Anne Brontë – The Three Guides

Spirit of Earth! thy hand is chill:

I've felt its icy clasp;

And, shuddering, I remember still

That stony-hearted grasp.

Thine eye bids love and joy depart:

Oh, turn its gaze from me!

It presses down my shrinking heart;

I will not walk with thee!

"Wisdom is mine," I've heard thee say:

"Beneath my searching eye

All mist and darkness melt away,

Phantoms and fables fly.

Before me truth can stand alone,

The naked, solid truth;

And man matured by worth will own,

If I am shunned by youth.

"Firm is my tread, and sure though slow;

My footsteps never slide;

And he that follows me shall know

I am the surest guide."

Thy boast is vain; but were it true

That thou couldst safely steer

Life's rough and devious pathway through,

Such guidance I should fear.

How could I bear to walk for aye,

With eyes to earthward prone,

O'er trampled weeds and miry clay,

And sand and flinty stone;

Never the glorious view to greet

Of hill and dale, and sky;

To see that Nature's charms are sweet,

Or feel that Heaven is nigh?

If in my heart arose a spring,

A gush of thought divine,

At once stagnation thou wouldst bring

With that cold touch of thine.

If, glancing up, I sought to snatch

But one glimpse of the sky,

My baffled gaze would only catch

Thy heartless, cold grey eye.

If to the breezes wandering near,

I listened eagerly,

And deemed an angel's tongue to hear

That whispered hope to me,

That heavenly music would be drowned

In thy harsh, droning voice;

Nor inward thought, nor sight, nor sound,

Might my sad soul rejoice.

Dull is thine ear, unheard by thee

The still, small voice of Heaven;

Thine eyes are dim and cannot see

The helps that God has given.

There is a bridge o'er every flood

Which thou canst not perceive;

A path through every tangled wood,

But thou wilt not believe.

Striving to make thy way by force,

Toil-spent and bramble-torn,

Thou'lt fell the tree that checks thy course,

And burst through brier and thorn:

And, pausing by the river's side,

Poor reasoner! thou wilt deem,

By casting pebbles in its tide,

To cross the swelling stream.

Right through the flinty rock thou'lt try

Thy toilsome way to bore,

Regardless of the pathway nigh

That would conduct thee o'er

Not only art thou, then, unkind,

And freezing cold to me,

But unbelieving, deaf, and blind:

I will not walk with thee!

Spirit of Pride! thy wings are strong,

Thine eyes like lightning shine;

Ecstatic joys to thee belong,

And powers almost divine.

But 'tis a false, destructive blaze

Within those eyes I see;

Turn hence their fascinating gaze;

I will not follow thee.

"Coward and fool!" thou mayst reply,

Walk on the common sod;

Go, trace with timid foot and eye

The steps by others trod.

'Tis best the beaten path to keep,

The ancient faith to hold;

To pasture with thy fellow-sheep,

And lie within the fold.

"Cling to the earth, poor grovelling worm;

'Tis not for thee to soar

Against the fury of the storm,

Amid the thunder's roar!

There's glory in that daring strife

Unknown, undreamt by thee;

There's speechless rapture in the life

Of those who follow me.

Yes, I have seen thy votaries oft,

Upheld by thee their guide,

In strength and courage mount aloft

The steepy mountain-side;

I've seen them stand against the sky,

And gazing from below,

Beheld thy lightning in their eye

Thy triumph on their brow.

Oh, I have felt what glory then,

What transport must be theirs!

So far above their fellow-men,

Above their toils and cares;

Inhaling Nature's purest breath,

Her riches round them spread,

The wide expanse of earth beneath,

Heaven's glories overhead!

But I have seen them helpless, dash'd

Down to a bloody grave,

And still thy ruthless eye has flash'd,

Thy strong hand did not save;

I've seen some o'er the mountain's brow

Sustain'd awhile by thee,

O'er rocks of ice and hills of snow

Bound fearless, wild, and free.

Bold and exultant was their mien,

While thou didst cheer them on;

But evening fell,--and then, I ween,

Their faithless guide was gone.

Alas! how fared thy favourites then,--

Lone, helpless, weary, cold?

Did ever wanderer find again

The path he left of old?

Where is their glory, where the pride

That swelled their hearts before?

Where now the courage that defied

The mightiest tempest's roar?

What shall they do when night grows black,

When angry storms arise?

Who now will lead them to the track

Thou taught'st them to despise?

