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The Lovemaker by Robert Mezey I see you in her bed, Dark, rootless epicene, Where a lone ghost is laid And other ghosts convene; And hear you moan at last Your pleasure in the deep Haven of her who kissed Your blind mouth into sleep. But body, once enthralled, Wakes in the chains it wore, Dishevelled, stupid, cold, And famished as before, And hears its paragon Breathe in the ghostly air, Anonymous carrion Ravished by despair. Lovemaker, I have felt Desire take my part, But lacked your constant fault And something of your art, And would not bend my knees To the unmantled pride That left you in that place, Forever unsatis(ed. Excerpts from "More Poems," XXXVI by A. E. Housman Here dead lie we because we did not choose To live and shame the land from which we sprung. Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose; But young men think it is, and we were young. Luke Havergal by Edward Arlington Robinson Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal, 1 There where the vines cling crimson on the wall, And in the twilight wait for what will come. The leaves will whisper there of her, and some, Like +ying words, will strike you as they fall; But go, and if you listen, she will call. Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal— Luke Havergal. No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies To rift the (ery night that's in your eyes; But there, where western glooms are gathering The dark will end the dark, if anything: God slays Himself with every leaf that +ies, And hell is more than half of paradise. No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies— In eastern skies. Out of a grave I come to tell you this, Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss That +ames upon your forehead with a glow That blinds you to the way that you must go. Yes, there is yet one way to where she is, Bitter, but one that faith may never miss. Out of a grave I come to tell you this— To tell you this. There is the western gate, Luke Havergal, There are the crimson leaves upon the wall, Go, for the winds are tearing them away,— Nor think to riddle the dead words they say, Nor any more to feel them as they fall; But go, and if you trust her she will call. There is the western gate, Luke Havergal— Luke Havergal. from Word from the Hills by Richard Moore You were so solid, father, cold and raw as these north winters, where your angry will (rst hardened, as the earth when the long chill deepens—as is this country's cruel law— yet under trackless snow, without a +aw covering meadow, road, and stubbled hill, the springs and mu2ed streams were running still, dark until spring came, and the awful thaw. In your decay a gentleness appears I hadn't guessed—when, gray as rotting snow, propped in your chair, your face will run with tears, 2 trying to speak, and your hand, sti3 and slow, will touch my child—who, sensing the cold years in your eyes, cries until you let her go. Du by Janet Kenny A wisp of old woman, curved like a scythe, tottered to me as she fussed her shopping, her walking stick hooked on her chopstick wrist. She spoke to me then in a dried leaf voice. Inaudible there in that busy street, swept by rude gales from passing trucks. I leaned closer to hear: Mein eyes not gut. time for bus, ven comes it? “Which bus do you want?” She smiled, shook her head then sang to herself —and somebody else, in—not German. Yiddish? “Which bus?” She leaned towards me, her tiny claw reached to stroke my face. Du she said. Sea Fevers by Agnes Wathall No ancient mariner I, Hawker of public crosses, Snaring the passersby With my necklace of albatrosses. I blink no glittering eye Between tufts of gray sea mosses Nor in the high road ply 3 My trade of guilts and glosses. But a dark and inward sky Tracks the +otsam of my losses. No more becalmed to lie, The skeleton ship tosses. The Unreturning by Wilfred Owen Suddenly night crushed out the day and hurled Her remnants over cloud-peaks, thunder-walled. Then fell a stillness such as harks appalled When far-gone dead return upon the world. There watched I for the Dead; but no ghost woke. Each one whom Life exiled I named and called. But they were all too far, or dumbed, or thralled, And never one fared back to me or spoke. Then peered the inde(nite unshapen dawn With vacant gloaming, sad as half-lit minds, The weak-limned hour when sick men's sighs are drained. And while I wondered on their being withdrawn, Gagged by the smothering Wing which none unbinds, I dreaded even a heaven with doors so chained. The Light of Other Days by Thomas More Oft, in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends, so link'd together, 4 I've seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are +ed, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me. Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. Acquainted With The Night by Robert Frost I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain—and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street, But not to call me back or say good-by; And further still at an unearthly height, One luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night. Song by Christina Rossetti When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, 5 I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget. The Listeners by Walter De La Mare 'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest's ferny +oor: And a bird +ew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller's head And he smote upon the door again a second time; 'Is there anybody there?' he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:— 'Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word,' he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone. 6 Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae by Ernest Dowson "I am not