#o'erspread

[fieriframes]

[ALL RIGHT, WELCOME BACK. TREMBLING TROJANS HEAR, O'ERSPREAD WITH A DAMP SWEAT AND HOLY FEAR DANNY'S ALL-AMERICAN DINER & DAIRY BAR.]

[poemoftheday]

Poem of the Day 7 May 2023

Elegy V: His Picture

BY JOHN DONNE

Here take my picture; though I bid farewell 

Thine, in my heart, where my soul dwells, shall dwell. 

'Tis like me now, but I dead, 'twill be more 

When we are shadows both, than 'twas before. 

When weather-beaten I come back, my hand 

Perhaps with rude oars torn, or sun beams tann'd, 

My face and breast of haircloth, and my head 

With care's rash sudden storms being o'erspread, 

My body'a sack of bones, broken within, 

And powder's blue stains scatter'd on my skin; 

If rival fools tax thee to'have lov'd a man 

So foul and coarse as, oh, I may seem then, 

This shall say what I was, and thou shalt say, 

"Do his hurts reach me? doth my worth decay? 

Or do they reach his judging mind, that he 

Should now love less, what he did love to see? 

That which in him was fair and delicate, 

Was but the milk which in love's childish state 

Did nurse it; who now is grown strong enough 

To feed on that, which to disus'd tastes seems tough." 

[unmutedink]

CAISSA
or
The Game at Chess; a Poem.

(written in the year 1763, by Sir William Jones)

(pronounced ky-eé-sah) Of armies on the chequer'd field array'd,

And guiltless war in pleasing form display'd;

When two bold kings contend with vain alarms,

In ivory this, and that in ebon arms;

Sing, sportive maids, that haunt the sacred hill

Of Pindus, and the fam'd Pierian rill.

Thou, joy of all below, and all above,

Mild Venus, queen of laughter, queen of love;

Leave thy bright island, where on many a rose

And many a pink thy blooming train repose:

Assist me, goddess! since a lovely pair

Command my song, like thee devinely fair.

Near yon cool stream, whose living waters play,

And rise translucent in the solar ray;

Beneath the covert of a fragrant bower,

Where spring's nymphs reclin'd in calm retreat,

And envying blossoms crouded round their seat;

Here Delia was enthron'd, and by her side

The sweet Sirena, both in beauty's pride:

Thus shine two roses, fresh with early bloom,

That from their native stalk dispense perfume;

Their leaves unfolding to the dawning day

Gems of the glowing mead, and eyes of May.

A band of youths and damsels sat around,

Their flowing locks with braided myrtle bound;

Agatis, in the graceful dance admir'd,

And gentle Thyrsis, by the muse inspir'd;

With Sylvia, fairest of the mirthful train;

And Daphnis, doom'd to love, yet love in vain.

Now, whilst a purer blush o'erspreads her cheeks,

With soothing accents thus Sirena speaks:

"The meads and lawns are ting'd with beamy light,

And wakeful larks begin their vocal flight;

Whilst on each bank the dewdrops sweetly smile;

What sport, my Delia, shall the hours beguile?

Whall heavenly notes, prolong'd with various art,

Charm the fond ear, and warm the rapturous heart?

At distance shall we view the sylvan chace?

Or catch with silken lines the finny race?"

Then Delia thus: "Or rather, since we meet

By chance assembled in this cool retreat,

In artful contest let our warlike train

Move well-directed o'er the field preside:

No prize we need, our ardour to inflame;

We fight with pleasure, if we fight for fame."

The nymph consents: the maids and youths prepare

To view the combat, and the sport to share:

But Daphnis most approv'd the bold design,

Whom Love instructed, and the tuneful Nine.

He rose, and on the cedar table plac'd

A polish'd board, with differing colours grac'd;

Squares eight times eight in equal order lie;

These bright as snow, those dark with sable dye;

Like the broad target by the tortoise born,

Or like the hide by spotted panthers worn.

Then from a chest, with harmless heroes stor'd,

O'er the smooth plain two well-wrought hosts he pour'd;

The champions burn'd their rivals to assail,

Twice eight in black, twice eight in milkwhite mail;

In shape and station different, as in name,

Their motions various, not their power the same.

Say, muse! (for Jove has nought from thee conceal'd)

Who form'd the legions on the level field?

High in the midst the reverend kings appear,

And o'er the rest their pearly scepters rear:

One solemn step, majestically slow,

They gravely move, and shun the dangerous foe;

If e'er they call, the watchful subjects spring,

And die with rapture if they save their king;

On him the glory of the day depends,

He once imprison'd, all the conflict ends.

The queens exulting near their consorts stand;

Each bears a deadly falchion in her hand;

Now here, now there, they bound with furious pride,

And thin the trmbling ranks from side to side;

Swift as Camilla flying o'er the main,

Or lightly skimming o'er the dewy plain:

Fierce as they seem, some bold Plebeian spear

May pierce their shield, or stop their full career.

The valiant guards, their minds on havock bent,

Fill the next squares, and watch the royal tent;

Tho' weak their spears, tho' dwarfish be their height,

Compact they move, the bulwark of the fight,

To right and left the martial wings display

Their shining arms, and stand in close array.

Behold, four archers, eager to advance,

Send the light reed, and rush with sidelong glance;

Through angles ever they assault the foes,

True to the colour, which at first they chose.

Then four bold knights for courage-fam'd and speed,

Each knight exalted on a prancing steed:

Their arching course no vulgar limit knows,

Tranverse they leap, and aim insidious blows:

Nor friends, nor foes, their rapid force restrain,

By on quick bound two changing squares they gain;

From varing hues renew the fierce attack,

And rush from black to white, from white to black.

