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Romantic Poetry - 42
Drapple-thorned Aphrodite by Sappho
Dapple-throned Aphrodite,
eternal daughterf God,
snare-knitter! Don't, I beg you,
cow my heart with grief! Come,
as once when you heard my far-
off cry and, listening, stepped
from your father's house to your
gold car, to yoke the pair whose
beautiful thick-feathered wings
oaring down mid-air from heaven
carried you to light swiftly
on dark earth; then, blissful one,
smiling your immortal smile
you asked, What ailed me now that
me me call you again? What
was it that my distracted
heart most wanted? 'Whom has
Persuasion to bring round now
'to your love? Who, Sappho, is
unfair to you? For, let her
run, she will soon run after;
'if she won't accept gifts, she
will one day give them; and if
she won't love you -- she soon will
'love, although unwillingly...'
If ever -- come now! Relieve
this intolerable pain!
What my heart most hopes will
happen, make happen; you your-
self join forces on my side!
= = = = = = = = = =
Thoughts by Walt Whitman
Of these years I sing,
How they pass and have pass'd, through convuls'd pains as through
parturitions;
How America illustrates birth, muscular youth, the promise, the sure
fulfillment, the Absolute Success, despite of people--
Illustrates evil as well as good;
How many hold despairingly yet to the models departed, caste, myths,
obedience, compulsion, and to infidelity;
How few see the arrived models, the Athletes, the Western States--or
see freedom or spirituality--or hold any faith in results,
(But I see the Athletes--and I see the results of the war glorious
and inevitable--and they again leading to other results;)
How the great cities appear--How the Democratic masses, turbulent,
wilful, as I love them;
How the whirl, the contest, the wrestle of evil with good, the
sounding and resounding, keep on and on;
How society waits unform'd, and is for awhile between things ended
and things begun;
How America is the continent of glories, and of the triumph of
freedom, and of the Democracies, and of the fruits of society,
and of all that is begun;
And how The States are complete in themselves--And how all triumphs
and glories are complete in themselves, to lead onward,
And how these of mine, and of The States, will in their turn be
convuls'd, and serve other parturitions and transitions,
And how all people, sights, combinations, the Democratic masses, too,
serve--and how every fact, and war itself, with all its
horrors, serves,
And how now, or at any time, each serves the exquisite transition of
death.
OF seeds dropping into the ground--of birth,
Of the steady concentration of America, inland, upward, to
Impregnable and swarming places,
Of what Indiana, Kentucky, Ohio and the rest, are to be,
Of what a few years will show there in Nebraska, Colorado, Nevada,
and the rest;
(Or afar, mounting the Northern Pacific to Sitka or Aliaska;)
Of what the feuillage of America is the preparation for--and of what
all sights, North, South, East and West, are;
Of This Union, soak'd, welded in blood--of the solemn price paid--of
the unnamed lost, ever present in my mind;
--Of the temporary use of materials, for identity's sake,
Of the present, passing, departing--of the growth of completer men
than any yet,
Of myself, soon, perhaps, closing up my songs by these shores,
Of California, of Oregon--and of me journeying to live and sing
there;
Of the Western Sea--of the spread inland between it and the spinal
river,
Of the great pastoral area, athletic and feminine,
of all sloping down there where the fresh free giver, the mother, the
Mississippi flows,
Of future women there--of happiness in those high plateaus, ranging
three thousand miles, warm and cold;
Of mighty inland cities yet unsurvey'd and unsuspected, (as I am
also, and as it must be;)
Of the new and good names--of the modern developments--of inalienable
homesteads;
Of a free and original life there--of simple diet and clean and sweet
blood;
Of litheness, majestic faces, clear eyes, and perfect physique there;
Of immense spiritual results, future years, far west, each side of
the Anahuacs;
Of these leaves, well understood there, (being made for that area;)
Of the native scorn of grossness and gain there;
(O it lurks in me night and day--What is gain, after all, to
savageness and freedom?)
= = = = = = = = = =
Disabled by Wilfred Owen
He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,-
In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands.
All of them touch him like some queer disease.
There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.
One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
After the matches, carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. - He wonders why.
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts,
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt,
And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
Of Fear came yet. He drought of jewelled hills
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.
Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then enquired about his soul.
Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?
= = = = = = = = = =
The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
I.
I stand on the mark, beside the shore,
Of the first white pilgrim's bended knee;
Where exile changed to ancestor,
And God was thanked for liberty.
I have run through the night -- my skin is as dark --
I bend my knee down on this mark --
I look on the sky and the sea.