as I was under the reign of the good Cynara"—Horace Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine; And I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat, Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay; Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, When I awoke and found the dawn was gray: I have been faithful to you, Cynara! in my fashion. I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind, Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng, Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, all the time, because the dance was long; I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. I cried for madder music and for stronger wine, But when the feast is (nished and the lamps expire, Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine; And I am desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion Depths by Richard Moore Once more home is a strange place: by the ocean a big house now, and the small houses are memories, once live images, vacant thoughts here, sinking and vanishing. Rough sea now on the shore thundering brokenly draws back stones with a roar out into quiet and far depths, darkly to lie there years, years—there not a sound from them. New waves out of the night's mist and obscurity lunge up high on the beach, spending their energy, each wave angrily dying, 7 all shapes endlessly altering, yet out there in the depths nothing is modi(ed. Earthquakes won't even move—no, nor the hurricane— one stone there, nor a glance of sun's light stir its identity. The Missionary's Position by Joseph S. Salemi I maintain it all was for the best We hacked our way through jungle and sought out These savage children, painted and half-dressed, To set their minds at ease, and dispel doubt. Concerning what? Why, God's immense design, And how it governs all we do and see. Before, they had no sense of the divine Beyond the sticks and bones of sorcery. Granted, they are more somber and subdued, Knowing that lives are watched, and judged, and weighed. Subject to (ts of melancholy mood, They look upon the cross, and are afraid. What would you have me say? We preached the Word Better endured in grief than left unheard. How Long the Night (anonymous Old English Lyric, circa early 13th century AD) loose translation by Michael R. Burch It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts with the mild pheasants' song but now I feel the northern wind's blast— its severe weather strong. Alas! Alas! This night seems so long! And I, because of my momentous wrong now grieve, mourn and fast. Dulce Et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen Bent double, like old beggars under sacks Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting +ares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots 8 But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And +ound'ring like a man in (re or lime Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we +ung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,— My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. The Eagle and the Mole by Elinor Wylie Avoid the reeking herd, Shun the polluted +ock, Live like that stoic bird, The eagle of the rock. The huddled warmth of crowds Begets and fosters hate; He keeps above the clouds His cli3 inviolate. When +ocks are folded warm, And herds to shelter run, He sails above the storm, He stares into the sun. If in the eagle's track Your sinews cannot leap, Avoid the lathered pack, 9 Turn from the steaming sheep. If you would keep your soul From spotted sight or sound, Live like the velvet mole: Go burrow underground. And there hold intercourse With roots of trees and stones, With rivers at their source, And disembodied bones. La Figlia Che Piange (The Weeping Girl) by T. S. Eliot Stand on the highest pavement of the stair — Lean on a garden urn — Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair — Clasp your +owers to you with a pained surprise — Fling them to the ground and turn With a fugitive resentment in your eyes: But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair. So I would have had him leave, So I would have had her stand and grieve, So he would have left As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised, As the mind deserts the body it has used. I should (nd Some way incomparably light and deft, Some way we both should understand, Simple and faithless as a smile and a shake of the hand. She turned away, but with the autumn weather Compelled my imagination many days, Many days and many hours: Her hair over her arms and her arms full of +owers. And I wonder how they should have been together! I should have lost a gesture and a pose. Sometimes these cogitations still amaze The troubled midnight, and the noon's repose. Part 6 from The Dark Side of the Deity: Interlude by Joe M. Ruggier When Satan hurled, before the Dawn, de(ance at the Lord of History; and Michael stood, and Glory shone, 10 [...]... propitiatory flames Of our forgetfulness until we find It becomes strangely easy to forgive Even ourselves with this clouding of the mind, This cinerous blur and smudge in which we live A turn, a glide, a quarter turn and bow, The stately dance advances; these are airs Bone-deep and numbing as I should know by now, Diminishing the cast, like musical chairs Song For The Last Act by Louise Bogan Now that . bound me. Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. Acquainted With The Night by Robert Frost I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain—and back in rain. I. luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night. Song by Christina Rossetti When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs. stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone. 6 Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae by Ernest Dowson "I am not as I was under the reign of