THIS wood is older born than other woods:The trees are God’s imagining of trees,AnemonesSo pale as theseHave never laughed like children in far solitudes,Shaking and breaking worldforweary moodsTo pure and childish glees.The dripple from the mossed and plashing beckHas carven glassy walls of pallid stone,Where ferns have thrownFine silks unsewn,Faint clouds unskied, that, one enchanted moment, checkAnd chalice waterdrops. They, silver grown,With moons the darkness fleck.
THIS wood is older born than other woods:The trees are God’s imagining of trees,AnemonesSo pale as theseHave never laughed like children in far solitudes,Shaking and breaking worldforweary moodsTo pure and childish glees.The dripple from the mossed and plashing beckHas carven glassy walls of pallid stone,Where ferns have thrownFine silks unsewn,Faint clouds unskied, that, one enchanted moment, checkAnd chalice waterdrops. They, silver grown,With moons the darkness fleck.
THIS wood is older born than other woods:The trees are God’s imagining of trees,AnemonesSo pale as theseHave never laughed like children in far solitudes,Shaking and breaking worldforweary moodsTo pure and childish glees.
The dripple from the mossed and plashing beckHas carven glassy walls of pallid stone,Where ferns have thrownFine silks unsewn,Faint clouds unskied, that, one enchanted moment, checkAnd chalice waterdrops. They, silver grown,With moons the darkness fleck.
MAN—you who think you really knowThe beast you gaze on in the show,Nor see with what consummate artEach animal enacts its part—How different do they all appearThe moment that you are not there!Then, fawns with liquid eyes a-flamePursue the bear, their nightly game;Wolves shiver as the rabbit roarsAnd stretches his terrific claws;While trembling tigers dare not sleepFor passionate, relentless sheep,And frantic eagles through the skiesAre chased by angry butterflies.—But beasts would suffer all confusionsBefore they shattered man’s illusions.
MAN—you who think you really knowThe beast you gaze on in the show,Nor see with what consummate artEach animal enacts its part—How different do they all appearThe moment that you are not there!Then, fawns with liquid eyes a-flamePursue the bear, their nightly game;Wolves shiver as the rabbit roarsAnd stretches his terrific claws;While trembling tigers dare not sleepFor passionate, relentless sheep,And frantic eagles through the skiesAre chased by angry butterflies.—But beasts would suffer all confusionsBefore they shattered man’s illusions.
MAN—you who think you really knowThe beast you gaze on in the show,Nor see with what consummate artEach animal enacts its part—How different do they all appearThe moment that you are not there!Then, fawns with liquid eyes a-flamePursue the bear, their nightly game;Wolves shiver as the rabbit roarsAnd stretches his terrific claws;While trembling tigers dare not sleepFor passionate, relentless sheep,And frantic eagles through the skiesAre chased by angry butterflies.—But beasts would suffer all confusionsBefore they shattered man’s illusions.
SINCE I have seen you do those intimate thingsThat other men but dream of; lull asleepThe sinister dark forest of your hair,And tie the bows that stir on your calm breastFaintly as leaves that shudder in their sleep.Since I have seen your stocking swallow up,A swift black wind, the pale flame of your foot,And deemed your slender limbs so meshed in silkSweet mermaid sisters drowned in their dark hair;I have not troubled overmuch with food,And wine has seemed like water from a well;Pavements are built of fire, grass of thin flames.All other girls grow dull as painted flowersOr flutter harmlessly like coloured fliesWhose wings are tangled in the net of leavesSpread by frail trees that grow behind the eyes.
SINCE I have seen you do those intimate thingsThat other men but dream of; lull asleepThe sinister dark forest of your hair,And tie the bows that stir on your calm breastFaintly as leaves that shudder in their sleep.Since I have seen your stocking swallow up,A swift black wind, the pale flame of your foot,And deemed your slender limbs so meshed in silkSweet mermaid sisters drowned in their dark hair;I have not troubled overmuch with food,And wine has seemed like water from a well;Pavements are built of fire, grass of thin flames.All other girls grow dull as painted flowersOr flutter harmlessly like coloured fliesWhose wings are tangled in the net of leavesSpread by frail trees that grow behind the eyes.
