Written by
Amy Lowell |
I
The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies
white and unspotted,
in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness
sweep into
the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The
air
is silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight.
See how the roof glitters, like ice!
Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into the silver-blue,
and beside it stand
two geraniums, purple because the light is silver-blue, to-night.
See! She is coming, the young woman with the bright hair.
She swings a basket as she walks, which she places on the sill,
between the geranium stalks. He laughs, and crumples
his paper
as he leans forward to look. "The Basket Filled with
Moonlight",
what a title for a book!
The bellying clouds swing over the housetops.
He has forgotten the woman in the room with the geraniums. He
is beating
his brain, and in his eardrums hammers his heavy pulse. She
sits
on the window-sill, with the basket in her lap. And tap! She
cracks a nut.
And tap! Another. Tap! Tap! Tap! The
shells ricochet upon the roof,
and get into the gutters, and bounce over the edge and disappear.
"It is very *****," thinks Peter, "the basket was
empty, I'm sure.
How could nuts appear from the atmosphere?"
The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple,
and the roof glitters
like ice.
II
Five o'clock. The geraniums are very
gay in their crimson array.
The bellying clouds swing over the housetops, and over the roofs
goes Peter
to pay his morning's work with a holiday.
"Annette, it is I. Have you finished? Can
I come?"
Peter jumps through the window.
"Dear, are you alone?"
"Look, Peter, the dome of the tabernacle is done. This
gold thread
is so very high, I am glad it is morning, a starry sky would have
seen me bankrupt. Sit down, now tell me, is your story
going well?"
The golden dome glittered in the orange of the
setting sun. On the walls,
at intervals, hung altar-cloths and chasubles, and copes, and stoles,
and coffin palls. All stiff with rich embroidery, and
stitched with
so much artistry, they seemed like spun and woven gems, or flower-buds
new-opened on their stems.
Annette looked at the geraniums, very red against the blue sky.
"No matter how I try, I cannot find any thread
of such a red.
My bleeding hearts drip stuff muddy in comparison. Heigh-ho! See
my little
pecking dove? I'm in love with my own temple. Only
that halo's wrong.
The colour's too strong, or not strong enough. I don't
know. My eyes
are tired. Oh, Peter, don't be so rough; it is valuable. I
won't do
any more. I promise. You tyrannise, Dear,
that's enough. Now sit down
and amuse me while I rest."
The shadows of the geraniums creep over the floor,
and begin to climb
the opposite wall.
Peter watches her, fluid with fatigue, floating, and drifting,
and undulant in the orange glow. His senses flow towards
her,
where she lies supine and dreaming. Seeming drowned in
a golden halo.
The pungent smell of the geraniums is hard to bear.
He pushes against her knees, and brushes his lips across her languid
hands.
His lips are hot and speechless. He woos her, quivering,
and the room
is filled with shadows, for the sun has set. But she
only understands
the ways of a needle through delicate stuffs, and the shock of one
colour
on another. She does not see that this is the same, and
querulously murmurs
his name.
"Peter, I don't want it. I am tired."
And he, the undesired, burns and is consumed.
There is a crescent moon on the rim of the sky.
III
"Go home, now, Peter. To-night is full
moon. I must be alone."
"How soon the moon is full again! Annette,
let me stay. Indeed, Dear Love,
I shall not go away. My God, but you keep me starved! You
write
`No Entrance Here', over all the doors. Is it not strange,
my Dear,
that loving, yet you deny me entrance everywhere. Would
marriage
strike you blind, or, hating bonds as you do, why should I be denied
the rights of loving if I leave you free? You want the
whole of me,
you pick my brains to rest you, but you give me not one heart-beat.
Oh, forgive me, Sweet! I suffer in my loving, and you
know it. I cannot
feed my life on being a poet. Let me stay."
"As you please, poor Peter, but it will hurt me
if you do. It will
crush your heart and squeeze the love out."
He answered gruffly, "I know what I'm about."
"Only remember one thing from to-night. My
work is taxing and I must
have sight! I MUST!"
The clear moon looks in between the geraniums. On
the wall,
the shadow of the man is divided from the shadow of the woman
by a silver thread.
They are eyes, hundreds of eyes, round like marbles! Unwinking,
for there
are no lids. Blue, black, gray, and hazel, and the irises
are cased
in the whites, and they glitter and spark under the moon. The
basket
is heaped with human eyes. She cracks off the whites
and throws them away.
They ricochet upon the roof, and get into the gutters, and bounce
over the edge and disappear. But she is here, quietly
sitting
on the window-sill, eating human eyes.
The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple,
and the roof shines
like ice.
IV
How hot the sheets are! His skin is
tormented with pricks,
and over him sticks, and never moves, an eye. It lights
the sky with blood,
and drips blood. And the drops sizzle on his bare skin,
and he smells them
burning in, and branding his body with the name "Annette".
The blood-red sky is outside his window now. Is
it blood or fire?
Merciful God! Fire! And his heart wrenches
and pounds "Annette!"
The lead of the roof is scorching, he ricochets,
gets to the edge,
bounces over and disappears.
The bellying clouds are red as they swing over
the housetops.
V
The air is of silver and pearl, for the night is
liquid with moonlight.
How the ruin glistens, like a palace of ice! Only two
black holes swallow
the brilliance of the moon. Deflowered windows, sockets
without sight.
