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Valentine Poem Collection - 13
A Glimpse by Walt Whitman
A glimpse, through an interstice caught,
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room, around the stove,
late of a winter night--And I unremark'd seated in a corner;
Of a youth who loves me, and whom I love, silently approaching, and
seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand;
A long while, amid the noises of coming and going--of drinking and
oath and smutty jest,
There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little,
perhaps not a word.
= = = = = = = = = =
Finding by Rupert Brooke
From the candles and dumb shadows,
And the house where love had died,
I stole to the vast moonlight
And the whispering life outside.
But I found no lips of comfort,
No home in the moon's light
(I, little and lone and frightened
In the unfriendly night),
And no meaning in the voices. . . .
Far over the lands and through
The dark, beyond the ocean,
I willed to think of YOU!
For I knew, had you been with me
I'd have known the words of night,
Found peace of heart, gone gladly
In comfort of that light.
Oh! the wind with soft beguiling
Would have stolen my thought away;
And the night, subtly smiling,
Came by the silver way;
And the moon came down and danced to me,
And her robe was white and flying;
And trees bent their heads to me
Mysteriously crying;
And dead voices wept around me;
And dead soft fingers thrilled;
And the little gods whispered. . . .
But ever
Desperately I willed;
Till all grew soft and far
And silent . . .
And suddenly
I found you white and radiant,
Sleeping quietly,
Far out through the tides of darkness.
And I there in that great light
Was alone no more, nor fearful;
For there, in the homely night,
Was no thought else that mattered,
And nothing else was true,
But the white fire of moonlight,
And a white dream of you.
= = = = = = = = = =
A Sonnet Part 2 by Francis Beaumont
Like a ring without a finger,
Or a bell without a ringer;
Like a horse was never ridden,
Or a feast and no guest bidden;
Like a well without a bucket,
Like a rose if no man pluck it
Just such as these may she be said
That lives, ne'er loves, but dies a maid.
The ring, if worn, the finger decks,
The bell pulled by the ringer speaks;
The horse doth ease if he be ridden,
The feast doth please if guest be bidden;
The bucket draws the water forth,
The rose when pluck'd is still most worth:
Such is the virgin, in my eyes,
That lives, loves, marries, ere she dies.
Like to a stock not grafted on,
Or like a lute not play'd upon;
Like a jack without a weight,
Or a bark without a freight
Like a lock without a key,
Or a candle in the day:
Just such as these may she be said
That lives, ne'er loves, but dies a maid.
The grafted stock doth bear best fruit,
There's music in the finger'd lute;
The weight doth make the jack go ready,
The freight doth make the bark go steady;
The key the lock doth open right,
The candle's useful in the night:
Such is the virgin, in my eyes,
That lives, loves, marries, ere she dies.
Like a call without, 'Anon, sir!'
Or a question and no answer;
Like a ship was never rigg'd,
Or a mine was never digg'd;
Like a wound without a tent,
Or civet-box without a scent:
Just such as these may she be said
That lives, ne'er loves, but dies a maid.
Th' Anon, sir! doth obey the call,
The question answered pleaseth all;
Who rigs a ship sails with the wind,
Who digs a mine doth treasure find;
The wound by wholesome tent hath ease,
The box perfumed the senses please:
Such is the virgin, in my eyes,
That lives, loves, marries, ere she dies.
Like marrow-bone was never broken,
Or commendations and no token;
Like a fort and none to win it,
Or like the moon and no man in it;
Like a school without a teacher,
Or like a pulpit and no preacher:
Just such as these may she be said
That lives, ne'er loves, but dies a maid.
The broken marrow-bone is sweet,
The token doth adorn the greet;
There's triumph in the fort being won,
The man rides glorious in the moon;
The school is by the teacher still'd,
The pulpit by the preacher fill'd:
Such is the virgin in my eyes,
That lives, loves, marries, ere she dies.
Like a cage without a bird,
Or a thing too long deferr'd;
Like the gold was never tried,
Or the ground unoccupied;
Like a house that's not possess'd,
Or the book was never press'd:
Just such as these may she be said
That lives, ne'er loves, but dies a maid.
The bird in cage doth sweetly sing,
Due season prefers every thing;
The gold that's tried from dross is pured,
There's profit in the ground manured;
The house is by possession graced,
The book when press'd is then embraced;
Such is the virgin in my eyes,
That lives, loves, marries, ere she dies.
= = = = = = = = = =
Protus by Robert Browning
Among these latter busts we count by scores,
Half-emperors and quarter-emperors,
Each with his bay-leaf fillet, loose-thonged vest,
Loricand low-browed Gorgon on the breast,---
One loves a baby face, with violets there,
Violets instead of laurel in the hair,
As those were all the little locks could bear.
Now read here. 'Protus ends a period
Of empery beginning with a god;
Born in the porphyry chamber at Byzant,
Queens by his cradle, proud and ministrant:
And if he quickened breath there, 'twould like fire
Pantingly through the dim vast realm transpire.
A fame that he was missing spread afar:
The world from its four corners, rose in war,
Till he was borne out on a balcony
To pacify the world when it should see.
The captains ranged before him, one, his hand
Made baby points at, gained the chief command.
And day by day more beautiful he grew
In shape, all said, in feature and in hue,
While young Greek sculptors, gazing on the child,
Because with old Greek sculptore reconciled.
Already sages laboured to condense
In easy tomes a life's experience:
And artists took grave counsel to impart
In one breath and one hand-sweep, all their art---
To make his graces prompt as blossoming
Of plentifully-watered palms in spring:
Since well beseems it, whoso mounts the throne,
For beauty, knowledge, strength, should stand alone,
And mortals love the letters of his name.'
---Stop! Have you turned two pages? Still the same.
New reign, same date. The scribe goes on to say
How that same year, on such a month and day,
'John the Pannonian, groundedly believed
A Blacksmith's bastard, whose hard hand reprieved
The Empire from its fate the year before,---
Came, had a mind to take the crown, and wore
The same for six years (during which the Huns
Kept off their fingers from us), till his sons
Put something in his liquor'---and so forth.
Then a new reign. Stay---'Take at its just worth'
(Subjoins an annotator) 'what I give
As hearsay. Some think, John let Protus live
And slip away. 'Tis said, he reached man's age
At some blind northern court; made, first a page,
Then tutor to the children; last, of use
About the hunting-stables. I deduce
He wrote the little tract `On worming dogs,'
Whereof the name in sundry catalogues
Is extant yet. A Protus of the race
Is rumoured to have died a monk in Thrace,---
And if the same, he reached senility.'
Here's John the Smith's rough-hammered head. Great eye,
Gross jaw and griped lips do what granite can
To give you the crown-grasper. What a man!
= = = = = = = = = =
Flower God, God Of The Spring by Robert Louis Stevenson
Flower god, god of the spring, beautiful, bountiful,
Cold-dyed shield in the sky, lover of versicles,
Here I wander in April
Cold, grey-headed; and still to my
Heart, Spring comes with a bound, Spring the deliverer,
Spring, song-leader in woods, chorally resonant;
Spring, flower-planter in meadows,
Child-conductor in willowy
Fields deep dotted with bloom, daisies and crocuses:
Here that child from his heart drinks of eternity:
O child, happy are children!
She still smiles on their innocence,
She, dear mother in God, fostering violets,
Fills earth full of her scents, voices and violins:
Thus one cunning in music
Wakes old chords in the memory:
Thus fair earth in the Spring leads her performances.
One more touch of the bow, smell of the virginal
Green - one more, and my bosom
Feels new life with an ecstasy.
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