Famous Elegy Poems
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The best famous Elegy poems by international web poets. These are the best examples of elegy poems.


An Elegy upon the Death of the Dean of St. Pauls Dr. John

Email Poem - An Elegy upon the Death of the Dean of St. Pauls Dr. JohnEmail Poem |

 Can we not force from widow'd poetry, 
Now thou art dead (great Donne) one elegy 
To crown thy hearse? Why yet dare we not trust, 
Though with unkneaded dough-bak'd prose, thy dust, 
Such as th' unscissor'd churchman from the flower 
Of fading rhetoric, short-liv'd as his hour, 
Dry as the sand that measures it, should lay 
Upon thy ashes, on the funeral day? 
Have we no voice, no tune? Didst thou dispense 
Through all our language, both the words and sense? 
'Tis a sad truth.
The pulpit may her plain And sober Christian precepts still retain, Doctrines it may, and wholesome uses, frame, Grave homilies and lectures, but the flame Of thy brave soul (that shot such heat and light As burnt our earth and made our darkness bright, Committed holy rapes upon our will, Did through the eye the melting heart distil, And the deep knowledge of dark truths so teach As sense might judge what fancy could not reach) Must be desir'd forever.
So the fire That fills with spirit and heat the Delphic quire, Which, kindled first by thy Promethean breath, Glow'd here a while, lies quench'd now in thy death.
The Muses' garden, with pedantic weeds O'erspread, was purg'd by thee; the lazy seeds Of servile imitation thrown away, And fresh invention planted; thou didst pay The debts of our penurious bankrupt age; Licentious thefts, that make poetic rage A mimic fury, when our souls must be Possess'd, or with Anacreon's ecstasy, Or Pindar's, not their own; the subtle cheat Of sly exchanges, and the juggling feat Of two-edg'd words, or whatsoever wrong By ours was done the Greek or Latin tongue, Thou hast redeem'd, and open'd us a mine Of rich and pregnant fancy; drawn a line Of masculine expression, which had good Old Orpheus seen, or all the ancient brood Our superstitious fools admire, and hold Their lead more precious than thy burnish'd gold, Thou hadst been their exchequer, and no more They each in other's dust had rak'd for ore.
Thou shalt yield no precedence, but of time, And the blind fate of language, whose tun'd chime More charms the outward sense; yet thou mayst claim From so great disadvantage greater fame, Since to the awe of thy imperious wit Our stubborn language bends, made only fit With her tough thick-ribb'd hoops to gird about Thy giant fancy, which had prov'd too stout For their soft melting phrases.
As in time They had the start, so did they cull the prime Buds of invention many a hundred year, And left the rifled fields, besides the fear To touch their harvest; yet from those bare lands Of what is purely thine, thy only hands, (And that thy smallest work) have gleaned more Than all those times and tongues could reap before.
But thou art gone, and thy strict laws will be Too hard for libertines in poetry; They will repeal the goodly exil'd train Of gods and goddesses, which in thy just reign Were banish'd nobler poems; now with these, The silenc'd tales o' th' Metamorphoses Shall stuff their lines, and swell the windy page, Till verse, refin'd by thee, in this last age Turn ballad rhyme, or those old idols be Ador'd again, with new apostasy.
Oh, pardon me, that break with untun'd verse The reverend silence that attends thy hearse, Whose awful solemn murmurs were to thee, More than these faint lines, a loud elegy, That did proclaim in a dumb eloquence The death of all the arts; whose influence, Grown feeble, in these panting numbers lies, Gasping short-winded accents, and so dies.
So doth the swiftly turning wheel not stand In th' instant we withdraw the moving hand, But some small time maintain a faint weak course, By virtue of the first impulsive force; And so, whilst I cast on thy funeral pile Thy crown of bays, oh, let it crack awhile, And spit disdain, till the devouring flashes Suck all the moisture up, then turn to ashes.
I will not draw the envy to engross All thy perfections, or weep all our loss; Those are too numerous for an elegy, And this too great to be express'd by me.
Though every pen should share a distinct part, Yet art thou theme enough to tire all art; Let others carve the rest, it shall suffice I on thy tomb this epitaph incise: Here lies a king, that rul'd as he thought fit The universal monarchy of wit; Here lie two flamens, and both those, the best, Apollo's first, at last, the true God's priest.


