Best Famous Spotless Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Spotless poems. This is a select list of the best famous Spotless poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Spotless poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of spotless poems.

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• All Famous Spotless Poems

Written by Ralph Waldo Emerson | Ode to Beauty EXULTING BEAUTY,­phantom of an hour, Whose magic spells enchain the heart, Ah ! what avails thy fascinating pow'r, Thy thrilling smile, thy witching art ? Thy lip, where balmy nectar glows; Thy cheek, where round the damask rose A thousand nameless Graces move, Thy mildly speaking azure eyes, Thy golden hair, where cunning Love In many a mazy ringlet lies? Soon as thy radiant form is seen, Thy native blush, thy timid mien, Thy hour is past ! thy charms are vain! ILL-NATURE haunts thee with her sallow train, Mean JEALOUSY deceives thy list'ning ear, And SLANDER stains thy cheek with many a bitter tear. In calm retirement form'd to dwell, NATURE, thy handmaid fair and kind, For thee, a beauteous garland twin'd; The vale-nurs'd Lily's downcast bell Thy modest mien display'd, The snow-drop, April's meekest child, With myrtle blossoms undefil'd, Thy mild and spotless mind pourtray'd; Dear blushing maid, of cottage birth, 'Twas thine, o'er dewy meads to stray, While sparkling health, and frolic mirth Led on thy laughing Day. Lur'd by the babbling tongue of FAME, Too soon, insidious FLATT'RY came; Flush'd VANITY her footsteps led, To charm thee from thy blest repose, While Fashion twin'd about thy head A wreath of wounding woes; See Dissipation smoothly glide, Cold Apathy, and puny Pride, Capricious Fortune, dull, and blind, O'er splendid Folly throws her veil, While Envy's meagre tribe assail Thy gentle form, and spotless mind. Their spells prevail! no more those eyes Shoot undulating fires; On thy wan cheek, the young rose dies, Thy lip's deep tint expires; Dark Melancholy chills thy mind; Thy silent tear reveals thy woe; TIME strews with thorns thy mazy way, Where'er thy giddy footsteps stray, Thy thoughtless heart is doom'd to find An unrelenting foe. 'Tis thus, the infant Forest flow'r Bespangled o'er with glitt'ring dew, At breezy morn's refreshing hour, Glows with pure tints of varying hue, Beneath an aged oak's wide spreading shade, Where no rude winds, or beating storms invade. Transplanted from its lonely bed, No more it scatters perfumes round, No more it rears its gentle head, Or brightly paints the mossy ground; For ah! the beauteous bud, too soon, Scorch'd by the burning eye of day; Shrinks from the sultry glare of noon, Droops its enamell'd brow, and blushing, dies away.

Written by Charles Bukowski | A Man George was lying in his trailer, flat on his back, watching a small portable T. V. His dinner dishes were undone, his breakfast dishes were undone, he needed a shave, and ash from his rolled cigarettes dropped onto his undershirt. Some of the ash was still burning. Sometimes the burning ash missed the undershirt and hit his skin, then he cursed, brushing it away. There was a knock on the trailer door. He got slowly to his feet and answered the door. It was Constance. She had a fifth of unopened whiskey in a bag. "George, I left that son of a *****, I couldn't stand that son of a ***** anymore. " "Sit down. " George opened the fifth, got two glasses, filled each a third with whiskey, two thirds with water. He sat down on the bed with Constance. She took a cigarette out of her purse and lit it. She was drunk and her hands trembled. "I took his damn money too. I took his damn money and split while he was at work. You don't know how I've suffered with that son of a *****. " " Lemme have a smoke," said George. She handed it to him and as she leaned near, George put his arm around her, pulled her over and kissed her. "You son of a *****," she said, "I missed you. " "I miss those good legs of yours , Connie. I've really missed those good legs. " "You still like 'em?" "I get hot just looking. " "I could never make it with a college guy," said Connie. "They're too soft, they're milktoast. And he kept his house clean. George , it was like having a maid. He did it all. The place was spotless. You could eat beef stew right off the crapper. He was antisceptic, that's what he was. " "Drink up, you'll feel better. " "And he couldn't make love. " "You mean he couldn't get it up?" "Oh he got it up, he got it up all the time. But he didn't know how to make a woman happy, you know. He didn't know what to do. All that money, all that education, he was useless. " "I wish I had a college education. " "You don't need one. You have everything you need, George. " "I'm just a flunkey. All the **** jobs. " "I said you have everything you need, George. You know how to make a woman happy. " "Yeh?" "Yes. And you know what else? His mother came around! His mother! Two or three times a week. And she'd sit there looking at me, pretending to like me but all the time she was treating me like