Four solemn elephants the sides defend;

Benearth the load of ponderous towers they bend:

In on unalter'd line they tempt the fight;

Now crush the left, and now o'erwhelm the right.

Bright in the front the dauntless soldiers raise

Their polish'd spears; their steely helmets blaze:

Prepar'd they stand the daring foe to strike,

Direct their progress, but their wounds oblique.

Now swell th' embattled troups with hostile rage,

And clang their shields, impatient to engage;

When Daphnis thus: A varied plain behold,

Where fairy kings their mimick tents unfold,

As Oberon, and Mab, his wayward queen,

Lead forth their armies on the daisied green.

No mortal hand the wond'rous sport contriv'd,

By gods invents, and from gods deriv'd;

From them the British nymphs receiv'd the game,

And play ech morn beneath the crystal Thame;

Hear then the tale, which they to Colin sung,

As idling o'er the lucid wave he hung.

A lovely dryad rang'd the Thracian wild,

Her air enchanting, and her aspect mild:

To chase the bounding hart was all her joy,

Averse from Hymen, and the Cyprian boy;

O'er hills an valleys was her beauty fam'd,

And fair Caissa was the damsel nam'd.

Mars saw the maid; with deep surprize he gaz'd,

Admir'd her shape, and every gesture prais'd:

His golden bow the child of Venus bent,

And through his breast a piecing arrow sent.

The reed was hope; the feathers, keen desire;

The point, her eyes; the barbs, ethereal fire.

Soon to the nymph he pour'd his tender strain;

The haughtly dryad scorn'd his amorous pain:

He told his woes, where'er the maid he found,

And still he press'd, yet still Caissa frown'd;

But ev'n her frowns (ah, what might smiles have done!)

Fir'd all his soul, and all his senses won.

He left his car, by raging tigers drawn,

And lonely wander'd o'er the dusky lawn;

Then lay desponding near a murmuring stream,

And fair Caissa was his plaintive theme.

A naiad heard him from her mossy bed,

And through the crystal rais'd her placid head;

Then mildly spake: "O thou, whom love inspires,

Thy tears will nourish, not allay thy fires.

The smiling blossoms drink the pearly dew;

And ripening fruit the feather'd race pursue;

The scaly shoals devour the silken weeds;

Love on our sighs, and on our sorrow feeds.

Then weep no more; but, ere thou canst obtain

Balm to thy wounds, and solace to thy pain,

With gentle art thy martial look beguile;

Be mild, and teach thy rugged brow to smile.

Canst thou no play, no soothing game devise;

To make thee lovely in the damsel's eyes?

So may thy prayers assuage the scornful dame,

And ev'n Caissa own a mutual frame."

Kind nymph, said Mars, thy counsel I approve;

Art, only art, her ruthless breast can move.

but when? or how? They dark discourse explain:

So may thy stream ne'er swell with gushing rain;

So may thy waves in one pure current flow,

And flowers eternal on thy border blow!"

To whom the maid replied with smiling mien:

"Above the palace of the Paphian queen

Love's brother dwells, a boy of graceful port,

By gods nam'd Euphron, and by mortals Sport:

Seek him; to faithful ears unfold thy grief,

And hope, ere morn return, a sweet relief.

His temple hangs below the azure skies;

Seest thou yon argent cloud? 'Tis there it lies."

This said, she sunk beneath the liquid plain,

And sought the mansion of her blue-hair'd train.

Meantime the god, elate with heart-felt joy,

Had reach'd the temple of the sportful boy;

He told Caissa's charms, his kindled fire,

The naiad's counsel, and his warm desire.

"Be swift, he added, give my passion aid;

A god requests." - He spake, and Sport obey'd.

He fram'd a tablet of celestial mold,

Inlay'd with squares of silver and of gold;

Then of two metals form'd the warlike band,

That here compact in show of battle stand;

He taught the rules that guide the pensive game,

And call'd it Cassa from the dryad's name:

(Whence Albion's sons, who most its praise confess,

Approv'd the play, and nam'd it thoughtful Chess.)

The god delighted thank'd indulgent Sport;

Then grasp'd the board, and left his airy court.

With radiant feet he pierc'd the clouds; nor stay'd,

Till in the woods he saw the beauteous maid:

Tir'd with the chase the damsel set reclin'd,

Her girdle loose, her bosom unconfin'd.

He took the figure of a wanton faun,

And stood before her on the flowery lawn;

Then show'd his tablet: pleas'd the nymph survey'd

The lifeless troops in glittering ranks display'd;

She ask'd the wily sylvan to explain

The various motions of the splendid train;

With eager heart she caught the winning lore,

And thought ev'n Mars less hateful than before;

"What spell," said she, "deceiv'd my careless mind?

The god was fair, and I was most unkind."

She spoke, and saw the changing faun assume

A milder aspect, and a fairer bloom;

His wreathing horns, that from his temples grew,

Flow'd down in curls of bright celestial hue;

The dappled hairs, that veil'd his loveless face,

Blaz'd into beams, and show'd a heavenly grace;

The shaggy hide, that mantled o'er his breast,

Was soften'd to a smooth transparent vest,

That through its folds his vigorous bosom show'd,

And nervous limbs, where youthful ardour glow'd:

(Had Venus view'd him in those blooming charms,

Not Vulcan's net had forc'd her from his arms.)

With goatlike feet no more he mark'd the ground,

But braided flowers his silken sandals bound.

The dryad blush'd; and, as he press'd her, smil'd,

Whilst all his cares one tender glance beguil'd.

He ends: To arms, the maids and striplings cry;

To arms, the groves and sounding vales reply.

Sirena led to war the swarthy crew,

And Delia those that bore the lily's hue.

Who first, O muse, began the bold attack;

The white refulgent, or the mournful black?

