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Best Famous Unquenchable Poems

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Written by Kahlil Gibran | Create an image from this poem

Giving chapter V

 Then said a rich man, "Speak to us of Giving.
" And he answered: You give but little when you give of your possessions.
It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.
For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow? And tomorrow, what shall tomorrow bring to the overprudent dog burying bones in the trackless sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy city? And what is fear of need but need itself? Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, thirst that is unquenchable? There are those who give little of the much which they have - and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome.
And there are those who have little and give it all.
These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty.
There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward.
And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism.
And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue; They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.
Though the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth.
It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding; And to the open-handed the search for one who shall receive is joy greater than giving And is there aught you would withhold? All you have shall some day be given; Therefore give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your inheritors'.
You often say, "I would give, but only to the deserving.
" The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture.
They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish.
Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights is worthy of all else from you.
And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream.
And what desert greater shall there be than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving? And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed? See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving.
For in truth it is life that gives unto life - while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness.
And you receivers - and you are all receivers - assume no weight of gratitude, lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives.
Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings; For to be overmindful of your debt, is to doubt his generosity who has the free-hearted earth for mother, and God for father.


Written by Matthew Arnold | Create an image from this poem

Rugby Chapel

 Coldly, sadly descends
The autumn-evening.
The field Strewn with its dank yellow drifts Of wither'd leaves, and the elms, Fade into dimness apace, Silent;--hardly a shout From a few boys late at their play! The lights come out in the street, In the school-room windows;--but cold, Solemn, unlighted, austere, Through the gathering darkness, arise The chapel-walls, in whose bound Thou, my father! art laid.
There thou dost lie, in the gloom Of the autumn evening.
But ah! That word, gloom, to my mind Brings thee back, in the light Of thy radiant vigour, again; In the gloom of November we pass'd Days not dark at thy side; Seasons impair'd not the ray Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear.
Such thou wast! and I stand In the autumn evening, and think Of bygone autumns with thee.
Fifteen years have gone round Since thou arosest to tread, In the summer-morning, the road Of death, at a call unforeseen, Sudden.
For fifteen years, We who till then in thy shade Rested as under the boughs Of a mighty oak, have endured Sunshine and rain as we might, Bare, unshaded, alone, Lacking the shelter of thee.
O strong soul, by what shore Tarriest thou now? For that force, Surely, has not been left vain! Somewhere, surely afar, In the sounding labour-house vast Of being, is practised that strength, Zealous, beneficent, firm! Yes, in some far-shining sphere, Conscious or not of the past, Still thou performest the word Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live-- Prompt, unwearied, as here! Still thou upraisest with zeal The humble good from the ground, Sternly repressest the bad! Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse Those who with half-open eyes Tread the border-land dim 'Twixt vice and virtue; reviv'st, Succourest!--this was thy work, This was thy life upon earth.