I was a whore. Like I was a big bad whore stealing her son away from her! Her precious Wallace! Christ! What a mess!" "He claimed he loved me. And I'd say, 'Look at my pussy, Walter!' And he wouldn't look at my pussy. He said, 'I don't want to look at that thing. ' That thing! That's what he called it! You're not afraid of my pussy, are you, George?" "It's never bit me yet. " "But you've bit it, you've nibbled it, haven't you George?" "I suppose I have. " "And you've licked it , sucked it?" "I suppose so. " "You know damn well, George, what you've done. " "How much money did you get?" "Six hundred dollars. " "I don't like people who rob other people, Connie. " "That's why you're a fucking dishwasher. You're honest. But he's such an ass, George. And he can afford the money, and I've earned it. . . him and his mother and his love, his mother-love, his clean l;ittle wash bowls and toilets and disposal bags and breath chasers and after shave lotions and his little hard-ons and his precious love-making. All for himself, you understand, all for himself! You know what a woman wants, George. " "Thanks for the whiskey, Connie. Lemme have another cigarette. " George filled them up again. "I missed your legs, Connie. I've really missed those legs. I like the way you wear those high heels. They drive me crazy. These modern women don't know what they're missing. The high heel shapes the calf, the thigh, the ass; it puts rythm into the walk. It really turns me on!" "You talk like a poet, George. Sometimes you talk like that. You are one hell of a dishwasher. " "You know what I'd really like to do?" "What?" "I'd like to whip you with my belt on the legs, the ass, the thighs. I'd like to make you quiver and cry and then when you're quivering and crying I'd slam it into you pure love. " "I don't want that, George. You've never talked like that to me before. You've always done right with me. " "Pull your dress up higher. " "What?" "Pull your dress up higher, I want to see more of your legs. " "You like my legs, don't you, George?" "Let the light shine on them!" Constance hiked her dress. "God christ ****," said George. "You like my legs?" "I love your legs!" Then george reached across the bed and slapped Constance hard across the face. Her cigarette flipped out of her mouth. "what'd you do that for?" "You fucked Walter! You fucked Walter!" "So what the hell?" "So pull your dress up higher!" "No!" "Do what I say!" George slapped again, harder. Constance hiked her skirt. "Just up to the panties!" shouted George. "I don't quite want to see the panties!" "Christ, george, what's gone wrong with you?" "You fucked Walter!" "George, I swear, you've gone crazy. I want to leave. Let me out of here, George!" "Don't move or I'll kill you!" "You'd kill me?" "I swear it!" George got up and poured himself a shot of straight whiskey, drank it, and sat down next to Constance. He took the cigarette and held it against her wrist. She screamed. HE held it there, firmly, then pulled it away. "I'm a man , baby, understand that?" "I know you're a man , George. " "Here, look at my muscles!" george sat up and flexed both of his arms. "Beautiful, eh ,baby? Look at that muscle! Feel it! Feel it!" Constance felt one of the arms, then the other. "Yes, you have a beautiful body, George. " "I'm a man. I'm a dishwasher but I'm a man, a real man. " "I know it, George. " "I'm not the milkshit you left. " "I know it. " "And I can sing, too. You ought to hear my voice. " Constance sat there. George began to sing. He sang "Old man River. " Then he sang "Nobody knows the trouble I've seen. " He sang "The St. Louis Blues. " He sasng "God Bless America," stopping several times and laughing. Then he sat down next to Constance. He said, "Connie, you have beautiful legs. " He asked for another cigarette. He smoked it, drank two more drinks, then put his head down on Connie's legs, against the stockings, in her lap, and he said, "Connie, I guess I'm no good, I guess I'm crazy, I'm sorry I hit you, I'm sorry I burned you with that cigarette. " Constance sat there. She ran her fingers through George's hair, stroking him, soothing him. Soon he was asleep. She waited a while longer. Then she lifted his head and placed it on the pillow, lifted his legs and straightened them out on the bed. She stood up, walked to the fifth, poured a jolt of good whiskey in to her glass, added a touch of water and drank it sown. She walked to the trailer door, pulled it open, stepped out, closed it. She walked through the backyard, opened the fence gate, walked up the alley under the one o'clock moon. The sky was clear of clouds. The same skyful of clouds was up there. She got out on the boulevard and walked east and reached the entrance of The Blue Mirror. She walked in, and there was Walter sitting alone and drunk at the end of the bar. She walked up and sat down next to him. "Missed me, baby?" she asked. Walter looked up. He recognized her. He didn't answer. He looked at the bartender and the bartender walked toward them They all knew eachother.