SINCE I have seen you do those intimate thingsThat other men but dream of; lull asleepThe sinister dark forest of your hair,And tie the bows that stir on your calm breastFaintly as leaves that shudder in their sleep.Since I have seen your stocking swallow up,A swift black wind, the pale flame of your foot,And deemed your slender limbs so meshed in silkSweet mermaid sisters drowned in their dark hair;I have not troubled overmuch with food,And wine has seemed like water from a well;Pavements are built of fire, grass of thin flames.All other girls grow dull as painted flowersOr flutter harmlessly like coloured fliesWhose wings are tangled in the net of leavesSpread by frail trees that grow behind the eyes.
TO PEGGY
WHEN our sweet bodies moulder under-ground,Shut off from these bright waters and clear skies,When we hear nothing but the sullen soundOf dead flesh dropping slowly from the boneAnd muffled fall of tongue and ears and eyes;Perhaps, as each disintegrates alone,Frail broken vials once brimmed with curious sense,Our souls will pitch old Grossness from his throne,And on the beat of unsubstantial wingsSoar to new ecstasies still more intense.There the thin voice of horny, black-legged thingsShall thrill me as girls’ laughter thrills me here,And the cold drops a passing storm-cloud flingsBe my strong wine, and crawling roots and clodsMy trees and hills, and slugs swift fallow deer.There I shall dote upon a sexless flowerBy dream-ghosts planted in my dripping brain,And suck from those cold petals subtler powerThan from your colder, whiter flesh could fall,Most vile of girls and lovelier than all.But in your tomb the deathless She will reignAnd draw new lovers out of rotting sodsThat your lithe body may for ever squirmBeneath the strange embraces of the worm.
WHEN our sweet bodies moulder under-ground,Shut off from these bright waters and clear skies,When we hear nothing but the sullen soundOf dead flesh dropping slowly from the boneAnd muffled fall of tongue and ears and eyes;Perhaps, as each disintegrates alone,Frail broken vials once brimmed with curious sense,Our souls will pitch old Grossness from his throne,And on the beat of unsubstantial wingsSoar to new ecstasies still more intense.There the thin voice of horny, black-legged thingsShall thrill me as girls’ laughter thrills me here,And the cold drops a passing storm-cloud flingsBe my strong wine, and crawling roots and clodsMy trees and hills, and slugs swift fallow deer.There I shall dote upon a sexless flowerBy dream-ghosts planted in my dripping brain,And suck from those cold petals subtler powerThan from your colder, whiter flesh could fall,Most vile of girls and lovelier than all.But in your tomb the deathless She will reignAnd draw new lovers out of rotting sodsThat your lithe body may for ever squirmBeneath the strange embraces of the worm.
WHEN our sweet bodies moulder under-ground,Shut off from these bright waters and clear skies,When we hear nothing but the sullen soundOf dead flesh dropping slowly from the boneAnd muffled fall of tongue and ears and eyes;Perhaps, as each disintegrates alone,Frail broken vials once brimmed with curious sense,Our souls will pitch old Grossness from his throne,And on the beat of unsubstantial wingsSoar to new ecstasies still more intense.There the thin voice of horny, black-legged thingsShall thrill me as girls’ laughter thrills me here,And the cold drops a passing storm-cloud flingsBe my strong wine, and crawling roots and clodsMy trees and hills, and slugs swift fallow deer.There I shall dote upon a sexless flowerBy dream-ghosts planted in my dripping brain,And suck from those cold petals subtler powerThan from your colder, whiter flesh could fall,Most vile of girls and lovelier than all.But in your tomb the deathless She will reignAnd draw new lovers out of rotting sodsThat your lithe body may for ever squirmBeneath the strange embraces of the worm.
WEEP for me but one day,Dry then your eyes;Think, is a heap of clayWorth a maid’s sighs?Sigh nine days if you canFor my waste blood;Think then, you love a manWhose face is mud;Whose flesh and hair thrill notAt your faint touch;Dear! limbs and brain will rot,Dream not of such.