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The First Elegy

Who if I cried out would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them pressed me 
suddenly against his heart: I would be consumed
I that overwhelming existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which we still are just able to endure and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Every angel is terrifying.
And so I hold myself back and swallow the call-note Of my dark sobbing.
Ah whom can we ever turn to in our need? Not angels not humans and already the knowing animals are aware that we are not really at home in our interpreted world.
Perhaps there remains for us some tree on a hillside which every day we can take into our vision; there remains for us yesterday's street and the loyalty of a habit so much at ease when it stayed with us that it moved in and never left.
Oh and night: there is night when a wind full of infinite space gnaws at out faces.
Whom would it not remain for-that longed-after mildly disillusioning presence which the solitary heart so painfully meets.
Is it any less difficult for lovers? But they keep on using each other to hide their own fate.
Don't you know yet? Fling the emptiness out of your arms Into the spaces we breathe; perhaps the birds will feel the expanded air with more passionate flying.
Yes-the springtime needed you.
Often a star was waiting for you to notice it.
A wave rolled toward you out of the distant past or as you walked under an open window a violin yielded itself to your hearing.
All this was mission.
But could you accomplish it? Weren't you always Distracted by expectation as if every event announced a beloved? (Where can you find a place to keep her with all the huge strange thoughts inside you going and coming and often staying all night.
) But when you feel longing sing of women in love; for their famous passion is still not immortal.
Sing of women abandoned and desolate (you envy them almost) who could love so much more purely than those who were gratified.
Begin again and again the never-attainable praising; remember: the hero lives on; even his downfall was merely a pretext for achieving his final birth.
But Nature spent and exhausted takes lovers back into herself as if there were not enough strength to create them a second time.
Have you imagined Gaspara Stampa intensely enough so that any girl deserted by her beloved might be inspired by that fierce example of soaring objectless love and might say to herself Perhaps I can be like her ? Shouldn't this most ancient suffering finally grow more fruitful for us? Isn't it time that we lovingly freed ourselves from the beloved and quivering endured: as the arrow endures the bowstring's tension so that gathered in the snap of release it can be more than itself.
For there is no place where we can remain.
Listen my heart as only Saints have listened: until the gigantic call lifted them off the ground; yet they kept on impossibly kneeling and didn't notice at all: so complete was their listening.
Not that you could endure God's voice-far from it.
But listen to the voice of the wind and the ceaseless message that forms itself out of silence.
It is murmuring toward you now from those who died young.
Didn't their fate whenever you stepped into a church In Naples or Rome quietly come to address you? Or high up some eulogy entrusted you with a mission as last year on the plaque in Santa Maria Formosa.
What they want of me is that I gently remove the appearance of injustice about their death-which at times slightly hinders their souls from proceeding onward.
Of course it is strange to inhabit the earth no longer to give up customs one barely had time to learn not to see roses and other promising Things in terms of a human future; no longer to be what one was in infinitely anxious hands; to leave even one's own first name behind forgetting it as easily as a child abandons a broken toy.
Strange to no longer desire one's desires.
Strange to see meanings that clung together once floating away in every direction.
And being dead is hard work and full of retrieval before one can gradually feel a trace of eternity.
-Though the living are wrong to believe in the too-sharp distinctions which they themselves have created.
Angels (they say) don't know whether it is the living they are moving among or the dead.
The eternal torrent whirls all ages along in it through both realms forever and their voices are drowned out in its thunderous roar.
In the end those who were carried off early no longer need us: they are weaned from earth's sorrows and joys as gently as children outgrow the soft breasts of their mothers.
But we who do need such great mysteries we for whom grief is so often the source of our spirit's growth-: could we exist without them? Is the legend meaningless that tells how in the lament for Linus the daring first notes of song pierced through the barren numbness; and then in the startled space which a youth as lovely as a god had suddenly left forever the Void felt for the first time that harmony which now enraptures and comforts and helps us.

