Favorite Poems thread!

[AmbivalentEye]

I didn't even know about this post.

Don't mind if I post a few poems whether by poets I like or mine. If you have any comments on them let me know, but I honestly came to this site for the intellectual part of myself, not the emotional. It seems each is it's own universe.

[AMERICONORMAN]

Hello All:

The following poems are ones that I certainly LIKE. ENJOY!

This poem is a very “cute” poem. It has a beautiful theme but the style is extremely playful. It helps to read it aloud and with an Italian accent. And if you have a beloved, I’m am confident that he/she will at least giggle when you read it to him/her. (By the way “mash” is slang, a verb, for “stir to sentimental affection for oneself”):

MIA CARLOTTA

Guiseppe, da barber, ees greata for “mash,”

He gotta da bigga, da blacka moustache,

Good clo’es an’ good styla an’ playnta good cash.

W’enevra Guiseppe ess walk on da street,

Da peopla dey talka, “how nobby! How neat!

How softa da handa, how smalla da feet.”

He leefta hees hat an’ he shaka hees curls,

An’ smila weeth teetha so shiny like pearls;

Oh, many da heart of da seelly young girls

He gotta.

Yes, playnta he gotta –

But notta

Carlotta!

Guiseppe, da barber, he maka da eye

An’ lika da steam engine puffa an’ sigh,

For catcha Carlotta w’en she ees go by.

Carlotta she walka weeth nose in da air,

An’ look through Guiseppe weeth far-away stare,

As eef she no see dere ees som’body dere.

Guiseppe, da barber, he gotta da cash,

He gotta da clo’es an’ da bigga moustache,

He gotta da seelly young girls for da “mash,”

But notta –

You bat my life, notta –

Carlotta.

I gotta!

T.A DALY/1871-1948.

OUTWITTED

He drew a circle that shut me out—

Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout.

But Love and I had the wit to win:

We drew a circle that took him in!

Edwin Markham

There are seven stanzas to this poem by Robert Browning. I will only give you the first. I love it for the music it has. I’ve actually sung quite passionately for about an hour once to this poem. The theme is nice too.

LOVE AMONG THE RUINS

Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles,

Miles and miles

On the solitary pastures where our sheep

Half-asleep

Tinkle homeward through the twilight, stray or stop

As they crop—

Was the site once of a city great and gay

(So they say),

Of our country’s very capital, its prince

Ages since

Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far

Peace or war.

ROBERT BROWNING

It was FitzGerald who has spoken in an insulting manner in a letter to a friend. He said, “Mrs. Browning’s death is rather a relief to me, I must say: no more Aurora Leighs…She and her sex had better mind the kitchen and the children.” Browning had discovered it after FitzGerald’s death while going through his writings. Browning drew his pen:

TO EDWARD FITZGERALD

I chance upon a new book yesterday;

I opened it, and, where my finger lay

‘Twixt page and uncut page, these words I read—

Some six or seven at most—and learned thereby

That you, FitzGerald, whom my ear and eye

She never knew, “thanked God my wife was dead.”

Aye, dead! And were yourself alive, good Fitz,

How to return you thanks would task my wits.

Kicking you seems the common lot of curs—

While more appropriate greeting lends you grace,

Surely to spit there glorifies your face—

Spitting from lips once sanctified by hers.

ROBERT BROWNING

This one is related to the Altruist question on this forum, “What about my loved one…”

SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise

And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye!

—Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and, oh

The difference to me!

WILLIAM WOODSWORTH

SURPRISED BY JOY

Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind

I turned to share the transport—Oh! With whom

But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,

That spot which no vicissitude can find?

Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind—

But how could I forget thee? Through what power,

Even for the least division of an hour,

Have I been so beguiled as to be blind

To my most grievous loss!—That thought’s return

Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,

Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,

Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;

That neither present time, nor years unborn

Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

WHEN I HAVE FEARS THAT I MAY CEASE TO BE

When I have fears that I may cease to be

Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain,

Before high piled books, in charactry,

Hold like rich garners the full ripen’d grain;

When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,

And think that I may never live to trace

Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;

And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,

That I shall never look upon thee more,

Never have relish in the fairy power

Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think

Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

JOHN KEATS (who died so young).

COLUMBUS

How in God’s name did Columbus get over

Is a pure wonder to me, I protest,

Cabot, Raleigh too, that well-read rover,

Frobisher, Dampier, Drake, and the rest.

Bad enough all the same,

For them that after came,

But, in great Heaven’s name,

How he should ever think

That on the other brink,

Of this wild waste terra firma should be,

Is a purer wonder, I must say, to me.

How a man ever should hope to get thither,

E’en if he knew that there was another side;

But to suppose he should come any whither,

Sailing straight on into chaos untried,

In spite of the motion

Across the whole ocean,

To stick to the notion

That in some nook or bend

Of a sea without end

He should find North and South America,

Was a pure madness, indeed I must say, to me.

What if wise men had, as far back as Ptolemy,

Judged that the earth like an orange was round,

None of them ever said, Come along, follow me,

Sail to the West, and the East will be found.

Many a day before

Ever they’d come ashore,

From the “San Salvador,”

Sadder and wiser men

They’d have turned back again;

And that he did not, but did cross the sea,

Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.

Arthur Hugh Clough

IT COULDN’T BE DONE

Somebody said that it couldn’t be done,

But he with a chuckle replied

That “maybe it couldn’t,” but he would be one

Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.

So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin

On his face. If he worried he hid it.

He started to sing as he tackled the thing

That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: “Oh, you’ll never do that;

At least no one ever has done it”;

But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,

And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.

