Poem – A Woman is Going

A woman is going, 

See her, she is like a river.

A woman is singing

Hear her, that is like nectar.
A woman is fighting

And killing a mad king

For the welfare of all.

A woman is doing each

And every impossible thing

If you are facing any trouble

anywhere, she is there, give a call.
A woman, is a woman, feel her

She is your own maker, my dear men, 

She is giving everything now and then. 

Poem – A Woman Is A

For dogs

A  woman is a

Lump of meat

For a lust

A woman is an

Object of desire

For a saint

A woman is a 

Mother with new light. 

Poem – Zero Sum Game

Zero sum game 

Going  to end

While everybody

lost legitimate

Interest between

Life and death.
Forgetting name

And address and

Failure of all strategic

Move we became

Still in between

Death and life. 

Poem – Zero Tolerance

Zero tolerance

Of terrorism is

Good and welcomed.

Let us know first

What is terrorism

And what is not

Before doing anything

For and against.

Give proper respect

To each and everyone

In my view, this should

Be the fundamental principle

Of everyone’s life.

Expect not anything

From anybody at any time.

Be in love and in truth

Be truthful and a lover of nature.

You are not alone, You are with all, 

You are among all, first and foremost. 

Poem – Zero Count

Before counting zero

I want to know truth

Surrounding is loud mouthed

And people are flatterers.
I want to know how it is

Going on counting down

And I am on the hit list

Facing consequences as terror. 

Poem – Zebra Crossing

Over the bridge

And bridge collapsed.
Zebra crossing 

On the earth

And the earth is no more.
Zebra crossing

In the sky

And the sky broken down. 

Poem – Zealousy

You are zealous

You are zealously active

To protect me, my dear, 

As I have taken refugee 

At You and at Your feet.

You are taking my care

By granting all my wishes

O my dear, You grants 

Tranquility like full moon.

You are an embodiment of

Supreme Bliss, my dear, 

You are mine of compassion, 

You are complete, You are

Accomplished, original source of all. 

Kate Millet

The concept of romantic love affords a means of emotional manipulation which the male is free to exploit, since love is the only circumstance in which the female is (ideologically) pardoned for sexual activity.

Poem – In Defiance of Fortune

Never think you fortune can bear the sway

Where virtue’s force can cause her to obey. 

Poem – The 13 Psalm of David

Fools that true faith yet never had

Saith in their hearts, there is no God.

Filthy they are in their practice, 

Of them not one is godly wise.

From heaven the Lord on man did look

To know what ways he undertook.

All they were vain and went astray, 

Not one he found in the right way.

In heart and tongue have they deceit, 

Their lips throw forth a poisoned bait.

Their minds are mad, their mouths are wode, 

And swift they be in shedding blood.

So blind they are, no truth they know, 

No fear of God in them will grow.

How can that cruel sort be good, 

Of God’s dear flock which suck the blood? 

On him rightly shall they not call, 

Despair will so their hearts appall.

At all times God is with the just, 

Because they put in him their trust.

Who shall therefore from Sion give

That health which hangeth in our belief? 

When God shall take from his the smart, 

Then will Jacob rejoice in heart.

Praise to God. 

Kate Millett

Stupid misery of fame and money. Always we were safe from it, mistaking our obscurity for a curse when it was a treasure. Free to make what we liked, to be ourselves, even do nothing at all. No one watching. We could be real.

Kate Millett

The whole bloody system is sick: the very notion of leadership, a balloon with a face painted upon it, elected and inflated by media’s diabolic need to reduce ideas to personalities.

Kate Millett

A revolution is not the overturning of a cart, a reshuffling in the cards of state. It is a process, a swelling, a new growth in the race. If it is real, not simply a trauma, it is another ring in the tree of history, layer upon layer of invisible tissue composing the evidence of a circle.

Kate Millett

The great mass of women throughout history have been confined to the cultural level of animal life in providing the male with sexual outlet and exercising the animal functions of reproduction and care of the young.

Kate Millett

Prostitution, when unmotivated by economic need, might well be defined as a species of psychological addiction, built on self-hatred through repetitions of the act of sale by which a whore is defined.

Kate Millett

It would appear that love is dead. Or very likely in a bad way.

Poem – Girltalk

My babygirl is growing up, 

She’s stuck onto her phone, 

And while she chatters on at night, 

I can’t help groan and moan! 
She clutches tightly on to it, 

the way she clutched my hand, 

When she was still my babygirl, 

Why won’t she understand? ? 
That phone is her connection

To a grown-up, scary place, 

And I pray for her protection, 

When I see her baby-face.
For she’ll always be my baby, 

Even when shes ninety-five, 

I knew her before I saw her, 

In the center of my life.
So, why must we frown and bicker? 

And weep within our heart, 

Let nothing come between us

No phone will keep us apart.
And then I pause and pray awhile, 

And feel so safe and warm, 

My babygirl will understand, 

One day…when she’s a Mom! 

Poem – Forgive

Why must love be always tragic? 

Why must joy destroy the magic? 

Is there no place for happy love? 

or is that meant for turtle doves? 
Must bitter tears and heartache be, 

a sign of true love’s legacy? 

Can’t laughter be love’s serenade? 

Why must the laughing always fade? 
Seems to me, love loves the pain, 

and the tears that fall like rain; 

And the ache that lingers on, 

that gnaws the heart from dusk to dawn.
Yet, that ache, that tears the soul, 

is what makes us live, makes us whole.

For every pain, there is a cure; 

and true love one day, will endure.
And on that day, that magic day, 

smiles will wipe those tears away; 

From wracking pain, completely free, 

the heartache, just a memory…
Healing comes and lets us live, 

if only we forget, forgive. 

Poem – For Zee

I’m growing and growing, as quick as I can, 

According to Heaven’s intricate plan! 

I’m a butterfly baby, I’m heaven-sent, 

My kisses are magic, to an incredible extent! 

I’m dancing thru’ life, each day is a song, 

I write the lyrics, now c’mon sing along! 

My life is a cakewalk, an exciting game, 

My high fashion sense, puts Brittney to shame! 

Lessons are easy, and studying is fun, 

At the end of the day, my homework is done! 

I wake up to Mum, and Dad’s hearty laughter, 

I love to watch them, live happily ever after! 

Our home is a haven, of peace and delight, 

We chase troubles away, and make things alright! 

Of course there are times, when I wear a frown, 

But then I do hand-stands, and turn it around! 

How utterly awesome, how blessed to be, 

amazing, spectacular, PHENOMENAL me! 

Poem – Follow Your Feet

Have you ever let your feet 

take you where they please? 

Have you ever walked for miles

to find trivial troubles ease? 
Once, I freed my little feet, 

I followed aimelessly.

I found myself on paths, 

that once were lost to me.
My feet lead me to a sandy beach, 

My feet kicked off my shoes, 

I nestled in the silky sand, 

I needed no excuse.
Once, while walking to the shops, 

They chose the other way, 

‘Not today! ‘, I thought, perturbed, 

‘I need to shop today…’
My feet took me to a park, 

My feet kicked off my shoes, 

I sank into the dewy grass, 

How could I refuse? 
Once, while rushing off to work, 

my feet paused on the road, 

We stopped to face the old white Cross, 

all in auto-mode.
My feet took me into Church, 

My feet kicked off my shoes, 

I felt white marble, cool & sweet, 

I knelt within the pews.
As I bowed my head to pray, 

and felt the sweet shalom, 

I heard the silence in my soul, 

I knew that I was home. 

Poem – Little Night

Little Night: when you

take me within, within,

up there,

three Pain-Inches above

the Floor:
all the Shroud-Coats of Sand,

all the Help-Nots,

all, that still

laughs

with the Tongue – 

Poem – Ice Eden

There is a Land that’s Lost,

Moon waxes in its Reeds,

and all that’s turned to frost

with us, burns there and sees.

It sees, for it has Eyes,

Earths they are, and bright.

Night, Night, Alkalis.

It sees, this Child of Sight.

It sees, it sees, we see,

I see you, you too see.

Ice will rise again before

This Hour shall cease to be. 

Poem – I Hear

I hear, the Axe has flowered,

I hear, the Place is un-nameable,

I hear, the Bread, that looks on him,

heals the Hanged-Man,

the Bread, his Wife baked for him,

I hear, they name Life

our sole Refuge. 

Poem – I can Still See You

I can still see you: an Echo,

to be touched with Feeler-

Words, on the Parting-

Ridge.
Your face softly shies away,

when all at once there is

lamp-like brightness

in me, at the Point,

where most painfully one says Never. 

Poem – Crystal

not on my lips look for your mouth,

not in front of the gate for the stranger,

not in the eye for the tear.
seven nights higher red makes for red,

seven hearts deeper the hand knocks on the gate,

seven roses later plashes the fountain. 

