All Poems
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Nightingales
© Robert Seymour Bridges
Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come,
And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom
Ye learn your song:
Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,
Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air
Bloom the year long!
My Delight and Thy Delight
© Robert Seymour Bridges
My delight and thy delight
Walking, like two angels white,
In the gardens of the night:
Melancholia
© Robert Seymour Bridges
The sickness of desire, that in dark days
Looks on the imagination of despair,
Forgetteth man, and stinteth God his praise;
Nor but in sleep findeth a cure for care.
Low Barometer
© Robert Seymour Bridges
The south-wind strengthens to a gale,
Across the moon the clouds fly fast,
The house is smitten as with a flail,
The chimney shudders to the blast.
Lord Kitchner
© Robert Seymour Bridges
Among Herculean deeds the miracle
That mass'd the labour of ten years in one
Shall be thy monument. Thy work was done
Ere we could thank thee; and the high sea swell
Surgeth unheeding where thy proud ship fell
By the lone Orkneys, at the set of sun.
In autumn moonlight, when the white air wan
© Robert Seymour Bridges
In autumn moonlight, when the white air wan
Is fragrant in the wake of summer hence,
'Tis sweet to sit entranced, and muse thereon
In melancholy and godlike indolence:
I Will Not Let Thee Go
© Robert Seymour Bridges
I will not let thee go.
Ends all our month-long love in this?
Can it be summed up so,
Quit in a single kiss?
I will not let thee go.
From 'The Testament of Beauty'
© Robert Seymour Bridges
'Twas at that hour of beauty when the setting sun
squandereth his cloudy bed with rosy hues, to flood
his lov'd works as in turn he biddeth them Good-night;
and all the towers and temples and mansions of men
Awake, My Heart
© Robert Seymour Bridges
The darkness silvers away, the morn doth break,
It leaps in the sky: unrisen lustres slake
The o'ertaken moon. Awake, O heart, awake!
Absence
© Robert Seymour Bridges
When my love was away,
Full three days were not sped,
I caught my fancy astray
Thinking if she were dead,
A Passer-by
© Robert Seymour Bridges
Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding,
Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West,
That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding,
Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?
Lingering by the doorway of the woods
© Ian Emberson
I was picking blackberries when I thought of the strange girl at the mental hospital.
Beautiful she was quietly beautiful. Yes and apparently nothing the matter with
her except that she was scared to go outside, and scared to go indoors. And so she just sat there in a chair by the entrance door she was there when I went in with the
Spires of the fireweed .
© Ian Emberson
Spires of the fireweed on the fretted sky
Tints of magenta on tranquility,
Do you feel nurture for the life within,
The burst of bloom that yields your progeny.
A Weed is a flower in the wrong place
© Ian Emberson
A weed is a flower in the wrong place,
a flower is a weed in the right place,
if you were a weed in the right place
you would be a flower;
At the grave of Anastasia Baluk Cross Stone
© Ian Emberson
Anastasia
and the sad snow fallinga toiling sky
and a long white line of hillsa distant birthplace
short span and early dyingpain from what heaven
Violence ( Goya "The Third of May 1808")
© Ian Emberson
The brain - the brush
here celebrate
that long red stain
seeping the universe .
Danse macabre
© Ian Emberson
Death came to me in a mini skirt
As skittish as a kitten ,
And said : " I am come - for your final flirt " ,
But added : " You don't seem smitten ".
Moorland pool
© Ian Emberson
Socket in peat-skinned skull of hill
watching through Cyclops eye,
the white-limbed clouds trapezing still
that circus ring of sky.
Aloneness
© Ian Emberson
Loneliness and aloneness
they are not the samefor the shell of the mind
hears echoes of many seasit hears the calling of gulls
from this savage skyand an ebbing tide
West Riding
© Ian Emberson
Bright sari in a darkened street
the lilting grey of Yorkshire sky;
rust requiems for demolished mills
repeating grooves of curlews cry.