With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,

Without any doubting or quiddit,

He started to sing as he tackled the thing

That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,

There are thousands to prophesy failure;

There are thousands to point out to you, one by one,

The dangers that wait to assail you.

But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,

Just take off your coat and go to it;

Just start to sing as you tackle the thing

That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it.

Edgar A. Guest

WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE

I.

Dear object of defeated care!

Though not of Love and thee bereft,

To reconcile me with despair

Thine image and my tears are left.

II.

‘T is said with Sorrow Time can cope;

But this I feel can ne’er be true;

For by the death-blow of my Hope

My Memory immortal grew.

Lord Byron

FELLOWSHIP

When a feller hasn’t got a cent

And is feelin’ kind of blue,

And the clouds hang thick and dark

And won’t let the sunshine thro’,

It’s a great thing, oh my brethren,

For a feller just to lay

His hand upon your shoulder in a friendly sort o’ way.

It makes a man feel queerish,

It makes the tear-drops start.

And you kind o’ feel a flutter

In the region of your heart.

You can’t look up and meet his eye,

You don’t know what to say

When a hand is on your shoulder in a friendly sort o’ way.

O this world’s a curious compound

With its honey and its gall;

Its cares and bitter crosses,

But a good world after all.

And a good God must have made it,

Leastwise that is what I say,

When a hand is on your shoulder in a friendly sort o’ way.

Unknown

AD FINEM

On the white throat of the useless passion

That scorched my soul with its burning breath

I clutched my fingers in murderous fashion,

And gathered them close in a grip of death;

For why should I fan, or feed with fuel,

A love that showed me but blank despair?

So my hold was firm, and my grasp was cruel—

I meant to strangle it then and there!

I thought it was dead. But with no warning,

It rose from its grave last night, and came

And stood by my bed till the early morning,

And over and over it spoke your name.

Its throat was red where my hands had held it;

It burned my brow with its scorching breath;

And I said, the moment my eyes beheld it,

“A love like this can know no death.”

For just one kiss that your lips have given

In the lost and beautiful past to me,

I would gladly barter my hopes of Heaven

And all the bliss of Eternity.

For never a joy are the angels keeping,

To lay at my feet in Paradise,

Like that of into your strong arms creeping,

And looking into your love-lit eyes.

I know, in the way that sins are reckoned,

This thought is a sin of the deepest dye;

But I know, too, if an angel beckoned,

Standing close by the Throne on High,

And you, adown by the gates infernal,

Should open your loving arms and smile,

I would turn back on things supernal,

To lie on your breast a little while.

To know for an hour you were mine completely—

Mine in body and soul, my own—

I would bear unending tortures sweetly,

With not a murmur and not a moan.

A lighter sin or a less error

Might change through hope or fear divine;

But there is no fear, and hell has no terror,

To change or alter a love like mine.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

LOVE’S PHILOSOPHY

The Fountains mingle with the river,

And the rivers with the ocean;

The winds of heaven mix forever,

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single;

All things by a law divine

In one another’s being mingle:-

Why not I with thine?

See! the mountains kiss high heaven,

And the waves clasp one another;

No sister flower would be forgiven

If it disdained its brother;

And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the seas:-

What are all these kissings worth,

If thou kiss not me?

Percy Bysshe Shelley

A WOMAN’S LAST WORD

Let’s contend no more, Love,

Strive nor weep:

All be as before, Love,

--Only sleep!

What so wild as words are?

I and thou

In debate, as birds are,

Hawk on bough!

See the creature stalking

While we speak!

Hush and hide the talking,

Cheek on cheek!

What so false as truth is,

False to thee?

Where serpent’s tooth is,

Shun the tree—

Where the apple reddens

Never pry—

Lest we lose or Edens,

Eve and I.

Be a god and hold me

With a charm!

Be a man and fold me

With thine arm!

Teach me, only teach, Love!

As I ought.

I will speak thy speech, Love,

Think thy thought-

Meet, if thou require it,

Both demands,

Laying flesh and spirit

In thy hands.

That shall be tomorrow,

Not tonight:

I must bury sorrow

Out of sight:

--Must a little weep, Love,

(Foolish me!)

And so fall asleep, Love,

Loved by thee.

Robert Browning

LINES

Start not—nor deem my spirit fled:

In me behold the only skull,

From which, unlike a living head,

Whatever flows is never dull.

I lived, I loved, I quaff’d, like thee;

I died; let earth my bones resign:

Fill up—thou canst not injure me;

The worm hath fouler lips than thine.

Better to hold the sparkling grape,

Than nurse the earth-worm’s slimy brood;

And circle in the goblet’s shape

The drink of Gods, than reptile’s food.

Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,

In aid of others’ let me shine;

And when, alas! Our brains are gone,

What nobler substitute than wine?

Quaff while thou canst—another race,

When thou and thine like me are sped,

May rescue thee from earth’s embrace,

And rhyme and revel with the dead.

Why not? Since through life’s little day

Our heads such sad effects produce;

Redeem’d from worms and wasting clay;

This chance is theirs, to be of use.

LORD BYRON

LOVE

I love you,

Not only for what you are,

But for what I am

When I am with you.

I love you,

Not only for what

You have made of yourself,

But for what

You are making of me.

I love you

For the part of me

That you bring out;

I love you

For putting your hand

Into my heaped-up heart

And passing over

All the foolish, weak things

That you can’t help

Dimly seeing there,

And for drawing out

Into the light

All the beautiful belongings

That not one else had looked

Quite far enough to find.

I love you because you

Are helping me to make

Of the lumber of my life

Not a tavern

But a temple;

Out of the works

Of my every day

Not a reproach

But a song.