Fair Delia first, as favoring lots ordain,

Moves her pale legions tow'rd the sable train:

From thought to thought her lively fancy flies,

Whilst o'er the board she darts her sparkling eyes.

At length the warrior moves with haughty strides;

Who from the plain the snowy king divides:

With equal haste his swarthy rival bounds;

His quiver rattles, and his buckler sounds:

Ah! hapless youths, with fatal warmth you burn;

Laws, ever fix'd, forbid you to return.

then from the wing a short-liv'd spearman flies,

Unsafely bold, and see! he dies, he dies:

The dark-brow'd hero, with one vengeful blow

Of life and place deprives his ivory foe.

Now rush both armies o'er the burnish'd field,

Hurl the swift dart, and rend the bursting shield.

Here furious knights on fiery coursers prance,

but see! the white-rob'd Amazon beholds

Where the dark host its opening van unfolds:

Soon as her eye discerns the hostile maid,

By ebon shield, and ebon helm betray'd;

Seven squares she passed with majestic mien,

And stands triumphant o'er the falling queen.

Perplex'd, and sorrowing at his consort's fate,

The monarch burn'd with rage, despair, and hate:

Swift from his zone th' avenging blade he drew,

And, mad with ire, the proud virago slew.

Meanwhile sweet smiling Delia's wary king

Retir'd from fight behind the circling wing.

Long time the war in equal balance hung;

Till, unforseen, an ivory courser sprung,

And, wildly prancing in an evil hour,

Attack'd at once the monarch and the tower:

Sirena blush'd; for, as the rules requir'd,

Her injur'd sovereign to his tent retir'd;

Whilst her lost castle leaves his threatening height,

And adds new glory to th' exulting knight.

At this, pale fear oppress'd the drooping maid,

And on her cheek the rose began to fade:

A crystal tear, that stood prepar'd to fall,

She wip'd in silence, and conceal'd from all;

From all but Daphnis; He remark'd her pain,

And saw the weakness of her ebon train;

Then gently spoke: "Let me your loss supply,

And either nobly win, or nobly dir;

Me oft has fortune crown'd with fair success,

And led to triumph in the fields of Chess."

He said: the willing nymph her place resign'd,

And sat at distance on the bank reclin'd.

Thus when Minerva call'd her chief to arms,

And Troy's high turret shook with dire alarms,

The Cyprian goddess wounded left the plain,

And Mars engag'd a mightier force in vain.

Strait Daphnis leads his squadron to the field;

(To Delia's arms 'tis ev'n a joy to yield.)

Each guileful snare, and subtle art he tries,

But finds his heart less powerful than her eyes:

Wisdom and strength superior charms obey;

And beauty, beauty, wins the long-fought day.

By this a hoary chief, on slaughter bent,

Approach'd the gloomy king's unguarded tent;

Where, late, his consort spread dismay around,

Now her dark corse lies bleeding on the ground.

Hail, happy youth! they glories not unsung

Shall live eternal on the poet's tongue;

For thou shalt soon receive a splendid change,

And o'er the plain with nobler fury range.

The swarthy leaders saw the storm impend,

And strove in vain their sovereign to defend:

Th' invader wav'd his silver lance in air,

And flew like lightning to the fatal square;

His limbs dilated in a moment grew

To stately height, and widen'd to the view;

More fierce his look, more lion-like his mien,

Sublime he mov'd, and seem'd a warrior queen.

As when the sage on some unfolding plant

Has caught a wandering fly, or frugal ant,

His hand the microscopic frame applies,

And lo! a bright hair'd monster meets his eyes;

He sees new plumes in slender cases roll'd;

Here stain'd with azure, there bedropp'd with gold;

Thus, on the alter'd chief both armies gaze,

And both the kings are fix'd with deep amaze.

The sword, which arm'd the snow-white maid before,

He noew assumes, and hurls the spear no more;

The springs indignant on the dark-rob'd band,

And knights and archers feel his deadly hand.

Now flies the monarch of the sable shield,

His legions vanquish'd, o'er the lonely field:

So when the morn, by rosy coursers drawn,

With pearls and rubies sows the verdant lawn,

Whilst each pale star from heaven's blue vault retires,

Still Venus gleams, and last of all expires.

He hears, where'er he moves, the dreadful sound;

Check the deep vales, and Check the woods rebound.

No place remains: he sees the certain fate,

And yields his throne to ruin, and Checkmate.

A brighter blush o'erspreads the damsel's cheeks,

And mildly thus the conquer'd stripling speaks:

"A double triumph, Delia, hast thou won,

By Mars protected, and by Venus' son;

The first with conquest crowns thy matchless art,

The second points those eyes at Daphnis' heart."

She smil'd; the nymphs and amorous youths arise,

And own that beauty gain'd the nobler prize.

Low in their chest the mimic troops were lay'd,

And peaceful slept the sable hero's shade.

[violettesiren]

See, where the falling day In silence steals away, Behind the western hills withdrawn; Her fires are quench'd, her beauty fled, With blushes all her face o'erspread, As conscious she had ill fulfill'd The promise of the dawn!

Another morning soon shall rise, Another day salute our eyes As smiling, and as fair as she, And make as many promises; But do not thou The tale believe, They're sisters all, And all deceive.

Tomorrow by Anna Laetitia Barbauld

[apesoformythoughts]

From thence He sheds the promised boon,

the Holy Spirit, on His own

in fiery tongues of love, o'erspread

above each sad disciple's head.