Spirit of Pride, it needs not this

To make me shun thy wiles,

Renounce thy triumph and thy bliss,

Thy honours and thy smiles!

Bright as thou art, and bold, and strong,

That fierce glance wins not me,

And I abhor thy scoffing tongue--

I will not follow thee!

Spirit of Faith! be thou my guide,

O clasp my hand in thine,

And let me never quit thy side;

Thy comforts are divine!

Earth calls thee blind, misguided one,--

But who can shew like thee

Forgotten things that have been done,

And things that are to be?

Secrets conceal'd from Nature's ken,

Who like thee can declare?

Or who like thee to erring men

God's holy will can bear?

Pride scorns thee for thy lowly mien,--

But who like thee can rise

Above this toilsome, sordid scene,

Beyond the holy skies?

Meek is thine eye and soft thy voice,

But wondrous is thy might,

To make the wretched soul rejoice,

To give the simple light!

And still to all that seek thy way

This magic power is given,--

E'en while their footsteps press the clay,

Their souls ascend to heaven.

Danger surrounds them,--pain and woe

Their portion here must be,

But only they that trust thee know

What comfort dwells with thee;

Strength to sustain their drooping pow'rs,

And vigour to defend,--

Thou pole-star of my darkest hours

Affliction's firmest friend!

Day does not always mark our way,

Night's shadows oft appal,

But lead me, and I cannot stray,--

Hold me, I shall not fall;

Sustain me, I shall never faint,

How rough soe'er may be

My upward road,--nor moan, nor plaint

Shall mar my trust in thee.

Narrow the path by which we go,

And oft it turns aside

From pleasant meads where roses blow,

And peaceful waters glide;

Where flowery turf lies green and soft,

And gentle gales are sweet,

To where dark mountains frown aloft,

Hard rocks distress the feet,--

Deserts beyond lie bleak and bare,

And keen winds round us blow;

But if thy hand conducts me there,

The way is right, I know.

I have no wish to turn away;

My spirit does not quail,--

How can it while I hear thee say,

"Press forward and prevail!"

Even above the tempest's swell

I hear thy voice of love,--

Of hope and peace, I hear thee tell,

And that blest home above;

Through pain and death I can rejoice.

If but thy strength be mine,--

Earth hath no music like thy voice,

Life owns no joy like thine!

Spirit of Faith, I'll go with thee!

Thou, if I hold thee fast,

Wilt guide, defend, and strengthen me,

And bear me home at last;

By thy help all things I can do,

In thy strength all things bear,--

Teach me, for thou art just and true,

Smile on me, thou art fair!

Emily Dickinson – The morns are meeker than they were - (Poem 32)

The morns are meeker than they were - 

The nuts are getting brown -

The berry’s cheek is plumper -

The rose is out of town.

 

The maple wears a gayer scarf -

The field a scarlet gown -

Lest I sh'd be old-fashioned 

I’ll put a trinket on. 

Mary Elizabeth Coleridge – He came unto His own, and His own received Him not

As Christ the Lord was passing by,
He came, one night, to a cottage door.
He came, a poor man, to the poor;
He had no bed whereon to lie.

He asked in vain for a crust of bread,
Standing there in the frozen blast.
The door was locked and bolted fast.
‘Only a beggar!’ the poor man said.
Christ the Lord went further on,
Until He came to a palace gate.
There a king was keeping his state,
In every window the candles shone.

The king beheld Him out in the cold.
He left his guests in the banquet-hall.
He bade his servants tend them all.
‘I wait on a Guest I know of old.’

‘’Tis only a beggar-man!’ they said.
‘Yes,’ he said; ‘it is Christ the Lord.’
He spoke to Him a kindly word,
He gave Him wine and he gave Him bread.

Now Christ is Lord of Heaven and Hell,
And all the words of Christ are true.
He touched the cottage, and it grew;
He touched the palace, and it fell.

The poor man is become a king.
Never was man so sad as he.
Sorrow and Sin on the throne make three,
He has no joy in mortal thing.

But the sun streams in at the cottage door
That stands where once the palace stood.
And the workman, toiling to earn his food,
Was never a king before.

Edgar Allan Poe – Israfel

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell

"Whose heart-strings are a lute";

None sing so wildly well

As the angel Israfel,

And the giddy stars (so legends tell),

Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell

Of his voice, all mute.

