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Her Immortality
Upon a noon I pilgrimed throughA pasture, mile by mile,Unto the place where I last sawMy dead Love's living smile.And sorrowing I lay me downUpon the heated sod:It seemed as if my body pressedThe very ground she trod.I lay, and thought; and in a tranceShe came and stood me byThe same, even to the marvellous rayThat used to light her eye."You draw me, and I come to you,My faithful one," she said,In voice that had the moving toneIt bore ere breath had fled.She said: "'Tis seven years since I died:Few now remember me;My husband clasps another bride;My children's love has she."My brethren, sisters, and my friendsCare not to meet my sprite:Who prized me most I did not knowTill I...
Thomas Hardy
Mary And Gabriel
Young Mary, loitering once her garden way,Felt a warm splendour grow in the April day,As wine that blushes water through. And soon,Out of the gold air of the afternoon,One knelt before her: hair he had, or fire,Bound back above his ears with golden wire,Baring the eager marble of his face.Not man's nor woman's was the immortal graceRounding the limbs beneath that robe of white,And lighting the proud eyes with changeless light,Incurious. Calm as his wings, and fair,That presence filled the garden. She stood there,Saying, "What would you, Sir?" He told his word,"Blessed art thou of women!" Half she heard,Hands folded and face bowed, half long had known,The message of that clear and holy tone,That fluttered hot sweet sobs about h...
Rupert Brooke
An April Dawn.
All night a slow soft rain,A shadowy stranger from a cloudy land,Sighing and sobbing, with unsteady hand Beat at the lattice, ceased, and beat again,And fled like some wild startled thing pursuedBy demons of the night and solitude, Returning ever--wistful--timid--fain-- The intermittent rain. And still the sad hours creptWithin uncounted, the while hopes and fearsSwayed our full hearts, and overflowed in tears That fell in silence, as she waked or slept,Still drawing nearer to that unknown shoreWhence foot of mortal cometh nevermore, And still the rain was as a pulse that kept Time as the slow hours crept. The plummet of the nightSank through the hollow dark t...
Kate Seymour Maclean
Worn Out
You bid me hold my peaceAnd dry my fruitless tears,Forgetting that I bearA pain beyond my years.You say that I should smileAnd drive the gloom away;I would, but sun and smilesHave left my life's dark day.All time seems cold and void,And naught but tears remain;Life's music beats for meA melancholy strain.I used at first to hope,But hope is past and, gone;And now without a rayMy cheerless life drags on.Like to an ash-stained hearthWhen all its fires are spent;Like to an autumn woodBy storm winds rudely shent,--So sadly goes my heart,Unclothed of hope and peace;It asks not joy again,But only seeks release.
Paul Laurence Dunbar
Parting.
There's no use in weeping,Though we are condemned to part:There's such a thing as keepingA remembrance in one's heart:There's such a thing as dwellingOn the thought ourselves have nursed,And with scorn and courage tellingThe world to do its worst.We'll not let its follies grieve us,We'll just take them as they come;And then every day will leave usA merry laugh for home.When we've left each friend and brother,When we're parted wide and far,We will think of one another,As even better than we are.Every glorious sight above us,Every pleasant sight beneath,We'll connect with those that love us,Whom we truly love till death!In the evening, when we're sittingBy the fire, perchance alone,
Charlotte Bronte
On The Death Of A Lap-Dog, Named Echo.
In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, Your heavy loss deplore; Now half extinct your powers of song, Sweet Echo is no more. Ye jarring, screeching things around, Scream your discordant joys; Now half your din of tuneless sound With Echo silent lies.
Robert Burns
November
As I walk the misty hillAll is languid, fogged, and still;Not a note of any birdNor any motion's hint is heard,Save from soaking thickets roundTrickle or water's rushing sound,And from ghostly trees the dripOf runnel dews or whispering slipOf leaves, which in a body launchListlessly from the stagnant branchTo strew the marl, already strown,With litter sodden as its own,A rheum, like blight, hangs on the briars,And from the clammy ground suspiresA sweet frail sick autumnal scentOf stale frost furring weeds long spent;And wafted on, like one who sleeps,A feeble vapour hangs or creeps,Exhaling on the fungus mouldA breath of age, fatigue, and cold.Oozed from the bracken's desolate track,By dark rains havock...
Robert Malise Bowyer Nichols
Stanzas.
I'll not weep that thou art going to leave me,There's nothing lovely here;And doubly will the dark world grieve me,While thy heart suffers there.I'll not weep, because the summer's gloryMust always end in gloom;And, follow out the happiest storyIt closes with a tomb!And I am weary of the anguishIncreasing winters bear;Weary to watch the spirit languishThrough years of dead despair.So, if a tear, when thou art dying,Should haply fall from me,It is but that my soul is sighing,To go and rest with thee.
Emily Bronte
The Lonesomest House.