II.
O, pilgrim-souls, I speak to you:
I see you come out proud and slow
From the land of the spirits, pale as dew,
And round me and round me ye go.
O, pilgrims, I have gasped and run
All night long from the whips of one
Who, in your names, works sin and woe!
III.
And thus I thought that I would come
And kneel here where ye knelt before,
And feel your souls around me hum
In undertone to the ocean's roar;
And lift my black face, my black hand,
Here in your names, to curse this land
Ye blessed in Freedom's, heretofore.
IV.
I am black, I am black,
And yet God made me, they say:
But if He did so -- smiling, back
He must have cast his work away
Under the feet of His white creatures,
With a look of scorn, that the dusky features
Might be trodden again to clay.
V.
And yet He has made dark things
To be glad and merry as light;
There's a little dark bird sits and sings,
There's a dark stream ripples out of sight;
And the dark frogs chant in the safe morass,
And the sweetest stars are made to pass
O'er the face of the darkest night.
VI.
But we who are dark, we are dark!
O God, we have no stars!
About our souls, in care and cark,
Our blackness shuts like prison-bars!
And crouch our souls so far behind,
That never a comfort can they find,
By reaching through their prison-bars.
VII.
Howbeit God's sunshine and His frost
They make us hot, they make us cold,
As if we were not black and lost;
And the beasts and birds in wood and wold,
Do fear us and take us for very men;--
Could the whippoorwill or the cat of the glen
Look into my eyes and be bold?
VIII.
I am black, I am black,
And once I laughed in girlish glee;
For one of my color stood in the track
Where the drivers' drove, and looked at me:
And tender and full was the look he gave!
A Slave looked so at another Slave,--
I look at the sky and the sea.
IX.
And from that hour our spirits grew
As free as if unsold, unbought;
We were strong enough, since we were two,
To conquer the world, we thought.
The drivers drove us day by day:
We did not mind; we went one way,
And no better a liberty sought.
X.
In the open ground, between the canes,
He said 'I love you,' as he passed:
When the shingle-roof rang sharp with the rains,
I heard how he vowed it fast.
While others trembled, he sate in the hut
And carved me a bowl of the cocoa-nut,
Through the roar of the hurricanes.
XI.
I sang his name instead of a song;
Over and over I sang his name: Backward and forward I sang it along,
With my sweetest notes, it was still the same!
But I sang it low, that the slave-girls near
Might never guess, from what they could hear,
That all the song was a name.
XII.
I look on the sky and the sea!
We were two to love, and two to pray,
Yes, two, O God, who cried on Thee,
Though nothing didst thou say.
Coldly thou sat'st behind the sun,
And now I cry, who am but one,--
Thou wilt not speak today!
XIII.
We were black, we were black,
We had no claim to love and bliss --
What marvel, ours was cast to wrack?
They wrung my cold hands out of his --
They dragged him -- why, I crawled to touch
His blood's-mark in the dust -- not much,
Ye pilgrim-souls, --though plain as THIS!
XIV.
Wrong, followed by a greater wrong!
Grief seemed too good for such as I;
So the white man brought the shame ere long
To stifle the sob in my throat thereby.
They would not leave me for my dull
Wet eyes! -- it was too merciful
To let me weep pure tears, and die.
XV.
I am black, I am black!
I wore a child upon my breast,--
An amulet that hung too slack,
And, in my unrest, could not rest!
Thus we went moaning, child and mother,
One to another, one to another,
Until all ended for the best.
XVI.
For hark! I will tell you low -- low --
I am black, you see;
And the babe, that lay on my bosom so,
Was far too white -- too white for me.
As white as the ladies who scorned to pray
Beside me at church but yesterday,
Though my tears had washed a place for my knee.
XVII.
And my own child -- I could not bear
To look in his face, it was so white:
So I covered him up with a kerchief rare,
I covered his face in, close and tight!
And he moaned and struggled as well as might be,
For the white child wanted his liberty,--
Ha, ha! he wanted his master's right.
XVIII.
He moaned and beat with his head and feet--
His little feet that never grew!
He struck them out as it was meet
Against my heart to break it through.
I might have sung like a mother mild,
But I dared not sing to the white-faced child
The only song I knew.
XIX.
And yet I pulled the kerchief close:
He could not see the sun, I swear,
More then, alive, than now he does
From between the roots of the mangles -- where?
I know where! -- close! -- a child and mother
Do wrong to look at one another,
When one is black and one is fair.
XX.