Poem – Kosovo

(for Jan Tuzinsky) 

A

paper Goethe

prays

in Serb

for four hundred dead children

In Schiller’s stone eye

gleams a tear of mercury

There’s a Gypsy weeping

for a little Romany fairy

at the bottom of the Adriatic

Blood

has an irresistible color

of the bluish dusk of the sky

from which falls

light and glitterings

like a gust of May rain

to fertilize the wounded earth.
(2002) 

Poem – Into The Blue

From morning we tirelessly squander ourselves into the blue,

which falls short of the border between water and sky.

Into the blue in which the swimming routes of fish cross

with the flight lines of birds.

Into the blue in which the slow movement of ships

cross the glittering fuselages of aeroplanes.

Into the blue

which though the power of its will

casts us back on to a sandy beach

together with other things over and above,

together with the dead bodies of fish, crabs and medusas,

together with fragments of seaweed,

tiny pebbles,

tops of Coca-Cola bottles,

together with scraps of paper

closed in bottles of sweet drinks.

We always read from the beginning

and on each side

these letters without lettering

completely whitened by the life-giving sun,

which knows very well whom to give a chance to and whom to not.

We read letters without lettering

and understand them frozenly.

We read letters without lettering

wept over by foaming waves

from which life comes,

sound, color and the divine.

The descendants of goddesses today dwell

in the endless rivieras of the whole world.

they declare nakedness

and godlike motor boats, cars, beaches, apartments,

music, films

and above all godlike men. 

At an ice-cream kiosk

I fell head over heels with one for the hundredth time.

It’s of no account

but it was her

with whom I shared a few experiences, memories,

children.

I fell in love with her completely

without reservation.

From the ice-cream stands

naked poster girls smiled at us

and the portrait of a statesman

wearing a admiral’s white uniform

in the blue background,

which could represent water as well as sky

and in which could move

atomic submarines as well as jet planes

and neon fish as well as rainbow birds.
(1985) 

Poem – I am With You

It’s completely me –

height 180 centimetres,

measurements 108 by 83 by 107,

weight 73 kilos,

five military qualifications

and even more civilian,

brown hair, green eyes,

born on the occasion

of the Hungarian Uprising,

bashful and christened,

married with three children.

I don’t beat out a rhythm in English,

but I’m of the world.

Send me fan mail,

postcards and gifts,

books and pictures,

busts and bacon,

booze and flowers.

Support your poet

who, instead of you, behaves

like an idiot.

Write to my European address –

Slovakia.

Call me, 

all of you, who love me,

who can’t live without me,

or least die.

Call the number 314 212,

my automatic telephone

will pick up 24 hours a day.

Don’t be ashamed of your feelings.

God is watching you –

at last do something stupid.

Send some dosh to my account

SSS 3478228.

Remit to my pristine account

your dirty money,

I’ll launder it day and night.

You can rely on me 

to spend it all on myself

as opposed to other

charitable institutions,

christmas clubs and other swindles.

I’m waiting for your letters,

spiritual outpourings

and filthy lucre.

I know

that all

the better sort of people are shocked

that the worse have not improved.

They can go

and get stuffed.
(1991) 

Poem – Family Study

Always when I think of you

Dawn breaks above Buenos Aires

and the Atlantic has the inexplicable color of your eyes.

Exotic birds

nest on out TV aerial

until the announcer

has a pearly hairdo

and complete blonde smile.

She claims that eternity has already lasted a whole year.

The weather forecast

announces in her place

a rainbow parrot.

For our wedding route

it wishes us little cloudiness

and success at least as large as the discovery of America

or the record flight of the ostrich from Australia

to the zoological gardens of Europe.

Always when I think of you

dawn breaks above Buenos Aires

and the wind whirls the pamphlets

of all the airlines in the world.

The Atlantic does not admit any other continent.

It’s clear as a stone of precious clarity.

Despite its twinkling depth it resembles a question

which posed passionately by your body.

Children search tirelessly for an answer

till now unwritten in books

and cut out colorful pictures from it.

It happens at home

behind whose windows fireworks blaze every evening.

Always when I think of you

dawn breaks above Buenos Aires.

And today, too, the Atlantic is completely upset.

It’s completely bashful

as its accustomed only to invisible phenomena.
(1981) 

Poem – Imitation

A dark unfathomed tide 

Of interminable pride – 

A mystery, and a dream, 

Should my early life seem; 

I say that dream was fraught 

With a wild and waking thought 

Of beings that have been, 

Which my spirit hath not seen, 

Had I let them pass me by, 

With a dreaming eye! 

Let none of earth inherit 

That vision of my spirit; 

Those thoughts I would control, 

As a spell upon his soul: 

For that bright hope at last 

And that light time have past, 

And my worldly rest hath gone 

With a sigh as it passed on: 

I care not though it perish 

With a thought I then did cherish 

Poem – Hymn

At morn- at noon- at twilight dim-

Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!

In joy and woe- in good and ill-

Mother of God, be with me still!

When the hours flew brightly by,

And not a cloud obscured the sky,

My soul, lest it should truant be,

Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;

Now, when storms of Fate o’ercast

Darkly my Present and my Past,

Let my Future radiant shine

With sweet hopes of thee and thine! 

Poem – For Annie

Thank Heaven! the crisis-

The danger is past,

And the lingering illness

Is over at last-

And the fever called “Living”

Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know

I am shorn of my strength,

And no muscle I move

As I lie at full length-

But no matter!-I feel

I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly,

Now, in my bed

That any beholder

Might fancy me dead-

Might start at beholding me,

Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning,

The sighing and sobbing,

Are quieted now,

With that horrible throbbing

At heart:- ah, that horrible,

Horrible throbbing!
The sickness- the nausea-

The pitiless pain-

Have ceased, with the fever

That maddened my brain-

With the fever called “Living”

That burned in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures

That torture the worst

Has abated- the terrible

Torture of thirst

For the naphthaline river

Of Passion accurst:-

I have drunk of a water

That quenches all thirst:-
Of a water that flows,

With a lullaby sound,

From a spring but a very few

Feet under ground-

From a cavern not very far

Down under ground.
And ah! let it never

Be foolishly said

That my room it is gloomy

And narrow my bed;

For man never slept

In a different bed-

And, to sleep, you must slumber

In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit

Here blandly reposes,

Forgetting, or never

Regretting its roses-

Its old agitations

Of myrtles and roses:
For now, while so quietly

Lying, it fancies

A holier odor

About it, of pansies-

A rosemary odor,

Commingled with pansies-

With rue and the beautiful

Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,

Bathing in many

A dream of the truth

And the beauty of Annie-

Drowned in a bath

Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kissed me,

She fondly caressed,

And then I fell gently

To sleep on her breast-

Deeply to sleep

From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished,

She covered me warm,

And she prayed to the angels

To keep me from harm-

To the queen of the angels

To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,

Now, in my bed,

(Knowing her love)

That you fancy me dead-

And I rest so contentedly,

Now, in my bed,

(With her love at my breast)

That you fancy me dead-

That you shudder to look at me,

Thinking me dead.
But my heart it is brighter

Than all of the many

Stars in the sky,

For it sparkles with Annie-

It glows with the light

Of the love of my Annie-

With the thought of the light

Of the eyes of my Annie. 

Poem -Fairy Land

Dim vales- and shadowy floods

-And cloudy-looking woods,

Whose forms we can’t discover

For the tears that drip all over!

Huge moons there wax and wane-

Again- again- again-

Every moment of the night-

Forever changing places-

And they put out the star-light

With the breath from their pale faces.

About twelve by the moon-dial,

One more filmy than the rest

(A kind which, upon trial,

They have found to be the best)

Comes down- still down- and down,

With its centre on the crown

Of a mountain’s eminence,

While its wide circumference

In easy drapery falls

Over hamlets, over halls,

Wherever they may be-

O’er the strange woods- o’er the sea-

Over spirits on the wing-

Over every drowsy thing-

And buries them up quite

In a labyrinth of light-

And then, how deep!- O, deep!

Is the passion of their sleep.

In the morning they arise,

And their moony covering

Is soaring in the skies,

With the tempests as they toss,

Like- almost anything-

Or a yellow Albatross.

They use that moon no more

For the same end as before-

Videlicet, a tent-

Which I think extravagant:

Its atomies, however,

Into a shower dissever,

Of which those butterflies

Of Earth, who seek the skies,

And so come down again,

(Never-contented things!)

Have brought a specimen

Upon their quivering wings. 

Poem – Evening Star

‘Twas noontide of summer,

And mid-time of night;

And stars, in their orbits,

Shone pale, thro’ the light

Of the brighter, cold moon,

‘Mid planets her slaves,

Herself in the Heavens,

Her beam on the waves.