What is the course of the life Of mortal men on the earth?-- Most men eddy about Here and there--eat and drink, Chatter and love and hate, Gather and squander, are raised Aloft, are hurl'd in the dust, Striving blindly, achieving Nothing; and then they die-- Perish;--and no one asks Who or what they have been, More than he asks what waves, In the moonlit solitudes mild Of the midmost Ocean, have swell'd, Foam'd for a moment, and gone.
And there are some, whom a thirst Ardent, unquenchable, fires, Not with the crowd to be spent, Not without aim to go round In an eddy of purposeless dust, Effort unmeaning and vain.
Ah yes! some of us strive Not without action to die Fruitless, but something to snatch From dull oblivion, nor all Glut the devouring grave! We, we have chosen our path-- Path to a clear-purposed goal, Path of advance!--but it leads A long, steep journey, through sunk Gorges, o'er mountains in snow.
Cheerful, with friends, we set forth-- Then on the height, comes the storm.
Thunder crashes from rock To rock, the cataracts reply, Lightnings dazzle our eyes.
Roaring torrents have breach'd The track, the stream-bed descends In the place where the wayfarer once Planted his footstep--the spray Boils o'er its borders! aloft The unseen snow-beds dislodge Their hanging ruin; alas, Havoc is made in our train! Friends, who set forth at our side, Falter, are lost in the storm.
We, we only are left! With frowning foreheads, with lips Sternly compress'd, we strain on, On--and at nightfall at last Come to the end of our way, To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks; Where the gaunt and taciturn host Stands on the threshold, the wind Shaking his thin white hairs-- Holds his lantern to scan Our storm-beat figures, and asks: Whom in our party we bring? Whom we have left in the snow? Sadly we answer: We bring Only ourselves! we lost Sight of the rest in the storm.
Hardly ourselves we fought through, Stripp'd, without friends, as we are.
Friends, companions, and train, The avalanche swept from our side.
But thou woulds't not alone Be saved, my father! alone Conquer and come to thy goal, Leaving the rest in the wild.
We were weary, and we Fearful, and we in our march Fain to drop down and to die.
Still thou turnedst, and still Beckonedst the trembler, and still Gavest the weary thy hand.
If, in the paths of the world, Stones might have wounded thy feet, Toil or dejection have tried Thy spirit, of that we saw Nothing--to us thou wage still Cheerful, and helpful, and firm! Therefore to thee it was given Many to save with thyself; And, at the end of thy day, O faithful shepherd! to come, Bringing thy sheep in thy hand.
And through thee I believe In the noble and great who are gone; Pure souls honour'd and blest By former ages, who else-- Such, so soulless, so poor, Is the race of men whom I see-- Seem'd but a dream of the heart, Seem'd but a cry of desire.
Yes! I believe that there lived Others like thee in the past, Not like the men of the crowd Who all round me to-day Bluster or cringe, and make life Hideous, and arid, and vile; But souls temper'd with fire, Fervent, heroic, and good, Helpers and friends of mankind.
Servants of God!--or sons Shall I not call you? Because Not as servants ye knew Your Father's innermost mind, His, who unwillingly sees One of his little ones lost-- Yours is the praise, if mankind Hath not as yet in its march Fainted, and fallen, and died! See! In the rocks of the world Marches the host of mankind, A feeble, wavering line.
Where are they tending?--A God Marshall'd them, gave them their goal.
Ah, but the way is so long! Years they have been in the wild! Sore thirst plagues them, the rocks Rising all round, overawe; Factions divide them, their host Threatens to break, to dissolve.
--Ah, keep, keep them combined! Else, of the myriads who fill That army, not one shall arrive; Sole they shall stray; in the rocks Stagger for ever in vain, Die one by one in the waste.
Then, in such hour of need Of your fainting, dispirited race, Ye, like angels, appear, Radiant with ardour divine! Beacons of hope, ye appear! Languor is not in your heart, Weakness is not in your word, Weariness not on your brow.
Ye alight in our van! at your voice, Panic, despair, flee away.
Ye move through the ranks, recall The stragglers, refresh the outworn, Praise, re-inspire the brave! Order, courage, return.
Eyes rekindling, and prayers, Follow your steps as ye go.
Ye fill up the gaps in our files, Strengthen the wavering line, Stablish, continue our march, On, to the bound of the waste, On, to the City of God.
Written by G K Chesterton | Create an image from this poem

