two from the small inexpensive cognac that
makes us smile and sigh.
For a while we close the immense index of images
which is
Our lives--for instance, the child on the Mescalero reservation
in New Mexico in 1966
Sitting naked in the dirt outside his family's hut of tin and
cardboard,
Covered with sores, unable to speak. But of course the child is
here with us now,
We cannot close the index. How will we survive? We don't and
cannot know.
Beyond the horizon a great unceasing noise is undeniable. The
machine
May break through and come lurching into our valley at any
moment, at any moment.
Cheers, baby. Here's to us. See how the curtain of snow wavers
and falls back.
Credit: Copyright © 1995 by Hayden Carruth. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, www.coppercanyonpress.org
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Written by
Victor Hugo |
("Souvent quand mon esprit riche.")
{VII., May 18, 1828.}
When my mind, on the ocean of poesy hurled,
Floats on in repose round this wonderful world,
Oft the sacred fire from heaven—
Mysterious sun, that gives light to the soul—
Strikes mine with its ray, and above the pole
Its upward course is driven,
Like a wandering cloud, then, my eager thought
Capriciously flies, to no guidance brought,
With every quarter's wind;
It regards from those radiant vaults on high,
Earth's cities below, and again doth fly,
And leaves but its shadow behind.
In the glistening gold of the morning bright,
It shines, detaching some lance of light,
Or, as warrior's armor rings;
It forages forests that ferment around,
Or bathed in the sun-red gleams is found,
Where the west its radiance flings.
Or, on mountain peak, that rears its head
Where snow-clad Alps around are spread,
By furious gale 'tis thrown.
From the yawning abyss see the cloud scud away,
And the glacier appears, with its multiform ray,
The giant mountain's crown!
Like Parnassian pinnacle yet to be scaled,
In its form from afar, by the aspirant hailed;
On its side the rainbow plays,
And at eve, when the shadow sinks sleeping below,
The last slanting ray on its crest of snow
Makes its cap like a crater to blaze.
In the darkness, its front seems some pale orb of light,
The chamois with fear flashes on in its flight,
The eagle afar is driven;
The deluge but roars in despair to its feet,
And scarce dare the eye its aspect to meet,
So near doth it rise to heaven.
Alone on these altitudes, feeling no fear,
Forgetful of earth, my spirit draws near;
On the starry vault to gaze,
And nearer, to gaze on those glories of night,
On th' horizon high heaving, like arches of light,
Till again the sun shall blaze.
For then will the glacier with glory be graced,
On its prisms will light streaked with darkness be placed,
The morn its echoes greet;
Like a torrent it falls on the ocean of life,
Like Chaos unformed, with the sea-stormy strife,
When waters on waters meet.
As the spirit of poesy touches my thought,
It is thus my ideas in a circle are brought,
From earth, with the waters of pain.
As under a sunbeam a cloud ascends,
These fly to the heavens—their course never ends,
But descend to the ocean again.
Author of "Critical Essays."
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Written by
Robert Southey |
And wouldst thou seek the low abode
Where PEACE delights to dwell?
Pause Traveller on thy way of life!
With many a snare and peril rife
Is that long labyrinth of road:
Dark is the vale of years before
Pause Traveller on thy way!
Nor dare the dangerous path explore
Till old EXPERIENCE comes to lend his leading ray.
Not he who comes with lanthorn light
Shall guide thy groping pace aright
With faltering feet and slow;
No! let him rear the torch on high
And every maze shall meet thine eye,
And every snare and every foe;
Then with steady step and strong,
Traveller, shalt thou march along.
Tho' POWER invite thee to her hall,
Regard not thou her tempting call
Her splendors meteor glare;
Tho' courteous Flattery there await
And Wealth adorn the dome of State,
There stalks the midnight spectre CARE;
PEACE, Traveller! does not sojourn there.
If FAME allure thee, climb not thou
To that steep mountain's craggy brow
Where stands her stately pile;
For far from thence does PEACE abide,
And thou shall find FAME'S favouring smile
Cold as the feeble Sun on Heclas snow-clad side,
And Traveller! as thou hopest to find
That low and loved abode,
Retire thee from the thronging road
And shun the mob of human kind.
Ah I hear how old EXPERIENCE schools,
"Fly fly the crowd of Knaves and Fools
"And thou shalt fly from woe;
"The one thy heedless heart will greet
"With Judas smile, and thou wilt meet
"In every Fool a Foe!"
So safely mayest thou pass from these,
And reach secure the home of PEACE,
And FRIENDSHIP find thee there.
No happier state can mortal know,
No happier lot can Earth bestow
If LOVE thy lot shall share.
Yet still CONTENT with him may dwell
Whom HYMEN will not bless,
And VIRTUE sojourn in the cell
Of HERMIT HAPPINESS.
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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
Adela Florence Cory Nicolson |
There is one God: Mahomed his Prophet. Had I his power
I would take the topmost peaks of the snow-clad Himalayas,
And would range them around your dwelling, during the heats of summer,
To cool the airs that fan your serene and delicate presence,
Had I the power.
Your courtyard should ever be filled with the fleetest of camels
Laden with inlaid armour, jewels and trappings for horses,
Ripe dates from Egypt, and spices and musk from Arabia.
And the sacred waters of Zem-Zem well, transported thither,
Should bubble and flow in your chamber, to bathe the delicate
Slender and wayworn feet of my Lord, returning from travel,
Had I the power.
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Written by
Alan Seeger |
There was a youth around whose early way
White angels hung in converse and sweet choir,
Teaching in summer clouds his thought to stray, --
In cloud and far horizon to desire.
His life was nursed in beauty, like the stream
Born of clear showers and the mountain dew,
Close under snow-clad summits where they gleam
Forever pure against heaven's orient blue.
Within the city's shades he walked at last.
Faint and more faint in sad recessional
Down the dim corridors of Time outworn,
A chorus ebbed from that forsaken past,
A hymn of glories fled beyond recall
With the lost heights and splendor of life's morn.
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