The Life of Love XVI

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Come, my beloved; let us walk amidst the knolls, 
For the snow is water, and Life is alive from its 
Slumber and is roaming the hills and valleys.
Let us follow the footprints of Spring into the Distant fields, and mount the hilltops to draw Inspiration high above the cool green plains.
Dawn of Spring has unfolded her winter-kept garment And placed it on the peach and citrus trees; and They appear as brides in the ceremonial custom of the Night of Kedre.
The sprigs of grapevine embrace each other like Sweethearts, and the brooks burst out in dance Between the rocks, repeating the song of joy; And the flowers bud suddenly from the heart of Nature, like foam from the rich heart of the sea.
Come, my beloved; let us drink the last of Winter's Tears from the cupped lilies, and soothe our spirits With the shower of notes from the birds, and wander In exhilaration through the intoxicating breeze.
Let us sit by that rock, where violets hide; let us Pursue their exchange of the sweetness of kisses.
Summer Let us go into the fields, my beloved, for the Time of harvest approaches, and the sun's eyes Are ripening the grain.
Let us tend the fruit of the earth, as the Spirit nourishes the grains of Joy from the Seeds of Love, sowed deep in our hearts.
Let us fill our bins with the products of Nature, as life fills so abundantly the Domain of our hearts with her endless bounty.
Let us make the flowers our bed, and the Sky our blanket, and rest our heads together Upon pillows of soft hay.
Let us relax after the day's toil, and listen To the provoking murmur of the brook.
Autumn Let us go and gather grapes in the vineyard For the winepress, and keep the wine in old Vases, as the spirit keeps Knowledge of the Ages in eternal vessels.
Let us return to our dwelling, for the wind has Caused the yellow leaves to fall and shroud the Withering flowers that whisper elegy to Summer.
Come home, my eternal sweetheart, for the birds Have made pilgrimage to warmth and lest the chilled Prairies suffering pangs of solitude.
The jasmine And myrtle have no more tears.
Let us retreat, for the tired brook has Ceased its song; and the bubblesome springs Are drained of their copious weeping; and Their cautious old hills have stored away Their colorful garments.
Come, my beloved; Nature is justly weary And is bidding her enthusiasm farewell With quiet and contented melody.
Winter Come close to me, oh companion of my full life; Come close to me and let not Winter's touch Enter between us.
Sit by me before the hearth, For fire is the only fruit of Winter.
Speak to me of the glory of your heart, for That is greater than the shrieking elements Beyond our door.
Bind the door and seal the transoms, for the Angry countenance of the heaven depresses my Spirit, and the face of our snow-laden fields Makes my soul cry.
Feed the lamp with oil and let it not dim, and Place it by you, so I can read with tears what Your life with me has written upon your face.
Bring Autumn's wine.
Let us drink and sing the Song of remembrance to Spring's carefree sowing, And Summer's watchful tending, and Autumn's Reward in harvest.
Come close to me, oh beloved of my soul; the Fire is cooling and fleeing under the ashes.
Embrace me, for I fear loneliness; the lamp is Dim, and the wine which we pressed is closing Our eyes.
Let us look upon each other before They are shut.
Find me with your arms and embrace me; let Slumber then embrace our souls as one.
Kiss me, my beloved, for Winter has stolen All but our moving lips.
You are close by me, My Forever.
How deep and wide will be the ocean of Slumber, And how recent was the dawn!

