Music poems
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Dean Stanley
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
DEAD! dead! in sooth his marbled brow is cold,
And prostrate lies that brave, majestic head;
True! his stilled features own death's arctic mould,
Yet, by Christ's blood, I know he is not dead!
My Grandmother’s Love Letters
© Hart Crane
There are no stars tonight
But those of memory.
Yet how much room for memory there is
In the loose girdle of soft rain.
Little Air
© Stéphane Mallarme
Any solitude
Without a swan or quai
Mirrors its disuse
In the look I abdicate
To Mr. Henry Lawes
© Katherine Philips
Nature, which is the vast creation’s soul,
That steady curious agent in the whole,
The Triumph of Time
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
Before our lives divide for ever,
While time is with us and hands are free,
Sunday Alone In A Fifth Floor Apartment, Cambridge, Massachusetts
© William Matthews
The Globe at the door, a jaunt
to the square for the Sunday Times.
Later the path you made has healed,
anyone may use it. A good day
The Unnamed Lake
© Frederick George Scott
It sleeps among the thousand hills
Where no man ever trod,
from Dante Études: Book Three: In My Youth Not Unstaind
© Robert Duncan
Now, upon old age: “Our life
has a fixt course and a simple path”
I would not avoid, “that of our right nature”
—then Dante adds, himself quoting:
“and in every part of our life
place is given for certain things”:
The Fable
© Yvor Winters
Beyond the steady rock the steady sea,
In movement more immovable than station,
Sir Peter Harpdon's End
© William Morris
John Curzon
Of those three prisoners, that before you came
We took down at St. John's hard by the mill,
Two are good masons; we have tools enough,
And you have skill to set them working.
Wandering Willie
© Sir Walter Scott
All joy was bereft me the day that you left me,
And climb'd the tall vessel to sail yon wide sea;
O weary betide it! I wander'd beside it,
And bann'd it for parting my Willie and me.
Fand, A Feerie Act III
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
[She looks towards the sea.
Attendant. None.
The sea mist drives too thickly.
Marlowe
© John Le Gay Brereton
The spell of Shakespeare fills the heart
With earthly music loud and low;
But Marlowe drives the clouds apart,
And through their thundering rifts we go.
The Banks Of Wye - Book III
© Robert Bloomfield
PEACE to your white-wall'd cots, ye vales,
Untainted fly your summer gales;