WEEP for me but one day,Dry then your eyes;Think, is a heap of clayWorth a maid’s sighs?Sigh nine days if you canFor my waste blood;Think then, you love a manWhose face is mud;Whose flesh and hair thrill notAt your faint touch;Dear! limbs and brain will rot,Dream not of such.
WEEP for me but one day,Dry then your eyes;Think, is a heap of clayWorth a maid’s sighs?
Sigh nine days if you canFor my waste blood;Think then, you love a manWhose face is mud;
Whose flesh and hair thrill notAt your faint touch;Dear! limbs and brain will rot,Dream not of such.
“What shall I write?” said Yegor.—Tchekov.
“WHAT shall I write?” said Yegor;“Of the bright-plumed bird that singsHovering on the fringes of the forest,Where leafy dreams are grown,And thoughts go with silent flutterings,Like moths by a dark wind blown?”“Oh, write of those quiet women,Beautiful, slim and pale,Whose bodies glimmer under cool green waters,Whose hands like lilies floatTangled in the heavy purple veilOf hair on their breast and throat.”“Or write of swans and princesCarved out of marble clouds,Of the flowers that wither upon distant mountains,Grey-pencilled in the brain;Of fiercely hurrying night-born crowdsBy the first swift sun-ray slain.”“Nay, I will sing,” said Yegor,“Of stranger things than these,Of a girl I met in the fresh of morning,A laughing, slender flame;Of the slow stream’s song and the chant of bees,In a land without a name.”
“WHAT shall I write?” said Yegor;“Of the bright-plumed bird that singsHovering on the fringes of the forest,Where leafy dreams are grown,And thoughts go with silent flutterings,Like moths by a dark wind blown?”“Oh, write of those quiet women,Beautiful, slim and pale,Whose bodies glimmer under cool green waters,Whose hands like lilies floatTangled in the heavy purple veilOf hair on their breast and throat.”“Or write of swans and princesCarved out of marble clouds,Of the flowers that wither upon distant mountains,Grey-pencilled in the brain;Of fiercely hurrying night-born crowdsBy the first swift sun-ray slain.”“Nay, I will sing,” said Yegor,“Of stranger things than these,Of a girl I met in the fresh of morning,A laughing, slender flame;Of the slow stream’s song and the chant of bees,In a land without a name.”
“WHAT shall I write?” said Yegor;“Of the bright-plumed bird that singsHovering on the fringes of the forest,Where leafy dreams are grown,And thoughts go with silent flutterings,Like moths by a dark wind blown?”
“Oh, write of those quiet women,Beautiful, slim and pale,Whose bodies glimmer under cool green waters,Whose hands like lilies floatTangled in the heavy purple veilOf hair on their breast and throat.”
“Or write of swans and princesCarved out of marble clouds,Of the flowers that wither upon distant mountains,Grey-pencilled in the brain;Of fiercely hurrying night-born crowdsBy the first swift sun-ray slain.”
“Nay, I will sing,” said Yegor,“Of stranger things than these,Of a girl I met in the fresh of morning,A laughing, slender flame;Of the slow stream’s song and the chant of bees,In a land without a name.”
WHEN my girl swims with me I thinkShe is a Shark with hungry teeth,Because her throat that dazzles meIs white as sharks are underneath.And when she drags me down with herUnder the wave, she clings so tight,She seems a deadly Water-snakeWho smothers me in that dim light.Yet when we lie on the hot sand,I find she cannot bite or hiss,But she swears I’m a Tiger fierceWho kills her slowly with a kiss.
WHEN my girl swims with me I thinkShe is a Shark with hungry teeth,Because her throat that dazzles meIs white as sharks are underneath.And when she drags me down with herUnder the wave, she clings so tight,She seems a deadly Water-snakeWho smothers me in that dim light.Yet when we lie on the hot sand,I find she cannot bite or hiss,But she swears I’m a Tiger fierceWho kills her slowly with a kiss.
WHEN my girl swims with me I thinkShe is a Shark with hungry teeth,Because her throat that dazzles meIs white as sharks are underneath.
And when she drags me down with herUnder the wave, she clings so tight,She seems a deadly Water-snakeWho smothers me in that dim light.
Yet when we lie on the hot sand,I find she cannot bite or hiss,But she swears I’m a Tiger fierceWho kills her slowly with a kiss.