I love you

Because you have done

More than any creed

Could have done

To make me good,

And more than any fate

Could have done

To make me happy.

You have done it

Without a touch,

Without a word,

Without a sign.

You have done it

By being yourself.

Perhaps that is what

Being a friend means,

After all.

Roy Croft

[pvtmorriscsa]

Howdy all,

I am a military history buff, and a War Between the States junkie. I say junkie, because at times my passion for the American Civil War borders on addiction. I have come across many poems in my reading that pertain to war, soldiers, or battle. The following is a poem written after the War of Northern Aggression, and it is about the Texas Brigade in the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia.

As an aside the Texans that served under Lee in the Texas Brigade, (As well as members of the 18th GA, and 3rd Ark who served with the brigade at different times.), were the only enlisted men that were allowed to meet with Lee after the war when he was President of Washington College in Lexington, VA. In fact he often knew the men by name.

Today is the 228th Anniversary of the Declaration of Indepedance, (Or F**K King George Day as I like to call it. Three Cheers for the Founders!) The 141st Anniversary of the Surrender of Vicksburg, (An event which spelled certain doom for the South. Damn Yankees! ), and yesterday was the 141st Anniversary of Lee's Final Assault at Gettysburg. (That's "Pickett's Charge" to y'all Yankee types. Damn Yankees! ) So I figured I would share it with you.

I cannot remember the authors name, and I will be doing if from memory, so if anybody looks it up and finds I am wrong, I apologize ahead of time. Anyway, here goes nothing.

Hood's Old Brigade.

Twas midnight when we built our fires

We marched at half past three

We know not when our march shall end

Nor care we follow Lee

The starlight gleams on many a crest

And many a well trod blade

This handle marching on the left

This line is our brigade.

Our line is short because it's famed so lavishly have bled

The missing stretch the countless plains who's battles it has led

The are those Georgians on the right their ranks are thinning too

How in one company they say they now can count but two.

There is not much talking down the line

Nor shouting down the gloom

For when the night is round us

Then we're thinking most of home.

I saw young soldier startle when we passed an open glade

Where the low starlight leaping baugh a faiery picture made

Nor has he uttered a word since then

My heart can whisper why

Twas like the spot in Texas where he bade his love goodbye.

And when beyond us carelessly some soldier saying adieu

My comrade here across his eyes his coarse sleeve roughly drew

So scarcely sound save trampling feet

Is echoed through the gloom

Because when stars are brightest

Then were thinking most of home

Hush what an echo startles up around this rocky hill

Wasn't shell half buried struck my foot

No Stay

Tis a human skull

This ridge I surely seem to know

By light of yon rising moon

How we battled here three mortal hours

One sunday afternoon

Last spring

You see where my Captain stands his head drooped on his breast

At his feet that heap of bones and earth

You know now why his rest is broke off and why his sword was so bitter in the fray

Tis the grave of his only brother who was killed that awful day

Hush for in front I heard a shot and then a well known cry

It is the foe see where the flames mount upward to the sky

It is the foe Halt rest we here we wait the coming sun

And ere the stars may shine again the field is lost or won

Is won it is the Old Brigade this line of stalwart men

The long roll how it thrills my heart to hear that sound again

God shield us boys here breaks the day

The stars begin to fade

Now steady here fall in, fall in

Forward the Old Brigade

What can I say? I like it.

[AMERICONORMAN]

On this Independence Day, there is celebration in the streets here in Toronto. The traffic is slow and people are out jumping and yelling. You can hear the car horns for miles. But they are not celebrating the Declaration of Independence but the soccer game between Portugal and Greece. At least they are celebrating.

This didn’t happened but: I was riding my bike from the gym wearing an American “du-rag”. I passed by a cheering crowd and one said, “Eh, loser! Take that off your head! It’s Portugal and Greece day!” I shouted back as I glided by them, “It’s ‘f76k King George Day’—Dumb ass!”

INDEPENDENCE BELL—JULY 4, 1776

There was a tumult in the city

In the quaint old Quaker town,

And the streets were rife with people

Pacing restless up and down—

People gathering at corners,

Where they whispered each to each,

And the sweat stood on their temples

With the earnestness of speech.

As the bleak Atlantic currents

Lash the wild Newfoundland shore,

So they beat against the State House,

So they surged against the door;

And the mingling of their voices

Made the harmony profound,

Till the quiet street of Chestnut

Was all turbulent with sound.

“Will they do it” “Dare they do it?”

“Who is speaking?” “What’s the news?”

“What of Adams?” “What of Sherman?”

“Oh, God grant they won’t refuse!”

“Make some way there!” “Let me nearer!”

“I am stifling!” “Stifle then!

When a nation’s life at hazard,

We’ve no time to think of men!”

So they surged against the State House,

While solemnly inside,

Sat the Continental Congress,

Truth and reason for their guide,

O’er a simple scroll debating,

Which, though simple it might be,

Yet should shake the cliffs of England

With the thunders of the free.

Far aloft in that high steeple

Sat the bellman, old and gray,

He was weary of the tyrant

And his iron-sceptered sway;

So he sat, with one hand ready

On the clapper of the bell,

When his eye could catch the signal,

The long-expected news to tell.

See! See! The dense crowd quivers

Through all its lengthy line,

As the boy beside the portal

Hastens forth to give the sign!

With his little hands uplifted,

Breezes dallying with his hair,

Hark! With deep, clear intonation,

Breaks his young voice on the air.

Hushed the people’s swelling murmur,

Whilst the boy crys joyously;

“Ring!” he shouts, “Ring! Grandpapa,

Ring! Oh, ring for Liberty!”

