Written by
Alan Seeger |
Who shall invoke her, who shall be her priest,
With single rites the common debt to pay?
On some green headland fronting to the East
Our fairest boy shall kneel at break of day.
Naked, uplifting in a laden tray
New milk and honey and sweet-tinctured wine,
Not without twigs of clustering apple-spray
To wreath a garland for Our Lady's shrine.
The morning planet poised above the sea
Shall drop sweet influence through her drowsing lid;
Dew-drenched, his delicate virginity
Shall scarce disturb the flowers he kneels amid,
That, waked so lightly, shall lift up their eyes,
Cushion his knees, and nod between his thighs.
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Written by
Ella Wheeler Wilcox |
I knew it the first of the summer,
I knew it the same at the end,
That you and your love were plighted,
But couldn’t you be my friend?
Couldn’t we sit in the twilight,
Couldn’t we walk on the shore
With only a pleasant friendship
To bind us, and nothing more?
There was not a word of folly
Spoken between us two,
Though we lingered oft in the garden
Till the roses were wet with dew.
We touched on a thousand subjects –
The moon and the worlds above, -
And our talk was tinctured with science,
And everything else, save love.
A wholly Platonic friendship
You said I had proven to you
Could bind a man and a woman
The whole long season through,
With never a thought of flirting,
Though both were in their youth,
What would you have said, my lady,
If you had known the truth!
What would you have done, I wonder,
Had I gone on my knees to you
And told you my passionate story,
There in the dusk and the dew?
My burning, burdensome story,
Hidden and hushed so long –
My story of hopeless loving –
Say, would you have thought it wrong?
But I fought with my heart and conquered,
I hid my wound from sight;
You were going away in the morning,
And I said a calm goodnight.
But now when I sit in the twilight,
Or when I walk by the sea
That friendship, quite Platonic,
Comes surging over me.
And a passionate longing fills me
For the roses, the dusk, the dew;
For the beautiful summer vanished,
For the moonlight walks – and you.
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Written by
Horace |
Telephus—you praise him still,
His waxen arms, his rosy-tinted neck;
Ah! and all the while I thrill
With jealous pangs I cannot, cannot check.
See, my colour comes and goes,
My poor heart flutters, Lydia, and the dew,
Down my cheek soft stealing, shows
What lingering torments rack me through and through.
Oh, 'tis agony to see
Those snowwhite shoulders scarr'd in drunken fray,
Or those ruby lips, where he
Has left strange marks, that show how rough his play!
Never, never look to find
A faithful heart in him whose rage can harm
Sweetest lips, which Venus kind
Has tinctured with her quintessential charm.
Happy, happy, happy they
Whose living love, untroubled by all strife,
Binds them till the last sad day,
Nor parts asunder but with parting life!
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Written by
Edward Lear |
There was an old person of Newry,Whose manners were tinctured with fury;He tore all the rugs, and broke all the jugs,Within twenty miles' distance of Newry.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XXIII. Quand' io veggio dal ciel scender l' Aurora. MORN RENDERS HIS GRIEF MORE POIGNANT. When from the heavens I see Aurora beam,With rosy-tinctured cheek and golden hair,Love bids my face the hue of sadness wear:"There Laura dwells!" I with a sigh exclaim.Thou knowest well the hour that shall redeem,Happy Tithonus, thy much-valued fair;But not to her I love can I repair,Till death extinguishes this vital flame.Yet need'st thou not thy separation mourn;Certain at evening's close is the returnOf her, who doth not thy hoar locks despise;But my nights sad, my days are render'd drear,By her, who bore my thoughts to yonder skies,And only a remember'd name left here. Nott. When from the east appears the purple rayOf morn arising, and salutes the eyesThat wear the night in watching for the day,Thus speaks my heart: "In yonder opening skies,In yonder fields of bliss, my Laura lies!"Thou sun, that know'st to wheel thy burning car,Each eve, to the still surface of the deep,And there within thy Thetis' bosom sleep;Oh! could I thus my Laura's presence share,How would my patient heart its sorrows bear!Adored in life, and honour'd in the dust,She that in this fond breast for ever reignsHas pass'd the gulph of death!—To deck that bust,No trace of her but the sad name remains.
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Written by
Emily Dickinson |
To disappear enhances --
The Man that runs away
Is tinctured for an instant
With Immortality
But yesterday a Vagrant --
Today in Memory lain
With superstitious value
We tamper with "Again"
But "Never" far as Honor
Withdraws the Worthless thing
And impotent to cherish
We hasten to adorn --
Of Death the sternest function
That just as we discern
The Excellence defies us --
Securest gathered then
The Fruit perverse to plucking,
But leaning to the Sight
With the ecstatic limit
Of unobtained Delight --
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Written by
Paul Laurence Dunbar |
He had his dream, and all through life,
Worked up to it through toil and strife.
Afloat fore'er before his eyes,
It colored for him all his skies:
The storm-cloud dark
Above his bark,
The calm and listless vault of blue
Took on its hopeful hue,
It tinctured every passing beam—
He had his dream.
He labored hard and failed at last,
His sails too weak to bear the blast,
The raging tempests tore away
And sent his beating bark astray.
But what cared he
For wind or sea!
He said, "The tempest will be short,
My bark will come to port."
He saw through every cloud a gleam—
He had his dream.
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