“It is in the soul that things happen.”
“It is in the soul that things happen.”
“It is in the soul that things happen.”
[A]The lyrics from “The Burden of Babylon” appeared inOxford Poetry, 1919. The present editors have decided to reprint them with their context.
[A]The lyrics from “The Burden of Babylon” appeared inOxford Poetry, 1919. The present editors have decided to reprint them with their context.
Scene:An upper chamber in the Palace of the King of Babylon. Dusk on a hot summer’s evening. The voice of one singing far off beyond the palace-gardens is heard vaguely from time to time. The King is sitting by an open window.
Scene:An upper chamber in the Palace of the King of Babylon. Dusk on a hot summer’s evening. The voice of one singing far off beyond the palace-gardens is heard vaguely from time to time. The King is sitting by an open window.
SINCE I am Babylon, I am the world.The windy heavens and the rainy skiesAttend the earth in humble servitude.And I am Babylon, I am the world:The heavens and their powers attend on me.
SINCE I am Babylon, I am the world.The windy heavens and the rainy skiesAttend the earth in humble servitude.And I am Babylon, I am the world:The heavens and their powers attend on me.
SINCE I am Babylon, I am the world.The windy heavens and the rainy skiesAttend the earth in humble servitude.And I am Babylon, I am the world:The heavens and their powers attend on me.
Babylon, the glory of the Kingdoms,And the Chaldee’s excellency,Is become as Sodom and Gomorrah,Whom God overthrew by the Sea.
Babylon, the glory of the Kingdoms,And the Chaldee’s excellency,Is become as Sodom and Gomorrah,Whom God overthrew by the Sea.
Babylon, the glory of the Kingdoms,And the Chaldee’s excellency,Is become as Sodom and Gomorrah,Whom God overthrew by the Sea.
Who is that fellow crying by the river?I think I heard him lift his voice in praiseOf Babylon: some minstrelle seeking hire:I need him not to tell me who I am,For I am Baladan of Babylon.The splendours of my sceptre, throne, and crown,And all the awe that fills my royal halls,The pomp that heralds me, the shout that follows,Are flying shadows and reflections onlyFrom the wide dazzlings of myself, the King.This I conceive: and yet, we kings have labourTo apprehend ourselves imperially,And see the blaze and lightnings of our person;The thought of their own sovereignty amazesThe princelings even, and the lesser kings:But I am Baladan of Babylon.
Who is that fellow crying by the river?I think I heard him lift his voice in praiseOf Babylon: some minstrelle seeking hire:I need him not to tell me who I am,For I am Baladan of Babylon.The splendours of my sceptre, throne, and crown,And all the awe that fills my royal halls,The pomp that heralds me, the shout that follows,Are flying shadows and reflections onlyFrom the wide dazzlings of myself, the King.This I conceive: and yet, we kings have labourTo apprehend ourselves imperially,And see the blaze and lightnings of our person;The thought of their own sovereignty amazesThe princelings even, and the lesser kings:But I am Baladan of Babylon.
Who is that fellow crying by the river?I think I heard him lift his voice in praiseOf Babylon: some minstrelle seeking hire:I need him not to tell me who I am,For I am Baladan of Babylon.The splendours of my sceptre, throne, and crown,And all the awe that fills my royal halls,The pomp that heralds me, the shout that follows,Are flying shadows and reflections onlyFrom the wide dazzlings of myself, the King.This I conceive: and yet, we kings have labourTo apprehend ourselves imperially,And see the blaze and lightnings of our person;The thought of their own sovereignty amazesThe princelings even, and the lesser kings:But I am Baladan of Babylon.
Never again inhabited,Babylon, O BabylonEven the wandering ArabianFrom thy weary waste is gone.Neither shall the shepherd tend his fold there,Nor any green herb be grown:It cometh in the night-time suddenly,And Babylon is overthrown.
Never again inhabited,Babylon, O BabylonEven the wandering ArabianFrom thy weary waste is gone.Neither shall the shepherd tend his fold there,Nor any green herb be grown:It cometh in the night-time suddenly,And Babylon is overthrown.