Quickly, at the given signal

The old bellman lifts his hand,

Forth he sends the good news, making

Iron music through the land.

How they shouted! What rejoicing!

How the old bell shook the air,

Till the clang of freedom ruffled,

The calmly gliding Delaware!

How the bonfires and the torches

Lighted up the night’s repose,

And from the flames, like fabled Phoenix,

Our glorious liberty arose!

That old State House bell is silent,

Hushed is now its clamorous tongue;

But the spirit is awakened

Sill is living—ever young;

And when we greet the smiling sunlight

On the fourth of each July,

We will ne’er forget the bellman

Who, betwixt the earth and sky,

Rung out, loudly, “Independence”;

Which, please God, shall never die!

UNKNOWN

AMERICA FOR ME

‘Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down

Among the famous palaces and cities of renown,

To admire the crumbly castles and the statues of the Kings,--

But now I think I’ve had enough of antiquated things.

So it’s home again, and home again, America for me!

My heart is turning home again, and there I long to be

In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean bars,

Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

Oh, London is a man’s town, there’s power in the air;

And Paris is a woman’s town, with flowers in her hair;

And it’s sweet to dream in Venice, and it’s great to study Rome,

But when it comes to living, there is no place like home.

I like the German fir-woods, in green battalions drilled;

I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing fountains filled;

But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble for a day

In the friendly western woodland where Nature has her way!

I know that Europe’s wonderful, yet something seems to lack!

The Past is too much with her, and the people looking back.

But the glory of the Present is to make the Future free,--

We love our land for what she is and what she is to be.

Oh, it’s home again, and home again, America for me!

I want a ship that’s westward bound to plough the rolling sea,

To the blessed Land of Room Enough beyond the ocean bars,

Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

HENRY VAN DYKE

Viva America,

Americo.

[AMERICONORMAN]

Ayn Rand named Schiller along with Rostand among the greatest of dramatists. His Don Carlos is wonderful. And I love his poetry. Peikoff names him as a Kantian. He is an instance of a being whose sense of life outshines his philosophy. When I read his stuff I see “Stephen Mallory syndrome” or “fear of the hatred of the good for being the good.

So here’s but a taste of Schiller’s poetry.

THE SECRET

She sought to breathe one word, but vainly;

Too many listeners were nigh;

And yet my timid glance read plainly

The language of her speaking eye.

Thy silent glades my footstep presses,

Thou fair and leaf-embosomed grove!

Conceal within thy green recesses

From mortal eye our sacred love!

Afar with strange discordant noises,

The busy day is echoing;

And ‘mid the hollow hum of voices,

I hear the heavy hammer ring.

‘Tis thus that man, with toil ne’er ending,

Extorts from heaven his daily bread;

Yet oft unseen the gods are sending

The gifts of fortune on his head!

Oh, let mankind discover never

How true love fills with bliss our hearts!

They would but crush our joy forever,

For joy to them no glow imparts.

Thou ne’er wilt from the world obtain it—

‘Tis never captured save as prey;

Thou needs must strain each nerve to gain it,

E’er envy dark asserts her sway.

The hours of night and stillness loving,

It comes upon us silently—

Away with hasty footsteps moving

Soon as it sees a treacherous eye.

Thou gently stream, soft circlets weaving,

A watery barrier cast around,

And, with thy waves in anger heaving,

Guard from each foe this holy ground!

THE MYSTERY OF REMINISCENCE—

TO LAURA

Who and what gave to me the wish to woo thee—

Still, lip to lip, to cling for aye unto thee?

Who made thy glances to my soul the link—

Who bade me burn thy very breath to drink—

My life in thine to sink?

As from the conqueror’s unresisted glaive,

Flies, without strife subdued, the ready slave—

So, when to life’s unguarded fort, I see

Thy gaze draw near and near triumphantly—

Yields not my soul to thee?

Why from its lord doth thus my soul depart?—

Is it because its native home thou art?

Or were they brothers in the days of yore,

Twin bound both souls, and in the link they bore

Sigh to be bound once more?

Were once our beings blent and intertwining,

And therefore still my hear for thine is pining?

Knew we the light of some extinguished sun—

The joys remote of some bright realm undone,

Where once our souls were ONE?

Yes, it is so! – And thou wert bound to me

In the long-vanish’d Eld eternally!

In the dark troubled tablets which enroll

The past—my Muse beheld this blessed scroll—

“One with thy love my soul!”

Oh, yes, I learned in awe, when gazing there,

How once one bright inseparate life we were,

How once, one glorious essence as a God,

Unmeasured space our chainless footsteps trod—

All Nature our abode!

Round us, in waters of delight, for ever

Voluptuous flowed the heavenly Nectar river;

We were the master of the seal of things,

And where the sunshine bathed Thruth’s mountain-

Springs

Quivered our glancing wings.

Weep for the godlike life we lost afar—

Weep!—thou and I its scattered fragments are;

And still the unconquered yearning we retain—

Sigh to restore the rapture and the reign,

And grow divine again.

And therefore came to me the wish to woo thee—

Still, lip to lip, to cling for aye unto thee;

This made thy glances to my soul the link—

This made me burn thy very breath to drink—

My life in thine to sink;

And therefore, as before the conqueror’s glaive,

Flies, without strife subdued, the ready slave,

So, when to life’s unguarded fort, I see

Thy gaze draw near and near triumphantly—

Yieldeth my soul to thee!

Therefore my soul doth from its lord depart,

Because, beloved, its native home thou art;

Because the twins recall the link they bore,

And soul with soul, in the sweet kiss of yore,

Meets and unites once more!