I gazed awhile

On her cold smile;

Too cold- too cold for me-

There pass’d, as a shroud,

A fleecy cloud,

And I turned away to thee,

Proud Evening Star,

In thy glory afar,

And dearer thy beam shall be;

For joy to my heart

Is the proud part

Thou bearest in Heaven at night,

And more I admire

Thy distant fire,

Than that colder, lowly light. 

Poem – An Acrostic

Elizabeth it is in vain you say 

‘Love not’ — thou sayest it in so sweet a way: 

In vain those words from thee or L. E. L. 

Zantippe’s talents had enforced so well: 

Ah! if that language from thy heart arise, 

Breathe it less gently forth — and veil thine eyes. 

Endymion, recollect, when Luna tried 

To cure his love — was cured of all beside — 

His folly — pride — and passion — for he died. 

Poem – Alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were; I have not seen

As others saw; I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I loved, I loved alone.

Then- in my childhood, in the dawn

Of a most stormy life- was drawn

From every depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still:

From the torrent, or the fountain,

From the red cliff of the mountain,

From the sun that round me rolled

In its autumn tint of gold,

From the lightning in the sky

As it passed me flying by,

From the thunder and the storm,

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view. 

Poem – A Valentine

For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,

Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,

Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies

Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.

Search narrowly the lines! – they hold a treasure

Divine- a talisman- an amulet

That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure-

The words- the syllables! Do not forget

The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor

And yet there is in this no Gordian knot

Which one might not undo without a sabre,

If one could merely comprehend the plot.

Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering

Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus

Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing

Of poets, by poets- as the name is a poet’s, too,

Its letters, although naturally lying

Like the knight Pinto- Mendez Ferdinando-

Still form a synonym for Truth- Cease trying! 

You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do. 

Poem – The Paean

How shall the burial rite be read? 

The solemn song be sung? 

The requiem for the loveliest dead,

That ever died so young? 
II.
Her friends are gazing on her,

And on her gaudy bier,

And weep! – oh! to dishonor

Dead beauty with a tear! 
III.
They loved her for her wealth –

And they hated her for her pride –

But she grew in feeble health,

And they love her – that she died.
IV.
They tell me (while they speak

Of her ‘costly broider’d pall’) 

That my voice is growing weak –

That I should not sing at all –
V.
Or that my tone should be

Tun’d to such solemn song

So mournfully – so mournfully,

That the dead may feel no wrong.
VI.
But she is gone above,

With young Hope at her side,

And I am drunk with love

Of the dead, who is my bride. –
VII.
Of the dead – dead who lies

All perfum’d there,

With the death upon her eyes,

And the life upon her hair.
VIII.
Thus on the coffin loud and long

I strike – the murmur sent

Through the grey chambers to my song,

Shall be the accompaniment.
IX.
Thou died’st in thy life’s June –

But thou did’st not die too fair:

Thou did’st not die too soon,

Nor with too calm an air.
X.
From more than fiends on earth,

Thy life and love are riven,

To join the untainted mirth

Of more than thrones in heaven –
XII.
Therefore, to thee this night

I will no requiem raise,

But waft thee on thy flight,

With a Pæan of old days. 

Poem – A Dream with in a Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow! 

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow-

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream; 

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone? 

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand-

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep- while I weep! 

O God! can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp? 

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave? 

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream? 

Poem – The Opening Of The Piano

IN the little southern parlor of tbe house you may have seen

With the gambrel-roof, and the gable looking westward to the green,

At the side toward the sunset, with the window on its right,

Stood the London-made piano I am dreaming of to-night!
Ah me! how I remember the evening when it came!

What a cry of eager voices, what a group of cheeks in flame,

When the wondrous box was opened that had come from over seas, 

With its smell of mastic-varnish and its flash of ivory keys!
Then the children all grew fretful in the restlessness of joy,

For the boy would push his sister, and the sister crowd the boy,

Till the father asked for quiet in his grave paternal way,

But the mother hushed the tumult with the words, “Now, Mary, play.”
For the dear soul knew that music was a very sovereign balm;

She had sprinkled it over Sorrow and seen its brow grow calm,

In the days of slender harpsichords with tapping tinkling quills,

Or carolling to her spinet with its thin metallic thrills.
So Mary, the household minstrel, who always loved to please,

Sat down to the new “Clementi,” and struck the glittering keys.

Hushed were the children’s voices, and every eye grew dim,

As, floating from lip and finger, arose the “Vesper Hymn.”
Catharine, child of a neighbor, curly and rosy-red,

(Wedded since, and a widow,– something like ten years dead,)

Hearing a gush of music such as none before,

Steals from her mother’s chamber and peeps at the open door.
Just as the “Jubilate” in threaded whisper dies,

“Open it! open it, lady!” the little maiden cries,

(For she thought ‘t was a singing creature caged in a box she heard,)

“Open it! open it, lady! and let me see the bird!” 

Poem – The Old Tune

THIRTY-SIXTH VARIATION

THIS shred of song you bid me bring

Is snatched from fancy’s embers;

Ah, when the lips forget to sing,

The faithful heart remembers!
Too swift the wings of envious Time

To wait for dallying phrases,

Or woven strands of labored rhyme

To thread their cunning mazes.
A word, a sigh, and lo, how plain

Its magic breath discloses

Our life’s long vista through a lane

Of threescore summers’ roses!
One language years alone can teach

Its roots are young affections

That feel their way to simplest speech

Through silent recollections.
That tongue is ours. How few the words

We need to know a brother!

As simple are the notes of birds,

Yet well they know each other.
This freezing month of ice and snow

That brings our lives together

Lends to our year a living glow

That warms its wintry weather.
So let us meet as eve draws nigh,

And life matures and mellows,

Till Nature whispers with a sigh,

‘Good-night, my dear old fellows!’ 

Poem – The Old Player

THE curtain rose; in thunders long and loud

The galleries rung; the veteran actor bowed.

In flaming line the telltales of the stage

Showed on his brow the autograph of age;

Pale, hueless waves amid his clustered hair,

And umbered shadows, prints of toil and care;

Round the wide circle glanced his vacant eye,–

He strove to speak,–his voice was but a sigh.
Year after year had seen its short-lived race

Flit past the scenes and others take their place;

Yet the old prompter watched his accents still,

His name still flaunted on the evening’s bill.

Heroes, the monarchs of the scenic floor,

Had died in earnest and were heard no more;

Beauties, whose cheeks such roseate bloom o’er-spread

They faced the footlights in unborrowed red,

Had faded slowly through successive shades

To gray duennas, foils of younger maids;

Sweet voices lost the melting tones that start

With Southern throbs the sturdy Saxon heart,

While fresh sopranos shook the painted sky

With their long, breathless, quivering locust-cry.

Yet there he stood,–the man of other days,

In the clear present’s full, unsparing blaze,

As on the oak a faded leaf that clings

While a new April spreads its burnished wings.
How bright yon rows that soared in triple tier,

Their central sun the flashing chandelier!

How dim the eye that sought with doubtful aim

Some friendly smile it still might dare to claim

How fresh these hearts! his own how worn and cold!

Such the sad thoughts that long-drawn sigh had told.

No word yet faltered on his trembling tongue;

Again, again, the crashing galleries rung.

As the old guardsman at the bugle’s blast

Hears in its strain the echoes of the past,

So, as the plaudits rolled and thundered round,

A life of memories startled at the sound.

He lived again,–the page of earliest days,–

Days of small fee and parsimonious praise;

Then lithe young Romeo–hark that silvered tone,

From those smooth lips–alas! they were his own.

Then the bronzed Moor, with all his love and woe,

Told his strange tale of midnight melting snow;

And dark–plumed Hamlet, with his cloak and blade,

Looked on the royal ghost, himself a shade.

All in one flash, his youthful memories came,

Traced in bright hues of evanescent flame,

As the spent swimmer’s in the lifelong dream,

While the last bubble rises through the stream.
Call him not old, whose visionary brain

Holds o’er the past its undivided reign.

For him in vain the envious seasons roll

Who bears eternal summer in his soul.

If yet the minstrel’s song, the poet’s lay,

Spring with her birds, or children at their play,

Or maiden’s smile, or heavenly dream of art,

Stir the few life-drops creeping round his heart,

Turn to the record where his years are told,–

Count his gray hairs,–they cannot make him old!

What magic power has changed the faded mime?

One breath of memory on the dust of time.

As the last window in the buttressed wall

Of some gray minster tottering to its fall,

Though to the passing crowd its hues are spread,

A dull mosaic, yellow, green, and red,

Viewed from within, a radiant glory shows

When through its pictured screen the sunlight flows,

And kneeling pilgrims on its storied pane

See angels glow in every shapeless stain;

So streamed the vision through his sunken eye,

Clad in the splendors of his morning sky.