Never again inhabited,Babylon, O BabylonEven the wandering ArabianFrom thy weary waste is gone.Neither shall the shepherd tend his fold there,Nor any green herb be grown:It cometh in the night-time suddenly,And Babylon is overthrown.
Pale from the east, the stars arise, and climb,And then grow bright, beholding Babylon;They would delay, but may not; so they pass,And fade and fall, bereft of Babylon.Quick from the Midian line the sun comes up,For he expects to see my palaces;And the moon lingers, even on the wane....Mine ancient dynasty, as yon great river,Euphrates, with his fountains in far hills,Arose in the blue morning of the years;And as yon river flows on into time,Unalterable in majesty, my lineSurvives in domination down the years.I know, but am concerned not, that some peoples,At the pale limits of the world, abideAs yet beyond the circle of my sway,The miserable sons of meagre soilThat needs much tillage ere the yield be good.I only wait until they ripen more,And fatten toward my final harvesting:When I am ready, I will reap them in.For it is written in the stars, and readOf all my wise men and astrologers,That I, and my great line of Babylon,Shall rule the world, and only find a boundWhere the horizon’s bounds are set, an endWhen the world ends; so shall all other lands,All languages, all peoples, and all tongues,Become a fable told of olden times,Deemed of our sons a thing incredulous.
Pale from the east, the stars arise, and climb,And then grow bright, beholding Babylon;They would delay, but may not; so they pass,And fade and fall, bereft of Babylon.Quick from the Midian line the sun comes up,For he expects to see my palaces;And the moon lingers, even on the wane....Mine ancient dynasty, as yon great river,Euphrates, with his fountains in far hills,Arose in the blue morning of the years;And as yon river flows on into time,Unalterable in majesty, my lineSurvives in domination down the years.I know, but am concerned not, that some peoples,At the pale limits of the world, abideAs yet beyond the circle of my sway,The miserable sons of meagre soilThat needs much tillage ere the yield be good.I only wait until they ripen more,And fatten toward my final harvesting:When I am ready, I will reap them in.For it is written in the stars, and readOf all my wise men and astrologers,That I, and my great line of Babylon,Shall rule the world, and only find a boundWhere the horizon’s bounds are set, an endWhen the world ends; so shall all other lands,All languages, all peoples, and all tongues,Become a fable told of olden times,Deemed of our sons a thing incredulous.
Pale from the east, the stars arise, and climb,And then grow bright, beholding Babylon;They would delay, but may not; so they pass,And fade and fall, bereft of Babylon.Quick from the Midian line the sun comes up,For he expects to see my palaces;And the moon lingers, even on the wane....Mine ancient dynasty, as yon great river,Euphrates, with his fountains in far hills,Arose in the blue morning of the years;And as yon river flows on into time,Unalterable in majesty, my lineSurvives in domination down the years.I know, but am concerned not, that some peoples,At the pale limits of the world, abideAs yet beyond the circle of my sway,The miserable sons of meagre soilThat needs much tillage ere the yield be good.I only wait until they ripen more,And fatten toward my final harvesting:When I am ready, I will reap them in.For it is written in the stars, and readOf all my wise men and astrologers,That I, and my great line of Babylon,Shall rule the world, and only find a boundWhere the horizon’s bounds are set, an endWhen the world ends; so shall all other lands,All languages, all peoples, and all tongues,Become a fable told of olden times,Deemed of our sons a thing incredulous.
Woeful are thy desolate palaces,Where doleful creatures lie,And wild beasts out of the islandsIn thy fallen chambers cry.Where now are the viol and the tabret?—But owls hoot in moonlight,And over the ruins of BabylonThe satyrs dance by night.
Woeful are thy desolate palaces,Where doleful creatures lie,And wild beasts out of the islandsIn thy fallen chambers cry.Where now are the viol and the tabret?—But owls hoot in moonlight,And over the ruins of BabylonThe satyrs dance by night.
Woeful are thy desolate palaces,Where doleful creatures lie,And wild beasts out of the islandsIn thy fallen chambers cry.Where now are the viol and the tabret?—But owls hoot in moonlight,And over the ruins of BabylonThe satyrs dance by night.