The Black Virgin

 One in thy thousand statues we salute thee 
On all thy thousand thrones acclaim and claim 
Who walk in forest of thy forms and faces 
Walk in a forest calling on one name 
And, most of all, how this thing may be so 
Who know thee not are mystified to know
That one cries "Here she stands" and one cries "Yonder" 
And thou wert home in heaven long ago.
Burn deep in Bethlehem in the golden shadows, Ride above Rome upon the horns of stone, From low Lancastrian or South Saxon shelters Watch through dark years the dower that was shine own: Ghost of our land, White Lady of Walsinghame, Shall they not live that call upon thy name If an old song on a wild wind be blowing Crying of the holy country whence they came? Root deep in Chartres the roses blown of glass Burning above thee in the high vitrailles, On Cornish crags take for salute of swords O'er peacock seas the far salute of sails, Glooming in bronze or gay in painted wood, A great doll given when the child is good, Save that She gave the Child who gave the doll, In whom all dolls are dreams of motherhood.
I have found thee like a little shepherdess Gay with green ribbons; and passed on to find Michael called Angel hew the Mother of God Like one who fills a mountain with a mind: Molten in silver or gold or garbed in blue, Or garbed in red where the inner robe burns through, Of the King's daughter glorious within: Change shine unchanging light with every hue.
Clothed with the sun or standing on the moon Crowned with the stars or single, a morning star, Sunlight and moonlight are thy luminous shadows, Starlight and twilight thy refractions are, Lights and half-lights and all lights turn about thee, But though we dazed can neither see nor doubt thee, Something remains.
Nor can man live without it Nor can man find it bearable without thee.
There runs a dark thread through the tapestries That time has woven with all the tints of time Something not evil but grotesque and groping, Something not clear; not final; not sublime; Quaint as dim pattern of primal plant or tree Or fish, the legless elfins of the sea, Yet rare as this shine image in ebony Being most strange in its simplicity.
Rare as the rushing of the wild black swans The Romans saw; or rocks remote and grim Where through black clouds the black sheep runs accursed And through black clouds the Shepherd follows him.
By the black oak of the aeon-buried grove By the black gems of the miner's treasure-trove Monsters and freaks and fallen stars and sunken- Most holy dark, cover our uncouth love.
From shine high rock look down on Africa The living darkness of devouring green The loathsome smell of life unquenchable, Look on low brows and blinking eyes between, On the dark heart where white folk find no place, On the dark bodies of an antic race, On all that fear thy light and love thy shadow, Turn thou the mercy of thy midnight face.
This also is in thy spectrum; this dark ray; Beyond the deepening purples of thy Lent Darker than violet vestment; dark and secret Clot of old night yet cloud of heaven sent: As the black moon of some divine eclipse, As the black sun of the Apocalypse, As the black flower that blessed Odysseus back From witchcraft; and he saw again the ships.
In all thy thousand images we salute thee, Claim and acclaim on all thy thousand thrones Hewn out of multi-colored rocks and risen Stained with the stored-up sunsets in all tones- If in all tones and shades this shade I feel, Come from the black cathedrals of Castille Climbing these flat black stones of Catalonia, To thy most merciful face of night I kneel.
Written by Jorie Graham | Create an image from this poem

Underneath (9)

  Spring
Up, up you go, you must be introduced.
You must learn belonging to (no-one) Drenched in the white veil (day) The circle of minutes pushed gleaming onto your finger.
Gaps pocking the brightness where you try to see in.
Missing: corners, fields, completeness: holes growing in it where the eye looks hardest.
Below, his chest, a sacred weightless place and the small weight of your open hand on it.
And these legs, look, still yours, after all you've done with them.
Explain the six missing seeds.
Explain muzzled.
Explain tongue breaks thin fire in eyes.
Learn what the great garden-(up, up you go)-exteriority, exhales: the green never-the-less the green who-did-you-say-you-are and how it seems to stare all the time, that green, until night blinds it temporarily.
What is it searching for all the leaves turning towards you.
Breath the emptiest of the freedoms.
When will they notice the hole in your head (they won't).
When will they feel for the hole in your chest (never).
Up, go.
Let being-seen drift over you again, sticky kindness.
Those wet strangely unstill eyes filling their heads- thinking or sight?- all waiting for the true story- your heart, beating its little song: explain.
.
.
Explain requited Explain indeed the blood of your lives I will require explain the strange weight of meanwhile and there exists another death in regards to which we are not immortal variegated dappled spangled intricately wrought complicated obstruse subtle devious scintillating with change and ambiguity Summer Explain two are Explain not one (in theory) (and in practice) blurry, my love, like a right quotation, wanting so to sink back down, you washing me in soil now, my shoulders dust, my rippling dust, Look I'll scrub the dirt listen.
Up here how will I (not) hold you.
Where is the dirt packed in again around us between us obliterating difference Must one leave off Explain edges (tongue breaks) (thin fire) (in eyes) And bless.
And blame.
(Moonless night.
Vase in the kitchen) Fall Explain duty to remain to the end.
Duty not to run away from the good.
The good.
(Beauty is not an issue.
) A wise man wants? A master.
Winter Oh my beloved I speak of the absolute jewels.
Dwelling in place for example.
In fluted listenings.
In panting waters human-skinned to the horizon.
Muzzled the deep.
Fermenting the surface.
Wrecks left at the bottom, yes.
Space birdless.
Light on it a woman on her knees-her having kneeled everywhere already.
God's laughter unquenchable.
Back there its river ripped into pieces, length gone, buried in parts, in sand.
Believe me I speak now for the sand.
Here at the front end, the narrator.
At the front end, the meanwhile: God's laughter.
Are you still waiting for the true story? (God's laughter) The difference between what is and could be? (God's laughter) In this dance the people do not move.
Deferred defied obstructed hungry, organized around a radiant absence.
In His dance the people do not move.
Written by Aleister Crowley | Create an image from this poem