Thou, too—Ah, there thy gaze upon me dwells,

And thy young blush the tender answer tells;

Yes! With the dear relation still we thrill,

Both lives—though exiles from the homeward hill—

One life—all glowing still!

[OldGrayBob]

My personal favorite.

Down by the Salley Gardens

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;

She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.

She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;

But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,

And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.

She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;

But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

William Butler Yeats (1889)

Besides being a beautiful poem, it is also a beautiful tradition Irish tune.

[salley is a willow brush used in making baskets.]

[AMERICONORMAN]

If one abstracts away the bad philosophy, this is another nice Schiller poem.

LONGING

Could I from this valley drear,

Where the mist hangs heavily,

Soar to some more blissful sphere,

Ah! How happy should I be!

Distant hills enchant my sight,

Ever young and ever fair;

To those hills I’d take my flight

Had I wings to scale the air.

Harmonies mine ear assail,

Tunes that breathe a heavenly calm;

And the gently-sighing gale

Greets me with its fragrant balm.

Peeping through the shady bowers,

Golden fruits their charms display,

And those sweetly-blooming flowers

Ne’er become cold winter’s prey.

In yon endless sunshine bright,

Oh! What bliss ‘twould be to dwell!

How the breeze on yonder height

Must the heart with rapture swell!

Yet the stream that hems my path

Checks me with its angry frown,

While its waves, in rising wrath,

Weigh my weary spirit down.

See—a bark is drawing near,

But, alas, the pilot fails!

Enter boldly—wherefore fear?

Inspiration fills its sails,

Faith and courage make thine own—

Gods ne’er lend a helping hand;

‘Tis by magic power alone

Thou canst reach the magic land!

Friedrich Schiller

[CIRCE]

I dig this thread!

So...another Kipling poem I hear Rand loved which really speaks to me.

'if' by rudyard kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master,

If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breath a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

-----------

Next, what I gather to be a rather obscure poem, as I don't find it referenced often. It makes my flesh tingle every time I read it.

CURFEW MUST NOT RING TONIGHT

by Rose Hartwick Thorpe (1850-1939)

Slowly England's sun was setting oe'r the hilltops far away,

Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;

And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,--

He with steps so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair;

He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she, with lips all cold and white,

Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ring to-night!"

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,

With its walls tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls dark, damp and cold,--

"I've a lover in the prison, doomed this very night to die

At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.

Cromwell will not come till sunset;" and her lips grew strangely white,

As she spoke in husky whispers, "Curfew must not ring to-night!"

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her young heart

Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart),

"Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower;

Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twilight hour.

I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right:

Now I'm old, I will not miss it. Curfew bell must ring to-night!"

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,

As within her secret bosom, Bessie made a solemn vow.

She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh,

"At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must "die.

And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright;

One low murmur, faintly spoken. "Curfew must not ring to-night!"

She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within the old church-door,

Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft before.

Not one moment paused the maiden, But with eye and cheek aglow,

Staggered up the gloomy tower, Where the bell swung to and fro;

As she climbed the slimy ladder, On which fell no ray of light,

Upward still, her pale lips saying, "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell;

Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell.

See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; 'tis the hour of curfew now,

And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow.

Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light,

As she springs, and grasps it firmly: "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

Out she swung,-- far out. The city Seemed a speck of light below,--

There twixt heaven and earth suspended, As the bell swung to and fro.

And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell,

Sadly thought that twilight curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell.

"Still the maiden, clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair face white,

Stilled her frightened heart's wild throbbing: "Curfew shall not ring tonight!"

It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden stepped once more

Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before,

Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done

Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun

Light the sky with golden beauty, aged sires, with heads of white,

Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night.

O'er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees him; and her brow,

Lately white with sickening horror, has no anxious traces now.

At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands, all bruised and torn;

And her sweet young face, still hagggard, with the anguish it had worn,

Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light.

"Go! your lover lives," said Cromwell. "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die,

All his bright young life before him. Neath the darkening English sky,

Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with lovelight sweet;

Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet.

In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white,

Whispered, "Darling, you have saved me, curfew will not ring to-night."

----

Lastly, if anyone's interested--I write poetry. This link is the poetry segment of my (at the moment very screwed up!) webpage:

http://homepage.mac.com/lbaronnyc/Poetry.html

[AMERICONORMAN]

From Torquemada (Hugo); when “the monk” finally speaks. The ending of his first speech.

The concept of Christian love in reductio ad absurdum:

… Amongst us faith no longer lives. On every side Beghards,

Backsliding Jews, and monks that break their

Vows,

And nuns that let their hair again grow long;

This one pulls down a cross, that stains a host,

And faith expires beneath its load of error,

As does the lily weighed down by the nettle.

The Pope is on his knees. In front of whom?

Of God? Of man. He is afraid of Caesar.

Rome soon, subservient to kings, shall be

The serf of Nineveh. Another step,

And all the world is lost. But I am here,

Am here!—and with me bring the antique fervor.

In pensive sadness I am come to breathe

Upon the saving fagots. Earth, I come

To ransom, at the price of flesh, the soul.

I bear salvation and I bear relief.

Glory to God! And happiness to all!

Those rock-bound hearts shall melt. The blaze

Of stakes

Shall fill the world. I will fling on the winds

The cry profound of Genesis: Light! Light!

And then the splendors of the burning piles

Will shine o’er all. I’ll scatter fires abroad,

And flaming brands, and lustrous furnaces,

Until above the cities of the earth

Autos-da-fe shall blaze on every side,

Supreme and active, and diffusing round

Celestial joys! I LOVE THE HUMAN RACE! (Capitals mine).