It's the lonesomest house you ever saw, This big gray house where I stay. I don't call it living at all, at all, Since my mother's gone away. Only four weeks now - it seems a year - Gone to heaven, the preacher said, And my heart is just broke awaiting her, And my eyes are always red. I stay out of doors till I'm almost froze, 'Cause every identical room Seems empty enough to scare a boy, And packed to the door with gloom. Oh, but I hate to come in to my meals, And her not there in her place, Pouring the tea, and passing the things, With that lovin' shine on her face! But night-time is worse. I creep up the stair And to bed as still 's a mouse, And cry...
Jean Blewett
Last Words To Miriam
Yours is the shame and sorrowBut the disgrace is mine;Your love was dark and thorough,Mine was the love of the sun for a flowerHe creates with his shine.I was diligent to explore you,Blossom you stalk by stalk,Till my fire of creation bore youShrivelling down in the final dourAnguish - then I suffered a balk.I knew your pain, and it brokeMy fine, craftsman's nerve;Your body quailed at my stroke,And my courage failed to give you the lastFine torture you did deserve.You are shapely, you are adorned,But opaque and dull in the flesh,Who, had I but pierced with the thornedFire-threshing anguish, were fused and castIn a lovely illumined mesh.Like a painted window: the bestSuffering burnt through y...
David Herbert Richards Lawrence
In The Night.
The Child.I hear you weeping, mother, dear,-- I hear you wake and weep;What brings the tears into your eyes When you should be asleep?I hear my name upon your lips; What is it that you sayOf one who broke a trusting heart, But now is far away?The Mother.I weep for you, my pretty lass, Frail flower of love unblessed,Because I can not always hold You close unto my breast;I weep that you some day must go Alone your way to find,For, oh, you have your mother's eyes, And men are seldom kind!
Charles Hamilton Musgrove
Threnody
Watching here alone by the fire whereat last yearSat with me the friend that a week since yet was near,That a week has borne so far and hid so deep,Woe am I that I may not weep,May not yearn to behold him here.Shame were mine, and little the love I bore him were,Now to mourn that better he fares than love may fareWhich desires, and would not have indeed, its will,Would not love him so worse than ill,Would not clothe him again with care.Yet can love not choose but remember, hearts but ache,Eyes but darken, only for one vain thought's poor sake,For the thought that by this hearth's now lonely sideTwo fast friends, on the day he died,Looked once more for his hand to take.Let thy soul forgive them, and pardon heal the sin,Though their hearts be hea...
Algernon Charles Swinburne
Despair
The long and tedious months move slowly byAnd February's chill has fled awayBefore the gales of March, and now e'en theyHave died upon the peaceful April sky:And still I sadly wander, still I sigh,And all the splendour of each Springtime dayIs dyed, for me, one melancholy grey,And all its beauty can but make me cry.For thou art silent, Oh! far distant friend,And not one word has come to cheer my heartThrough these sad months, which seem to have no end,So distant seems the day which bade us part!Oh speak! dear fair-haired angel! Spring has smiled,And I despair - a broken-hearted child.FRANCE, 1917.
Paul Bewsher
The Heart Of The Woman
O what to me the little roomThat was brimmed up with prayer and rest;He bade me out into the gloom,And my breast lies upon his breast.O what to me my mothers care,The house where I was safe and warm;The shadowy blossom of my hairWill hide us from the bitter storm.O hiding hair and dewy eyes,I am no more with life and death,My heart upon his warm heart lies,My breath is mixed into his breath.
William Butler Yeats
If I Could Only Weep
If I could only weep,I think sweet help with my salt tears would come,To ease the cruel pain that is so dumb, And will not let me sleep. Down in my heart, down deepA poisoned arrow burns. It would fall outAnd tears would wash the wound, I have no doubt, If I could only weep. Maybe my pulse would leap,And bring one thrill back, of a vanished day,Instead of throbbing in this dull, dead way, If I could only weep. O silent Fates who steepNectar or gall for us through all the years,Take what thou wilt, but give me back my tears, And let me weep and weep.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Take Heart
Take heart again. Joy may be lost awhile.It is not always Spring.And even now from some far Summer IsleHither the birds may wing.
Madison Julius Cawein
Pause.
So sick of dreams! the dreams, that stainThe aisle, along which life must pass,With hues of mystic colored glass,That fills the windows of the brain.So sick of thoughts! the thoughts, that carveThe house of days with arabesquesAnd gargoyles, where the mind grotesquesIn masks of hope and faith who starve.Here lay thy over weary headUpon my bosom! Do not weep!"He giveth His beloved sleep."Heart of my heart, be comforted.
A Sunday Morning Tragedy
I bore a daughter flower-fair,In Pydel Vale, alas for me;I joyed to mother one so rare,But dead and gone I now would be.Men looked and loved her as she grew,And she was won, alas for me;She told me nothing, but I knew,And saw that sorrow was to be.I knew that one had made her thrall,A thrall to him, alas for me;And then, at last, she told me all,And wondered what her end would be.She owned that she had loved too well,Had loved too well, unhappy she,And bore a secret time would tell,Though in her shroud she'd sooner be.I plodded to her sweetheart's doorIn Pydel Vale, alas for me:I pleaded with him, pleaded sore,To save her from her misery.He frowned, and swore he could not wed,Seven tim...