Tottering above

In her highest noon,

The enamored moon

Blushes with love,

While, to listen, the red levin

(With the rapid Pleiads, even,

Which were seven,)

Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choir

And the other listening things)

That Israfeli's fire

Is owing to that lyre

By which he sits and sings-

The trembling living wire

Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod,

Where deep thoughts are a duty-

Where Love's a grown-up God-

Where the Houri glances are

Imbued with all the beauty

Which we worship in a star.

Therefore thou art not wrong,

Israfeli, who despisest

An unimpassioned song;

To thee the laurels belong,

Best bard, because the wisest!

Merrily live, and long!

The ecstasies above

With thy burning measures suit-

Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,

With the fervor of thy lute-

Well may the stars be mute!

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this

Is a world of sweets and sours;

Our flowers are merely- flowers,

And the shadow of thy perfect bliss

Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell

Where Israfel

Hath dwelt, and he where I,

He might not sing so wildly well

A mortal melody,

While a bolder note than this might swell

From my lyre within the sky.

Charles Bukowski – Freedom

he drank wine all night of the
28th, and he kept thinking of her:
the way she walked and talked and loved
the way she told him things that seemed true
but were not, and he knew the color of each
of her dresses
and her shoes-he knew the stock and curve of
each heel
as well as the leg shaped by it.

and she was out again and when he came home, and
she'd come back with that special stink again,
and she did
she came in at 3 a.m in the morning
filthy like a dung eating swine
and
he took out a butchers knife
and she screamed
backing into the rooming house wall
still pretty somehow
in spite of love's reek
and he finished the glass of wine.

that yellow dress
his favorite
and she screamed again.

and he took up the knife
and unhooked his belt
and tore away the cloth before her
and cut off his balls.

and carried them in his hands
like apricots
and flushed them down the
toilet bowl
and she kept screaming
as the room became red

GOD O GOD!
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

and he sat there holding 3 towels
between his legs
no caring now whether she left or
stayed
wore yellow or green or
anything at all.

and one hand holding and one hand
lifting he poured
another wine

Charlotte Mew – Fin de Fête

Sweetheart, for such a day

     One mustn’t grudge the score;

Here, then, it’s all to pay,

     It’s Good-night at the door.

 

Good-night and good dreams to you,—

     Do you remember the picture-book thieves

Who left two children sleeping in a wood the long night through,

     And how the birds came down and covered them with leaves?

 

So you and I should have slept,—But now,

     Oh, what a lonely head!

With just the shadow of a waving bough

     In the moonlight over your bed.

Emily Dickinson – I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, (Poem 340)

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading - treading - till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through -

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum -
Kept beating - beating - till I thought
My mind was going numb -

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space - began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race,
Wrecked, solitary, here -

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down -
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing - then -

Emily Dickinson – Now I knew I lost her (Poem 1274)

Now I knew I lost her —
Not that she was gone —
But Remoteness travelled
On her Face and Tongue.

Alien, though adjoining
As a Foreign Race —
Traversed she though pausing
Latitudeless Place.

Elements Unaltered —
Universe the same
But Love's transmigration —
Somehow this had come —

Henceforth to remember
Nature took the Day
I had paid so much for —
His is Penury
Not who toils for Freedom
Or for Family
But the Restitution
Of Idolatry.

Anne Spencer – Requiem

Oh, I who so wanted to own some earth,

Am consumed by the earth instead:

Blood into river

Bone into land

The grave restores what finds its bed.

Oh, I who did drink of Spring’s fragrant clay,

Give back its wine for other men:

Breath into air

Heart into grass

My heart bereft — I might rest then.

Charles Bukowski – Rhyming Poem

the goldfish sing all night with guitars,
and the whores go down with the stars,
the whores go down with the stars
I'm sorry, sir, we close at 4:30,
besides your mother's neck is dirty,
and the whores go down with the etc.
the whores. go down. with the etc.
I'm sorry jack you can't come back,
I've fallen in love with another sap,
34 Italian and 1 2 Jap,
and the whores go
the whores go
etc.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox – Realisation

 Hers was a lonely, shadowed lot;
Or so the unperceiving thought,
Who looked no deeper than her face,
Devoid of chiselled lines of grace –
No farther than her humble grate,
And wondered how she bore her fate.

Yet she was neither lone nor sad;
So much of love her spirit had,
She found an ever-flowing spring
Of happiness in everything.

So near to her was Nature’s heart
It seemed a very living part
Of her own self; and bud and blade,
And heat and cold, and sun and shade,
And dawn and sunset, Spring and Fall,
Held raptures for her, one and all.
The year’s four changing seasons brought
To her own door what thousands sought
In wandering ways and did not find –
Diversion and content of mind.