[arealpipwrites]

Ingling Pyander 1599

Here's an English Language poem from 1599 about an "ingle", or young male who prostitutes himself to older men. "Sometimes he jets it like a gentleman, Other whiles much like a wanton courtesan; But, truth to tell, a man or woman whether, I cannot say, she's excellent at either; But if report may certify a truth, She's neither of either, but a cheating youth." What is striking to me, as I'm reading history, is that there is a lot more acceptance in these older societies, for very unequal relationships like this (which are engaged in by a large percentage of men). There's a sense of the absolute of the right of older men to take advantage of younger ones or to hire transvestite prostitutes (or, in India, the hijra) as well as a sort of tolerance for casual sex ("laddish fun" in the English parlance) between younger men (15-20ish), but then the real societal contempt is for the 1-3% of men who exclusively pursue romantic relationships with other males. What I'm reading is suggesting that in conservative/homophobic societies in the modern world, including Arab and Indian (Subcontinent) societies, 50% of males will engage in homosexual behavior in their lifetime. And that same number (about 40%) was the number I found for males in London in roughly the 1700's.

I do wonder: do modern liberal westerners have, essentially, the same behaviors that humans always have had, or does the new vocabulary and the greater openness change how men structure their intimate relationships? Does existence of a more out and proud LGBTQ+ community make sex with males less accessible to those males who like to consider themselves "straight"? Is that fact potentially part of the resentment that the conservatives have for LGBTQ+ and the modern liberal order? I will keep reading. And thinking.

[vivelareine]

Excerpt from Marie Antoinette’s Ghost by Norton Bristol, 1793.

An icy shiv'ring seiz’d their veins, When low a mournful voice complains, Another shade is here! Deep in their hollow spheres, their eyes Glar’d, like red meteors in the skies; The spirit came more near.–

It was a bending female form, Blasted, like sapling in the storm; Much, ag’d with grief and care: A veil transparent grac’d her head, A sable robe her shape o'erspread, And floating was her hair.

[valnyte]

Child! MC asleep

(she's still clutching her stuffie in all of these)

Napo:

He sees her fast asleep on the couch

"Awwww."

Gently carries her to her bed

Closes all curtains

Makes a pillow barrier around her

Leaves a plate of milk and cookies by her nightstand and a small note of 'Eat this! Pwetty pwease?'

She laughs and eats it all when she wakes up

Mozart:

He only realizes she fell asleep when he feels pressure by his arm

"What."

Lays her head down on his lap and plays a soft lullaby for a few minutes before he carries her to her room

She shuffles as soon as he lays her down and he quickly pats her shoulder so she falls back asleep

He doesn't go back to his piano room, he just stays by her bed and writes in his sheets to keep a close eye on her

Leo:

"Aww, little bird fell asleep with Lumiere and her toy."

Well, at least the trio are in a large pillow he can carry

He carries them to his room and pats MC's head until she wakes up

This time, MC snuggles close to her sleeping papa and sleeps again

Arthur:

"Wah-"

So this is why Vic brought Arthur to the parlour

Little MC is asleep on a couch

But before he can stop his dog, Vic bounds straight for little MC, leaps up on her and starts barking

"Vic no!"

Poor MC is so confused

Vincent:

"Cute!"

Blankets her in his floofiest blanket

He snuggles next to her on the sofa

And he falls asleep next to her

Brush joins in and snuggles in Vincent's arms

Napping squad

Theo:

Why is she asleep on the floor?!

Sighing, he gently carries her to a more comfortable place

Unfortunately she wakes up

"What?" She yawns

"Sssh, go back to sleep. Go back to sleep. Go back to sleep."

"Mkay."

Snuggles closer to Theo

Theo makes up his mind to protect this squishu too with his life

Warm and innocent squishu

Isaac:

"She fell asleep in front of the 'homework' I gave her..."

Mentally facepalms because that homework was pretty easy (Isaac no, she's barely eight and you already gave her pre-algebra)

Grumpily places her at a couch full of pillows

"Mmm. No more... no more math problems."

Is she talking in her sleep?

He finds it adorable

But he's not going to tell her

Obviously

Dazai:

She fell asleep with a book on her face

He ends up tickling her sides

"Heehee-why did you-hee-"

"It's suppertime MC!" He laughs. "You had a good nap."

He takes her hand and leads her to the dining room

Shakespeare:

"No, I won't nap in the afternoon!"

"Little child, you need sleep in order to grow into a tall, beautiful, and intelligent woman someday."

"No! I want to play outside!"

Insert overdramatic sigh

"Well, how about this: I tell you a story and you listen."

"No."

"Would you rather have the 'homework' Isaac gave you?"

"I'll listen to your story."

"Good choice."

He barely got to the rising action of the story and she's already asleep

He finds a thick blanket to bundle her with

Kisses her on the brow before he leaves

Jean:

"It's barely after lunch and she fell asleep..."

The stuffie falls to the ground when she shifts

Pretty cute

He picks her stuffie up and places it next to her

It falls again

Repeat

And it keeps falling

He takes her arm up, places the stuffie on her, then places her arm back so its secured

The sight of little MC hugging her stuffie brings a rare smile to his face

Comte:

"Lullaby, and goodnight with pink roses bedight, with lilies o'erspread, is my baby's sweet head. Lay you down now, and rest, may your slumber be blessed! Lay you down now, and rest, may thy slumber be blessed!"

Before he leaves from her bed, he feels a tug on his sleeve

"But that isn't the full song!" A very awake MC pouts

"You want me to finish? Alright, sweet child. Lullaby, and good night, you're your mother's delight. Shining angels beside my darling abide. Soft and warm is your bed-"

"I'll close my eyes and rest my head. Soft and warm is my bed." MC sings along with him and Count smiles

"Close your eyes and rest your head."

Her eyes are beginning to droop but she's smiling and snuggling inside the blankets.