All the wild hopes his eager boyhood knew,

All the young fancies riper years proved true,

The sweet, low-whispered words, the winning glance

From queens of song, from Houris of the dance,

Wealth’s lavish gift, and Flattery’s soothing phrase,

And Beauty’s silence when her blush was praise,

And melting Pride, her lashes wet with tears,

Triumphs and banquets, wreaths and crowns and cheers,

Pangs of wild joy that perish on the tongue,

And all that poets dream, but leave unsung!
In every heart some viewless founts are fed

From far-off hillsides where the dews were shed;

On the worn features of the weariest face

Some youthful memory leaves its hidden trace,

As in old gardens left by exiled kings

The marble basins tell of hidden springs,

But, gray with dust, and overgrown with weeds,

Their choking jets the passer little heeds,

Till time’s revenges break their seals away,

And, clad in rainbow light, the waters play.
Good night, fond dreamer! let the curtain fall

The world’s a stage, and we are players all.

A strange rehearsal! Kings without their crowns,

And threadbare lords, and jewel-wearing clowns,

Speak the vain words that mock their throbbing hearts,

As Want, stern prompter! spells them out their parts.

The tinselled hero whom we praise and pay

Is twice an actor in a twofold play.

We smile at children when a painted screen

Seems to their simple eyes a real scene;

Ask the poor hireling, who has left his throne

To seek the cheerless home he calls his own,

Which of his double lives most real seems,

The world of solid fact or scenic dreams?

Canvas, or clouds,–the footlights, or the spheres,–

The play of two short hours, or seventy years?

Dream on! Though Heaven may woo our open eyes,

Through their closed lids we look on fairer skies;

Truth is for other worlds, and hope for this;

The cheating future lends the present’s bliss;

Life is a running shade, with fettered hands,

That chases phantoms over shifting sands;

Death a still spectre on a marble seat,

With ever clutching palms and shackled feet;

The airy shapes that mock life’s slender chain,

The flying joys he strives to clasp in vain,

Death only grasps; to live is to pursue,–

Dream on! there ‘s nothing but illusion true! 

Poem – The Romantic Age

This one is entering 

her teens,Ripe for sentimental scenes,

Has picked a gangling unripe male,

Sees herself in bridal veil,

Presses lips and tosses head,

Declares she’s not too young to wed,

Informs you pertly you forget

Romeo and Juliet.

Do not argue, do not shout;

Remind her how that one turned out. 

Poem – The People Upstairs

The people upstairs all practise ballet

Their living room is a bowling alley

Their bedroom is full of conducted tours.

Their radio is louder than yours,

They celebrate week-ends all the week.

When they take a shower, your ceilings leak.

They try to get their parties to mix

By supplying their guests with Pogo sticks,

And when their fun at last abates,

They go to the bathroom on roller skates.

I would love the people upstairs wondrous

If instead of above us, they just lived under us. 

Poem – Bridal Ballad

The ring is on my hand,

And the wreath is on my brow;

Satin and jewels grand

Are all at my command,

And I am happy now.
And my lord he loves me well;

But, when first he breathed his vow,

I felt my bosom swell-

For the words rang as a knell,

And the voice seemed his who fell

In the battle down the dell,

And who is happy now.
But he spoke to re-assure me,

And he kissed my pallid brow,

While a reverie came o’er me,

And to the church-yard bore me,

And I sighed to him before me,

Thinking him dead D’Elormie,

“Oh, I am happy now!”
And thus the words were spoken,

And this the plighted vow,

And, though my faith be broken,

And, though my heart be broken,

Here is a ring, as token

That I am happy now!
Would God I could awaken!

For I dream I know not how!

And my soul is sorely shaken

Lest an evil step be taken,-

Lest the dead who is forsaken

May not be happy now. 

Poem – Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of ANNABEL LEE; 

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea; 

But we loved with a love that was more than love-

I and my Annabel Lee; 

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee; 

So that her highborn kinsman came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me-

Yes! – that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea) 

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we-

Of many far wiser than we-

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 

And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,

In the sepulchre there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

Poem – The Old Man Dreams

OH for one hour of youthful joy!

Give back my twentieth spring!

I’d rather laugh, a bright-haired boy,

Than reign, a gray-beard king.
Off with the spoils of wrinkled age!

Away with Learning’s crown!

Tear out life’s Wisdom-written page,

And dash its trophies down!
One moment let my life-blood stream

From boyhood’s fount of flame!

Give me one giddy, reeling dream

Of life all love and fame!
. . . . . 
My listening angel heard the prayer,

And, calmly smiling, said,

“If I but touch thy silvered hair

Thy hasty wish hath sped.
“But is there nothing in thy track,

To bid thee fondly stay,

While the swift seasons hurry back

To find the wished-for day?”
“Ah, truest soul of womankind!

Without thee what were life ?

One bliss I cannot leave behind:

I’ll take– my– precious– wife!”
The angel took a sapphire pen

And wrote in rainbow dew,

The man would be a boy again,

And be a husband too!
“And is there nothing yet unsaid,

Before the change appears?

Remember, all their gifts have fled

With those dissolving years.”
“Why, yes;” for memory would recall

My fond paternal joys;

“I could not bear to leave them all–

I’ll take– my– girl– and– boys.”
The smiling angel dropped his pen,–

“Why, this will never do;

The man would be a boy again,

And be a father too!”
. . . . . 
And so I laughed,– my laughter woke

The household with its noise,–

And wrote my dream, when morning broke,

To please the gray-haired boys. 

Poem – The Old Cruiser

HERE ‘s the old cruiser, ‘Twenty-nine,

Forty times she ‘s crossed the line;

Same old masts and sails and crew,

Tight and tough and as good as new.
Into the harbor she bravely steers

Just as she ‘s done for these forty years,

Over her anchor goes, splash and clang!

Down her sails drop, rattle and bang!
Comes a vessel out of the dock

Fresh and spry as a fighting-cock,

Feathered with sails and spurred with steam,

Heading out of the classic stream.
Crew of a hundred all aboard,

Every man as fine as a lord.

Gay they look and proud they feel,

Bowling along on even keel.
On they float with wind and tide,–

Gain at last the old ship’s side;

Every man looks down in turn,–

Reads the name that’s on her stern.
‘Twenty-nine!–Diable you say!

That was in Skipper Kirkland’s day!

What was the Flying Dutchman’s name?

This old rover must be the same.
‘Ho! you Boatswain that walks the deck,

How does it happen you’re not a wreck?

One and another have come to grief,

How have you dodged by rock and reef?’
Boatswain, lifting one knowing lid,

Hitches his breeches and shifts his quid

‘Hey? What is it? Who ‘s come to grief

Louder, young swab, I ‘m a little deaf.’
‘I say, old fellow, what keeps your boat

With all you jolly old boys afloat,

When scores of vessels as good as she

Have swallowed the salt of the bitter sea?
‘Many a crew from many a craft

Goes drifting by on a broken raft

Pieced from a vessel that clove the brine

Taller and prouder than ‘Twenty-nine.
‘Some capsized in an angry breeze,

Some were lost in the narrow seas,

Some on snags and some on sands

Struck and perished and lost their hands.
‘Tell us young ones, you gray old man,

What is your secret, if you can.

We have a ship as good as you,

Show us how to keep our crew.’
So in his ear the youngster cries;

Then the gray Boatswain straight replies:–

‘All your crew be sure you know,–

Never let one of your shipmates go.
‘If he leaves you, change your tack,

Follow him close and fetch him back;

When you’ve hauled him in at last,

Grapple his flipper and hold him fast.
‘If you’ve wronged him, speak him fair,

Say you’re sorry and make it square;

If he’s wronged you, wink so tight

None of you see what ‘s plain in sight.
‘When the world goes hard and wrong,

Lend a hand to help him along;

When his stockings have holes to darn,

Don’t you grudge him your ball of yarn.
‘Once in a twelvemonth, come what may,

Anchor your ship in a quiet bay,

Call all hands and read the log,

And give ’em a taste of grub and grog.
‘Stick to each other through thick and thin;

All the closer as age leaks in;

Squalls will blow and clouds will frown,

But stay by your ship till you all go down!’ 

Poem – The Morning Visit

A sick man’s chamber, though it often boast

The  grateful presence of a literal toast,

Can hardly claim, amidst its various wealth,

The right unchallenged to propose a health;

Yet though its tenant is denied the feast,

Friendship must launch his sentiment at least,

As prisoned damsels, locked from lovers’ lips,

Toss them a kiss from off their fingers’ tips.
The morning visit,–not till sickness falls

In the charmed circles of your own safe walls;

Till fever’s throb and pain’s relentless rack

Stretch you all helpless on your aching back;

Not till you play the patient in your turn,

The morning visit’s mystery shall you learn.
‘T is a small matter in your neighbor’s case,

To charge your fee for showing him your face;

You skip up-stairs, inquire, inspect, and touch,

Prescribe, take leave, and off to twenty such.
But when at length, by fate’s transferred decree,

The visitor becomes the visitee,

Oh, then, indeed, it pulls another string;

Your ox is gored, and that’s a different thing!