She loved the tasks that filled each day –
Such menial duties; but her way
Of looking at them lent a grace
To things the world deemed commonplace.

Obscure and without place or name,
She gloried in another’s fame.
Poor, plain and humble in her dress,
She thrilled when beauty and success
And wealth passed by, on pleasure bent;
They made earth seem so opulent.
Yet none of quicker sympathy,
When need or sorrow came, than she.
And so she lived, and so she died.

She woke as from a dream. How wide
And wonderful the avenue
That stretched to her astonished view!
And up the green ascending lawn
A palace caught the rays of dawn.
Then suddenly the silence stirred
With one clear keynote of a bird;
A thousand answered, till ere long
The air was quivering bits of song.
She rose and wandered forth in awe,
Amazed and moved by all she saw,
For, like so many souls who go

Away from earth, she did not know
The cord was severed.
Down the street,
With eager arms stretched forth to greet,
Came one she loved and mourned in youth;
Her mother followed; then the truth
Broke on her, golden wave on wave,
Of knowledge infinite. The grave,
The body and the earthly sphere
Were gone! Immortal life was here!
They led her through the Palace halls;
From gleaming mirrors on the walls
She saw herself, with radiant mien,
And robed in splendour like a queen,
While glory round about her shone.
‘All this, ’ Love murmured, ‘is your own.’
And when she gazed with wondering eye,
And questioned whence and where and why,
Love answered thus: ‘All Heaven is made
By thoughts on earth; your walls were laid,
Year after year, of purest gold;
The beauty of your mind behold
In this fair palace; ay, and more
Waits farther on, so vast your store.
I was not worthy when I died
To take my place here at your side;
I toiled through long and weary years
From lower planes to these high spheres;
And through the love you sent from earth
I have attained a second birth.
Oft when my erring soul would tire
I felt the strength of your desire;
I heard you breathe my name in prayer,
And courage conquered weak despair.
Ah! earth needs heaven, but heaven indeed
Of earth has just as great a need!

Across the terrace with a bound
There sped a lambkin with a hound
(Dumb comrades of the old earth land)
And fondled her caressing hand.

Thomas Stearns Eliot – The Rum Tum Tugger

The Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat:

If you offer him pheasant he would rather have grouse.

If you put him in a house he would much prefer a flat,

If you put him in a flat then he'd rather have a house.

If you set him on a mouse then he only wants a rat,

If you set him on a rat then he'd rather chase a mouse.

Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat--

And there isn't any call for me to shout it:

For he will do

As he do do

And there's no doing anything about it!

The Rum Tum Tugger is a terrible bore:

When you let him in, then he wants to be out;

He's always on the wrong side of every door,

And as soon as he's at home, then he'd like to get about.

He likes to lie in the bureau drawer,

But he makes such a fuss if he can't get out.

Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat--

And there isn't any use for you to doubt it:

For he will do

As he do do

And there's no doing anything about it!

The Rum Tum Tugger is a curious beast:

His disobliging ways are a matter of habit.

If you offer him fish then he always wants a feast;

When there isn't any fish then he won't eat rabbit.

If you offer him cream then he sniffs and sneers,

For he only likes what he finds for himself;

So you'll catch him in it right up to the ears,

If you put it away on the larder shelf.

The Rum Tum Tugger is artful and knowing,

The Rum Tum Tugger doesn't care for a cuddle;

But he'll leap on your lap in the middle of your sewing,

For there's nothing he enjoys like a horrible muddle.

Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat--

And there isn't any need for me to spout it:

For he will do

As he do do

And theres no doing anything about it!

Charles Bukowski – Sway With Me

sway with me, everything sad --
madmen in stone houses
without doors,
lepers steaming love and song
frogs trying to figure
the sky;
sway with me, sad things --
fingers split on a forge
old age like breakfast shell
used books, used people
used flowers, used love
I need you
I need you
I need you:
it has run away
like a horse or a dog,
dead or lost
or unforgiving.

Charles Bukowski – Poetry

it

takes

a lot of

desperation

dissatisfaction

and

disillusion

to

write

a

few

good

poems.

it's not

for

everybody

either to

write

it

or even to

read

it.

