All Poems
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Mammy
© Tabb John Banister
I loved her countenance whereon, Despite the longest day,The tenderness of visions gone In shadow seemed to stay
Inscriptions
© Tabb John Banister
The epitaph of nightThe sunbeams write;The epitaph of day,The shadows gray;One requiem of wind and waveAbove each grave.
An Idolator
© Tabb John Banister
The Baby has no skiesBut Mother's eyes, Nor any God above But Mother's Love.His angel sees the Father's face,But he the Mother's, full of grace;And yet the heavenly kingdom is Of such as this.
God's Likeness
© Tabb John Banister
Not in mine own, but in my neighbor's face Must I Thine image trace;Nor he in his but in the light of mine, Behold thy Face Divine.
To Urania To I.K
© Joseph Brodsky
Everything has its limit including sorrow.
A windowpane stalls a stare. Nor does a grill abandon
T?rnfallet
© Joseph Brodsky
There is a meadow in Sweden
where I lie smitten,
eyes stained with clouds'
white ins and outs.
Morbidezza
© Arthur Symons
White girl, your flesh is liliesUnder a frozen moon,So still isThe rapture of your swoonOf whiteness, snow or lilies.
From Joachim du Bellay: Of a Winnower of Wheat to the Winds
© Arthur Symons
To you, light troop, I bring,(You, who with wandering wingOver the wide world pass,And, when your murmurings wake,So sweetly trouble and shakeThe shadow-shaken grass)
Femme Et Chatte
© Arthur Symons
They were at play, she and her cat,And it was marvelous to markThe white paw and the white hand patEach other in the deepening dark.
Every man has his sorrows
© Arthur Symons
Every man has his sorrows; yet each stillHides under a calm forehead his own will
Art Poetique
© Arthur Symons
Music first and foremost of all!Choose your measure of odd not even,Let it melt in the air of heaven,Pose not, poise not, but rise and fall.
A Ballad of François Villon, Prince of All Ballad-Makers
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
Bird of the bitter bright grey golden morn Scarce risen upon the dusk of dolorous years,First of us all and sweetest singer born Whose far shrill note the world of new men hears Cleave the cold shuddering shade as twilight clears;When song new-born put off the old world's attireAnd felt its tune on her changed lips expire, Writ foremost on the roll of them that cameFresh girt for service of the latter lyre, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!
Alas the joy, the sorrow, and the scorn, That clothed thy life with hopes and sins and fears,And gave thee stones for bread and tares for corn And plume-plucked gaol-birds for thy starveling peers Till death clipt close their flight with shameful shears;Till shifts came short and loves were hard to hire,When lilt of song nor twitch of twangling wire Could buy thee bread or kisses; when light fameSpurned like a ball and haled through brake and briar, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!
Poor splendid wings so frayed and soiled and torn! Poor kind wild eyes so dashed with light quick tears!Poor perfect voice, most blithe when most forlorn, That rings athwart the sea whence no man steers Like joy-bells crossed with death-bells in our ears!What far delight has cooled the fierce desireThat like some ravenous bird was strong to tire On that frail flesh and soul consumed with flame,But left more sweet than roses to respire, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name?
Prince of sweet songs made out of tears and fire,A harlot was thy nurse, a God thy sire; Shame soiled thy song, and song assoiled thy shame
Atalanta in Calydon: A Tragedy (complete text)
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
Tous zontas eu dran. katthanon de pas anerGe kai skia. to meden eis ouden repei
Atalanta in Calydon
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plainFills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain;And the brown bright nightingale amorousIs half assuaged for Itylus,For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces, The tongueless vigil, and all the pain
On Stephen Duck, the Thresher and Favourite Poet
© Jonathan Swift
The Thresher Duck, could o'er the Q {-}{-}{-}{-}{-}{-} prevail,The Proverb says; No Fence against a Flayl
The Soote Season, that Bud and Bloom forth Brings
© Henry Howard
The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings,With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale;The nightingale with feathers new she sings,The turtle to her make hath told her tale