The Tent

 Only the stars endome the lonely camp,
Only the desert leagues encompass it;
Waterless wastes, a wilderness of wit,
Embattled Cold, Imagination's Cramp.
Now were the Desolation fain to stamp The congealed Spirit of man into the pit, Save that, unquenchable because unlit, The Love of God burns steady, like a Lamp.
It burns ! beyond the sands, beyond the stars.
It burns ! beyond the bands, beyond the bars.
And so the Expanse of Mystery, veil by veil, Burns inward, plume on plume still folding over The dissolved heart of the amazéd lover- The angel wings upon the Holy Grail! W'aint t' Aissha.


Written by Bliss Carman | Create an image from this poem

A Creature Catechism

 I
Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the sea?


LORD, said a flying fish, 
Below the foundations of storm 
We feel the primal wish 
Of the earth take form.
Through the dim green water-fire We see the red sun loom, And the quake of a new desire Takes hold on us down in the gloom.
No more can the filmy drift Nor draughty currents buoy Our whim to its bent, nor lift Our heart to the height of its joy.
When sheering down to the Line Come polar tides from the North, Thy silver folk of the brine Must glimmer and forth.
Down in the crumbling mill Grinding eternally, We are the type of thy will To the tribes of the sea.
II Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the air Lord, said a butterfly, Out of a creeping thing, For days in the dust put by, The spread of a wing Emerges with pulvil of gold On a tissue of green and blue, And there is thy purpose of old Unspoiled and fashioned anew.
Ephemera, ravellings of sky And shreds of the Northern light, We age in a heart-beat and die Under the eaves of night.
What if the small breath quail, Or cease at a touch of the frost? Not a tremor of joy shall fail, Nor a pulse be lost.
This fluttering life, never still, Survives to oblivion’s despair.
We are the type of thy will To the tribes of the air.
III Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the field? Lord, said a maple seed, Though well we are wrapped and bound, We are the first to give heed, When thy bugles give sound.
We banner thy House of the Hills With green and vermilion and gold, When the floor of April thrills With the myriad stir of the mould, And her hosts for migration prepare.
We too have the veined twin-wings, Vans for the journey of air.
With the urge of a thousand springs Pent for a germ in our side, We perish of joy, being dumb, That our race may be and abide For aeons to come.
When rivulet answers to rill In snow-blue valleys unsealed, We are the type of thy will To the tribes of the field.
IV Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the ground? Lord, when the time is ripe, Said a frog through the quiet rain, We take up the silver pipe For the pageant again.
When the melting wind of the South Is over meadow and pond, We draw the breath of thy mouth, Reviving the ancient bond.
Then must we fife and declare The unquenchable joy of earth,— Testify hearts still dare, Signalize beauty’s worth.
Then must we rouse and blow On the magic reed once more, Till the glad earth-children know Not a thing to deplore.
When rises the marshy trill To the soft spring night’s profound, We are the type of thy will To the tribes of the ground.
V Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the earth? Lord, said an artist born, We leave the city behind For the hills of open morn, For fear of our kind.
Our brother they nailed to a tree For sedition; they bully and curse All those whom love makes free.
Yet the very winds disperse Rapture of birds and brooks, Colours of sea and cloud,— Beauty not learned of books, Truth that is never loud.
We model our joy into clay, Or help it with line and hue, Or hark for its breath in stray Wild chords and new.
For to-morrow can only fulfil Dreams which to-day have birth; We are the type of thy will To the tribes of the earth.
Written by William Vaughn Moody | Create an image from this poem