"Sleepyhead, close your eyes. Mother's right here beside you. I'll protect you from harm, you will wake in my arms. Guardian angels are near, so sleep on, with no fear. Guardian angels are near, so sleep on, with no fear."

She's fully asleep now but he continues while combing her hair

"Lullaby, and sleep tight. Hush! My darling is sleeping, On her sheets white as cream, with her head full of dreams. When the sky's bright with dawn, se will wake in the morning. When noontide warms the world, she will frolic in the sun."

He kisses her cheek goodnight

Sebby:

"MC?"

He's knocking on her door but she's not answering so he enters

"Oh."

She's already tucked in and sleeping peacefully

Cue quiet curtain closing

He leaves a plate of sandwiches

He manages to detach her hair accessories from her head without her waking up (A+++ butler skills)

[artemisdreaming]

Heroine Rushing to Her Lover (Abhisarika Nayika )

Attributed to: The Family of Nainsukh Indian, Pahari, late 18th century Object Place: Kangra style, Punjab Hills, Northern India Opaque watercolor and gold on paper Credit Line: Ross-Coomaraswamy Collection Accession Number: 17.2612 - Museum of Fine Arts Boston

Inscription - Reverse: at center, in Devanagari: "Leaden and lowering and heavy-laden clouds -- dight in a robe of black -- dark collyrium is seen upon thine eyes. All thy limbs o'erspread with one dark hue -- thy bodice deeply dyed in dark cova. Lovely the jet-black silken robe,a nd all they gear becoming -- the black braid beauteous on they back let fall. At such times, in such a guise, when you meet your Krishna, all your efforts will bear fruit."

[fieriframes]

[WHEN WE STARTED OPENING AS A SWEET SHOP. TREMBLING TROJANS HEAR, O'ERSPREAD WITH A DAMP SWEAT AND HOLY FEAR FROM MY MOM'S RECIPE.]

[elucubrare]

As, when in tumults rise th' ignoble crowd, Mad are their motions, and their tongues are loud; And stones and brands in rattling volleys fly, And all the rustic arms that fury can supply: If then some grave and pious man appear, They hush their noise, and lend a list'ning ear; He soothes with sober words their angry mood, And quenches their innate desire of blood: So, when the Father of the Flood appears, And o'er the seas his sov'reign trident rears, Their fury falls: he skims the liquid plains, High on his chariot, and, with loosen'd reins, Majestic moves along, and awful peace maintains.

Vergil (trans. Dryden) Aeneid I

Thus they their doubtful consultations dark Ended, rejoicing in their matchless Chief: As, when from mountain-tops the dusky clouds Ascending, while the north wind sleeps, o'erspread Heaven's cheerful face, the louring element Scowls o'er the darkened landscape snow or shower, If chance the radiant sun, with farewell sweet, Extend his evening beam, the fields revive, The birds their notes renew, and bleating herds Attest their joy, that hill and valley rings.

Milton, Paradise Lost II 

[universitybookstore]