[Dagny]

Great poem Vern! Your journey to finding Reason is much the same one I took. I used to suffer from depression in my teens. One day my boyfriend (now my husband) sent me this poem to cheer me up. It still works even to this day and I read it whenever I have a bad day. Just ignore the line about God. My favorite line is "everywhere ...life is full of heroism".

DESIDERATA BY MAXWELL

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,

and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,

be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly;

and listen to others,

even to the dull and ignorant;

they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons;

they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,

you may become vain or bitter,

for always there will be greater

and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble,

it's a real possession in the changing fortunes of

time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,

for the world is full of trickery.

But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;

many persons strive for high ideals,

and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.

Especially do not feign affection.

Neither be cynical about love;

for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,

it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,

gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit

to shield you in sudden misfortune.

But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.

Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,

be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe

no less than the trees and the stars;

you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you,

no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,

whatever you conceive him to be.

And whatever your labors and aspirations,

in the noisy confusion of life,

keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams,

it is still a beautiful world.

Be cheerful.

Strive to be happy.

[AMERICONORMAN]

TO A YOUNG FRIEND ABOUT TO TAKE UP PHILOSOPHY

Many a task in his youth the Grecian had to ac-

Complish

Ere he a coveted home could in Eleusis attain.

Art thou ready thyself to approach that holy of holies,

Where her wondrous stores Palla Athene preserves?

Knowest thou all that awaits thee there, how dear is

The bargain,

Which at a cost defined purchases what is un-

Known?

Hast thou vigor enough that hardest battle to

Venture,

Where the reflecting mind, heart and the conscience

Oppose?

Hast thou courage to face fell doubt’s irresistible

Demon,

And like a man to meet foes who do battle within?

Hast thou an innocent heart, and an eye sufficiently

Healthy

Trickery to detect garbed in the semblance of truth?

Then, an thou be not sure of the guide in thine inti-

Mate bosom,

Fly from the edge in time, fly from the yawning

Abyss!

Many who seek for light plunge headlong into the

Darkness;

But a child can walk safe in the glimmer of eve.

Friedrich Schiller.

[matteomastrom]

I was researching a Russian poet named Lermontov last night. I was interested because Rachmaninoff used two lines of his poem "Utes" ("The Cliff") to top the score of his orchestral fantasy The Rock, Op. 7. I will post a couple of his poems here.

The Cliff

By Mikhail Yurevich Lermontov,

translated from Russian by

Eugene M. Kayden

A golden cloud at evening came

To sleep upon the mountain's breast.

And, gay, at dawn she left the crest

To wander in the sky, aflame.

A trace of dew, of night's caress

Remained upon his ancient face of stone

He looms as in a dream, alone,

And softly weeps within the wilderness.

(1841)

The Sail. Lermontov.

Translated by Irina Zheleznova

A lone white sail shows for an instant

Where gleams the sea, an azure streak.

What left it in its homeland distant?

In alien parts what does it seek?

The billow play, the mast bends creaking,

The wind, impatient, moans and sighs...

It is not joy that it is seeking,

Nor is it happiness it flies.

The blue wave dance, they dance and tremble,

The sun's bright ray caress the seas.

And yet for storm it begs, the rebel,

As if in storm lurked calm and peace!..

My favorite poem, however, is probably this one:

We are the music-makers,

And we are the dreamers of dreams,

Wandering by lone sea-breakers,

And sitting by desolate streams;

World-losers and world-forsakers,

On whom the pale moon gleams:

Yet we are the movers and shakers

Of the world for ever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties

We build up the world's great cities,

And out of a fabulous story

We fashion an empire's glory:

One man with a dream, at pleasure,

Shall go forth and conquer a crown;

And three with a new song's measure

Can trample an empire down.

We, in the ages lying

In the buried past of the earth,

Built Nineveh with our sighing,

And Babel itself with our mirth;

And o'erthrew them with prophesying

To the old of the new world's worth;

For each age is a dream that is dying,

Or one that is coming to birth.

I had read something that gave credit to W.B. Yeats for it, but I just found out that it was written by Arthur O'Shaughnessy instead (it's certainly Irish at any rate).

[AMERICONORMAN]

Matt:

You’re Russian poems speak to me. I just finished Toilers Of The Sea by Victor Hugo. It is very much about the sea—and almost too much. It is about one man’s battle against the sea. At first it is for something so superficial and then when one contemplates, with the help of Milgram’s afterword, one realizes that the ultimate values is greater than the girl. Ayn Rand would call it glory, Hugo would call it God.

I must say that Deruchette proved to be a bitch. Sorry for wrecking the novel for the rest of you…….if I did indeed.

So, the poems were nice, especially given my personal context, currently.

Americo.

[Laure]

Here's one of my favorites:

The Island

If I had a ship,

I'd sail my ship,

I'd sail my ship

Through Eastern seas;

Down to a beach where the slow waves thunder-

The green curls over and the white falls under-

Boom! Boom! Boom!

On the sun-bright sand.

Then I'd leave my ship and I'd land,

And climb the steep white sand,

And climb to the trees,

The six dark trees,

The coco-nut trees on the cliff's green crown -

Hands and knees

To the coco-nut trees,

Face to the cliff as the stones patter down,

Up, up, up, staggering, stumbling,

Round the corner where the rock is crumbling,

Round this shoulder,

Over this boulder,

Up to the top where the six trees stand ....

And there I would rest, and lie,

My chin in my hands, and gaze

At the dazzle of sand below,

And the green waves curling slow,

And the grey-blue distant haze

Where the sea goes up to the sky....