Written by William Cullen Bryant | Hymn To Death Oh! could I hope the wise and pure in heart Might hear my song without a frown, nor deem My voice unworthy of the theme it tries,-- I would take up the hymn to Death, and say To the grim power, The world hath slandered thee And mocked thee. On thy dim and shadowy brow They place an iron crown, and call thee king Of terrors, and the spoiler of the world, Deadly assassin, that strik'st down the fair, The loved, the good--that breath'st upon the lights Of virtue set along the vale of life, And they go out in darkness. I am come, Not with reproaches, not with cries and prayers, Such as have stormed thy stern insensible ear From the beginning. I am come to speak Thy praises. True it is, that I have wept Thy conquests, and may weep them yet again: And thou from some I love wilt take a life Dear to me as my own. Yet while the spell Is on my spirit, and I talk with thee In sight of all thy trophies, face to face, Meet is it that my voice should utter forth Thy nobler triumphs: I will teach the world To thank thee. --Who are thine accusers?--Who? The living!--they who never felt thy power, And know thee not. The curses of the wretch Whose crimes are ripe, his sufferings when thy hand Is on him, and the hour he dreads is come, Are writ among thy praises. But the good-- Does he whom thy kind hand dismissed to peace, Upbraid the gentle violence that took off His fetters, and unbarred his prison cell? Raise then the Hymn to Death. Deliverer! God hath anointed thee to free the oppressed And crush the oppressor. When the armed chief, The conqueror of nations, walks the world, And it is changed beneath his feet, and all Its kingdoms melt into one mighty realm-- Thou, while his head is loftiest, and his heart Blasphemes, imagining his own right hand Almighty, sett'st upon him thy stern grasp, And the strong links of that tremendous chain That bound mankind are crumbled; thou dost break Sceptre and crown, and beat his throne to dust. Then the earth shouts with gladness, and her tribes Gather within their ancient bounds again. Else had the mighty of the olden time, Nimrod, Sesostris, or the youth who feigned His birth from Lybian Ammon, smote even now The nations with a rod of iron, and driven Their chariot o'er our necks. Thou dost avenge, In thy good time, the wrongs of those who know No other friend. Nor dost thou interpose Only to lay the sufferer asleep, Where he who made him wretched troubles not His rest--thou dost strike down his tyrant too. Oh, there is joy when hands that held the scourge Drop lifeless, and the pitiless heart is cold. Thou too dost purge from earth its horrible And old idolatries; from the proud fanes Each to his grave their priests go out, till none Is left to teach their worship; then the fires Of sacrifice are chilled, and the green moss O'ercreeps their altars; the fallen images Cumber the weedy courts, and for loud hymns, Chanted by kneeling crowds, the chiding winds Shriek in the solitary aisles. When he Who gives his life to guilt, and laughs at all The laws that God or man has made, and round Hedges his seat with power, and shines in wealth,-- Lifts up his atheist front to scoff at Heaven, And celebrates his shame in open day, Thou, in the pride of all his crimes, cutt'st off The horrible example. Touched by thine, The extortioner's hard hand foregoes the gold Wrong from the o'er-worn poor. The perjurer, Whose tongue was lithe, e'en now, and voluble Against his neighbour's life, and he who laughed And leaped for joy to see a spotless fame Blasted before his own foul calumnies, Are smit with deadly silence. He, who sold His conscience to preserve a worthless life, Even while he hugs himself on his escape, Trembles, as, doubly terrible, at length, Thy steps o'ertake him, and there is no time For parley--nor will bribes unclench thy grasp. Oft, too, dost thou reform thy victim, long Ere his last hour. And when the reveller, Mad in the chase of pleasure, stretches on, And strains each