Puslapio vaizdai
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amaranth - nufas in moly - a plant in Q with black roof, w

a flower like i

VICTORIAN POETRY

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us alone. What is it that will last?
All things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
To war with evil? Is there any peace
In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
All things have rest, and ripen toward the
grave

In silence; ripen, fall and cease:
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or
dreamful ease.

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For surely now our household hearths are

cold:

Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange: And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.

Or else the island princes over-bold

Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings

Before them of the ten-years' war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things.

Is there confusion in the little isle?
Let what is broken so remain.
The Gods are hard to reconcile:
'Tis hard to settle order once again.
There is confusion worse than death,
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,
Long labour unto aged breath,

Sore tasks to hearts worn out with many

wars

And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.

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But, propt on beds of amaranth an
How sweet (while warm airs Tull us
ing lowly)

With half-dropt eyelids still,
Beneath a heaven dark and holy,
To watch the long bright river d
slowly

His waters from the purple hill-
To hear the dewy echoes calling
From cave to cave thro' the thick-
vine

To watch the emerald-colour'd water
Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wrea
vine!

Only to hear and see the far-off spa
brine,

Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd o
neath the pine.

The Lotos blooms below the barren
VIII monoton
The Lotos blows by every winding c
All day the wind breathes low with
lower tone:

Thro' every hollow cave and alley 1
Round and round the spicy downs the
low Lotos-dust is blown.

We have had enough of action, and motion we,

Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, v the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted foam-fountains in the sea.

Let us swear an oath, and keep it with equal mind,

In the hollow Lotos-land to live and reclined

On the hills like Gods together, careless mankind.

Epicurianism

For they lie beside their nectar, and bolts are hurl'd

Far below them in the valleys, and clouds are lightly curl'd

Round their golden houses, girdled w the gleaming world: Where they smile in secret, looking o wasted lands,

Blight and famine, plague and earthqual roaring deeps and fiery sands, Clanging fights, and flaming towns, a sinking ships, and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred a doleful song

Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancie tale of wrong,

Like a tale of little meaning tho' the word are strong;

Chanted from an ill-used race of men tha

cleave the soil,

Sow the seed, and reap the harvest wit enduring toil,

Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil;

doanita- a nymph lov b. uppols to turned into the flower can thin

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I READ, before my eyelids dropt their shade, 'The Legend of Good Women,' long ago Sung by the morning star of song, who made

His music heard below;

Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath

Preluded those melodious bursts that fill The spacious times of great Elizabeth With sounds that echo still.

And, for a while, the knowledge of his art Held me above the subject, as strong gales

Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' my heart,

Brimful of those wild tales,

Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every land

I saw, wherever light illumineth, Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand The downward slope to death.

Those far-renowned brides of ancient song Peopled the hollow dark, like burning stars,

And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong,

And trumpets blown for wars;

And clattering flints batter'd with clanging hoofs:

And I saw crowds in column'd sanctuaries;

And forms that pass'd at windows and on roofs

Of marble palaces;

Corpses across the threshold; heroes tall
Dislodging pinnacle and parapet
Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall;
Lances in ambush set;

And high shrine-doors burst thro' with heated blasts

That run before the fluttering tongues of fire;

White surf wind-scatter'd over sails and masts,

And ever climbing higher;

Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates,

Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers

woes,

Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates,

And hush'd seraglios.

So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land

Bluster the winds and tides the self

same way,

Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand,

Torn from the fringe of spray.

I started once, or seem'd to start in pain, Resolved on noble things, and strove to speak,

As when a great thought strikes along the brain,

And flushes all the cheek.

And once my arm was lifted to hew down A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town; And then, I know not how,

All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing thought

Stream'd onward, lost their edges, and did creep

Roll'd on each other, rounded, smooth'd, and brought

Into the gulfs of sleep.

At last methought that I had wander'd far In an old wood: fresh-wash'd in coolest dew.

The maiden splendours of the morning

star

Shook in the steadfast blue.

Enormous elm-tree-boles did stoop and lean Upon the dusky brushwood underneath Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest green,

New from its silken sheath.

The dim red morn had died, her journey done,

And with dead lips smiled at the twilight plain,

Half-fall'n across the threshold of the

sun,

Never to rise again.

There was no motion in the dumb dead air,

Not any song of bird or sound of rill; Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre Is not so deadly still

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As that wide forest. turn'd Their humid arms tree,

Growths of jasmine

festooning tree to

And at the root thro' lush green grasses burn'd

The red anemone.