And I'd say to myself as I looked so lazily down at the sea:

"There's nobody else in the world, and the world was made for me."

A.A. Milne

[Betsy]

Thank you, Laure! It's delightful.

[AshRyan]

The Sail.  Lermontov.

Translated by Irina Zheleznova

A lone white sail shows for an instant

Where gleams the sea, an azure streak.

What left it in its homeland distant?

In alien parts what does it seek?

The billow play, the mast bends creaking,

The wind, impatient, moans and sighs...

It is not joy that it is seeking,

Nor is it happiness it flies.

The blue wave dance, they dance and tremble,

The sun's bright ray caress the seas.

And yet for storm it begs, the rebel,

As if in storm lurked calm and peace!..

This isn't a very good translation. The problem with poetry, is it's very difficult to translate without losing a lot. This poem is definitely much better in the original Russian.

One Russian poet who has actually written a lot in English (overcoming the translation problem), and whose work I can give a mild recommendation, is Evtushenko. I will try to dig up one of his better poems and post it later, when I have time.

[CannonBall]

I'm a big Bukowski fan, I’ve read most of his novels and lots of his poetry. It's good entertainment, I don’t really agree with his philosophies but it's fun reading.

-Nate

[Dagny]

This isn't actually a poem. But I came across it at a display in the science building on my college campus. I found it to be beautifully written and inspirational. Ellison Onizuka was one the astronauts who died in the Challenger accident of 1986. I don't know anything about his life or philisophical point of view. However, his words show that his sense of life was a lot like an objectivist's sense of life.

A Message to the Future Generations

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If I can impress upon you only one idea... Let it be that

the people who make this world run, whose lives can be

termed successful, whose names will go down in the

history books, are not the cynics, the critics, or the

armchair quarterbacks.

They are the adventurists, the explorers, and doers of this

world. When they see a wrong or problem, they do

something about it. When they see a vacant place in our

knowledge, they work to fill that void.

Rather than leaning back and criticising how things are,

they work to make things they way they should be. They

are the aggressive, the self-starter, the innovative, and the

imaginative of this world.

Every generation has the obligation to free men's minds

from a look at new worlds... to look out from a higher

plateau than the last generation.

Your vision is not limited by what your eye can see, but

by what your mind can imagine. Many things that you

take for granted were considered unrealistic dreams by

previous generations. If you accept these past

accomplishments as commonplace then think of the new

horizons that you can explore.

From your vantage point, your education and imagination

will carry you to places which we won't believe possible.

Make your life count - and the world will be a better

place because you tried.

- Ellison S. Onizuka

1980

[AMERICONORMAN]

Thank-you that was quite inspirational. Cheers to that!

Americo.

In my old age I have developed an appreciation for Guiness. So Cheers once more to the Astonaut's message!

[AMERICONORMAN]

This is the world and the core of it, this is what made the city—they go together, the angular shapes of the buildings and the angular lines of a face stripped of everything but purpose—the rising steps of steel and the steps of a being intent upon his goal—this is what they had been, all the men who had lived to invent the lights, the steel, the furnaces, the motors—they were the world, they, not the men who crouched in the dark corners, half-begging, half-threatening, boastfully displaying their open sores as their only claim on life and virtue—so long as he knew that there existed one man with the bright courage of a new thought, could he give up the world to those others?—so long as he could find a single sight to give him a life-restoring shot of admiration, could he believe that the world belonged to the sores, the moans and the guns?—the men who invented motors did exist, he would never doubt their reality, that even the loathing was the tribute of his loyalty to them and to that world which was theirs and his.

Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged.

[Megan Robinson]

I realize that many of you may object to this, but I have always been a big fan of Langston Hughes. True, the Harlem Renessiance did a lot for the post modernists but none the less much of his poetry has that resonating feeling that makes one think. Its the resonation that churnes up the philosophy he was regurgitating in his art. Here's my favorite:

Song for Billie Holiday

What can pruge my heart

Of the song

And the sadness?

What can purge my heart

But the song

Of the sadness?

What can purge my heart

Of the sadness

Of the song?

Do not speak of sorrow

With dust in her hair

Or bits of dust in eyes

A chance wind blows there

The sorrow that I speak of

Is dusted with dispair

Voice of muted trumpet,

Cold brass in warm air.

Bitter television blurred

By sound that shimmers

Where?

L. Hughes

[FaSheezy]

I wrote this poem one day when I was really happy. Those days are quite often.

[ Deliriously Elegant ]

I am a woman nearing full

An optimistic glass of water

Some days so auspicious it seems I overflow

I spill over everywhere

I leak, but dont care

The consequences of happiness

Do not hurt those

to whom it is a value,

I delight in leaking

it means I was a woman nearing full

and still drank more.

~

[AMERICONORMAN]

Great star! What would your happiness be, if you had not those for whom you shine!

You have come up here to my cave for ten years: you would have grown weary of your light and of this journey, without me, my eagle and my serpent.

But we waited for you every morning, took from you your superfluity and blessed you for it.

Behold! I am weary of my wisdom, like a bee that has gathered too much honey; I need hands outstretched to take it.

I should like to give it away and distribute it, until the wise among men have again become happy in their folly and the poor happy in their wealth.

To that end, I must descend into the depths: as you do at evening, when you go behind the sea and bring light to the underworld too, superabundant star!

Like you, I must go down - as men, to whom I want to descend, call it.

So bless me then, tranquil eye, that can behold without envy even an excessive happiness!

Bless the cup that wants to overflow, that the waters may flow golden from him and bear the reflection of your joy over all the world!