nerve, and clears the path of life Like wind, thou point'st him to the dreadful goal, And shak'st thy hour-glass in his reeling eye, And check'st him in mid course. Thy skeleton hand Shows to the faint of spirit the right path, And he is warned, and fears to step aside. Thou sett'st between the ruffian and his crime Thy ghastly countenance, and his slack hand Drops the drawn knife. But, oh, most fearfully Dost thou show forth Heaven's justice, when thy shafts Drink up the ebbing spirit--then the hard Of heart and violent of hand restores The treasure to the friendless wretch he wronged. Then from the writhing bosom thou dost pluck The guilty secret; lips, for ages sealed, Are faithless to the dreadful trust at length, And give it up; the felon's latest breath Absolves the innocent man who bears his crime; The slanderer, horror smitten, and in tears, Recalls the deadly obloquy he forged To work his brother's ruin. Thou dost make Thy penitent victim utter to the air The dark conspiracy that strikes at life, And aims to whelm the laws; ere yet the hour Is come, and the dread sign of murder given. Thus, from the first of time, hast thou been found On virtue's side; the wicked, but for thee, Had been too strong for the good; the great of earth Had crushed the weak for ever. Schooled in guile For ages, while each passing year had brought Its baneful lesson, they had filled the world With their abominations; while its tribes, Trodden to earth, imbruted, and despoiled, Had knelt to them in worship; sacrifice Had smoked on many an altar, temple roofs Had echoed with the blasphemous prayer and hymn: But thou, the great reformer of the world, Tak'st off the sons of violence and fraud In their green pupilage, their lore half learned-- Ere guilt has quite o'errun the simple heart God gave them at their birth, and blotted out His image. Thou dost mark them, flushed with hope, As on the threshold of their vast designs Doubtful and loose they stand, and strik'st them down. Alas, I little thought that the stern power Whose fearful praise I sung, would try me thus Before the strain was ended. It must cease-- For he is in his grave who taught my youth The art of verse, and in the bud of life Offered me to the muses. Oh, cut off Untimely! when thy reason in its strength, Ripened by years of toil and studious search And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught Thy hand to practise best the lenient art To which thou gavest thy laborious days. And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou Shalt not, as wont, o'erlook, is all I have To offer at thy grave--this--and the hope To copy thy example, and to leave A name of which the wretched shall not think As of an enemy's, whom they forgive As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou Whose early guidance trained my infant steps-- Rest, in the bosom of God, till the brief sleep Of death is over, and a happier life Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust. Now thou art not--and yet the men whose guilt Has wearied Heaven for vengeance--he who bears False witness--he who takes the orphan's bread, And robs the widow--he who spreads abroad Polluted hands in mockery of prayer, Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I look On what is written, yet I blot not out The desultory numbers--let them stand. The record of an idle revery.

Written by Christina Rossetti | Before The Paling Of The Stars Before the winter morn, Before the earliest cock crow, Jesus Christ was born: Born in a stable, Cradled in a manger, In the world his hands had made Born a stranger. Priest and king lay fast asleep In Jerusalem; Young and old lay fast asleep In crowded Bethlehem; Saint and angel, ox and ass, Kept a watch together Before the Christmas daybreak In the winter weather. Jesus on his mother's breast In the stable cold, Spotless lamb of God was he, Shepherd of the fold: Let us kneel with Mary maid, With Joseph bent and hoary, With saint and angel, ox and ass, To hail the King of Glory.