That voice, that seems to hum my kingdom’s gloryFails in the vast immensity of night,As fails all earthly praise of Him who hearsThe ceaseless acclamation of the stars.What needs there more?—the apple of the world,Grown ripe and juicy, rolls into my lap,And all the gods of Babylon, well pleasedWith blood of bulls and fume of fragrant things,Even while I take mine ease, attend on me:The figs do mellow, the olive, and the vine,And in the plains climb the big sycamores;My camels and my laden dromedariesMove in from eastward bearing odorous gums,And the Zidonians hew me cedar beams,Even tall cedars out of Lebanon;Euphrates floats his treasured freightage down,And all great Babylon is filled with spoil.Wherefore, upon the summit of the world,The utmost apex of this thronèd realm,I stand, as stands the driving charioteer,And steer my course right onward toward the stars.Mean-fated men my horses trample under,And my wine-bins have drained the blood of mothers,And smoothly my wheels run upon the necksOf babes and sucklings,—while I hold my way,Serene, supreme, secure in destiny,Because the gods perceive mine excellence,And entertain for mine imperial PersonPeculiar favours.... I am Babylon:Exceeding precious in the High One’s eyes.
That voice, that seems to hum my kingdom’s gloryFails in the vast immensity of night,As fails all earthly praise of Him who hearsThe ceaseless acclamation of the stars.What needs there more?—the apple of the world,Grown ripe and juicy, rolls into my lap,And all the gods of Babylon, well pleasedWith blood of bulls and fume of fragrant things,Even while I take mine ease, attend on me:The figs do mellow, the olive, and the vine,And in the plains climb the big sycamores;My camels and my laden dromedariesMove in from eastward bearing odorous gums,And the Zidonians hew me cedar beams,Even tall cedars out of Lebanon;Euphrates floats his treasured freightage down,And all great Babylon is filled with spoil.Wherefore, upon the summit of the world,The utmost apex of this thronèd realm,I stand, as stands the driving charioteer,And steer my course right onward toward the stars.Mean-fated men my horses trample under,And my wine-bins have drained the blood of mothers,And smoothly my wheels run upon the necksOf babes and sucklings,—while I hold my way,Serene, supreme, secure in destiny,Because the gods perceive mine excellence,And entertain for mine imperial PersonPeculiar favours.... I am Babylon:Exceeding precious in the High One’s eyes.
That voice, that seems to hum my kingdom’s gloryFails in the vast immensity of night,As fails all earthly praise of Him who hearsThe ceaseless acclamation of the stars.What needs there more?—the apple of the world,Grown ripe and juicy, rolls into my lap,And all the gods of Babylon, well pleasedWith blood of bulls and fume of fragrant things,Even while I take mine ease, attend on me:The figs do mellow, the olive, and the vine,And in the plains climb the big sycamores;My camels and my laden dromedariesMove in from eastward bearing odorous gums,And the Zidonians hew me cedar beams,Even tall cedars out of Lebanon;Euphrates floats his treasured freightage down,And all great Babylon is filled with spoil.Wherefore, upon the summit of the world,The utmost apex of this thronèd realm,I stand, as stands the driving charioteer,And steer my course right onward toward the stars.Mean-fated men my horses trample under,And my wine-bins have drained the blood of mothers,And smoothly my wheels run upon the necksOf babes and sucklings,—while I hold my way,Serene, supreme, secure in destiny,Because the gods perceive mine excellence,And entertain for mine imperial PersonPeculiar favours.... I am Babylon:Exceeding precious in the High One’s eyes.
Babylon is fallen, fallen,And never shall be known again!Drunken with the blood of my belovèd,And trampling on the sons of men.But God is awake and aware of thee,And sharply shines His sword,Where over the earth spring suddenlyThe hidden hosts of the Lord;Armies of right and of righteousness,Huge hosts, unseen, unknown:And thy pomp, and thy revellings, and glory,Where the wind goes, they are gone.
Babylon is fallen, fallen,And never shall be known again!Drunken with the blood of my belovèd,And trampling on the sons of men.But God is awake and aware of thee,And sharply shines His sword,Where over the earth spring suddenlyThe hidden hosts of the Lord;Armies of right and of righteousness,Huge hosts, unseen, unknown:And thy pomp, and thy revellings, and glory,Where the wind goes, they are gone.