The Burden Of Itys

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 This English Thames is holier far than Rome,
Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea
Breaking across the woodland, with the foam
Of meadow-sweet and white anemone
To fleck their blue waves, - God is likelier there
Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear!

Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take
Yon creamy lily for their pavilion
Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake
A lazy pike lies basking in the sun,
His eyes half shut, - he is some mitred old
Bishop in PARTIBUS! look at those gaudy scales all green and gold.
The wind the restless prisoner of the trees Does well for Palaestrina, one would say The mighty master's hands were on the keys Of the Maria organ, which they play When early on some sapphire Easter morn In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne From his dark House out to the Balcony Above the bronze gates and the crowded square, Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy To toss their silver lances in the air, And stretching out weak hands to East and West In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations rest.
Is not yon lingering orange after-glow That stays to vex the moon more fair than all Rome's lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago I knelt before some crimson Cardinal Who bare the Host across the Esquiline, And now - those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as fine.
The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring Through this cool evening than the odorous Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing, When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine, And makes God's body from the common fruit of corn and vine.
Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the mass Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird Sings overhead, and through the long cool grass I see that throbbing throat which once I heard On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady, Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea.
Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe, And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate.
And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas, And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay, And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees That round and round the linden blossoms play; And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall, And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall, And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring While the last violet loiters by the well, And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing The song of Linus through a sunny dell Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled fold.
And sweet with young Lycoris to recline In some Illyrian valley far away, Where canopied on herbs amaracine We too might waste the summer-tranced day Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry, While far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea.
But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot Of some long-hidden God should ever tread The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his head By the green water-flags, ah! sweet indeed To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced flock to feed.
Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister, Though what thou sing'st be thine own requiem! Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn These unfamiliar haunts, this English field, For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose Which all day long in vales AEolian A lad might seek in vain for over-grows Our hedges like a wanton courtesan Unthrifty of its beauty; lilies too Ilissos never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue Dot the green wheat which, though they are the signs For swallows going south, would never spread Their azure tents between the Attic vines; Even that little weed of ragged red, Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung elegy Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames Which to awake were sweeter ravishment Than ever Syrinx wept for; diadems Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant For Cytheraea's brows are hidden here Unknown to Cytheraea, and by yonder pasturing steer There is a tiny yellow daffodil, The butterfly can see it from afar, Although one summer evening's dew could fill Its little cup twice over ere the star Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold And be no prodigal; each leaf is flecked with spotted gold As if Jove's gorgeous leman Danae Hot from his gilded arms had stooped to kiss The trembling petals, or young Mercury Low-flying to the dusky ford of Dis Had with one feather of his pinions Just brushed them! the slight stem which bears the burden of its suns Is hardly thicker than the gossamer, Or poor Arachne's silver tapestry, - Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre Of One I sometime worshipped, but to me It seems to bring diviner memories Of faun-loved Heliconian glades and blue nymph-haunted seas, Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where On the clear river's marge Narcissus lies, The tangle of the forest in his hair, The silence of the woodland in his eyes, Wooing that drifting imagery which is No sooner kissed than broken; memories of Salmacis Who is not boy nor girl and yet is both, Fed by two fires and unsatisfied Through their excess, each passion being loth For love's own sake to leave the other's side Yet killing love by staying; memories Of Oreads peeping through the leaves of silent moonlit trees, Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf At Naxos, when she saw the treacherous crew Far out at sea, and waved her crimson scarf And called false Theseus back again nor knew That Dionysos on an amber pard Was close behind her; memories of what Maeonia's bard With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of Troy, Queen Helen lying in the ivory room, And at her side an amorous red-lipped boy Trimming with dainty hand his helmet's plume, And far away the moil, the shout, the groan, As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax hurled the stone; Of winged Perseus with his flawless sword Cleaving the snaky tresses of the witch, And all those tales imperishably stored In little Grecian urns, freightage more rich Than any gaudy galleon of Spain Bare from the Indies ever! these at least bring back again, For well I know they are not dead at all, The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy: They are asleep, and when they hear thee call Will wake and think 't is very Thessaly, This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool glade The yellow-irised mead where once young Itys laughed and played.
If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard The horn of Atalanta faintly blown Across the Cumnor hills, and wandering Through Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets' spring, - Ah! tiny sober-suited advocate That pleadest for the moon against the day! If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate On that sweet questing, when Proserpina Forgot it was not Sicily and leant Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished wonderment, - Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the wood! If ever thou didst soothe with melody One of that little clan, that brotherhood Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany More than the perfect sun of Raphael And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well.
Sing on! sing on! let the dull world grow young, Let elemental things take form again, And the old shapes of Beauty walk among The simple garths and open crofts, as when The son of Leto bare the willow rod, And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish God.
Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne, And over whimpering tigers shake the spear With yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone, While at his side the wanton Bassarid Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid! Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin, And steal the mooned wings of Ashtaroth, Upon whose icy chariot we could win Cithaeron in an hour ere the froth Has over-brimmed the wine-vat or the Faun Ceased from the treading! ay, before the flickering lamp of dawn Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest, And warned the bat to close its filmy vans, Some Maenad girl with vine-leaves on her breast Will filch their beech-nuts from the sleeping Pans So softly that the little nested thrush Will never wake, and then with shrilly laugh and leap will rush Down the green valley where the fallen dew Lies thick beneath the elm and count her store, Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew Trample the loosestrife down along the shore, And where their horned master sits in state Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate! Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face Through the cool leaves Apollo's lad will come, The Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom, And ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride, After yon velvet-coated deer the virgin maid will ride.
Sing on! and I the dying boy will see Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell That overweighs the jacinth, and to me The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell, And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes, And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon lies! Cry out aloud on Itys! memory That foster-brother of remorse and pain Drops poison in mine ear, - O to be free, To burn one's old ships! and to launch again Into the white-plumed battle of the waves And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves! O for Medea with her poppied spell! O for the secret of the Colchian shrine! O for one leaf of that pale asphodel Which binds the tired brows of Proserpine, And sheds such wondrous dews at eve that she Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian sea, Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased From lily to lily on the level mead, Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed, Ere the black steeds had harried her away Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick and sunless day.
O for one midnight and as paramour The Venus of the little Melian farm! O that some antique statue for one hour Might wake to passion, and that I could charm The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair, Mix with those mighty limbs and make that giant breast my lair! Sing on! sing on! I would be drunk with life, Drunk with the trampled vintage of my youth, I would forget the wearying wasted strife, The riven veil, the Gorgon eyes of Truth, The prayerless vigil and the cry for prayer, The barren gifts, the lifted arms, the dull insensate air! Sing on! sing on! O feathered Niobe, Thou canst make sorrow beautiful, and steal From joy its sweetest music, not as we Who by dead voiceless silence strive to heal Our too untented wounds, and do but keep Pain barricadoed in our hearts, and murder pillowed sleep.
Sing louder yet, why must I still behold The wan white face of that deserted Christ, Whose bleeding hands my hands did once enfold, Whose smitten lips my lips so oft have kissed, And now in mute and marble misery Sits in his lone dishonoured House and weeps, perchance for me? O Memory cast down thy wreathed shell! Break thy hoarse lute O sad Melpomene! O Sorrow, Sorrow keep thy cloistered cell Nor dim with tears this limpid Castaly! Cease, Philomel, thou dost the forest wrong To vex its sylvan quiet with such wild impassioned song! Cease, cease, or if 't is anguish to be dumb Take from the pastoral thrush her simpler air, Whose jocund carelessness doth more become This English woodland than thy keen despair, Ah! cease and let the north wind bear thy lay Back to the rocky hills of Thrace, the stormy Daulian bay.
A moment more, the startled leaves had stirred, Endymion would have passed across the mead Moonstruck with love, and this still Thames had heard Pan plash and paddle groping for some reed To lure from her blue cave that Naiad maid Who for such piping listens half in joy and half afraid.
A moment more, the waking dove had cooed, The silver daughter of the silver sea With the fond gyves of clinging hands had wooed Her wanton from the chase, and Dryope Had thrust aside the branches of her oak To see the lusty gold-haired lad rein in his snorting yoke.
A moment more, the trees had stooped to kiss Pale Daphne just awakening from the swoon Of tremulous laurels, lonely Salmacis Had bared his barren beauty to the moon, And through the vale with sad voluptuous smile Antinous had wandered, the red lotus of the Nile Down leaning from his black and clustering hair, To shade those slumberous eyelids' caverned bliss, Or else on yonder grassy slope with bare High-tuniced limbs unravished Artemis Had bade her hounds give tongue, and roused the deer From his green ambuscade with shrill halloo and pricking spear.
Lie still, lie still, O passionate heart, lie still! O Melancholy, fold thy raven wing! O sobbing Dryad, from thy hollow hill Come not with such despondent answering! No more thou winged Marsyas complain, Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled songs of pain! It was a dream, the glade is tenantless, No soft Ionian laughter moves the air, The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness, And from the copse left desolate and bare Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry, Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody So sad, that one might think a human heart Brake in each separate note, a quality Which music sometimes has, being the Art Which is most nigh to tears and memory; Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear? Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion is not here, Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade, No woven web of bloody heraldries, But mossy dells for roving comrades made, Warm valleys where the tired student lies With half-shut book, and many a winding walk Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk.
The harmless rabbit gambols with its young Across the trampled towing-path, where late A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng Cheered with their noisy cries the racing eight; The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads, Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved sheds Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating flock Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a faint shout Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock, And starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill, And the dim lengthening shadows flit like swallows up the hill.
The heron passes homeward to the mere, The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees, Gold world by world the silent stars appear, And like a blossom blown before the breeze A white moon drifts across the shimmering sky, Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous threnody.
She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed, She knows Endymion is not far away; 'Tis I, 'tis I, whose soul is as the reed Which has no message of its own to play, So pipes another's bidding, it is I, Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery.
Ah! the brown bird has ceased: one exquisite trill About the sombre woodland seems to cling Dying in music, else the air is still, So still that one might hear the bat's small wing Wander and wheel above the pines, or tell Each tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell's brimming cell.
And far away across the lengthening wold, Across the willowy flats and thickets brown, Magdalen's tall tower tipped with tremulous gold Marks the long High Street of the little town, And warns me to return; I must not wait, Hark ! 't is the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church gate.