The Daguerreotype

 This, then, is she, 
My mother as she looked at seventeen, 
When she first met my father.
Young incredibly, Younger than spring, without the faintest trace Of disappointment, weariness, or tean Upon the childlike earnestness and grace Of the waiting face.
Those close-wound ropes of pearl (Or common beads made precious by their use) Seem heavy for so slight a throat to wear; But the low bodice leaves the shoulders bare And half the glad swell of the breast, for news That now the woman stirs within the girl.
And yet, Even so, the loops and globes Of beaten gold And jet Hung, in the stately way of old, From the ears' drooping lobes On festivals and Lord's-day of the week, Show all too matron-sober for the cheek, -- Which, now I look again, is perfect child, Or no -- or no -- 't is girlhood's very self, Moulded by some deep, mischief-ridden elf So meek, so maiden mild, But startling the close gazer with the sense Of passions forest-shy and forest-wild, And delicate delirious merriments.
As a moth beats sidewise And up and over, and tries To skirt the irresistible lure Of the flame that has him sure, My spirit, that is none too strong to-day, Flutters and makes delay, -- Pausing to wonder on the perfect lips, Lifting to muse upon the low-drawn hair And each hid radiance there, But powerless to stem the tide-race bright, The vehement peace which drifts it toward the light Where soon -- ah, now, with cries Of grief and giving-up unto its gain It shrinks no longer nor denies, But dips Hurriedly home to the exquisite heart of pain, -- And all is well, for I have seen them plain, The unforgettable, the unforgotten eyes! Across the blinding gush of these good tears They shine as in the sweet and heavy years When by her bed and chair We children gathered jealously to share The sunlit aura breathing myrrh and thyme, Where the sore-stricken body made a clime Gentler than May and pleasanter than rhyme, Holier and more mystical than prayer.
God, how thy ways are strange! That this should be, even this, The patient head Which suffered years ago the dreary change! That these so dewy lips should be the same As those I stooped to kiss And heard my harrowing half-spoken name, A little ere the one who bowed above her, Our father and her very constant lover, Rose stoical, and we knew that she was dead.
Then I, who could not understand or share His antique nobleness, Being unapt to bear The insults which time flings us for our proof, Fled from the horrible roof Into the alien sunshine merciless, The shrill satiric fields ghastly with day, Raging to front God in his pride of sway And hurl across the lifted swords of fate That ringed Him where He sat My puny gage of scorn and desolate hate Which somehow should undo Him, after all! That this girl face, expectant, virginal, Which gazes out at me Boon as a sweetheart, as if nothing loth (Save for the eyes, with other presage stored) To pledge me troth, And in the kingdom where the heart is lord Take sail on the terrible gladness of the deep Whose winds the gray Norns keep, -- That this should be indeed The flesh which caught my soul, a flying seed, Out of the to and fro Of scattering hands where the seedsman Mage, Stooping from star to star and age to age Sings as he sows! That underneath this breast Nine moons I fed Deep of divine unrest, While over and over in the dark she said, "Blessed! but not as happier children blessed" -- That this should be Even she .
.
.
God, how with time and change Thou makest thy footsteps strange! Ah, now I know They play upon me, and it is not so.
Why, 't is a girl I never saw before, A little thing to flatter and make weep, To tease until her heart is sore, Then kiss and clear the score; A gypsy run-the-fields, A little liberal daughter of the earth, Good for what hour of truancy and mirth The careless season yields Hither-side the flood of the year and yonder of the neap; Then thank you, thanks again, and twenty light good-byes.
-- O shrined above the skies, Frown not, clear brow, Darken not, holy eyes! Thou knowest well I know that it is thou Only to save me from such memories As would unman me quite, Here in this web of strangeness caught And prey to troubled thought Do I devise These foolish shifts and slight; Only to shield me from the afflicting sense Of some waste influence Which from this morning face and lustrous hair Breathes on me sudden ruin and despair.
In any other guise, With any but this girlish depth of gaze, Your coming had not so unsealed and poured The dusty amphoras where I had stored The drippings of the winepress of my days.
I think these eyes foresee, Now in their unawakened virgin time, Their mother's pride in me, And dream even now, unconsciously, Upon each soaring peak and sky-hung lea You pictured I should climb.
Broken premonitions come, Shapes, gestures visionary, Not as once to maiden Mary The manifest angel with fresh lilies came Intelligibly calling her by name; But vanishingly, dumb, Thwarted and bright and wild, As heralding a sin-defiled, Earth-encumbered, blood-begotten, passionate man-child, Who yet should be a trump of mighty call Blown in the gates of evil kings To make them fall; Who yet should be a sword of flame before The soul's inviolate door To beat away the clang of hellish wings; Who yet should be a lyre Of high unquenchable desire In the day of little things.
-- Look, where the amphoras, The yield of many days, Trod by my hot soul from the pulp of self, And set upon the shelf In sullen pride The Vineyard-master's tasting to abide -- O mother mine! Are these the bringings-in, the doings fine, Of him you used to praise? Emptied and overthrown The jars lie strown.
These, for their flavor duly nursed, Drip from the stopples vinegar accursed; These, I thought honied to the very seal, Dry, dry, -- a little acid meal, A pinch of mouldy dust, Sole leavings of the amber-mantling must; These, rude to look upon, But flasking up the liquor dearest won, Through sacred hours and hard, With watching and with wrestlings and with grief, Even of these, of these in chief, The stale breath sickens reeking from the shard.
Nothing is left.
Aye, how much less than naught! What shall be said or thought Of the slack hours and waste imaginings, The cynic rending of the wings, Known to that froward, that unreckoning heart Whereof this brewage was the precious part, Treasured and set away with furtive boast? O dear and cruel ghost, Be merciful, be just! See, I was yours and I am in the dust.
Then look not so, as if all things were well! Take your eyes from me, leave me to my shame, Or else, if gaze they must, Steel them with judgment, darken them with blame; But by the ways of light ineffable You bade me go and I have faltered from, By the low waters moaning out of hell Whereto my feet have come, Lay not on me these intolerable Looks of rejoicing love, of pride, of happy trust! Nothing dismayed? By all I say and all I hint not made Afraid? O then, stay by me! Let These eyes afflict me, cleanse me, keep me yet, Brave eyes and true! See how the shrivelled heart, that long has lain Dead to delight and pain, Stirs, and begins again To utter pleasant life, as if it knew The wintry days were through; As if in its awakening boughs it heard The quick, sweet-spoken bird.
Strong eyes and brave, Inexorable to save!
Written by William Blake | Create an image from this poem