Your friend is sick: phlegmatic as a Turk,

You write your recipe and let it work;

Not yours to stand the shiver and the frown,

And sometimes worse, with which your draught goes down.

Calm as a clock your knowing hand directs,

Rhei, jalapae ana grana sex,

Or traces on some tender missive’s back,

Scrupulos duos pulveris ipecac;

And leaves your patient to his qualms and gripes,

Cool as a sportsman banging at his snipes.

But change the time, the person, and the place,

And be yourself ‘the interesting case,’

You’ll gain some knowledge which it’s well to learn;

In future practice it may serve your turn.

Leeches, for instance,–pleasing creatures quite;

Try them,–and bless you,–don’t you find they bite?

You raise a blister for the smallest cause,

But be yourself the sitter whom it draws,

And trust my statement, you will not deny

The worst of draughtsmen is your Spanish fly!

It’s mighty easy ordering when you please,

Infusi sennae capiat uncias tres;

It’s mighty different when you quackle down

Your own three ounces of the liquid brown.

Pilula, pulvis,–pleasant words enough,

When other throats receive the shocking stuff;

But oh, what flattery can disguise the groan

That meets the gulp which sends it through your own!

Be gentle, then, though Art’s unsparing rules

Give you the handling of her sharpest tools;

Use them not rashly,–sickness is enough;

Be always ‘ready,’ but be never ‘rough.’
Of all the ills that suffering man endures,

The largest fraction liberal Nature cures;

Of those remaining, ‘t is the smallest part

Yields to the efforts of judicious Art;

But simple Kindness, kneeling by the bed

To shift the pillow for the sick man’s head,

Give the fresh draught to cool the lips that burn,

Fan the hot brow, the weary frame to turn,–

Kindness, untutored by our grave M. D.’s,

But Nature’s graduate, when she schools to please,

Wins back more sufferers with her voice and smile

Than all the trumpery in the druggist’s pile.
Once more, be quiet: coming up the stair,

Don’t be a plantigrade, a human bear,

But, stealing softly on the silent toe,

Reach the sick chamber ere you’re heard below.

Whatever changes there may greet your eyes,

Let not your looks proclaim the least surprise;

It’s not your business by your face to show

All that your patient does not want to know;

Nay, use your optics with considerate care,

And don’t abuse your privilege to stare.

But if your eyes may probe him overmuch,

Beware still further how you rudely touch;

Don’t clutch his carpus in your icy fist,

But warm your fingers ere you take the wrist.

If the poor victim needs must be percussed,

Don’t make an anvil of his aching bust;

(Doctors exist within a hundred miles

Who thump a thorax as they’d hammer piles

If you must listen to his doubtful chest,

Catch the essentials, and ignore the rest.

Spare him; the sufferer wants of you and art

A track to steer by, not a finished chart.

So of your questions: don’t in mercy try

To pump your patient absolutely dry;

He’s not a mollusk squirming in a dish,

You’re not Agassiz; and he’s not a fish.
And last, not least, in each perplexing case,

Learn the sweet magic of a cheerful face;

Not always smiling, but at least serene,

When grief and anguish cloud the anxious scene.

Each look, each movement, every word and tone,

Should tell your patient you are all his own;

Not the mere artist, purchased to attend,

But the warm, ready, self-forgetting friend,

Whose genial visit in itself combines

The best of cordials, tonics, anodynes.
Such is the visit that from day to day

Sheds o’er my chamber its benignant ray.

I give his health, who never cared to claim

Her babbling homage from the tongue of Fame;

Unmoved by praise, he stands by all confest,

The truest, noblest, wisest, kindest, best. 

Poem – Oh To be Odd

Hypochondriacs

Spend  the winter at the bottom of Florida and the summer on top of

the Adirondriacs.

You go to Paris and live on champagne wine and cognac

If you’re dipsomognac.

If you’re a manic-depressive

You don’t go anywhere where you won’t be cheered up, and people say

“There, there!” if your bills are excessive.

But you stick around and work day and night and night and day with

your nose to the sawmill.

If you’re nawmill.
Note: Dipsomaniac — alcoholic 

Poem – No You be a Lone Eagle

I find it very hard to be fair-minded

About people who go around being air-minded.

I just can’t see any fun

In soaring up up up into the sun

When the chances are still a fresh cool orchid to a paper geranium

That you’ll unsoar down down down onto your (to you) invaluable

cranium.

I know the constant refrain

About how safer up in God’s trafficless heaven than in an automobile

or a train

But …

My God, have you ever taken a good look at a strut?

Then that one about how you’re in Boston before you can say antidis-

establishmentarianism

So that preferring to take five hours by rail is a pernicious example of

antiquarianism.

At least when I get on the Boston train I have a good chance of landing

in the South Station

And not in that part of the daily press which is reserved for victims of

aviation.

Then, despite the assurance that aeroplanes are terribly comfortable I

notice that when you are railroading or automobiling

You don’t have to take a paper bag along just in case of a funny feeling.

It seems to me that no kind of depravity

Brings such speedy retribution as ignoring the law of gravity.

Therefore nobody could possibly indict me for perjury

When I swear that I wish the Wright brothers had gone in for silver

fox farming or tree surgery. 

Poem – No Doctor’s Today, Thank You

They tell me that euphoria is the feeling of feeling wonderful,well, 

today I feel euphorian,

Today I have the agility of a Greek god and the appetitite of a

Victorian.

Yes, today I may even go forth without my galoshes,

Today I am a swashbuckler, would anybody like me to buckle

any swashes?

This is my euphorian day,

I will ring welkins and before anybody answers I will run away.

I will tame me a caribou

And bedeck it with marabou.

I will pen me my memoirs.

Ah youth, youth! What euphorian days them was!

I wasn’t much of a hand for the boudoirs,

I was generally to be found where the food was.

Does anybody want any flotsam?

I’ve gotsam.

Does anybody want any jetsam?

I can getsam.

I can play chopsticks on the Wurlitzer,

I can speak Portuguese like a Berlitzer.

I can don or doff my shoes without tying or untying the laces because

I am wearing moccasins,

And I practically know the difference between serums and antitoccasins.

Kind people, don’t think me purse-proud, don’t set me down as

vainglorious,

I’m just a little euphorious. 

Poem – My Dream

This is my dream,

 It is my own dream, 

I dreamt it. 

I dreamt that my hair was kempt. 

Then I dreamt that my true love unkempt it. 

Poem – Morning Prayer

Now another day is breaking,

Sleep was sweet and so is waking.

Dear Lord, I promised you last night

Never again to sulk or fight.

Such vows are easier to keep

When a child is sound asleep.

Today, O Lord, for your dear sake,

I’ll try to keep them when awake. 

Poem – The Sweet Little Man

DEDICATED TO THE STAY-AT-HOME RANGERS
Now, while our soldiers are fighting our battles,

Each at his post to do all that he can,

Down among rebels and contraband chattels,

What are you doing, my sweet little man?
All the brave boys under canvas are sleeping,

All of them pressing to march with the van,

Far from the home where their sweethearts are weeping;

What are you waiting for, sweet little man?
You with the terrible warlike mustaches,

Fit for a colonel or chief of a clan,

You with the waist made for sword-belts and sashes,

Where are your shoulder-straps, sweet little man?
Bring him the buttonless garment of woman!

Cover his face lest it freckle and tan;

Muster the Apron-String Guards on the Common,

That is the corps for the sweet little man!
Give him for escort a file of young misses,

Each of them armed with a deadly rattan;

They shall defend him from laughter and hisses,

Aimed by low boys at the sweet little man.
All the fair maidens about him shall cluster,

Pluck the white feathers from bonnet and fan,

Make him a plume like a turkey-wing duster,–

That is the crest for the sweet little man!
Oh, but the Apron-String Guards are the fellows

Drilling each day since our troubles began,–

‘Handle your walking-sticks!’ ‘Shoulder umbrellas!’

That is the style for the sweet little man!
Have we a nation to save? In the first place

Saving ourselves is the sensible plan,–

Surely the spot where there’s shooting’s the worst place

Where I can stand, says the sweet little man.
Catch me confiding my person with strangers!

Think how the cowardly Bull-Runners ran!

In the brigade of the Stay-at-Home Rangers

Marches my corps, says the sweet little man.
Such was the stuff of the Malakoff-takers,

Such were the soldiers that scaled the Redan;

Truculent housemaids and bloodthirsty Quakers,

Brave not the wrath of the sweet little man!
Yield him the sidewalk, ye nursery maidens!