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 Anne Killigrew | A Pastoral Dialogue Amintor. STay gentle Nymph, nor so solic'tous be, To fly his sight that still would gaze on thee. With other Swaines I see thee oft converse, Content to speak, and hear what they rehearse: But I unhappy, when I e're draw nigh, Thou streight do'st leave both Place, and Company. If this thy Flight, from fear of Harm doth flow, Ah, sure thou little of my Heart dost know. Alinda. What wonder, Swain, if the Pursu'd by Flight, Seeks to avoid the close Pursuers Sight ? And if no Cause I have to fly from thee, Then thou hast none, why thou dost follow me. Amin. If to the Cause thou wilt propitious prove, Take it at once, fair Nymph, and know 'tis Love. Alin. To my just Pray'r, ye favouring Gods attend, These Vows to Heaven with equal Zeal I send, My flocks from Wolves, my Heart from Love, defend. Amin. The Gods which did on thee such Charms bestow, Ne're meant thou shouldst to Love have prov'd a Foe, That so Divine a Power thou shouldst defy. Could there a Reason be, I'd ask thee, why ? Alin. Why does Licoris, once so bright and gay, Pale as a Lilly pine her self away ? Why does Elvira, ever sad, frequent The lonely shades ? Why does yon Monument Which we upon our Left Hand do behold, Hapless Amintas youthful Limbs enfold ? Say Shepherd, say: But if thou wilt not tell, Damon, Philisides, and Strephon well Can speak the Cause, whose Falshood each upbraids, And justly me from Cruel Love disswades. Amin. Hear me ye Gods. Me and my Flocks forsake, If e're like them my promis'd Faith I brake. Alin. By others sad Experience wise I'le be. Amin. But such thy Wisdom highly injures me: And nought but Death can give a Remedy. Yet Learn'd in Physick, what does it avail, That you by Art (wherein ye never fail) Present Relief have for the Mad-dogs Bite ? The Serpents sting ? The poisonous Achonite ? While helpless Love upbraids your baffl'd skill, And far more certain, than the rest, doth kill. Alin. Fond Swain, go dote upon the new blown Rose, Whose Beauty with the Morning did disclose, And e're Days King forsakes th'enlightened Earth, Wither'd, returns from whence it took its Birth. As much Excuse will there thy Love attend, As what thou dost on Womens Beauty spend. Amin. Ah Nymph, those Charms which I in thee admire, Can, nor before, nor with thy Life expire. From Heaven they are, and such as ne're can dye, But with thy Soul they will ascend the Sky ! For though my ravisht Eye beholds in Thee, Such beauty as I can in none else see; That Nature there alone is without blame, Yet did not this my faithful Heart enflame: Nor when in Dance thou mov'st upon the Plaine, Or other Sports pursu'st among the Train Of choicest Nymphs, where thy attractive Grace Shews thee alone, though thousands be in place ! Yet not for these do I Alinda love, Hear then what 'tis, that does my Passion move. That Thou still Earliest at the Temple art, And still the last that does from thence depart; Pans Altar is by thee the oftnest prest, Thine's still the fairest Offering and the Best; And all thy other Actions seem to be, The true Result of Unfeign'd Piety; Strict in thy self, to others Just and Mild; Careful, nor to Deceive, nor be Beguil'd; Wary, without the least Offence, to live, Yet none than thee more ready to forgive ! Even on thy Beauty thou dost Fetters lay, Least, unawares, it any should betray. Far unlike, sure, to many of thy Sex, Whose Pride it is, the doting World to vex; Spreading their Universal Nets to take Who e're their artifice can captive make. But thou command'st thy Sweet, but Modest Eye, That no Inviting Glance from thence should fly. Beholding with a Gen'rous Disdain, The lighter Courtships of each amorous Swain; Knowing, true Fame, Vertue alone can give: Nor dost thou greedily even that receive. And what 'bove this thy Character can raise ? Thirsty of Merit, yet neglecting Praise ! While daily these Perfections I discry, Matchless Alinda makes me daily dy. Thou absent, Flow'rs to me no Odours yield, Nor find I freshness in the dewy Field; Not Thyrsis Voice, nor Melibeus Lire, Can my Sad Heart with one Gay Thought inspire; My thriving Flock ('mong Shepherds Vows the Chief) I unconcern'd behold, as they my Grief. This I profess, if this thou not believe, A further proof I ready am to give, Command: there's nothing I'le not undertake, And, thy Injunctions, Love will easie make. Ah, if thou couldst incline a gentle Ear, Of plighted Faith, and hated Hymen hear; Thou hourly then my spotless Love should'st see, That all my Study, how to please, should be; How to protect thee from disturbing Care, And in thy Griefs to bear the greatest share; Nor should a Joy, my Warie Heart surprize, That first I read not in thy charming Eyes. Alin. If ever I to any do impart, My, till this present hour, well-guarded Heart, That Passion I have fear'd, I'le surely prove, For one that does, like to Amintor love. Amintor. Ye Gods – Alin. Shepherd, no more: enough it is that I, Thus long to Love, have listn'd patiently. Farewel: Pan keep thee, Swain. Amintor. And Blessings Thee, Rare as thy Vertues, still accompany.