Babylon is fallen, fallen,And never shall be known again!Drunken with the blood of my belovèd,And trampling on the sons of men.But God is awake and aware of thee,And sharply shines His sword,Where over the earth spring suddenlyThe hidden hosts of the Lord;Armies of right and of righteousness,Huge hosts, unseen, unknown:And thy pomp, and thy revellings, and glory,Where the wind goes, they are gone.
UNNATURAL foliage pales the trees,Frost in compassion of their deathHas kissed them, and his icy breathProclaims and silvers their election.Death, wert thou beautiful as these,We scarce would pray for resurrection.
UNNATURAL foliage pales the trees,Frost in compassion of their deathHas kissed them, and his icy breathProclaims and silvers their election.Death, wert thou beautiful as these,We scarce would pray for resurrection.
UNNATURAL foliage pales the trees,Frost in compassion of their deathHas kissed them, and his icy breathProclaims and silvers their election.Death, wert thou beautiful as these,We scarce would pray for resurrection.
PROUD Eastern Queene,Borne forth in splendour to thy buriall.What need of gemsTo deck thee? Bear the Tyrian gauds aside.Thy own dead loveliness outshines the prideOf diadems.
PROUD Eastern Queene,Borne forth in splendour to thy buriall.What need of gemsTo deck thee? Bear the Tyrian gauds aside.Thy own dead loveliness outshines the prideOf diadems.
PROUD Eastern Queene,Borne forth in splendour to thy buriall.What need of gemsTo deck thee? Bear the Tyrian gauds aside.Thy own dead loveliness outshines the prideOf diadems.
O splendid hearte,Scorned and afflicted, still thou needest notComfort of me.What matter though the body be uncoutheWherein thou art? Fear not. He seeth truthWho gave it thee.
O splendid hearte,Scorned and afflicted, still thou needest notComfort of me.What matter though the body be uncoutheWherein thou art? Fear not. He seeth truthWho gave it thee.
O splendid hearte,Scorned and afflicted, still thou needest notComfort of me.What matter though the body be uncoutheWherein thou art? Fear not. He seeth truthWho gave it thee.
[To be chaunted as in a solemn Dumpe by such as fear God.]
TWO days with puckered face of painThe accidental baby cried,And on the morning of the thirdUnclenched her tiny hands, and died.
TWO days with puckered face of painThe accidental baby cried,And on the morning of the thirdUnclenched her tiny hands, and died.
TWO days with puckered face of painThe accidental baby cried,And on the morning of the thirdUnclenched her tiny hands, and died.
BILL Jupp lies ’ere, aged sixty year:From Tavistock ’e came.Single ’e bided, and ’e wished’Is father’d done the same.
BILL Jupp lies ’ere, aged sixty year:From Tavistock ’e came.Single ’e bided, and ’e wished’Is father’d done the same.
BILL Jupp lies ’ere, aged sixty year:From Tavistock ’e came.Single ’e bided, and ’e wished’Is father’d done the same.
GNARLY and bent and deaf ’s a postPore ol’ Ezekiel PurvisGoeth creepin’ slowly up the ’illTo the Commoonion Survis.Tap-tappy-tappy up the haisleGoeth stick and brassy ferule;And Parson ’ath to stoopy downAnd ’olley in ees yerole.
GNARLY and bent and deaf ’s a postPore ol’ Ezekiel PurvisGoeth creepin’ slowly up the ’illTo the Commoonion Survis.Tap-tappy-tappy up the haisleGoeth stick and brassy ferule;And Parson ’ath to stoopy downAnd ’olley in ees yerole.
GNARLY and bent and deaf ’s a postPore ol’ Ezekiel PurvisGoeth creepin’ slowly up the ’illTo the Commoonion Survis.
Tap-tappy-tappy up the haisleGoeth stick and brassy ferule;And Parson ’ath to stoopy downAnd ’olley in ees yerole.