THE GRAVEYARD BY THE SEA

This quiet roof, where dove-sails saunter by, Between the pines, the tombs, throbs visibly. Impartial noon patterns the sea in flame -- That sea forever starting and re-starting. When thought has had its hour, oh how rewarding Are the long vistas of celestial calm! What grace of light, what pure toil goes to form The manifold diamond of the elusive foam! What peace I feel begotten at that source! When sunlight rests upon a profound sea, Time's air is sparkling, dream is certainty -- Pure artifice both of an eternal Cause. Sure treasure, simple shrine to intelligence, Palpable calm, visible reticence, Proud-lidded water, Eye wherein there wells Under a film of fire such depth of sleep -- O silence! . . . Mansion in my soul, you slope Of gold, roof of a myriad golden tiles. Temple of time, within a brief sigh bounded, To this rare height inured I climb, surrounded By the horizons of a sea-girt eye. And, like my supreme offering to the gods, That peaceful coruscation only breeds A loftier indifference on the sky. Even as a fruit's absorbed in the enjoying, Even as within the mouth its body dying Changes into delight through dissolution, So to my melted soul the heavens declare All bounds transfigured into a boundless air, And I breathe now my future's emanation. Beautiful heaven, true heaven, look how I change! After such arrogance, after so much strange Idleness -- strange, yet full of potency -- I am all open to these shining spaces; Over the homes of the dead my shadow passes, Ghosting along -- a ghost subduing me. My soul laid bare to your midsummer fire, O just, impartial light whom I admire, Whose arms are merciless, you have I stayed And give back, pure, to your original place. Look at yourself . . . But to give light implies No less a somber moiety of shade. Oh, for myself alone, mine, deep within At the heart's quick, the poem's fount, between The void and its pure issue, I beseech The intimations of my secret power. O bitter, dark, and echoing reservoir Speaking of depths always beyond my reach. But know you -- feigning prisoner of the boughs, Gulf which cats up their slender prison-bars, Secret which dazzles though mine eyes are closed -- What body drags me to its lingering end, What mind draws it to this bone-peopled ground? A star broods there on all that I have lost. Closed, hallowed, full of insubstantial fire, Morsel of earth to heaven's light given o'er -- This plot, ruled by its flambeaux, pleases me -- A place all gold, stone, and dark wood, where shudders So much marble above so many shadows: And on my tombs, asleep, the faithful sea. Keep off the idolaters, bright watch-dog, while -- A solitary with the shepherd's smile -- I pasture long my sheep, my mysteries, My snow-white flock of undisturbed graves! Drive far away from here the careful doves, The vain daydreams, the angels' questioning eyes! Now present here, the future takes its time. The brittle insect scrapes at the dry loam; All is burnt up, used up, drawn up in air To some ineffably rarefied solution . . . Life is enlarged, drunk with annihilation, And bitterness is sweet, and the spirit clear. The dead lie easy, hidden in earth where they Are warmed and have their mysteries burnt away. Motionless noon, noon aloft in the blue Broods on itself -- a self-sufficient theme. O rounded dome and perfect diadem, I am what's changing secretly in you. I am the only medium for your fears. My penitence, my doubts, my baulked desires -- These are the flaw within your diamond pride . . . But in their heavy night, cumbered with marble, Under the roots of trees a shadow people Has slowly now come over to your side. To an impervious nothingness they're thinned, For the red clay has swallowed the white kind; Into the flowers that gift of life has passed. Where are the dead? -- their homely turns of speech, The personal grace, the soul informing each? Grubs thread their way where tears were once composed. The bird-sharp cries of girls whom love is teasing, The eyes, the teeth, the eyelids moistly closing, The pretty breast that gambles with the flame, The crimson blood shining when lips are yielded, The last gift, and the fingers that would shield it -- All go to earth, go back into the game. And you, great soul, is there yet hope in you To find some dream without the lying hue That gold or wave offers to fleshly eyes? Will you be singing still when you're thin air? All perishes. A thing of flesh and pore Am I. Divine impatience also dies. Lean immortality, all crêpe and gold, Laurelled consoler frightening to behold, Death is a womb, a mother's breast, you feign The fine illusion, oh the pious trick! Who does not know them, and is not made sick That empty skull, that everlasting grin? Ancestors deep down there, 0 derelict heads Whom such a weight of spaded earth o'erspreads, Who are the earth, in whom our steps are lost, The real flesh-eater, worm unanswerable Is not for you that sleep under the table: Life is his meat, and I am still his host. 'Love,' shall we call him? 'Hatred of self,' maybe? His secret tooth is so intimate with me That any name would suit him well enough, Enough that he can see, will, daydream, touch -- My flesh delights him, even upon my couch I live but as a morsel of his life. Zeno, Zeno, cruel philosopher Zeno, Have you then pierced me with your feathered arrow That hums and flies, yet does not fly! The sounding Shaft gives me life, the arrow kills. Oh, sun! -- Oh, what a tortoise-shadow to outrun My soul, Achilles' giant stride left standing! No, no! Arise! The future years unfold. Shatter, O body, meditation's mould! And, O my breast, drink in the wind's reviving! A freshness, exhalation of the sea, Restores my soul . . . Salt-breathing potency! Let's run at the waves and be hurled back to living! Yes, mighty sea with such wild frenzies gifted (The panther skin and the rent chlamys), sifted All over with sun-images that glisten, Creature supreme, drunk on your own blue flesh, Who in a tumult like the deepest hush Bite at your sequin-glittering tail -- yes, listen! The wind is rising! . . . We must try to live! The huge air opens and shuts my book: the wave Dares to explode out of the rocks in reeking Spray. Fly away, my sun-bewildered pages! Break, waves! Break up with your rejoicing surges This quiet roof where sails like doves were pecking. Original French Text Le cimetière marin Translation by C. Day Lewis The French text and English translation side by side Ce toit tranquille, où marchent des colombes, Entre les pins palpite, entre les tombes; Midi le juste y compose de feux La mer, la mer, toujours recommencee O récompense après une pensée Qu'un long regard sur le calme des dieux! Quel pur travail de fins éclairs consume Maint diamant d'imperceptible écume, Et quelle paix semble se concevoir! Quand sur l'abîme un soleil se repose, Ouvrages purs d'une éternelle cause, Le temps scintille et le songe est savoir. Stable trésor, temple simple à Minerve, Masse de calme, et visible réserve, Eau sourcilleuse, Oeil qui gardes en toi Tant de sommeil sous une voile de flamme, O mon silence! . . . Édifice dans l'ame, Mais comble d'or aux mille tuiles, Toit! Temple du Temps, qu'un seul soupir résume, À ce point pur je monte et m'accoutume, Tout entouré de mon regard marin; Et comme aux dieux mon offrande suprême, La scintillation sereine sème Sur l'altitude un dédain souverain. Comme le fruit se fond en jouissance, Comme en délice il change son absence Dans une bouche où sa forme se meurt, Je hume ici ma future fumée, Et le ciel chante à l'âme consumée Le changement des rives en rumeur. Beau ciel, vrai ciel, regarde-moi qui change! Après tant d'orgueil, après tant d'étrange Oisiveté, mais pleine de pouvoir, Je m'abandonne à ce brillant espace, Sur les maisons des morts mon ombre passe Qui m'apprivoise à son frêle mouvoir. L'âme exposée aux torches du solstice, Je te soutiens, admirable justice De la lumière aux armes sans pitié! Je te tends pure à ta place première, Regarde-toi! . . . Mais rendre la lumière Suppose d'ombre une morne moitié. O pour moi seul, à moi seul, en moi-même, Auprès d'un coeur, aux sources du poème, Entre le vide et l'événement pur, J'attends l'écho de ma grandeur interne, Amère, sombre, et sonore citerne, Sonnant dans l'âme un creux toujours futur! Sais-tu, fausse captive des feuillages, Golfe mangeur de ces maigres grillages, Sur mes yeux clos, secrets éblouissants, Quel corps me traîne à sa fin paresseuse, Quel front l'attire à cette terre osseuse? Une étincelle y pense à mes absents. Fermé, sacré, plein d'un feu sans matière, Fragment terrestre offert à la lumière, Ce lieu me plaît, dominé de flambeaux, Composé d'or, de pierre et d'arbres sombres, Où tant de marbre est tremblant sur tant d'ombres; La mer fidèle y dort sur mes tombeaux! Chienne splendide, écarte l'idolâtre! Quand solitaire au sourire de pâtre, Je pais longtemps, moutons mystérieux, Le blanc troupeau de mes tranquilles tombes, Éloignes-en les prudentes colombes, Les songes vains, les anges curieux! Ici venu, l'avenir est paresse. L'insecte net gratte la sécheresse; Tout est brûlé, défait, reçu dans l'air A je ne sais quelle sévère essence . . . La vie est vaste, étant ivre d'absence, Et l'amertume est douce, et l'esprit clair. Les morts cachés sont bien dans cette terre Qui les réchauffe et sèche leur mystère. Midi là-haut, Midi sans mouvement En soi se pense et convient à soi-même Tête complète et parfait diadème, Je suis en toi le secret changement. Tu n'as que moi pour contenir tes craintes! Mes repentirs, mes doutes, mes contraintes Sont le défaut de ton grand diamant! . . . Mais dans leur nuit toute lourde de marbres, Un peuple vague aux racines des arbres A pris déjà ton parti lentement. Ils ont fondu dans une absence épaisse, L'argile rouge a bu la blanche espèce, Le don de vivre a passé dans les fleurs! Où sont des morts les phrases familières, L'art personnel, les âmes singulières? La larve file où se formaient les pleurs. Les cris aigus des filles chatouillées, Les yeux, les dents, les paupières mouillées, Le sein charmant qui joue avec le feu, Le sang qui brille aux lèvres qui se rendent, Les derniers dons, les doigts qui les défendent, Tout va sous terre et rentre dans le jeu! Et vous, grande âme, espérez-vous un songe Qui n'aura plus ces couleurs de mensonge Qu'aux yeux de chair l'onde et l'or font ici? Chanterez-vous quand serez vaporeuse? Allez! Tout fuit! Ma présence est poreuse, La sainte impatience meurt aussi! Maigre immortalité noire et dorée, Consolatrice affreusement laurée, Qui de la mort fais un sein maternel, Le beau mensonge et la pieuse ruse! Qui ne connaît, et qui ne les refuse, Ce crâne vide et ce rire éternel! Pères profonds, têtes inhabitées, Qui sous le poids de tant de pelletées, Êtes la terre et confondez nos pas, Le vrai rongeur, le ver irréfutable N'est point pour vous qui dormez sous la table, Il vit de vie, il ne me quitte pas! Amour, peut-être, ou de moi-même haine? Sa dent secrète est de moi si prochaine Que tous les noms lui peuvent convenir! Qu'importe! Il voit, il veut, il songe, il touche! Ma chair lui plaît, et jusque sur ma couche, À ce vivant je vis d'appartenir! Zénon! Cruel Zénon! Zénon d'Êlée! M'as-tu percé de cette flèche ailée Qui vibre, vole, et qui ne vole pas! Le son m'enfante et la flèche me tue! Ah! le soleil . . . Quelle ombre de tortue Pour l'âme, Achille immobile à grands pas! Non, non! . . . Debout! Dans l'ère successive! Brisez, mon corps, cette forme pensive! Buvez, mon sein, la naissance du vent! Une fraîcheur, de la mer exhalée, Me rend mon âme . . . O puissance salée! Courons à l'onde en rejaillir vivant. Oui! grande mer de delires douée, Peau de panthère et chlamyde trouée, De mille et mille idoles du soleil, Hydre absolue, ivre de ta chair bleue, Qui te remords l'étincelante queue Dans un tumulte au silence pareil Le vent se lève! . . . il faut tenter de vivre! L'air immense ouvre et referme mon livre, La vague en poudre ose jaillir des rocs! Envolez-vous, pages tout éblouies! Rompez, vagues! Rompez d'eaux rejouies Ce toit tranquille où picoraient des focs!