Written by Rudyard Kipling | Cleared Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt, Help for an honourable clan sore trampled in the dirt! From Queenstown Bay to Donegal, O listen to my song, The honourable gentlemen have suffered grievous wrong. Their noble names were mentioned -- O the burning black disgrace! -- By a brutal Saxon paper in an Irish shooting-case; They sat upon it for a year, then steeled their heart to brave it, And "coruscating innocence" the learned Judges gave it. Bear witness, Heaven, of that grim crime beneath the surgeon's knife, The honourable gentlemen deplored the loss of life! Bear witness of those chanting choirs that burk and shirk and snigger, No man laid hand upon the knife or finger to the trigger! Cleared in the face of all mankind beneath the winking skies, Like ph]oenixes from Ph]oenix Park (and what lay there) they rise! Go shout it to the emerald seas -- give word to Erin now, Her honourable gentlemen are cleared -- and this is how: -- They only paid the Moonlighter his cattle-hocking price, They only helped the murderer with counsel's best advice, But -- sure it keeps their honour white -- the learned Court believes They never gave a piece of plate to murderers and thieves. They never told the ramping crowd to card a woman's hide, They never marked a man for death -- what fault of theirs he died? -- They only said "intimidate", and talked and went away -- By God, the boys that did the work were braver men than they! Their sin it was that fed the fire -- small blame to them that heard -- The "bhoys" get drunk on rhetoric, and madden at a word -- They knew whom they were talking at, if they were Irish too, The gentlemen that lied in Court, they knew, and well they knew. They only took the Judas-gold from Fenians out of jail, They only fawned for dollars on the blood-dyed Clanna-Gael. If black is black or white is white, in black and white it's down, They're only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown. "Cleared", honourable gentlemen! Be thankful it's no more: -- The widow's curse is on your house, the dead are at your door. On you the shame of open shame, on you from North to South The hand of every honest man flat-heeled across your mouth. "Less black than we were painted"? -- Faith, no word of black was said; The lightest touch was human blood, and that, you know, runs red. It's sticking to your fist to-day for all your sneer and scoff, And by the Judge's well-weighed word you cannot wipe it off. Hold up those hands of innocence -- go, scare your sheep together, The blundering, tripping tups that bleat behind the old bell-wether; And if they snuff the taint and break to find another pen, Tell them it's tar that glistens so, and daub them yours again! "The charge is old"? -- As old as Cain -- as fresh as yesterday; Old as the Ten Commandments -- have ye talked those laws away? If words are words, or death is death, or powder sends the ball, You spoke the words that sped the shot -- the curse be on you all. "Our friends believe"? -- Of course they do -- as sheltered women may; But have they seen the shrieking soul ripped from the quivering clay? They! -- If their own front door is shut, they'll swear the whole world's warm; What do they know of dread of death or hanging fear of harm? The secret half a county keeps, the whisper in the lane, The shriek that tells the shot went home behind the broken pane, The dry blood crisping in the sun that scares the honest bees, And shows the "bhoys" have heard your talk -- what do they know of these? But you -- you know -- ay, ten times more; the secrets of the dead, Black terror on the country-side by word and whisper bred, The mangled stallion's scream at night, the tail-cropped heifer's low. Who set the whisper going first? You know, and well you know! My soul! I'd sooner lie in jail for murder plain and straight, Pure crime I'd done with my own hand for money, lust, or hate, Than take a seat in Parliament by fellow-felons cheered, While one of those "not provens" proved me cleared as you are cleared. Cleared -- you that "lost" the League accounts -- go, guard our honour still, Go, help to make our country's laws that broke God's law at will -- One hand stuck out behind the back, to signal "strike again"; The other on your dress-shirt-front to show your heart is clane. If black is black or white is white, in black and white it's down, You're only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown. If print is print or words are words, the learned Court perpends: -- We are not ruled by murderers, but only -- by their friends.