TO ERIC DICKINSON
IDREAD the parrots of the summer sun,The harsh and blazing screams of July noon,A riot of jays and peacocks and macaws.There is some presage of big ardours dueEven in the pale flamingoes of the dawn;While golden pheasants and hoopoes of the WestBurn fierce and proudly still, when he has set.Better the winter wagtails of pied skies,Cold ospreys of the north, cormorants of squall,Brown wrens of rain, white silent owls of snow,And bitterns of great clouds that in OctoberSweep from the west at evening. Lovelier stillThe night’s black swans, the daws of starless night(Daw-like to hide what’s shiny), plovers and gullsOf winds that cry on autumn afternoons....These every one I love: but above theseRarest of all my birds, I dearly loveThe blue and silver herons of the moon.
IDREAD the parrots of the summer sun,The harsh and blazing screams of July noon,A riot of jays and peacocks and macaws.There is some presage of big ardours dueEven in the pale flamingoes of the dawn;While golden pheasants and hoopoes of the WestBurn fierce and proudly still, when he has set.Better the winter wagtails of pied skies,Cold ospreys of the north, cormorants of squall,Brown wrens of rain, white silent owls of snow,And bitterns of great clouds that in OctoberSweep from the west at evening. Lovelier stillThe night’s black swans, the daws of starless night(Daw-like to hide what’s shiny), plovers and gullsOf winds that cry on autumn afternoons....These every one I love: but above theseRarest of all my birds, I dearly loveThe blue and silver herons of the moon.
IDREAD the parrots of the summer sun,The harsh and blazing screams of July noon,A riot of jays and peacocks and macaws.There is some presage of big ardours dueEven in the pale flamingoes of the dawn;While golden pheasants and hoopoes of the WestBurn fierce and proudly still, when he has set.
Better the winter wagtails of pied skies,Cold ospreys of the north, cormorants of squall,Brown wrens of rain, white silent owls of snow,And bitterns of great clouds that in OctoberSweep from the west at evening. Lovelier stillThe night’s black swans, the daws of starless night(Daw-like to hide what’s shiny), plovers and gullsOf winds that cry on autumn afternoons....
These every one I love: but above theseRarest of all my birds, I dearly loveThe blue and silver herons of the moon.
CHRISTOPHER MARLYE damned his GodIn many a blasphemous mighty line,—Being given to words and wenches and wine.He wrote his Faustus, and laughed to seeHow everyone feared his devils but he.Christopher Marlye passed the gate,Eager to stalk on the floor of Heaven,Outface his God, and affront the Seven:But Peter genially let him in,Making no mention of all his sin.And he got no credit for all he had done,Though he grabbed a hold on the coat of God,And bellowed his infamies one by one,Blasphemy, lechery, thought, and deed ...But nobody paid him the slightest heed.And the devils and torments he thought to braveHe left behind, on this side of the grave.Heigh-ho! for Christopher Marlye.
CHRISTOPHER MARLYE damned his GodIn many a blasphemous mighty line,—Being given to words and wenches and wine.He wrote his Faustus, and laughed to seeHow everyone feared his devils but he.Christopher Marlye passed the gate,Eager to stalk on the floor of Heaven,Outface his God, and affront the Seven:But Peter genially let him in,Making no mention of all his sin.And he got no credit for all he had done,Though he grabbed a hold on the coat of God,And bellowed his infamies one by one,Blasphemy, lechery, thought, and deed ...But nobody paid him the slightest heed.And the devils and torments he thought to braveHe left behind, on this side of the grave.Heigh-ho! for Christopher Marlye.
CHRISTOPHER MARLYE damned his GodIn many a blasphemous mighty line,—Being given to words and wenches and wine.
He wrote his Faustus, and laughed to seeHow everyone feared his devils but he.
Christopher Marlye passed the gate,Eager to stalk on the floor of Heaven,Outface his God, and affront the Seven:
But Peter genially let him in,Making no mention of all his sin.
And he got no credit for all he had done,Though he grabbed a hold on the coat of God,And bellowed his infamies one by one,Blasphemy, lechery, thought, and deed ...
But nobody paid him the slightest heed.
And the devils and torments he thought to braveHe left behind, on this side of the grave.
Heigh-ho! for Christopher Marlye.
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