The Book of Urizen: Chapter II

 1.
Earth was not: nor globes of attraction The will of the Immortal expanded Or contracted his all flexible senses.
Death was not, but eternal life sprung 2.
The sound of a trumpet the heavens Awoke & vast clouds of blood roll'd Round the dim rocks of Urizen, so nam'd That solitary one in Immensity 3.
Shrill the trumpet: & myriads of Eternity, Muster around the bleak desarts Now fill'd with clouds, darkness & waters That roll'd perplex'd labring & utter'd Words articulate, bursting in thunders That roll'd on the tops of his mountains 4.
From the depths of dark solitude.
From The eternal abode in my holiness, Hidden set apart in my stern counsels Reserv'd for the days of futurity, I have sought for a joy without pain, For a solid without fluctuation Why will you die O Eternals? Why live in unquenchable burnings? 5.
First I fought with the fire; consum'd Inwards, into a deep world within: A void immense, wild dark & deep, Where nothing was: Natures wide womb And self balanc'd stretch'd o'er the void I alone, even I! the winds merciless Bound; but condensing, in torrents They fall & fall; strong I repell'd The vast waves, & arose on the waters A wide world of solid obstruction 6.
Here alone I in books formd of metals Have written the secrets of wisdom The secrets of dark contemplation By fightings and conflicts dire, With terrible monsters Sin-bred: Which the bosoms of all inhabit; Seven deadly Sins of the soul.
7.
Lo! I unfold my darkness: and on This rock, place with strong hand the Book Of eternal brass, written in my solitude.
8.
Laws of peace, of love, of unity: Of pity, compassion, forgiveness.
Let each chuse one habitation: His ancient infinite mansion: One command, one joy, one desire, One curse, one weight, one measure One King, one God, one Law.
Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Create an image from this poem

Trilogy of Passion: II. ELEGY

 When man had ceased to utter his lament,

 A god then let me tell my tale of sorrow.
WHAT hope of once more meeting is there now In the still-closed blossoms of this day? Both heaven and hell thrown open seest thou; What wav'ring thoughts within the bosom play No longer doubt! Descending from the sky, She lifts thee in her arms to realms on high.
And thus thou into Paradise wert brought, As worthy of a pure and endless life; Nothing was left, no wish, no hope, no thought, Here was the boundary of thine inmost strife: And seeing one so fair, so glorified, The fount of yearning tears was straightway dried.
No motion stirr'd the day's revolving wheel, In their own front the minutes seem'd to go; The evening kiss, a true and binding seal, Ne'er changing till the morrow's sunlight glow.
The hours resembled sisters as they went.
Yet each one from another different.
The last hour's kiss, so sadly sweet, effac'd A beauteous network of entwining love.
Now on the threshold pause the feet, now haste.
As though a flaming cherub bade them move; The unwilling eye the dark road wanders o'er, Backward it looks, but closed it sees the door.
And now within itself is closed this breast, As though it ne'er were open, and as though, Vying with ev'ry star, no moments blest Had, in its presence, felt a kindling glow; Sadness, reproach, repentance, weight of care, Hang heavy on it in the sultry air.
Is not the world still left? The rocky steeps, Are they with holy shades no longer crown'd? Grows not the harvest ripe? No longer creeps The espalier by the stream,--the copse around? Doth not the wondrous arch of heaven still rise, Now rich in shape, now shapeless to the eyes? As, seraph-like, from out the dark clouds' chorus, With softness woven, graceful, light, and fair, Resembling Her, in the blue aether o'er us, A slender figure hovers in the air,-- Thus didst thou see her joyously advance, The fairest of the fairest in the dance.
Yet but a moment dost thou boldly dare To clasp an airy form instead of hers; Back to thine heart! thou'lt find it better there, For there in changeful guise her image stirs What erst was one, to many turneth fast, In thousand forms, each dearer than the last.