Written by Robert Burns | 12. Song—The Lass of Cessnock Banks ON Cessnock banks a lassie dwells; Could I describe her shape and mein; Our lasses a’ she far excels, An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. She’s sweeter than the morning dawn, When rising Phoebus first is seen, And dew-drops twinkle o’er the lawn; An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. She’s stately like yon youthful ash, That grows the cowslip braes between, And drinks the stream with vigour fresh; An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. She’s spotless like the flow’ring thorn, With flow’rs so white and leaves so green, When purest in the dewy morn; An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. Her looks are like the vernal May, When ev’ning Phoebus shines serene, While birds rejoice on every spray; An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. Her hair is like the curling mist, That climbs the mountain-sides at e’en, When flow’r-reviving rains are past; An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. Her forehead’s like the show’ry bow, When gleaming sunbeams intervene And gild the distant mountain’s brow; An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem, The pride of all the flowery scene, Just opening on its thorny stem; An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. Her bosom’s like the nightly snow, When pale the morning rises keen, While hid the murm’ring streamlets flow; An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. Her lips are like yon cherries ripe, That sunny walls from Boreas screen; They tempt the taste and charm the sight; An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, With fleeces newly washen clean, That slowly mount the rising steep; An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. Her breath is like the fragrant breeze, That gently stirs the blossom’d bean, When Phoebus sinks behind the seas; An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. Her voice is like the ev’ning thrush, That sings on Cessnock banks unseen, While his mate sits nestling in the bush; An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. But it’s not her air, her form, her face, Tho’ matching beauty’s fabled queen; ’Tis the mind that shines in ev’ry grace, An’ chiefly in her roguish een. Note 1. The lass is identified as Ellison Begbie, a servant wench, daughter of a farmer. —Lang. [back]

Written by Stephen Vincent Benet | Elegy for an Enemy (For G. H. ) Say, does that stupid earth Where they have laid her, Bind still her sullen mirth, Mirth which betrayed her? Do the lush grasses hold, Greenly and glad, That brittle-perfect gold She alone had? Smugly the common crew, Over their knitting, Mourn her -- as butchers do Sheep-throats they're slitting! She was my enemy, One of the best of them. Would she come back to me, God damn the rest of them! Damn them, the flabby, fat, Sleek little darlings! We gave them tit for tat, Snarlings for snarlings! Squashy pomposities, Shocked at our violence, Let not one tactful hiss Break her new silence! Maids of antiquity, Look well upon her; Ice was her chastity, Spotless her honor. Neighbors, with breasts of snow, Dames of much virtue, How she could flame and glow! Lord, how she hurt you! She was a woman, and Tender -- at times! (Delicate was her hand) One of her crimes! Hair that strayed elfinly, Lips red as haws, You, with the ready lie, Was that the cause? Rest you, my enemy, Slain without fault, Life smacks but tastelessly Lacking your salt! Stuck in a bog whence naught May catapult me, Come from the grave, long-sought, Come and insult me! WE knew that sugared stuff Poisoned the other; Rough as the wind is rough, Sister and brother! Breathing the ether clear Others forlorn have found -- Oh, for that peace austere She and her scorn have found!

Written by Marge Piercy | Winter Promises Tomatoes rosy as perfect baby's buttocks, eggplants glossy as waxed fenders, purple neon flawless glistening peppers, pole beans fecund and fast growing as Jack's Viagra-sped stalk, big as truck tire zinnias that mildew will never wilt, roses weighing down a bush never touched by black spot, brave little fruit trees shouldering up their spotless ornaments of glass fruit: I lie on the couch under a blanket of seed catalogs ordering far too much. Sleet slides down the windows, a wind edged with ice knifes through every crack. Lie to me, sweet garden-mongers: I want to believe every promise, to trust in five pound tomatoes and dahlias brighter than the sun that was eaten by frost last week.