Written by
Emily Dickinson |
One crown that no one seeks
And yet the highest head
Its isolation coveted
Its stigma deified
While Pontius Pilate lives
In whatsoever hell
That coronation pierces him
He recollects it well.
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Written by
Amy Lowell |
Holy Mother of God, Merciful Mary.
Hear
me! I am very weary.
I have come
from a village miles away, all day I have been coming, and I ache
for such
far roaming.
I cannot walk as light as I used, and my
thoughts grow confused.
I am heavier than I was.
Mary Mother, you know the cause!
Beautiful Holy Lady, take my shame away from me! Let
this fear
be only seeming, let it be that I am dreaming.
For months
I have hoped
it was so, now I am afraid I know.
Lady, why should this
be shame,
just because I haven't got his name.
He loved me, yes,
Lady, he did,
and he couldn't keep it hid.
We meant to marry.
Why
did he die?
That day when they told me he had gone down in the avalanche, and
could not
be found until the snow melted in Spring, I did nothing.
I
could not cry.
Why should he die? Why should he die and his child live? His
little child
alive in me, for my comfort.
No, Good God, for my misery! I
cannot face
the shame, to be a mother, and not married, and the poor child to
be reviled
for having no father.
Merciful Mother, Holy Virgin, take
away this sin I did.
Let the baby not be.
Only take the stigma off of me!
I have told no one but you, Holy Mary.
My mother would
call me "whore",
and spit upon me; the priest would have me repent, and have
the rest of my life spent in a convent.
I am no whore,
no bad woman,
he loved me, and we were to be married.
I carried him
always in my heart,
what did it matter if I gave him the least part of me too? You
were a virgin,
Holy Mother, but you had a son, you know there are times when a
woman
must give all.
There is some call to give and hold back
nothing.
I swear I obeyed God then, and this child who lives in me is the
sign.
What am I saying? He is dead, my beautiful, strong man! I
shall never
feel him caress me again.
This is the only baby I shall
have.
Oh, Holy Virgin, protect my baby! My little, helpless
baby!
He will look like his father, and he will be as fast a runner and
as good
a shot.
Not that he shall be no scholar neither.
He
shall go to school
in winter, and learn to read and write, and my father will teach
him to carve,
so that he can make the little horses, and cows, and chamois,
out of white wood.
Oh, No! No! No! How
can I think such things,
I am not good.
My father will have nothing to do with
my boy,
I shall be an outcast thing.
Oh, Mother of our Lord God,
be merciful,
take away my shame! Let my body be as it was before he
came.
No little baby for me to keep underneath my heart for those long
months.
To live for and to get comfort from.
I cannot go home
and tell my mother.
She is so hard and righteous.
She never loved my father,
and we were born
for duty, not for love.
I cannot face it.
Holy
Mother, take my baby away!
Take away my little baby! I don't want it, I can't bear
it!
And I shall have nothing, nothing! Just be known as a
good girl.
Have other men want to marry me, whom I could not touch, after having
known
my man.
Known the length and breadth of his beautiful
white body,
and the depth of his love, on the high Summer Alp, with the moon
above,
and the pine-needles all shiny in the light of it.
He
is gone, my man,
I shall never hear him or feel him again, but I could not touch
another.
I would rather lie under the snow with my own man in my arms!
So I shall live on and on.
Just a good woman.
With
nothing to warm my heart
where he lay, and where he left his baby for me to care for.
I
shall not be
quite human, I think.
Merely a stone-dead creature.
They
will respect me.
What do I care for respect! You didn't care for people's
tongues
when you were carrying our Lord Jesus.
God had my man
give me my baby,
when He knew that He was going to take him away.
His
lips will comfort me,
his hands will soothe me.
All day I will work at my lace-making,
and all night I will keep him warm by my side and pray the blessed
Angels
to cover him with their wings.
Dear Mother, what is it
that sings?
I hear voices singing, and lovely silver trumpets through it all.
They
seem
just on the other side of the wall.
Let me keep my baby,
Holy Mother.
He is only a poor lace-maker's baby, with a stain upon him,
but give me strength to bring him up to be a man.
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Written by
Rupert Brooke |
All in the town were still asleep,
When the sun came up with a shout and a leap.
In the lonely streets unseen by man,
A little dog danced.
And the day began.
All his life he'd been good, as far as he could,
And the poor little beast had done all that he should.
But this morning he swore, by Odin and Thor
And the Canine Valhalla—he'd stand it no more!
So his prayer he got granted—to do just what he wanted,
Prevented by none, for the space of one day.
"Jam incipiebo, sedere facebo,"
In dog-Latin he quoth, "Euge! sophos! hurray!"
He fought with the he-dogs, and winked at the she-dogs,
A thing that had never been heard of before.
"For the stigma of gluttony, I care not a button!" he
Cried, and ate all he could swallow—and more.
He took sinewy lumps from the shins of old frumps,
And mangled the errand-boys—when he could get 'em.
He shammed furious rabies, and bit all the babies,
And followed the cats up the trees, and then ate 'em!"
They thought 'twas the devil was holding a revel,
And sent for the parson to drive him away;
For the town never knew such a hullabaloo
As that little dog raised—till the end of that day.