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O goat-foot God of Arcady! This modern world is grey and old, And what remains to us of thee? No more the shepherd lads in glee Throw apples at thy wattled fold, O goat-foot God of Arcady! Nor through the laurels can one see Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold And what remains to us of thee? And dull and dead our Thames would be, For here the winds are chill and cold, O goat-loot God of Arcady! Then keep the tomb of Helice, Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold, And what remains to us of thee? Though many an unsung elegy Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold, O goat-foot God of Arcady! Ah, what remains to us of thee? II.
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady, Thy satyrs and their wanton play, This modern world hath need of thee.
No nymph or Faun indeed have we, For Faun and nymph are old and grey, Ah, leave the hills of Arcady! This is the land where liberty Lit grave-browed Milton on his way, This modern world hath need of thee! A land of ancient chivalry Where gentle Sidney saw the day, Ah, leave the hills of Arcady! This fierce sea-lion of the sea, This England lacks some stronger lay, This modern world hath need of thee! Then blow some trumpet loud and free, And give thine oaten pipe away, Ah, leave the hills of Arcady! This modern world hath need of thee!

A Refusal To Mourn The Death By Fire Of A Child In London

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 Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn

The majesty and burning of the child's death.
I shall not murder The mankind of her going with a grave truth Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath With any further Elegy of innocence and youth.
Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter, Robed in the long friends, The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother, Secret by the unmourning water Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.