Behold! This cup want to be empy again, and Zarathustra wants to be man again.

Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra.

[AMERICONORMAN]

(This thread earlier also contained "AmerioNorman" poems. If you are looking for these, please see this other thread (link).)

I was led today to look up Thomas Chatterton. I never read anything by him before, I just heard his legend in a biography I began but never finished of John Keats. But I read the first poem that follows and I fell in love at first sight. The man has been dead for over 200 years, and I've never even seen a picture of him. But by the way he sings, as revealed in the following poem, I am in love. And you know what? I haven't had a chance to study the meaning of the poem. I am in love with the way it sounds. Reading the poem aloud was what you could call an enjoyable "buzz" without intoxicating substances.

I am also intrigued yet sadenned by the events of his life. The boy was a starving Artist who committed suicide at 17. The following poem was part of a grand forgery but original nonetheless. He said it belonged to a 15th century poet. He had wrote it all himself by studying an old dictionary. The boy was certainly a genius.

I have only included part of it, just so you can get feel the music. The poem that follows it is by John Keats in a similar rhythm.

Americo.

Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770)

An Excelente Balade of Charitie

1In Virgynë the sweltrie sun gan sheene,

2And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie;

3The apple rodded from its palie greene,

4And the mole peare did bende the leafy spraie;

5The peede chelandri sunge the livelong daie;

6'Twas nowe the pride, the manhode of the yeare,

7And eke the grounde was dighte in its moste defte aumere.

8The sun was glemeing in the midde of daie,

9Deadde still the aire, and eke the welken blue,

10When from the sea arist in drear arraie

11A hepe of cloudes of sable sullen hue,

12The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe,

13Hiltring attenes the sunnis fetive face,

14And the blacke tempeste swolne and gatherd up apace.

15Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side,

16Which dide unto Seyncte Godwine's covent lede,

17A hapless pilgrim moneynge did abide.

18Pore in his newe, ungentle in his weede,

19Longe bretful of the miseries of neede,

20Where from the hail-stone coulde the almer flie?

21He had no housen theere, ne anie covent nie.

22Look in his glommed face, his sprighte there scanne;

23Howe woe-be-gone, how withered, forwynd, deade!

24Haste to thie church-glebe-house, asshrewed manne!

25Haste to thie kiste, thie onlie dortoure bedde.

26Cale, as the claie whiche will gre on thie hedde,

27Is Charitie and Love aminge highe elves;

28Knightis and Barons live for pleasure and themselves.

29The gatherd storme is rype; the bigge drops falle;

30The forswat meadowes smethe, and drenche the raine;

31The comyng ghastness do the cattle pall,

32And the full flockes are drivynge ore the plaine;

33Dashde from the cloudes the waters flott againe;

34The welkin opes; the yellow levynne flies;

35And the hot fierie smothe in the wide lowings dies.

36Liste! now the thunder's rattling clymmynge sound

37Cheves slowlie on, and then embollen clangs,

38Shakes the hie spyre, and losst, dispended, drown'd,

39Still on the gallard eare of terroure hanges;

40The windes are up; the lofty elmen swanges;

41Again the levynne and the thunder poures,

42And the full cloudes are braste attenes in stonen showers.

----------------

To * * * *By John Keats

HADST thou liv’d in days of old,

O what wonders had been told

Of thy lively countenance,

And thy humid eyes that dance

In the midst of their own brightness; 5

In the very fane of lightness.

Over which thine eyebrows, leaning,

Picture out each lovely meaning:

In a dainty bend they lie,

Like to streaks across the sky, 10

Or the feathers from a crow,

Fallen on a bed of snow.

Of thy dark hair that extends

Into many graceful bends:

As the leaves of Hellebore 15

Turn to whence they sprung before.

And behind each ample curl

Peeps the richness of a pearl.

Downward too flows many a tress

With a glossy waviness; 20

Full, and round like globes that rise

From the censer to the skies

Through sunny air. Add too, the sweetness

Of thy honied voice; the neatness

Of thine ankle lightly turn’d: 25

With those beauties, scarce discern’d,

Kept with such sweet privacy,

That they seldom meet the eye

Of the little loves that fly

Round about with eager pry. 30

Saving when, with freshening lave,

Thou dipp’st them in the taintless wave;

Like twin water lillies, born

In the coolness of the morn.

O, if thou hadst breathed then, 35

Now the Muses had been ten.

Couldst thou wish for lineage higher

Than twin sister of Thalia?

At least for ever, evermore,

Will I call the Graces four. 40

Hadst thou liv’d when chivalry

Lifted up her lance on high,

Tell me what thou wouldst have been?

Ah! I see the silver sheen

Of thy broidered, floating vest 45

Cov’ring half thine ivory breast;

Which, O heavens! I should see,

But that cruel destiny

Has placed a golden cuirass there;

Keeping secret what is fair. 50

Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested

Thy locks in knightly casque are rested:

O’er which bend four milky plumes

Like the gentle lilly’s blooms

Springing from a costly vase. 55

See with what a stately pace

Comes thine alabaster steed;

Servant of heroic deed!

O’er his loins, his trappings glow

Like the northern lights on snow. 60

Mount his back! thy sword unsheath!

Sign of the enchanter’s death;

Bane of every wicked spell;

Silencer of dragon’s yell.

Alas! thou this wilt never do: 65

Thou art an enchantress too,

And wilt surely never spill

Blood of those whose eyes can kill.

Edited August 25, 2005 by softwareNerd

[Alon]

The Destruction of Sennacherib

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,

That host with their banners at sunset were seen:

Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,

That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;

And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,

And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

Lord Byron