When the blood-red sun had gone burning down,
And the lights were lit in the little town,
Outside, in the gloom of the twilight grey,
The little dog died when he'd had his day.
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Written by
William Topaz McGonagall |
Ye sons of Great Britain, I think no shame
To write in praise of brave General Graham!
Whose name will be handed down to posterity without any stigma,
Because, at the battle of El-Teb, he defeated Osman Digna.
With an army about five thousand strong,
To El-Teb, in the year 1884, he marched along,
And bivouacked there for the night;
While around their fires they only thought of the coming fight.
They kept up their fires all the long night,
Which made the encampment appear weird-like to the sight;
While the men were completely soaked with the rain,
But the brave heroes disdained to complain.
The brave heroes were glad when daylight did appear,
And when the reveille was sounded, they gave a hearty cheer
And their fires were piled up higher again,
Then they tried to dry their clothes that were soaked with the rain.
Then breakfast was taken about eight o'clock,
And when over, each man stood in the ranks as firm as a rock,
And every man seemed to be on his guard --
All silent and ready to move forward.
The first movement was a short one from where they lay --
Then they began to advance towards El-Teb without dismay,
And showed that all was in order for the fray,
While every man's heart seemed to feel light and gay.
The enemy's position could be seen in the distance far away
But the brave heroes marched on without delay --
Whilst the enemy's banners floated in the air,
And dark swarms of men were scattered near by there.
Their force was a large one -- its front extended over a mile,
And all along the line their guns were all in file;
But as the British advanced, they disappeared,
While our brave kilty lads loudly cheered.
Thus slowly and cautiously brave General Graham proceeded
And to save his men from slaughter, great caution was needed,
Because Osman Digna's force was about ten thousand strong;
But he said, Come on, my brave lads, we'll conquer them ere long!
It was about ten o'clock when they came near the enemy's lines,
And on the morning air could be heard the cheerful chimes
Corning from the pipes of the gallant Black Watch,
Which every ear in the British force was eager to catch.
Then they passed by the enemy about mid-day,
While every Arab seemed to have his gun ready for the fray
When a bullet strikes down General Baker by the way,
But he is soon in the saddle again without delay,
And ready for any service that he could perform;
Whilst the bullets fell around them in a perfect storm
That they had to lie down, but not through fear,
Because the enemy was about 800 yards on their left rear.
Then General Graham addressed his men,
And said, If they won't attack us, we must attack them,
So start to your feet, my lads, and never fear,
And strike up your bagpipes, and give a loud cheer.
So they leapt to their feet, and gave a loud cheer,
While the Arabs swept down upon them without the least fear,
And put aside their rifles, and grasped their spears;
Whilst the British bullets in front of them the earth uptears.
Then the British charged them with their cold steel,
Which made the Arabs backward for to reel;
But they dashed forward again on their ranks without dismay,
But before the terrible fire of their musketry they were swept away.
Oh, God of Heaven! it was a terrible sight
To see, and hear the Arabs shouting with all their might
A fearful oath when they got an inch of cold steel,
Which forced them backwards again and made them reel.
By two o'clock they were fairly beat,
And Osman Digna, the false prophet, was forced to retreat
After three hours of an incessant fight;
But Heaven, 'tis said, defends the right.
And I think he ought to be ashamed of himself;
For I consider he has acted the part of a silly elf,
By thinking to conquer the armies of the Lord
With his foolish and benighted rebel horde.
|
Written by
Edwin Arlington Robinson |
I
Just as I wonder at the twofold screen
Of twisted innocence that you would plait
For eyes that uncourageously await
The coming of a kingdom that has been,
So do I wonder what God’s love can mean
To you that all so strangely estimate
The purpose and the consequent estate
Of one short shuddering step to the Unseen.
No, I have not your backward faith to shrink
Lone-faring from the doorway of God’s home
To find Him in the names of buried men;
Nor your ingenious recreance to think
We cherish, in the life that is to come,
The scattered features of dead friends again.
IL
Never until our souls are strong enough
To plunge into the crater of the Scheme—
Triumphant in the flash there to redeem
Love’s handsel and forevermore to slough,
Like cerements at a played-out masque, the rough
And reptile skins of us whereon we set
The stigma of scared years—are we to get
Where atoms and the ages are one stuff.
Nor ever shall we know the cursed waste
Of life in the beneficence divine
Of starlight and of sunlight and soul-shine
That we have squandered in sin’s frail distress,
Till we have drunk, and trembled at the taste,
The mead of Thought’s prophetic endlessness.
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Written by
Victor Hugo |
("Ah! tu finiras bien par hurler!")
{Bk. III. ii., Jersey, August, 1852.}
How well I knew this stealthy wolf would howl,
When in the eagle talons ta'en in air!
Aglow, I snatched thee from thy prey—thou fowl—
I held thee, abject conqueror, just where
All see the stigma of a fitting name
As deeply red as deeply black thy shame!
And though thy matchless impudence may frame
Some mask of seeming courage—spite thy sneer,
And thou assurest sloth and skunk: "It does not smart!"
Thou feel'st it burning, in and in,—and fear
None will forget it till shall fall the deadly dart!
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