Charlotte Mew – I So Liked Spring

I so liked Spring last year

Because you were here;-

The thrushes too-

Because it was these you so liked to hear-

I so liked you.

This year's a different thing,-

I'll not think of you.

But I'll like the Spring because it is simply spring

As the thrushes do.

Edgar Allan Poe – 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.

Charles Bukowski – close to greatness

at one stage in my life
I met a man who claimed to have
visited Pound at St. Elizabeth's.

then I met a woman who not only
claimed to have visited
E.P.
but also to have made love
to him—she even showed
me
certain sections in the
Cantos
where Ezra was supposed to have
mentioned
her.

so there was this man and
this woman
and the woman told me
that Pound had never
mentioned a visit from this
man
and the man claimed that the
lady had had nothing to do
with the
master
that she was a
charlatan

and since I wasn't a
Poundian scholar
I didn't know who to
believe
but one thing I do
know: when a man is
living
many claim relationships
that are hardly
so
and after he dies, well,
then it's everybody's
party.

my guess is that Pound
knew neither the lady or the
gentleman

or if he knew
one
or if he knew
both

it was a shameful waste of
madhouse
time.

George Gordon Byron – The Tear

When Friendship or Love

Our sympathies move;

When Truth, in a glance, should appear,

The lips may beguile,

With a dimple or smile,

But the test of affection's a Tear:

Too oft is a smile

But the hypocrite's wile,

To mask detestation, or fear;

Give me the soft sigh,

Whilst the soultelling eye

Is dimm'd, for a time, with a Tear:

Mild Charity's glow,

To us mortals below,

Shows the soul from barbarity clear;

Compassion will melt,

Where this virtue is felt,

And its dew is diffused in a Tear:

The man, doom'd to sail

With the blast of the gale,

Through billows Atlantic to steer,

As he bends o'er the wave

Which may soon be his grave,

The green sparkles bright with a Tear;

The Soldier braves death

For a fanciful wreath

In Glory's romantic career;

But he raises the foe

When in battle laid low,

And bathes every wound with a Tear.

If, with high-bounding pride,

He return to his bride!

Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear;

All his toils are repaid

When, embracing the maid,

From her eyelid he kisses the Tear.

Sweet scene of my youth!

Seat of Friendship and Truth,

Where Love chas'd each fast-fleeting year

Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd,

For a last look I turn'd,

But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear:

Though my vows I can pour,

To my Mary no more,

My Mary, to Love once so dear,

In the shade of her bow'r,

I remember the hour,

She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

By another possest,

May she live ever blest!

Her name still my heart must revere:

With a sigh I resign,

What I once thought was mine,

And forgive her deceit with a Tear.

Ye friends of my heart,

Ere from you I depart,

This hope to my breast is most near:

If again we shall meet,

In this rural retreat,

May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.

When my soul wings her flight

To the regions of night,

And my corse shall recline on its bier;

As ye pass by the tomb,

Where my ashes consume,

Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.

Emily Dickinson – Much Madness is divinest Sense (Poem 620)

Much Madness is divinest Sense -
To a discerning Eye -
Much Sense - the starkest Madness -
’Tis the Majority
In this, as all, prevail -
Assent - and you are sane -
Demur - you’re straightway dangerous -
And handled with a Chain -