As at the door, on meeting lingerd she, And step by step my faithful ardour bless'd, For the last kiss herself entreated me, And on my lips the last last kiss impress'd,-- Thus clearly traced, the lov'd one's form we view, With flames engraven on a heart so true,-- A heart that, firm as some embattled tower, Itself for her, her in itself reveres, For her rejoices in its lasting power, Conscious alone, when she herself appears; Feels itself freer in so sweet a thrall, And only beats to give her thanks in all.
The power of loving, and all yearning sighs For love responsive were effaced and drown'd; While longing hope for joyous enterprise Was form'd, and rapid action straightway found; If love can e'er a loving one inspire, Most lovingly it gave me now its fire; And 'twas through her!--an inward sorrow lay On soul and body, heavily oppress'd; To mournful phantoms was my sight a prey, In the drear void of a sad tortured breast; Now on the well-known threshold Hope hath smil'd, Herself appeareth in the sunlight mild.
Unto the peace of God, which, as we read, Blesseth us more than reason e'er bath done, Love's happy peace would I compare indeed, When in the presence of the dearest one.
There rests the heart, and there that sweetest thought, The thought of being hers, is check'd by nought.
In the pure bosom doth a yearning float, Unto a holier, purer, unknown Being Its grateful aspiration to devote, The Ever-Nameless then unriddled seeing; We call it: piety!--such blest delight I feel a share in, when before her sight.
Before her sight, as 'neath the sun's hot ray, Before her breath, as 'neath the spring's soft wind, In its deep wintry cavern melts away Self-love, so long in icy chains confin'd; No selfishness and no self-will are nigh, For at her advent they were forced to fly.
It seems as though she said: "As hours pass by They spread before us life with kindly plan; Small knowledge did the yesterday supply, To know the morrow is conceal'd from man; And if the thought of evening made me start, The sun at setting gladden'd straight my heart.
"Act, then, as I, and look, with joyous mind, The moment in the face; nor linger thou! Meet it with speed, so fraught with life, so kind In action, and in love so radiant now; Let all things be where thou art, childlike ever, Thus thoult be all, thus, thou'lt be vanquish'd never.
" Thou speakest well, methought, for as thy guide The moment's favour did a god assign, And each one feels himself when by thy side, Fate's fav'rite in a moment so divine; I tremble at thy look that bids me go, Why should I care such wisdom vast to know? Now am I far! And what would best befit The present minute? I could scarcely tell; Full many a rich possession offers it, These but offend, and I would fain repel.
Yearnings unquenchable still drive me on, All counsel, save unbounded tears, is gone.
Flow on, flow on in never-ceasing course, Yet may ye never quench my inward fire! Within my bosom heaves a mighty force, Where death and life contend in combat dire.
Medicines may serve the body's pangs to still; Nought but the spirit fails in strength of will,-- Fails in conception; wherefore fails it so? A thousand times her image it portrays; Enchanting now, and now compell'd to go, Now indistinct, now clothed in purest rays! How could the smallest comfort here be flowing? The ebb and flood, the coming and the going! * * * * * * Leave me here now, my life's companions true! Leave me alone on rock, in moor and heath; But courage! open lies the world to you, The glorious heavens above, the earth beneath; Observe, investigate, with searching eyes, And nature will disclose her mysteries.
To me is all, I to myself am lost, Who the immortals' fav'rite erst was thought; They, tempting, sent Pandoras to my cost, So rich in wealth, with danger far more fraught; They urged me to those lips, with rapture crown'd, Deserted me, and hurl'd me to the ground.
1823.
Written by Jack Gilbert | Create an image from this poem

