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Thread: A poem a day

  1. #646
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    To the True Romance
    -- by Rudyard Kipling
    Thy face is far from this our war,
    Our call and counter-cry,
    I shall not find Thee quick and kind,
    Nor know Thee till I die,
    Enough for me in dreams to see
    And touch Thy garments' hem:
    Thy feet have trod so near to God
    I may not follow them.

    Through wantonness if men profess
    They weary of Thy parts,
    E'en let them die at blasphemy
    And perish with their arts;
    But we that love, but we that prove
    Thine excellence august,
    While we adore discover more
    Thee perfect, wise, and just.

    Since spoken word Man's Spirit stirred
    Beyond his belly-need,
    What is is Thine of fair design
    In thought and craft and deed;
    Each stroke aright of toil and fight,
    That was and that shall be,
    And hope too high, wherefore we die,
    Has birth and worth in Thee.

    Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee
    To gild his dross thereby,
    And knowledge sure that he endure
    A child until he die --
    For to make plain that man's disdain
    Is but new Beauty's birth --
    For to possess in loneliness
    The joy of all the earth.

    As Thou didst teach all lovers speech
    And Life all mystery,
    So shalt Thou rule by every school
    Till love and longing die,
    Who wast or yet the Lights were set,
    A whisper in the Void,
    Who shalt be sung through planets young
    When this is clean destroyed.

    Beyond the bounds our staring rounds,
    Across the pressing dark,
    The children wise of outer skies
    Look hitherward and mark
    A light that shifts, a glare that drifts,
    Rekindling thus and thus,
    Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne
    Strange tales to them of us.

    Time hath no tide but must abide
    The servant of Thy will;
    Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme
    The ranging stars stand still --
    Regent of spheres that lock our fears,
    Our hopes invisible,
    Oh 'twas certes at Thy decrees
    We fashioned Heaven and Hell!

    Pure Wisdom hath no certain path
    That lacks thy morning-eyne,
    And captains bold by Thee controlled
    Most like to Gods design;
    Thou art the Voice to kingly boys
    To lift them through the fight,
    And Comfortress of Unsuccess,
    To give the dead good-night --

    A veil to draw 'twixt God His Law
    And Man's infirmity,
    A shadow kind to dumb and blind
    The shambles where we die;
    A rule to trick th' arithmetic
    Too base of leaguing odds --
    The spur of trust, the curb of lust,
    Thou handmaid of the Gods!

    O Charity, all patiently
    Abiding wrack and scaith!
    O Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats
    Yet drops no jot of faith!
    Devil and brute Thou dost transmute
    To higher, lordlier show,
    Who art in sooth that lovely Truth
    The careless angels know!

    Thy face is far from this our war,
    Our call and counter-cry,
    I may not find Thee quick and kind,
    Nor know Thee till I die.

    Yet may I look with heart unshook
    On blow brought home or missed --
    Yet may I hear with equal ear
    The clarions down the List;
    Yet set my lance above mischance
    And ride the barriere --
    Oh, hit or miss, how little 'tis,
    My Lady is not there!
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

  2. #647
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    Let No Charitable Hope
    ------------by Elinor Wylie

    Now let no charitable hope
    Confuse my mind with images
    Of eagle and of antelope:
    I am in nature none of these.

    I was, being human, born alone;
    I am, being woman, hard beset;
    I live by squeezing from a stone
    The little nourishment I get.

    In masks outrageous and austere
    The years go by in single file;
    But none has merited my fear,
    And none has quite escaped my smile.



    Ophelia
    ----------by Elinor Wylie

    My locks are shorn for sorrow
    Of love which may not be;
    Tomorrow and tomorrow
    Are plotting cruelty.

    The winter wind tangles
    These ringlets half-grown,
    The sun sprays with spangles
    And rays like his own.

    Oh, quieter and colder
    Is the stream; he will wait;
    When my curls touch my shoulder
    He will comb them straight.
    ************************************************** **********

    Double poems presented today--because they, as was she, are so very good..-Tyr
    Last edited by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot; 08-02-2017 at 04:00 PM.
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

  3. #648
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    My Sad Captains
    -----by Thom Gunn

    One by one they appear in
    the darkness: a few friends, and
    a few with historical
    names. How late they start to shine!
    but before they fade they stand
    perfectly embodied, all

    the past lapping them like a
    cloak of chaos. They were men
    who, I thought, lived only to
    renew the wasteful force they
    spent with each hot convulsion.
    They remind me, distant now.

    True, they are not at rest yet,
    but now they are indeed
    apart, winnowed from failures,
    they withdraw to an orbit
    and turn with disinterested
    hard energy, like the stars.
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

  4. #649
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    Grief
    by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

    I TELL you hopeless grief is passionless;
    That only men incredulous of despair
    Half-taught in anguish through the midnight air
    Beat upward to God's throne in loud access
    Of shrieking and reproach.
    Full desertness
    In souls as countries lieth silent-bare
    Under the blanching vertical eye-glare
    Of the absolute Heavens.
    Deep-hearted man express
    Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death
    Most like a monumental statue set
    In everlasting watch and moveless woe
    Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.

    Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:
    If it could weep it could arise and go.
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

  5. #650
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    POPPIES ON LUDLOW CASTLE

    by: Willa Cather (1873-1947)

    THROUGH halls of vanished pleasure,
    And hold of vanished power,
    And crypt of faith forgotten,
    A came to Ludlow tower.

    A-top of arch and stairway,
    Of crypt and donjan cell,
    Of council hall, and chamber,
    Of wall, and ditch, and well,

    High over grated turrets
    Where clinging ivies run,
    A thousand scarlet poppies
    Enticed the rising sun,

    Upon the topmost turret,
    With death and damp below,--
    Three hundred years of spoilage,--
    The crimson poppies grow.

    This hall it was that bred him,
    These hills that knew him brave,
    The gentlest English singer
    That fills an English grave.

    How have they heart to blossom
    So cruel and gay and red,
    When beauty so hath perished
    And valour so hath sped?

    When knights so fair are rotten,
    And captains true asleep,
    And singing lips are dust-stopped
    Six English earth-feet deep?

    When ages old remind me
    How much hath gone for naught,
    What wretched ghost remaineth
    Of all that flesh hath wrought;

    Of love and song and warring,
    Of adventure and play,
    Of art and comely building,
    Of faith and form and fray--

    I'll mind the flowers of pleasure,
    Of short-lived youth and sleep,
    That drunk the sunny weather
    A-top of Ludlow keep.

    "Poppies on Ludlow Castle" is reprinted from April Twilights. Willa Cather. Boston: The Gorham Press, 1903.
    Last edited by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot; 08-13-2017 at 10:34 AM.
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

  6. #651
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    Memory of My Mother
    -- by Eunice de Chazeau

    She saw him, knew, and waited for a year
    that he should ask; then gave her perishable body
    without vanity. Leaving the rectangular
    town and reassurance of deep sod, she
    followed him where crag and glacier
    stab the sun, and rivers plunging flay
    their stones. She lay beside him on sand, her
    dreams unsheltered from the Milky Way.

    Had she known how quickly days would spill
    their splendor, only dregs of time be left—
    had she known how at last, and by his will,
    her ashes and bones would be strewn to drift
    with his in troughs of ocean, nevertheless,
    eyes wide with fear, she would have answered yes.
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

  7. #652
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    The Oblation
    --- By Algernon Charles Swinburne

    Ask nothing more of me, sweet;
    All I can give you I give.
    Heart of my heart, were it more,
    More would be laid at your feet—
    Love that should help you to live,
    Song that should spur you to soar.

    All things were nothing to give,
    Once to have sense of you more,
    Touch you and taste of you, sweet,
    Think you and breathe you and live,
    Swept of your wings as they soar,
    Trodden by chance of your feet.

    I that have love and no more
    Give you but love of you, sweet.
    He that hath more, let him give;
    He that hath wings, let him soar;
    Mine is the heart at your feet
    Here, that must love you to live.


    More Poems by Algernon Charles Swinburne

    Ave Atque Vale
    By Algernon Charles Swinburne
    A Ballad of Death
    By Algernon Charles Swinburne
    A Ballad of François Villon, Prince of All Ballad-Makers
    By Algernon Charles Swinburne
    A Channel Crossing
    By Algernon Charles Swinburne
    Choriambics
    By Algernon Charles Swinburne



    Swinburne was one of the most accomplished lyric poets of the Victorian era and was a preeminent symbol of rebellion against the conservative values of his time. The explicit and often pathological sexual themes of his most important collection of poetry, Poems and Ballads (1866),...
    Read Full Biography
    More About this Poet
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

  8. #653
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    Alone

    I am alone, in spite of love,
    In spite of all I take and give—
    In spite of all your tenderness,
    Sometimes I am not glad to live.

    I am alone, as though I stood
    On the highest peak of the tired gray world,
    About me only swirling snow,
    Above me, endless space unfurled;

    With earth hidden and heaven hidden,
    And only my own spirit's pride
    To keep me from the peace of those
    Who are not lonely, having died.

    Sara Teasdale
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

  9. #654
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    The Listeners
    By Walter de La Mare
    ‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
    Knocking on the moonlit door;
    And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
    Of the forest’s ferny floor:
    And a bird flew up out of the turret,
    Above the Traveller’s head:
    And he smote upon the door again a second time;
    ‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
    But no one descended to the Traveller;
    No head from the leaf-fringed sill
    Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
    Where he stood perplexed and still.
    But only a host of phantom listeners
    That dwelt in the lone house then
    Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
    To that voice from the world of men:
    Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
    That goes down to the empty hall,
    Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
    By the lonely Traveller’s call.
    And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
    Their stillness answering his cry,
    While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
    ’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
    For he suddenly smote on the door, even
    Louder, and lifted his head:—
    ‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
    That I kept my word,’ he said.
    Never the least stir made the listeners,
    Though every word he spake
    Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
    From the one man left awake:
    Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
    And the sound of iron on stone,
    And how the silence surged softly backward,
    When the plunging hoofs were gone.