Paul Valery, died July 20, 1945.

[blogdemocratesjr]

No more but as the tops of trees

The Evening of the Deluge, by J. M. W. Turner c. 1843

With hostile forces he'll o'erspread the land, And with the ostent of war will look so huge, Amazement shall drive courage from the state; Our men be vanquish'd ere they do resist, And subjects punish'd that ne'er thought offence: Which care of them, not pity of myself, Who am no more but as the tops of trees, Which fence the roots they grow by and defend them, Makes both my body pine and soul to languish, And punish that before that he would punish. 

—Pericles, Shakespeare, Pericles, Prince of Tyre [1.2]

[lonelinessofbyronsnottingham]

Elegy on Newstead Abbey

"It is the voice of years, that are gone! they roll before me, with all their deeds.

 NEWSTEAD! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome!  Religion's shrine! repentant HENRY'S pride!  Of Warriors, Monks, and Dames the cloister'd tomb,   Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide,

 Hail to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall,    Than modern mansions, in their pillar'd state;  Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall,    Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.

 No mail-clad Serfs, obedient to their Lord,    In grim array, the crimson cross demand;  Or gay assemble round the festive board,    Their chief's retainers, an immortal band.

 Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye    Retrace their progress, through the lapse of time;  Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die,    A votive pilgrim, in Judea's clime.

 But not from thee, dark pile! departs the Chief;    His feudal realm in other regions lay:  In thee the wounded conscience courts relief,    Retiring from the garish blaze of day.

 Yes! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound,    The monk abjur'd a world, he ne'er could view;  Or blood-stain'd Guilt repenting, solace found,    Or Innocence, from stern Oppression, flew.

 A Monarch bade thee from that wild arise,    Where Sherwood's outlaws, once, were wont to prowl;  And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes,    Sought shelter in the Priest's protecting cowl.

 Where, now, the grass exhales a murky dew,    The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay,  In sainted fame, the sacred Fathers grew,    Nor raised their pious voices, but to pray.