Searching For Pittsburgh

 The fox pushes softly, blindly through me at night, 
between the liver and the stomach.
Comes to the heart and hesitates.
Considers and then goes around it.
Trying to escape the mildness of our violent world.
Goes deeper, searching for what remains of Pittsburgh in me.
The rusting mills sprawled gigantically along three rivers.
The authority of them.
The gritty alleys where we played every evening were stained pink by the inferno always surging in the sky, as though Christ and the Father were still fashioning the Earth.
Locomotives driving through the cold rain, lordly and bestial in their strength.
Massive water flowing morning and night throughout a city girded with ninety bridges.
Sumptuous-shouldered, sleek-thighed, obstinate and majestic, unquenchable.
All grip and flood, mighty sucking and deep-rooted grace.
A city of brick and tired wood.
Ox and sovereign spirit.
Primitive Pittsburgh.
Winter month after month telling of death.
The beauty forcing us as much as harshness.
Our spirits forged in that wilderness, our minds forged by the heart.
Making together a consequence of America.
The fox watched me build my Pittsburgh again and again.
In Paris afternoons on Buttes-Chaumont.
On Greek islands with their fields of stone.
In beds with women, sometimes, amid their gentleness.
Now the fox will live in our ruined house.
My tomatoes grow ripe among weeds and the sound of water.
In this happy place my serious heart has made.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things