Even in that single glance I had
Of my child's face,--I tell you all,--
I saw a look that made me mad,
The master's look, that used to fall
On my soul like his lash,--or worse,
Therefore, to save it from my curse,
I twisted it round in my shawl.
XXI.
And he moaned and trembled from foot to head,--
He shivered from head to foot,--
Till, after a time, he lay, instead,
Too suddenly still and mute;
And I felt, beside, a creeping cold,--
I dared to lift up just a fold,
As in lifting a leaf of the mango fruit.
XXII.
But MY fruit! ha, ha! -- there had been
(I laugh to think on 't at this hour!)
Your fine white angels,--who have seen
God's secret nearest to His power, --
And gathered my fruit to make them wine,
And sucked the soul of that child of mine,
As the humming-bird sucks the soul of the flower.
XXIII.
Ha, ha! for the trick of the angels white!
They freed the white child's spirit so;
I said not a word, but day and night
I carried the body to and fro;
And it lay on my heart like a stone -- as chill;
The sun may shine out as much as he will,--
I am cold, though it happened a month ago.
XXIV.
From the white man's house and the black man's hut
I carried the little body on;
The forest's arms did around us shut,
And silence through the trees did run!
They asked no questions as I went,
They stood too high for astonishment,--
They could see God rise on his throne.
XXV.
My little body, kerchiefed fast,
I bore it on through the forest -- on --
And when I felt it was fired at last,
I scooped a hole beneath the moon.
Through the forest-tops the angels far,
With a white fine finger in every star
Did point and mock at what was done.
XXVI.
Yet when it all was done aright,
Earth twixt me and my baby strewed,
All changed to black earth,-- nothing white,--
A dark child in the dark,-- ensued
Some comfort, and my heart grew young;
I sate down smiling there, and sung
The song I told you of, for good.
XXVII.
And thus we two were reconciled,
The white child and black mother, thus;
For, as I sang it,-- soft and wild,
The same song, more melodious,
Rose from the grave whereon I sate!
It was the dead child singing that,
To join the souls of both of us.
XXVIII.
I look on the sea and the sky!
Where the Pilgrims' ships first anchored lay,
The great sun rideth gloriously!
But the Pilgrims' ghosts have slid away
Through the first faint streaks of morn!
My face is black, but it glares with a scorn
Which they dare not meet by day.
XXIX
Ah, in their stead their hunter-sons!
Ah, ah! they are on me! they form in a ring!
Keep off,-- I brave you all at once,--
I throw off your eyes like a noisome thing!
You have killed the black eagle at nest, I think;
Did you never stand still in your triumph, and shrink
From the stroke of her wounded wing?
XXX.
(Man, drop that stone you dared to lift!--)
I wish you, who stand there, seven abreast,
Each for his own wife's grace and gift,
A little corpse as safely at rest,
Hid in the mangles! yes, but she
May keep live babies on her knee,
And sing the song she liketh best.
XXXI.
I am not mad,-- I am black!
I see you staring in my face,--
I know you staring, shrinking back,--
Ye are born of the Washington race!
And this land is the Free America,--
And this mark on my wrist,-- (I prove what I say)
Ropes tied me up here to the flogging-place.
XXXII.
You think I shrieked there? not a sound!
I hung as a gourd hangs in the sun;
I only cursed them all around
As softly as I might have done
My own child after. From these sands
Up to the mountains, lift your hands
O Slaves, and end what I begun.
XXXIII.
Whips, curses! these must answer those!
For in this UNION, ye have set
Two kinds of men in adverse rows,
Each loathing each! and all forget
The seven wounds in Christ's body fair;
While He sees gaping everywhere
Our countless wounds that pay no debt.
XXXIV.
Our wounds are different -- your white men
Are, after all, not gods indeed,
Nor able to make Christs again
Do good with bleeding. We who bleed,--
(Stand off!) --we help not in our loss,
We are too heavy for our cross,
And fall and crush you and your seed.
XXXV.
I fall,-- I swoon,-- I look at the sky!
The clouds are breaking on my brain:
I am floated along, as if I should die
Of Liberty's exquisite pain!
In the name of the white child waiting for me
In the deep black death where our kisses agree,--
White men, I leave you all curse-free,
In my broken heart's disdain!
= = = = = = = = = =
These I Can Promise by Author Unknown
I cannot promise you a life of sunshine;
I cannot promise riches, wealth, or gold;
I cannot promise you an easy pathway
That leads away from change or growing old.
But I can promise all my heart's devotion;
A smile to chase away your tears of sorrow;
A love that's ever true and ever growing;
A hand to hold in yours through each tomorrow.
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