From Daphnaïda

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An Elegy

SHE fell away in her first ages spring, 
Whil'st yet her leafe was greene, and fresh her rinde, 
And whil'st her braunch faire blossomes foorth did bring, 
She fell away against all course of kinde.
For age to dye is right, but youth is wrong; 5 She fel away like fruit blowne downe with winde.
Weepe, Shepheard! weepe, to make my undersong.
Yet fell she not as one enforst to dye, Ne dyde with dread and grudging discontent, But as one toyld with travaile downe doth lye, 10 So lay she downe, as if to sleepe she went, And closde her eyes with carelesse quietnesse; The whiles soft death away her spirit hent, And soule assoyld from sinfull fleshlinesse.
How happie was I when I saw her leade 15 The Shepheards daughters dauncing in a rownd! How trimly would she trace and softly tread The tender grasse, with rosie garland crownd! And when she list advance her heavenly voyce, Both Nymphes and Muses nigh she made astownd, 20 And flocks and shepheards caus¨¨d to rejoyce.
But now, ye Shepheard lasses! who shall lead Your wandring troupes, or sing your virelayes? Or who shall dight your bowres, sith she is dead That was the Lady of your holy-dayes? 25 Let now your blisse be turn¨¨d into bale, And into plaints convert your joyous playes, And with the same fill every hill and dale.
For I will walke this wandring pilgrimage, Throughout the world from one to other end, 30 And in affliction wast my better age: My bread shall be the anguish of my mind, My drink the teares which fro mine eyed do raine, My bed the ground that hardest I may finde; So will I wilfully increase my paine.
35 Ne sleepe (the harbenger of wearie wights) Shall ever lodge upon mine ey-lids more; Ne shall with rest refresh my fainting sprights, Nor failing force to former strength restore: But I will wake and sorrow all the night 40 With Philumene, my fortune to deplore; With Philumene, the partner of my plight.
And ever as I see the starres to fall, And under ground to goe to give them light Which dwell in darknes, I to minde will call 45 How my fair Starre (that shinde on me so bright) Fell sodainly and faded under ground; Since whose departure, day is turnd to night, And night without a Venus starre is found.
And she, my love that was, my Saint that is, 50 When she beholds from her celestiall throne (In which shee joyeth in eternall blis) My bitter penance, will my case bemone, And pitie me that living thus doo die; For heavenly spirits have compassion 55 On mortall men, and rue their miserie.
So when I have with sorowe satisfide Th' importune fates, which vengeance on me seeke, And th' heavens with long languor pacifide, She, for pure pitie of my sufferance meeke, 60 Will send for me; for which I daylie long: And will till then my painful penance eeke.
Weep, Shepheard! weep, to make my undersong!

Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard

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 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening-care; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre; But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village-Hampden that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the Gates of Mercy on mankind, The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonoured dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,— Haply some hoary-headed swain may say "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away To meet the sun upon the upland lawn; "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies would he rove; Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.
"One morn I missed him from the customed hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he: "The next, with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,— Approach and read, for thou can'st read, the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
" THE EPITAPH Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown: Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear, He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.

After all Birds have been investigated and laid aside --

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 After all Birds have been investigated and laid aside --
Nature imparts the little Blue-Bird -- assured
Her conscientious Voice will soar unmoved
Above ostensible Vicissitude.
First at the March -- competing with the Wind -- Her panting note exalts us -- like a friend -- Last to adhere when Summer cleaves away -- Elegy of Integrity.