Sauve qui peut! Bridget, and right about! Ann;–

Fierce as a shark in a school of menhadens,

See him advancing, the sweet little man!
When the red flails of the battle-field’s threshers

Beat out the continent’s wheat from its bran,

While the wind scatters the chaffy seceshers,

What will become of our sweet little man?
When the brown soldiers come back from the borders,

How will he look while his features they scan?

How will he feel when he gets marching orders,

Signed by his lady love? sweet little man!
Fear not for him, though the rebels expect him,–

Life is too precious to shorten its span;

Woman her broomstick shall raise to protect him,

Will she not fight for the sweet little man?
Now then, nine cheers for the Stay-at-Home Ranger!

Blow the great fish-horn and beat the big pan!

First in the field that is farthest from danger,

Take your white-feather plume, sweet little man! 

Poem – The Study

YET in the darksome crypt I left so late,

Whose only altar is its rusted grate,—­

Sepulchral, rayless, joyless as it seems,

Shamed by the glare of May’s refulgent beams,—­

While the dim seasons dragged their shrouded train,

Its paler splendors were not quite in vain. 

From these dull bars the cheerful firelight’s glow

Streamed through the casement o’er the spectral snow;

Here, while the night-wind wreaked its frantic will

On the loose ocean and the rock-bound hill,

Rent the cracked topsail from its quivering yard,

And rived the oak a thousand storms had scarred,

Fenced by these walls the peaceful taper shone,

Nor felt a breath to slant its trembling cone.
Not all unblest the mild interior scene

When the red curtain spread its falling screen;

O’er some light task the lonely hours were past,

And the long evening only flew too fast;

Or the wide chair its leathern arms would lend

In genial welcome to some easy friend,

Stretched on its bosom with relaxing nerves,

Slow moulding, plastic, to its hollow curves;

Perchance indulging, if of generous creed,

In brave Sir Walter’s dream-compelling weed. 

Or, happier still, the evening hour would bring

To the round table its expected ring,

And while the punch-bowl’s sounding depths were stirred,—­

Its silver cherubs smiling as they heard,—­

Our hearts would open, as at evening’s hour

The close-sealed primrose frees its hidden flower.
Such the warm life this dim retreat has known,

Not quite deserted when its guests were flown;

Nay, filled with friends, an unobtrusive set,

Guiltless of calls and cards and etiquette,

Ready to answer, never known to ask,

Claiming no service, prompt for every task. 

On those dark shelves no housewife hand profanes,

O’er his mute files the monarch folio reigns;

A mingled race, the wreck of chance and time,

That talk all tongues and breathe of every clime,

Each knows his place, and each may claim his part

In some quaint corner of his master’s heart. 

This old Decretal, won from Moss’s hoards,

Thick-leaved, brass-cornered, ribbed with oaken boards,

Stands the gray patriarch of the graver rows,

Its fourth ripe century narrowing to its close;

Not daily conned, but glorious still to view,

With glistening letters wrought in red and blue. 

There towers Stagira’s all-embracing sage,

The Aldine anchor on his opening page;

There sleep the births of Plato’s heavenly mind,

In yon dark tomb by jealous clasps confused,

“Olim e libris” (dare I call it mine?)

Of Yale’s grave Head and Killingworth’s divine! 

In those square sheets the songs of Maro fill

The silvery types of smooth-leaved Baskerville;

High over all, in close, compact array,

Their classic wealth the Elzevirs display. 

In lower regions of the sacred space

Range the dense volumes of a humbler race;

There grim chirurgeons all their mysteries teach,

In spectral pictures, or in crabbed speech;

Harvey and Haller, fresh from Nature’s page,

Shoulder the dreamers of an earlier age,

Lully and Geber, and the learned crew

That loved to talk of all they could not do.
Why count the rest,—­those names of later days

That many love, and all agree to praise,—­

Or point the titles, where a glance may read

The dangerous lines of party or of creed? 

Too well, perchance, the chosen list would show

What few may care and none can claim to know. 

Each has his features, whose exterior seal

A brush may copy, or a sunbeam steal;

Go to his study,—­on the nearest shelf

Stands the mosaic portrait of himself.
What though for months the tranquil dust descends,

Whitening the heads of these mine ancient friends,

While the damp offspring of the modern press

Flaunts on my table with its pictured dress;

Not less I love each dull familiar face,

Nor less should miss it from the appointed place;

I snatch the book, along whose burning leaves

His scarlet web our wild romancer weaves,

Yet, while proud Hester’s fiery pangs I share,

My old MAGNALIA must be standing there! 

Poem – Within This Body

Within this body

breathes the secret essence.

Within this body

beats the heart of the Vedas.
Within this body

shines the entire Universe,

so the saints say.
Hermits, ascetics, celibates —

all are lost

seeking Him

in endless guises.
Seers and sages perfectly parrot

the scriptures and holy books,

blinded by knowledge.
Their pilgrimage,

and fasting,

and striving

but delude.

Despite their perfect practice,

they discover no destination.
Only the saints

who know the body’s heart

have attained the Ultimate, O Tulsi.

Realize this, and you’ve found your freedom.
While teachers trapped in tradition

know only the mirage

in the mirror. 

Poem – Prayer 3

O Lord who is there besides You who will hear my cry?

Strange is my petition: a poor man, I, I seek to become a king…

From time immemorial I have suffered the tortures of hell and have lived through many low births, but I crave not for wealth or even salvation though I know that You can confer all these.

What I desire is to become in every birth a toy for You to play with or a stone to touch Your Feet.

Poem – Prayer 2

O Lord, let any one accept any sadhana, he is free to follow its pursuit.

But to me Your name is the granter of all boons.

Karma, upasana, jnana – the various paths outlined in the Vedas for the emancipation of the soul – all are good.

But I seek only one shelter and that is Your name; I seek nothing besides….

I have enjoyed the sweetness of Your name. It is the fulfiller of my wishes here and in the world to come…

A man may have his affection riveted anywhere as also his faith,

But I recognize my relationship with the Name – Rama; it is my father and mother.

I swear by Shankara and state the truth without hiding it,

That Tulsidas sees all good accruing to him only by repeating Your name.

Poem – Prayer

Lord Rama! My honour is in Your hands.
You are the protector of the poor; I surrender myself at Your Feet.
I have heard of the sinners whom You have reclaimed.
I am an old sinner, pray extend Your loving hand and take me to Yourself.
To destroy the sins of the sinner, and to remove the ailments of the afflicted is Your occupation.
Grant me devotion to You, O Lord, and confer Your grace on me! 

Poem – Maya

Up till now I have lost much and wasted life in idle pursuits.
The grace of Lord Rama has aroused me from sleep.
Awakened now, I shall not allow myself to be victimized by Maya (illusion).
I have gained the grace of the Lord’s Name. I shall hold it fast to my bosom and not let it from me for a second.
The beautiful form of the Lord I shall cherish in my mind.
Long has this world mocked me, making me a slave of the senses.
Now I shall have no more of it.
I am now a bee at my Lord’s Lotus Feet and shall not allow my mind to leave the enjoyment of their nectar for a moment. 

Poem – Doha

1′

Tulsi Tulsi sab kahe,Tulsi ban ki ghaas

Ho gayi kirpa Ram ki, to ban gaye Tulsidas’
2

‘Tulsi meethe bachan te sukh upjaat chahu or

Basikaran ek mantra hain pariharu bachan kathor’
3

‘Bina tej ke purush ki avshi avagya hoy

Aagi bujhe jyo raakh ki aap chuvay sab koy’
4

‘Tulsi saathi vipatti ke vidya vinay vivek

Sahas sukriti sustyavat, Ram bharose ek’
5

‘Kaam krodh mad lobh ki jou lou man mein khan

Tau lou Pandit moorkhou Tulsi ek saman’
6

‘Ram naam mani deep dharoo jih dehari dwar

Tulsi bheeter bahrao jo chahasi ujiyar’ 

Poem – To M

Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,

With bright, but mild affection shine:

Though they might kindle less desire,

Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
For thou art form’d so heavenly fair,

Howe’er those orbs may wildly beam,

We must admire, but still despair;

That fatal glance forbids esteem.
When Nature stamp’d thy beauteous birth,

So much perfection in thee shone,

She fear’d that, too divine for earth,

The skies might claim thee for their own.
Therefore, to guard her dearest work,

Lest angels might dispute the prize,

She bade a secret lightning lurk,

Within those once celestial eyes.
These might the boldest Sylph appall,

When gleaming with meridian blaze;

Thy beauty must enrapture all;

But who can dare thine ardent gaze?
‘Tis said that Berenice’s hair,

In stars adorns the vault of heaven;

But they would ne’er permit thee there,

Who wouldst so far outshine the seven.
For did those eyes as planets roll,

Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:

E’en suns, which systems now control,

Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. 