A man stands before the house. He sees
the silver-blue moonlight,
and set in it, over his head, staring and flickering, eyes of geranium
red.
Annette!
|
Written by
Alfred Lord Tennyson |
MY good blade carves the casques of men,
My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure.
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
The hard brands shiver on the steel,
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly,
The horse and rider reel:
They reel, they roll in clanging lists,
And when the tide of combat stands,
Perfume and flowers fall in showers,
That lightly rain from ladies' hands.
How sweet are looks that ladies bend
On whom their favours fall !
For them I battle till the end,
To save from shame and thrall:
But all my heart is drawn above,
My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine:
I never felt the kiss of love,
Nor maiden's hand in mine.
More bounteous aspects on me beam,
Me mightier transports move and thrill;
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer
A virgin heart in work and will.
When down the stormy crescent goes,
A light before me swims,
Between dark stems the forest glows,
I hear a noise of hymns:
Then by some secret shrine I ride;
I hear a voice but none are there;
The stalls are void, the doors are wide,
The tapers burning fair.
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,
The silver vessels sparkle clean,
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,
And solemn chaunts resound between.
Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres
I find a magic bark;
I leap on board: no helmsman steers:
I float till all is dark.
A gentle sound, an awful light !
Three arngels bear the holy Grail:
With folded feet, in stoles of white,
On sleeping wings they sail.
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!
My spirit beats her mortal bars,
As down dark tides the glory slides,
And star-like mingles with the stars.
When on my goodly charger borne
Thro' dreaming towns I go,
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,
The streets are dumb with snow.
The tempest crackles on the leads,
And, ringing, springs from brand and mail;
But o'er the dark a glory spreads,
And gilds the driving hail.
I leave the plain, I climb the height;
No branchy thicket shelter yields;
But blessed forms in whistling storms
Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.
A maiden knight--to me is given
Such hope, I know not fear;
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven
That often meet me here.
I muse on joy that will not cease,
Pure spaces clothed in living beams,
Pure lilies of eternal peace,
Whose odours haunt my dreams;
And, stricken by an angel's hand,
This mortal armour that I wear,
This weight and size, this heart and eyes,
Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air.
The clouds are broken in the sky,
And thro' the mountain-walls
A rolling organ-harmony
Swells up, and shakes and falls.
Then move the trees, the copses nod,
Wings flutter, voices hover clear:
'O just and faithful knight of God!
Ride on ! the prize is near.'
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;
By bridge and ford, by park and pale,
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide,
Until I find the holy Grail.
|
Written by
William Butler Yeats |
Cumhal called out, bending his head,
Till Dathi came and stood,
With a blink in his eyes, at the cave-mouth,
Between the wind and the wood.
And Cumhal said, bending his knees,
'I have come by the windy way
To gather the half of your blessedness
And learn to pray when you pray.
'I can bring you salmon out of the streams
And heron out of the skies.'
But Dathi folded his hands and smiled
With the secrets of God in his eyes.
And Cumhal saw like a drifting smoke
All manner of blessed souls,
Women and children, young men with books,
And old men with croziers and stoles.
'praise God and God's Mother,' Dathi said,
'For God and God's Mother have sent
The blessedest souls that walk in the world
To fill your heart with content.'
'And which is the blessedest,' Cumhal said,
'Where all are comely and good?
Is it these that with golden thuribles
Are singing about the wood?'
'My eyes are blinking,' Dathi said,
'With the secrets of God half blind,
But I can see where the wind goes
And follow the way of the wind;
'And blessedness goes where the wind goes,
And when it is gone we are dead;
I see the blessedest soul in the world
And he nods a drunken head.
'O blessedness comes in the night and the day
And whither the wise heart knows;
And one has seen in the redness of wine
The Incorruptible Rose,
'That drowsily drops faint leaves on him
And the sweetness of desire,
While time and the world are ebbing away
In twilights of dew and of fire.'
|
Written by
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe |
WITHIN a town where parity
According to old form we see,--
That is to say, where Catholic
And Protestant no quarrels pick,
And where, as in his father's day,
Each worships God in his own way,
We Luth'ran children used to dwell,
By songs and sermons taught as well.
The Catholic clingclang in truth
Sounded more pleasing to our youth,
For all that we encounter'd there,
To us seem'd varied, joyous, fair.
As children, monkeys, and mankind
To ape each other are inclin'd,
We soon, the time to while away,
A game at priests resolved to play.
Their aprons all our sisters lent
For copes, which gave us great content;
And handkerchiefs, embroider'd o'er,
Instead of stoles we also wore;
Gold paper, whereon beasts were traced,
The bishop's brow as mitre graced.
Through house and garden thus in state
We strutted early, strutted late,
Repeating with all proper unction,
Incessantly each holy function.
The best was wanting to the game;
We knew that a sonorous ring
Was here a most important thing;
But Fortune to our rescue came,
For on the ground a halter lay;
We were delighted, and at once
Made it a bellrope for the nonce,
And kept it moving all the day;
In turns each sister and each brother
Acted as sexton to another;
All help'd to swell the joyous throng;
The whole proceeded swimmingly,
And since no actual bell had we,
We all in chorus sang, Ding dong!
* * * * *
Our guileless child's-sport long was hush'd
In memory's tomb, like some old lay;
And yet across my mind it rush'd
With pristine force the other day.
The New-Poetic Catholics
In ev'ry point its aptness fix!
1815.*
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