Charles Bukowski – The Poetry Reading

at high noon

at a small college near the beach

sober

the sweat running down my arms

a spot of sweat on the table

I flatten it with my finger

blood money blood money

my god they must think I love this like the others

but it's for bread and beer and rent

blood money

I'm tense lousy feel bad

poor people I'm failing I'm failing

a woman gets up

walks out

slams the door

a dirty poem

somebody told me not to read dirty poems

here

it's too late.

my eyes can't see some lines

I read it

out-

desperate trembling

lousy

they can't hear my voice

and I say,

I quit, that's it, I'm

finished.

and later in my room

there's scotch and beer:

the blood of a coward.

this then

will be my destiny:

scrabbling for pennies in tiny dark halls

reading poems I have long since become tired

of.

and I used to think

that men who drove buses

or cleaned out latrines

or murdered men in alleys were

fools.

Mary Elizabeth Coleridge – We Never Said Farewell

We never said farewell, nor even looked

Our last upon each other, for no sign

Was made when we the linkèd chain unhooked

And broke the level line.

And here we dwell together, side by side,

Our places fixed for life upon the chart.

Two islands that the roaring seas divide

Are not more far apart.

Mary Elizabeth Coleridge – Our Lady

Mother of God! no lady thou:

Common woman of common earth

Our Lady ladies call thee now,

But Christ was never of gentle birth;

A common man of the common earth.

For God’s ways are not as our ways:

The noblest lady in the land

Would have given up half her days,

Would have cut off her right hand,

To bear the child that was God of the land.

Never a lady did He choose,

Only a maid of low degree,

So humble she might not refuse

The carpenter of Galilee:

A daughter of the people, she.

Out she sang the song of her heart.

Never a lady so had sung.

She knew no letters, had no art;

To all mankind, in woman’s tongue,

Hath Israelitish Mary sung.

And still for men to come she sings,

Nor shall her singing pass away.

‘He hath fillàd the hungry with good things’—

O listen, lords and ladies gay!—

‘And the rich He hath sent empty away.’

Mary Elizabeth Coleridge – Good Friday in my Heart

Good friday in my heart! Fear and affright!

My thoughts are the Disciples when they fled,

My words the words that priest and soldier said,

My deed the spear to desecrate the dead.

And day, Thy death therein, is changed to night.

Then Easter in my heart sends up the sun.

My thoughts are Mary, when she turned to see.

My words are Peter, answering, ‘Lov’st thou Me?’

My deeds are all Thine own drawn close to Thee,

And night and day, since Thou dost rise, are one.

Mary Elizabeth Coleridge – Blue and White

Blue is Our Lady’s colour,

White is Our Lord’s.

To-morrow I will wear a knot

Of blue and white cords,

That you may see it, where you ride

Among the flashing swords.

O banner, white and sunny blue,

With prayer I wove thee!

For love the white, for faith the heavenly hue,

And both for him, so tender-true,

Him that doth love me!

Mary Elizabeth Coleridge – Affection

The earth that made the rose,

She also is thy mother, and not I.

The flame wherewith thy maiden spirit glows

Was lighted at no hearth that I sit by.

I am as far below as heaven above thee.

Were I thine angel, more I could not love thee.

Bid me defend thee!

Thy danger over-human strength shall lend me,

A hand of iron and a heart of steel,

To strike, to wound, to slay, and not to feel.

But if you chide me,

I am a weak, defenceless child beside thee

Kahlil Gibran – Self-Knowledge XVII

And a man said, "Speak to us of Self-Knowledge."

And he answered, saying:

Your hearts know in silence the secrets of the days and the nights.

But your ears thirst for the sound of your heart's knowledge.

You would know in words that which you have always know in thought.

You would touch with your fingers the naked body of your dreams.

And it is well you should.

The hidden well-spring of your soul must needs rise and run murmuring to the sea;

And the treasure of your infinite depths would be revealed to your eyes.

But let there be no scales to weigh your unknown treasure;

And seek not the depths of your knowledge with staff or sounding line.

For self is a sea boundless and measureless.

Say not, "I have found the truth," but rather, "I have found a truth."

Say not, "I have found the path of the soul." Say rather, "I have met the soul walking upon my path."

For the soul walks upon all paths.

The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed.

The soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of countless petals.

Sylvia Plath – Apprehensions

There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself-

Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.

Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.

They are my medium.

The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.

A grey wall now, clawed and bloody.

Is there no way out of the mind?

Steps at my back spiral into a well.

There are no trees or birds in this world,

There is only sourness.