 Where, now, the bats their wavering wings extend,    Soon as the gloaming spreads her waning shade;  The choir did, oft, their mingling vespers blend,    Or matin orisons to Mary paid.

 Years roll on years; to ages, ages yield;    Abbots to Abbots, in a line, succeed:  Religion's charter, their protecting shield,    Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed.

 One holy HENRY rear'd the Gothic walls,    And bade the pious inmates rest in peace;  Another HENRY the kind gift recalls,    And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease.

 Vain is each threat, or supplicating prayer;    He drives them exiles from their blest abode,  To roam a dreary world, in deep despair--    No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God.

 Hark! how the hall, resounding to the strain,    Shakes with the martial music's novel din!  The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign,    High crested banners wave thy walls within.

 Of changing sentinels the distant hum,    The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms,  The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum,    Unite in concert with increas'd alarms.

 An abbey once, a regal fortress now,    Encircled by insulting rebel powers;  War's dread machines o'erhang thy threat'ning brow,    And dart destruction, in sulphureous showers.

 Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege,    Though oft repuls'd, by guile o'ercomes the brave;  His thronging foes oppress the faithful Liege,    Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave.

 Not unaveng'd the raging Baron yields;    The blood of traitors smears the purple plain;  Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields,    And days of glory, yet, for him remain.

 Still, in that hour, the warrior wish'd to strew    Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave;  But Charles' protecting genius hither flew,    The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save.

 Trembling, she snatch'd him from th' unequal strife,    In other fields the torrent to repel;  For nobler combats, here, reserv'd his life,    To lead the band, where godlike FALKLAND fell.

 From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given,    While dying groans their painful requiem sound,  Far different incense, now, ascends to Heaven,    Such victims wallow on the gory ground.

 There many a pale and ruthless Robber's corse,    Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod;  O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse,    Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod.

 Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread,    Ransack'd resign, perforce, their mortal mould:  From ruffian fangs, escape not e'en the dead,    Racked from repose, in search for buried gold.

 Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre,    The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death;  No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire,    Or sings the glories of the martial wreath.

 At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey,    Retire: the clamour of the fight is o'er;  Silence again resumes her awful sway,    And sable Horror guards the massy door.

 Here, Desolation holds her dreary court:    What satellites declare her dismal reign!  Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort,    To flit their vigils, in the hoary fane.

 Soon a new Morn's restoring beams dispel    The clouds of Anarchy from Britain's skies;  The fierce Usurper seeks his native hell,    And Nature triumphs, as the Tyrant dies.

 With storms she welcomes his expiring groans;    Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath;  Earth shudders, as her caves receive his bones,    Loathing the offering of so dark a death.

 The legal Ruler now resumes the helm,    He guides through gentle seas, the prow of state;  Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm,    And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate.

 The gloomy tenants, Newstead! of thy cells,    Howling, resign their violated nest;  Again, the Master on his tenure dwells,    Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest.

 Vassals, within thy hospitable pale,    Loudly carousing, bless their Lord's return;  Culture, again, adorns the gladdening vale,    And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn.

 A thousand songs, on tuneful echo, float,    Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees;  And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note,    The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the breeze.

 Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake;    What fears! what anxious hopes! attend the chase!  The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake;    Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race.

 Ah happy days! too happy to endure!    Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew:  No splendid vices glitter'd to allure;    Their joys were many, as their cares were few.

 From these descending, Sons to Sires succeed;    Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart;  Another Chief impels the foaming steed,    Another Crowd pursue the panting hart.

 Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine!    Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay;  The last and youngest of a noble line,    Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway.

 Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers;    Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep;  Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers;    These, these he views, and views them but to weep.

 Yet are his tears no emblem of regret:    Cherish'd Affection only bids them flow;  Pride, Hope, and Love, forbid him to forget,    But warm his bosom, with impassion'd glow.

 Yet he prefers thee, to the gilded domes,    Or gewgaw grottos, of the vainly great;  Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs,    Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of Fate.

 Haply thy sun, emerging, yet, may shine,    Thee to irradiate with meridian ray;  Hours, splendid as the past, may still be thine,    And bless thy future, as thy former day.

[violettesiren]

The winds of March are piping shrill, The half-moon, slanting low, Is shining down the wild sea-hill Where, long and long ago, Love ditties singing all for me, Sat blue-eyed Coralin -- Her grave is now beneath the tree Where then she used to spin.

Three walnut trees, so high and wild, Before the homestead stand -- Their smooth boles often, when a child, I've taken in my hand; And that the nearest to the wall, Though once alike they grew, Is not so goodly, nor so tall, As are the other two.

The spinning work was always there -- There all our childish glee; But when she grew a maiden fair, The songs were not for me. One night, twice seven years 't has been, When shone the moon as now, The slender form of Coralin Hung swinging on the bough

That's gnarled and knotty grown; in spring, When all the fields are gay With madrigals, no bird will sing Upon that bough, they say. And through the chamber where the wheel With cob-webs is o'erspread, Pale ghosts are sometimes seen to steal, Since Coralin is dead.

The waters once so bright and cool, Within the mossy well, Are shrunken to a sluggish pool; And more than this, they tell, That oft the one-eyed mastiff wakes, And howls as if in fear, From midnight till the morning breaks -- The dead is then too near.

The Haunted House by Alice Cary

[vivelareine]

Excerpt from Marie Antoinette’s Ghost by Norton Bristol, 1793.

An icy shiv'ring seiz’d their veins, When low a mournful voice complains, Another shade is here! Deep in their hollow spheres, their eyes Glar’d, like red meteors in the skies; The spirit came more near.–

It was a bending female form, Blasted, like sapling in the storm; Much, ag’d with grief and care: A veil transparent grac’d her head, A sable robe her shape o'erspread, And floating was her hair.