Poem – To Lord Thurlow

‘I lay my branch of laurel down. 

Then thus to form Apollo’s crown. 

Let every other bring his own.’~Lord Thurlow’s lines to Mr. Rogers

‘I lay my branch of laurel down.’

Thou ‘lay thy branch of laurel down!’

Why, what thou’st stole is not enow;

And, were it lawfully thine own,

Does Rogers want it most, or thou?

Keep to thyself thy wither’d bough, 

Or send it back to Doctor Donne:

Were justice done to both, I trow,

He’d have but little, and thou-none.
‘Then thus to form Apollo’s crown.’

A crown! why, twist it how you will,

Thy chaplet must be foolscap still. 

When next you visit Delphi’s town,

Inquire amongst your fellow-lodgers,

They’ll tell you Phoebus gave his crown,

Some years before your birth, to Rogers.
‘Let every other bring his own.’

When coals to Newcastle are carried,

And owls sent to Athens, as wonders,

From his spouse when the R egent’s un­married, 

Or Liverpool weeps o’er his blunders;

When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel,

When Castlereagh’s wife has an heir,

Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,

And thou shalt have plenty to spare. 

Poem – To Lesbia

Lesbia! since far from you I’ve ranged,

Our souls with fond affection glow not;

You say ’tis I, not you, have changed,

I’d tell you why,–but yet I know not.
Your polish’d brow no cares have crost;

And, Lesbia! we are not much older,

Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,

Or told my love, with hope grown bolder
Sixteen was then our utmost age,

Two years have lingering past away, love!

And now new thoughts our minds engage,

At least I feel disposed to stray, love!
‘Tis I that am alone to blame,

I, that am guilty of love’s treason;

Since your sweet breast is still the same,

Caprice must be my only reason.
I do not, love! suspect your truth,

With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not;

Warm was the passion of my youth,

One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.
No, no, my flame was not pretended,

For, Oh! I loved you most sincerely;

And–though our dream at last is ended–

My bosom still esteems you dearly.
No more we meet in yonder bowers;

Absence has made me prone to roving;

But older, firmer hearts than ours

Have found monotony in loving.
Your cheek’s soft bloom is unimpeair’d,

New beauties still are daily bright’ning,

Your eye for conquest beams prepared,

The forge of love’s resistless lightning.
Arm’d thus, to make their bosoms bleed,

Many will throng to sigh like me, love!

More constant they may prove, indeed;

Fonder, alas! they ne’er can be, love! 

Poem – To George Earl Delwarr

Oh! yes, I will own we were dear to each other;

The friendships of childhood, though fleeting are true;

The love which you felt was the love of a brother,

Nor less the affection I cherish’d for you.
But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion;

The attachment of years in a moment expires:

Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion,

But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires.
Full oft have we wander’d through Ida together,

And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow:

In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather!

But winter’s rude tempests are gathering now.
No more with affection shall memory blending,

The wonted delights of our childhood retrace:

When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending,

And what would be Justice appears a disgrace.
However, dear George, for I still must esteem you;

The few whom I love I can never upbraid:

The chance which has lost may in future redeem you,

Repentance will cancel the vow you have made.
I will not complain, and though chill’d is affection,

With me no corroding resentment shall live:

My bosom is calm’d by the simple reflection,

That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive.
You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence,

If danger demanded, were wholly your own.

You knew me unalter’d by years or by distance

Devoted to love and to friendship alone.
You knew – but away with the vain retropection!

The bond of affection no longer endures;

Too late you may droop o’er the fond recollection,

And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours.
For the present, we part,–I will hope not for ever;

For time and regret will restore you at last:

To forget our dimension we both should endeavour,

I ask no atonement, but days like the past. 

Poem – To Florence

Oh Lady! when I left the shore,

The distant shore which gave me birth,

I hardly thought to grieve once more

To quit another spot on earth:
Yet here, amidst this barren isle, 

Where panting Nature droops the head,

Where only thou art seen to smile,

I view my parting hour with dread.
Though far from Albin’s craggy shore,

Divided by the dark?blue main; 

A few, brief, rolling seasons o’er,

Perchance I view her cliffs again:
But wheresoe’er I now may roam,

Through scorching clime, and varied sea, 

Though Time restore me to my home,

I ne’er shall bend mine eyes on thee:
On thee, in whom at once conspire

All charms which heedless hearts can move,

Whom but to see is to admire, 

And, oh! forgive the word – to love.
Forgive the word, in one who ne’er

With such a word can more offend;

And since thy heart I cannot share,

Believe me, what I am, thy friend.
And who so cold as look on thee,

Thou lovely wand’rer, and be less?

Nor be, what man should ever be,

The friend of Beauty in distress?
Ah! who would think that form had past

Through Danger’s most destructive path

Had braved the death?wing’d tempest’s blast,

And ‘scaped a tyrant’s fiercer wrath?
Lady! when I shall view the walls

Where free Byzantium once arose,

And Stamboul’s Oriental halls

The Turkish tyrants now enclose;
Though mightiest in the lists of fame,

That glorious city still shall be;

On me ’twill hold a dearer claim,

As spot of thy nativity:
And though I bid thee now farewell,

When I behold that wondrous scene,

Since where thou art I may not dwell,

‘Twill soothe to be where thou hast been.
September 1809. 

To A Child – Francis Thompson

Whenas my life shall time with funeral tread

The  heavy death-drum of the beaten hours,

Following, sole mourner, mine own manhood dead,

Poor forgot corse, where not a maid strows flowers;

When I you love am no more I you love,

But go with unsubservient feet, behold

Your dear face through changed eyes, all grim change prove;–

A new man, mock-ed with misname of old;

When shamed Love keep his ruined lodging, elf!

When, ceremented in mouldering memory,

Myself is hears-ed underneath myself,

And I am but the monument of me:-

O to that tomb be tender then, which bears

Only the name of him it sepulchres! 

To a Poet Breaking Silence – Francis Thompson

Too wearily had we and song

Been left to look and left to long,

Yea, song and we to long and look,

Since thine acquainted feet forsook

The mountain where the Muses hymn

For Sinai and the Seraphim.

Now in both the mountains’ shine

Dress thy countenance, twice divine!

From Moses and the Muses draw

The Tables of thy double Law!

His rod-born fount and Castaly

Let the one rock bring forth for thee,

Renewing so from either spring

The songs which both thy countries sing:

Or we shall fear lest, heavened thus long,

Thou should’st forget thy native song,

And mar thy mortal melodies

With broken stammer of the skies.
Ah! let the sweet birds of the Lord

With earth’s waters make accord;

Teach how the crucifix may be

Carven from the laurel-tree,

Fruit of the Hesperides

Burnish take on Eden-trees,

The Muses’ sacred grove be wet

With the red dew of Olivet,

And Sappho lay her burning brows

In white Cecilia’s lap of snows!
Thy childhood must have felt the stings

Of too divine o’ershadowings;

Its odorous heart have been a blossom

That in darkness did unbosom,

Those fire-flies of God to invite,

Burning spirits, which by night

What Shall I Your True Love Tell – Francis Thompson

* 

What shall I your true love tell, 

Earth forsaking maid? 

What shall I your true love tell 

When life’s spectre’s laid? 

“Tell him that, our side the grave, 

Maid may not believe 

Life should be so sad to have, 

That’s so sad to leave!” 

What shall I your true love tell 

When I come to him? 

What shall I your true love tell 

Eyes growing dim? 

“Tell him this, when you shall part 

From a maiden pined; 

That I see him with my heart, 

Now my eyes are blind.” 

What shall I your true love tell 

Speaking while is scant? 

What shall I your true love tell 

Death’s white postulant? 

“Tell him love, with speech at strife, 

For last utterance saith: 

`I who loved with all my life, 

Loved with all my death.'” 

To a Snowflake – Francis Thompson

What heart could have thought you?

 — Past our devisal 

(O filigree petal!) 

Fashioned so purely, 

Fragilely, surely, 

From what Paradisal 

Imagineless metal, 

Too costly for cost? 

Who hammered you, wrought you, 

From argentine vapor? — 

“God was my shaper. 

Passing surmisal, 

He hammered, He wrought me, 

From curled silver vapor, 

To lust of His mind — 

Thou could’st not have thought me! 

So purely, so palely, 

Tinily, surely, 

Mightily, frailly, 

Insculped and embossed, 

With His hammer of wind, 

And His graver of frost.” 

The Hound of Heaven – Francis Thompson

I fled Him down the nights and down the days

I fled Him down the arches of the years

I fled Him down the labyrinthine ways

Of my own mind, and in the midst of tears

I hid from him, and under running laughter.