This red wall winces continually:

A red fist, opening and closing,

Two grey, papery bags-

This is what i am made of, this, and a terror

Of being wheeled off under crosses and rain of pieties.

On a black wall, unidentifiable birds

Swivel their heads and cry.

There is no talk of immorality amoun these!

Cold blanks approach us:

They move in a hurry.

Sylvia Plath – Insomniac

The night is only a sort of carbon paper,

Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars

Letting in the light, peephole after peephole . . .

A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.

Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus

He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness

Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie

Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days

Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,

Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,

A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.

His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.

Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue . . .

How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!

Those sugary planets whose influence won for him

A life baptized in no-life for a while,

And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.

Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.

Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.

Each gesture flees immediately down an alley

Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance

Drains like water out the hole at the far end.

He lives without privacy in a lidless room,

The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open

On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats

Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.

Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,

Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.

The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,

And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,

Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

Mary Elizabeth Coleridge – Jealousy

‘The myrtle bush grew shady

Down by the ford.’

‘Is it even so?’ said my lady.

‘Even so!’ said my lord.

‘The leaves are set too thick together

For the point of a sword.

‘The arras in your room hangs close,

No light between!

You wedded one of those that see unseen.’

‘Is it even so?’ said the King’s Majesty.

‘Even so!’ said the Queen.

Rudyard Kipling – Justice

Across a world where all men grieve

   And grieving strive the more,

The great days range like tides and leave

    Our dead on every shore.

Heavy the load we undergo,

    And our own hands prepare,

If we have parley with the foe,

    The load our sons must bear.

Before we loose the word

    That bids new worlds to birth,

Needs must we loosen first the sword

    Of Justice upon earth;

Or else all else is vain

    Since life on earth began,

And the spent world sinks back again

    Hopeless of God and Man.

A People and their King

    Through ancient sin grown strong,

Because they feared no reckoning

    Would set no bound to wrong;

But now their hour is past,

    And we who bore it find

Evil Incarnate held at last

    To answer to mankind.

For agony and spoil

    Of nations beat to dust,

For poisoned air and tortured soil

    And cold, commanded lust,

And every secret woe

    The shuddering waters saw—

Willed and fulfilled by high and low—

    Let them relearn the Law:

That when the dooms are read,

    Not high nor low shall say:—

"My haughty or my humble head

    Has saved me in this day."

That, till the end of time,

    Their remnant shall recall

Their fathers' old, confederate crime

    Availed them not at all:

That neither schools nor priests,

    Nor Kings may build again

A people with the heart of beasts

    Made wise concerning men.

Whereby our dead shall sleep

    In honour, unbetrayed,

And we in faith and honour keep

    That peace for which they paid.

October, 1918

Anne Brontë – The Narrow Way

Believe not those who say

The upward path is smooth,

Lest thou shouldst stumble in the way,

And faint before the truth.

It is the only road

Unto the realms of joy;

But he who seeks that blest abode

Must all his powers employ.

Bright hopes and pure delight

Upon his course may beam,

And there, amid the sternest heights,

The sweetest flowerets gleam.

On all her breezes borne,

Earth yields no scents like those;

But he that dares not gasp the thorn

Should never crave the rose.

Arm--arm thee for the fight!

Cast useless loads away;

Watch through the darkest hours of night;

Toil through the hottest day.

Crush pride into the dust,

Or thou must needs be slack;

And trample down rebellious lust,

Or it will hold thee back.

Seek not thy honour here;

Waive pleasure and renown;

The world's dread scoff undaunted bear,

And face its deadliest frown.

To labour and to love,

To pardon and endure,

To lift thy heart to God above,

And keep thy conscience pure;

Be this thy constant aim,

Thy hope, thy chief delight;

What matter who should whisper blame

Or who should scorn or slight?

What matter, if thy God approve,

And if, within thy breast,

Thou feel the comfort of His love,

The earnest of His rest?

Sylvia Plath – A Sorcerer Bids Farewell To Seem

I'm through with this grand looking-glass hotel

where adjectives play croquet with flamingo nouns;

methinks I shall absent me for a while

from rhetoric of these rococo queens.

Item : chuck out royal rigmarole of props

and auction off each rare white-rabbit verb;

send my muse Alice packing with gaudy scraps

of mushroom simile and gryphon garb.

My native sleight-of-hand is wearing out :

mad hatter's hat yields no new metaphor,

and jabberwock will not translate his songs :

it's time to vanish like the cheshire cat

alone to that authentic island where

cabbages are cabbages; kings : kings.