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew

The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn

On those long, rank, dark wood-walks drench'd in dew,

Leading from lawn to lawn.

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame

The times when I remember to have been Joyful and free from blame.

And from within me a clear under-tone Thrill'd thro' mine ears in that unblissful clime,

'Pass freely thro': the wood is all thine own,

Until the end of time.'

At length I saw a lady within call,
Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing
there;

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,
And most divinely fair.

Her loveliness with shame and with surprise

Froze my swift speech: she turning on my face

The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes,
Spoke slowly in her place.

'I had great beauty: ask thou not my name:
No one can be more wise than destiny.
Many drew swords and died. Where'er I

came

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'Still strove to speak: my voice
with sighs

As in a dream. Dimly I could
The stern black-bearded kings wit
eyes,

Waiting to see me die.

'The high masts flicker'd as they la The crowds, the temples, waver'd, shore;

The bright death quiver'd at the throat;

Touch'd; and I knew no more.' Whereto the other with a downwar I would the white cold heavy-p foam,

Whirl'd by the wind, had roll'd m below,

Then when I left my home.' Her slow full words sank thro' the drear,

As thunder-drops fall on a sleepin Sudden I heard a voice that cried, here,

That I may look on thee.'

turning saw, throned on a flower One sitting on a crimson scarf un A queen, with swarthy cheeks and black eyes,

Brow-bound with burning gold. She, flashing forth a haughty smile, b I govern'd men by change, and sway'd

All moods. 'Tis long since I have se

man.

Once, like the moon, I made
'The ever-shifting currents of the b
According to my humour ebb and

I have no men to govern in this woo
That makes my only woe.

'Nay-yet it chafes me that I could
bend

One will; nor tame and tutor with n eye

That dull cold-blooded Caesar. Pryt friend,

Where is Mark Antony?

'The man, my lover, with whom I r
sublime

On Fortune's neck: we sat as God
God:

The Nilus would have risen before
time

And flooded at our nod.

'We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, a

lit

Lamps which outburn'd Canopus. On
life

In Egypt! O the dalliance and the wit,
The flattery and the strife,

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'The light white cloud swam over us. Anon We heard the lion roaring from his den; We saw the large white stars rise one by one,

Or, from the darken'd glen,

'Saw God divide the night with flying flame, And thunder on the everlasting hills.

I heard Him, for He spake, and grief be

came

A solemn scorn of ills.

'When the next moon was roll'd into the sky,

Strength came to me that equall'd my desire.

How beautiful a thing it was to die
For God and for my sire!

'It comforts me in this one thought to dwell,

That I subdued me to my father's will; Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell, Sweetens the spirit still.

'Moreover it is written that my race

Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer

On Arnon unto Minneth.' Here her face Glow'd, as I look'd at her.

She lock'd her lips: she left me where I stood:

'Glory to God,' she sang, and past afar, Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood, Toward the morning-star.

Losing her carol I stood pensively,

As one that from a casement leans his head,

When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly,

And the old year is dead.

'Alas! alas!' a low voice, full of care, Murmur'd beside me: 'Turn and look on

me:

I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair, If what I was I be.

'Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor!

O me, that I should ever see the light! Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor Do hunt me, day and night.'

She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust:

To whom the Egyptian: 'O, you tamely died!

You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, and thrust

The dagger thro' her side.'

With that sharp sound the white dawn's creeping beams,

Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the mystery Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams Ruled in the eastern sky.

Morn broaden'd on the borders of the dark, Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last

trance

Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of Arc,

A light of ancient France;

Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death,

Who kneeling, with one arm about her king,

Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath,

Sweet as new buds in Spring.

No memory labours longer from the deep Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden

ore

That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep

To gather and tell o'er

Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain

Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to strike

Into that wondrous track of dreams again! But no two dreams are like.

As when a soul laments, which hath been blest,

Desiring what is mingled with past years, In yearnings that can never be exprest By signs or groans or tears;

Because all words, tho' cull'd with choicest art,

Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, Wither beneath the palate, and the heart Faints, faded by its heat.

TO J. S. [1833]

THE wind, that beats the mountain, blows
More softly round the open wold,
And gently comes the world to those
That are cast in gentle mould.

And me this knowledge bolder made,
Or else I had not dared to flow
In these words toward you, and invade
Even with a verse your holy woe.

'Tis strange that those we lean on most, Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed, Fall into shadow, soonest lost:

Those we love first are taken first.

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