    Source: The Collected Poems of Walter de la Mare (1979)
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

  10. #655
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    The HyperTexts

    The Best Unknown Poets



    Dowson died at age 32 and is only known for a few poems today, but his best poems are highly memorable. He's one of my favorite lesser-known poets.

    A Last Word

    by Ernest Dowson

    Let us go hence: the night is now at hand;
    The day is overworn, the birds all flown;
    And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown;
    Despair and death; deep darkness o'er the land,
    Broods like an owl; we cannot understand
    Laughter or tears, for we have only known
    Surpassing vanity: vain things alone
    Have driven our perverse and aimless band.
    Let us go hence, somewhither strange and cold,
    To Hollow Lands where just men and unjust
    Find end of labour, where's rest for the old,
    Freedom to all from love and fear and lust.
    Twine our torn hands! O pray the earth enfold
    Our life-sick hearts and turn them into dust.

    Dowson's influence on the language and other writers can be seen in phrases like "gone with the wind" and "the days of wine and roses." His work certainly influenced T. S. Eliot, who said that certain lines of Dowson's "have always run in my head."
    Dowson's poetry rests firmly in my own personal list of top 20 poets.. --Tyr
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

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    deleted... Tyr
    Last edited by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot; 08-21-2017 at 09:34 PM.

  12. #657
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    Sonnet 84: While one sere leaf, that parting Autumn yields
    --By Anna Seward
    While one sere leaf, that parting Autumn yields,
    Trembles upon the thin, and naked spray,
    November, dragging on this sunless day,
    Lours, cold and sullen, on the watery fields;
    And Nature to the waste dominion yields,
    Stripped her last robes, with gold and purple gay —
    So droops my life, of your soft beams despoiled,
    Youth, Health, and Hope, that long exulting smiled;
    And the wild carols, and the bloomy hues
    Of merry Spring-time, spruce on every plain
    Her half-blown bushes, moist with sunny rain,
    More pensive thoughts in my sunk heart infuse
    Than Winter’s grey, and desolate domain
    Faded like my lost Youth, that no bright Spring renews.
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

  13. #658
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    The Poem of Poems
    ----by Greg Alan Brownderville

    A boy passes ghost-like through a curtain of weeping willow.
    In rainbow-stained apparel, birds are singing a cappella.
    Suddenly I sense it, in the birds and in the child:
    The world is a poem growing wild.

    A dewdrop on a blade of grass soon slips from where it clung
    Like a perfect word that gathers on the tip of a poet's tongue.
    And men are merely characters to love and be defiled.
    God is a poem growing wild.

    ****************************


    This is a fine contemporary poem in the mystic tradition of Blake and Whitman. Jack Butler and Greg Brownderville are both "Arkansas" boys . . . there must be something in the water down there, or perhaps it's in the mayhaw jelly

    Or it could be it is from, the many Native American bloodlines here , deep woods, days well spent as a child learning from Nature and God's blue Heavens above. Tyr
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

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    A Dream Of The South Winds
    - Poem by Paul Hamilton Hayne

    O FRESH, how fresh and fair
    Through the crystal gulfs of air,
    The fairy South Wind floateth on her subtle wings of balm!
    And the green earth lapped in bliss,
    To the magic of her kiss
    Seems yearning upward fondly through the golden- crested calm!


    From the distant Tropic strand,
    Where the billows, bright and bland,
    Go creeping, curling round the palms with sweet, faint under-tune,
    From its fields of purpling flowers
    Still wet with fragrant showers,
    The happy South Wind lingering sweeps the royal blooms of June.



    All heavenly fancies rise
    On the perfume of her sighs,
    Which steep the inmost spirit in a languor rare and fine,
    And a peace more pure than sleep's
    Unto dim, half-conscious deeps,
    Transports me, lulled and dreaming, on its twilight tides divine.


    Those dreams! ah me! the splendor,
    So mystical and tender, 20
    Wherewith like soft heat-lightnings they gird their meaning round,
    And those waters, calling, calling,
    With a nameless charm enthralling,
    Like the ghost of music melting on a rainbow spray of sound!


    Touch, touch me not, nor wake me,
    Lest grosser thoughts o'ertake me,
    From earth receding faintly with her dreary din and jars -
    What viewless arms caress me?
    What whispered voices bless me,
    With welcomes dropping dewlike from the weird and wondrous stars?


    Alas! dim, dim, and dimmer
    Grows the preternatural glimmer
    Of that trance the South Wind brought me on her subtle wings of balm,
    For behold! its spirit flieth,
    And its fairy murmur dieth,
    And the silence closing round me is a dull and soulless calm!


    Paul Hamilton Hayne
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

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    Remember
    - Poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti

    Remember me when I am gone away,
    Gone far away into the silent land;
    When you can no more hold me by the hand,
    Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
    Remember me when no more day by day
    You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
    Only remember me; you understand
    It will be late to counsel then or pray.
    Yet if you should forget me for a while
    And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
    For if the darkness and corruption leave
    A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
    Better by far you should forget and smile
    Than that you should remember and be sad.

    Christina Georgina Rossetti


    In these my later years, this brilliant and fantastically talented poet is fast making headway in a charge at replacing Emily Dickinson as my number one favorite poetess. --Tyr
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

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