 Alone in Sutton with Fynbos my orange cat

A long weekend of wind and rain drowning

The tumultuous flurry of mid-February blossom

A surfeit of letters to work through, a mountain

Of files to sort, some irritation at the thought

Of travelling to Kentish Town alone when

My mind was flooded with the mellifluous voice

Of Heath-Stubbs on tape reading ‘The Divided Ways’

In memory of Sidney Keyes.
“He has gone down into the dark cellar To talk with the bright faced Spirit with silver hair But I shall never know what word was spoken there.
” The best reader of the century, if not the best poet.
Resonant, mesmeric, his verse the anti-type of mine, Classical, not personal, Apollonian not Dionysian And most unconfessional but nonetheless a poet Deserving honour in his eighty-fifth year.
Thirty people crowded into a room With stacked chairs like a Sunday School A table of pamphlets looked over but not bought A lacquered screen holding court, a century’s junk.
An ivory dial telephone, a bowl of early daffodils To focus on.
I was the first to read, speaking of James Simmons’ death, My anguish at the year long silence from his last letter To the Christmas card in Gaelic Nollaig Shona - With the message “Jimmy’s doing better than expected.
” The difficulty I had in finding his publisher’s address - Salmon Press, Cliffs of Moher, County Clare - Then a soft sad Irish woman’s voice explained “Jimmy’s had a massive stroke, phone Janice At The Poet’s House.
” I looked at the letter I would never end or send.
“Your poems have a strength and honesty so rare.
The ability to render character as deftly as a painter.
Your being out-of-fashion shows just how bad things are Your poetry so easy to enjoy and difficult to forget.
Like Yeats.
‘The Dawning of the Day’ so sad And eloquent and memorable: I read it aloud And felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle An unflinching bitter rhetoric straight out Hence the neglect.
Your poem about Harrison.
“He has to feel the Odeons sell Tickets to damned souls, that Dante’s Hell Is in that red-plush darkness.
” Echoed in Roy Fisher's letter, “Once Harrison and I Were best mates until fame went to his head.
” James, your ‘Love Leads Me into Danger’ Set off my own despair but restored me Just as quickly with your sense of beauty’s muted dance.
“passing Dalway’s Bawn where the chestnuts are, the first trees to go rusty, old admirals drowned in their own gold braid.
” The scattered alliterations mimic so exquisitely The random pattern of fallen conkers, The sense of innocence not wholly clear The guilt never entirely spent.
‘The Road to Clonbarra’, a poem for the homecoming After a wedding, the breathlessness of new beginning.
Your own self questioning, “My fourth and last chance marriage,” Your passionate confessions of failure and plea for absolution “His thunder storms were in the late night bars.
Home was too hard too dry and far the stars.
” You were so urgent to hear my thoughts on your book And once too often you were out of luck, Heath-Stubbs nodded his old sad head.
“Simmons was my friend.
I’d no idea he was dead.
” Before I could finish the poem John Rety interrupted “Can you hurry? There’s others waiting for their turn!” I muttered to my self, but kept my temper, just.
Eventually Heath-Stubbs began - poet, teacher, wit, raconteur and man Of letters - littering his poems with references To three kinds of Arabic genie The class system of ancient Egypt The pub architecture of the Edwardian era.
From the back row I strained to see his face.
The craggy jaw, the mane of long white hair.
The bowl of daffodils I’d focused on before.
He spoke but could not read and Like me had no single poem by heart.
In his stead a man and woman read: I could forgive the man’s inability to pronounce ‘Dionysian’ But when he read ‘hover’ as ‘haver’ My temper began to frazzle The woman simpered and ruined every line As if by design, I took some amitryptilene And let my mind float free.
‘For Barry, instead of a Christmas card, this elegy I wrote last week.
Fond wishes.
’ “So often, David, I still meet Your benefactor from the time: her speedwell-blue eyes, blue like yours, with recollection, while we talk through leaf-fall, with its mosaic mottling the toad-spotted wet street.
” I looked at Heath-Stubbs’ face, his sightless eyes, And in a second understood what Gascoyne meant “Now the light of a prism has flashed like a bird down the dark-blue, At the end of which mountains of shadow pile up beyond sight Oh radiant prism A wing has been torn and its feathers drift scattered by flight.