Up vistaed hopes I sped and shot precipitated

Adown titanic glooms of chasme d hears

From those strong feet that followed, followed after

But with unhurrying chase and unperturbe d pace,

Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,

They beat, and a Voice beat,

More instant than the feet:

All things betray thee who betrayest me.
I pleaded, outlaw–wise by many a hearted casement,

curtained red, trellised with inter-twining charities,

For though I knew His love who followe d,

Yet was I sore adread, lest having Him,

I should have nought beside.

But if one little casement parted wide,

The gust of his approach would clash it to.

Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.

Across the margent of the world I fled,

And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,

Smiting for shelter on their clange d bars,

Fretted to dulcet jars and silvern chatter

The pale ports of the moon.
I said to Dawn — be sudden, to Eve — be soon,

With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over

From this tremendous Lover.

Float thy vague veil about me lest He see.

I tempted all His servitors but to find

My own betrayal in their constancy,

In faith to Him, their fickleness to me,

Their traitorous trueness and their loyal deceit.

To all swift things for swiftness did I sue,

Clung to the whistling mane of every wind,

But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,

The long savannahs of the blue,

Or whether, thunder-driven,

They clanged His chariot thwart a heaven,

Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn of their feet,

Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.

Still with unhurrying chase and unperturbed pace

Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,

Came on the following feet, and a Voice above their beat:

Nought shelters thee who wilt not shelter Me.
I sought no more that after which I strayed

In face of Man or Maid.

But still within the little childrens’ eyes

Seems something, something that replies,

They at least are for me, surely for me.

But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair,

With dawning answers there,

Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.

Come then, ye other children, Nature’s

Share with me, said I, your delicate fellowship.

Let me greet you lip to lip,

Let me twine with you caresses,

Wantoning with our Lady Mother’s vagrant tresses,

Banqueting with her in her wind walled palace,

Underneath her azured dai:s,

Quaffing, as your taintless way is,

From a chalice, lucent weeping out of the dayspring.
So it was done.

I in their delicate fellowship was one.

Drew the bolt of Nature’s secrecies,

I knew all the swift importings on the wilful face of skies,

I knew how the clouds arise,

Spume d of the wild sea-snortings.

All that’s born or dies,

Rose and drooped with,

Made them shapers of mine own moods, or wailful, or Divine.

With them joyed and was bereaven.

I was heavy with the Even,

when she lit her glimmering tapers round the day’s dead sanctities.

I laughed in the morning’s eyes.

I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,

Heaven and I wept together,

and its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine.

Against the red throb of its sunset heart,

I laid my own to beat

And share commingling heat.
But not by that, by that was eased my human smart.

In vain my tears were wet on Heaven’s grey cheek.

For ah! we know what each other says,

these things and I; In sound I speak,

Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.

Nature, poor step-dame, cannot slake my drouth.

Let her, if she would owe me

Drop yon blue-bosomed veil of sky

And show me the breasts o’ her tenderness.

Never did any milk of hers once bless my thirsting mouth.

Nigh and nigh draws the chase, with unperturbe d pace

Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,

And past those noise d feet, a Voice comes yet more fleet:

Lo, nought contentst thee who content’st nought Me.
Naked, I wait thy Love’s uplifted stroke. My harness, piece by piece,

thou’st hewn from me

And smitten me to my knee,

I am defenceless, utterly.

I slept methinks, and awoke.

And slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep.

In the rash lustihead of my young powers,

I shook the pillaring hours,

and pulled my life upon me.

Grimed with smears,

I stand amidst the dust o’ the mounded years–

My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.

My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,

Have puffed and burst like sunstarts on a stream.

Yeah, faileth now even dream the dreamer

and the lute, the lutanist.

Even the linked fantasies in whose blossomy twist,

I swung the Earth, a trinket at my wrist,

Have yielded, cords of all too weak account,

For Earth, with heavy grief so overplussed.

Ah! is thy Love indeed a weed,

albeit an Amaranthine weed,

Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?

Ah! must, Designer Infinite,

Ah! must thou char the wood ‘ere thou canst limn with it ?

My freshness spent its wavering shower i’ the dust.

And now my heart is as a broken fount,

Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever

From the dank thoughts that shiver upon the sighful branches of my

mind.
Such is. What is to be ?

The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind ?

I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds,

Yet ever and anon, a trumpet sounds

From the hid battlements of Eternity.

Those shaken mists a space unsettle,

Then round the half-glimpse d turrets, slowly wash again.

But not ‘ere Him who summoneth

I first have seen, enwound

With glooming robes purpureal; Cypress crowned.

His name I know, and what his trumpet saith.

Whether Man’s Heart or Life it be that yield thee harvest,

Must thy harvest fields be dunged with rotten death ?
Now of that long pursuit,

Comes at hand the bruit.

That Voice is round me like a bursting Sea:

And is thy Earth so marred,

Shattered in shard on shard?

Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest me.

Strange, piteous, futile thing;

Wherefore should any set thee love apart?

Seeing none but I makes much of Naught (He said).

And human love needs human meriting —

How hast thou merited,

Of all Man’s clotted clay, the dingiest clot.

Alack! Thou knowest not

How little worthy of any love thou art.

Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,

Save me, save only me?

All which I took from thee, I did’st but take,

Not for thy harms,

But just that thou might’st seek it in my arms.

All which thy childs mistake fancies as lost,

I have stored for thee at Home.

Rise, clasp my hand, and come.

Halts by me that Footfall.

Is my gloom, after all,

Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?

Ah, Fondest, Blindest, Weakest,

I am He whom thou seekest.

Thou dravest Love from thee who dravest Me. 

What is – Emily Dickinson

215
What is—”Paradise”—

Who live there—

Are they “Farmers”—

Do they “hoe”—

Do they know that this is “Amherst”—

And that I—am coming—too—
Do they wear “new shoes”—in “Eden”—

Is it always pleasant—there—

Won’t they scold us—when we’re homesick—

Or tell God—how cross we are—
You are sure there’s such a person

As “a Father”—in the sky—

So if I get lost—there—ever—

Or do what the Nurse calls “die”—

I shan’t walk the “Jasper”—barefoot—

Ransomed folks—won’t laugh at me—

Maybe—”Eden” a’n’t so lonesome

As New England used to be! 

What shall I do when the Summer Troubles – Emily Dickinson

956
What shall I do when the Summer troubles—

What, when the Rose is ripe—

What when the Eggs fly off in Music

From the Maple Keep?
What shall I do when the Skies a’chirrup

Drop a Tune on me—

When the Bee hangs all Noon in the Buttercup

What will become of me?
Oh, when the Squirrel fills His Pockets

And the Berries stare

How can I bear their jocund Faces

Thou from Here, so far?
‘Twouldn’t afflict a Robin—

All His Goods have Wings—

I—do not fly, so wherefore

My Perennial Things? 

What shall I do – it Whimpers so – Emily Dickinson

186
What shall I do—it whimpers so—

This little Hound within the Heart

All day and night with bark and start—

And yet, it will not go—

Would you untie it, were you me—

Would it stop whining—if to Thee—

I sent it—even now?
It should not tease you—

By your chair—or, on the mat—

Or if it dare—to climb your dizzy knee—

Or—sometimes at your side to run—

When you were willing—

Shall it come?

Tell Carlo—

He’ll tell me! 

What Soft – Cherubic Creatures – Emily Dickinson

401
What Soft—Cherubic Creatures—

These Gentlewomen are—

One would as soon assault a Plush—

Or violate a Star—
Such Dimity Convictions—

A Horror so refined

Of freckled Human Nature—

Of Deity—ashamed—
It’s such a common—Glory—

A Fisherman’s—Degree—

Redemption—Brittle Lady—

Be so—ashamed of Thee— 

What would I give to see his Face – Emily Dickinson

247
What would I give to see his face?

I’d give—I’d give my life—of course—

But that is not enough!

Stop just a minute—let me think!

I’d give my biggest Bobolink!

That makes two—Him—and Life!

You know who “June” is—

I’d give her—

Roses a day from Zanzibar—

And Lily tubes—like Wells—

Bees—by the furlong—

Straits of Blue

Navies of Butterflies—sailed thro’—

And dappled Cowslip Dells—
Then I have “shares” in Primrose “Banks”—

Daffodil Dowries—spicy “Stocks”—

Dominions—broad as Dew—

Bags of Doublons—adventurous Bees

Brought me—from firmamental seas—

And Purple—from Peru—
Now—have I bought it—

“Shylock”? Say!

Sign me the Bond!

“I vow to pay

To Her—who pledges this—

One hour—of her Sovereign’s face”!

Ecstatic Contract!

Niggard Grace!

My Kingdom’s worth of Bliss! 

When a Lover is a Begger – Emily Dickinson

When a Lover is a Begger

Abject is his Knee – 

When a Lover is an Owner

Different is he – 

What he begged is then the Beggar – 

Oh disparity – 

Bread of Heaven resents bestowal

Like an obloquy –