GHOSTS One need not be a chamber to be haunted, One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing Material place. Far safer, of a midnight meeting External ghost, Than an interior confronting That whiter host. Far safer through an Abbey gallop, The stones achase, Than, moonless, one’s own self encounter In lonesome place. Ourself, behind ourself concealed, Should startle most; Assassin, hid in our apartment, Be horror’s least. The prudent carries a revolver, He bolts the door, O’erlooking a superior spectre More near. FROM: Emily Dickinson SELECTED POEMS Unabridged Dover Thrift Editions
Tag: 19th Century Poetry
Diary of the Plague Year: Day 88 11 June 2020: Quotidian Poetry: William Barnes (1801 – 1886)
THE WIFE A-LOST
Since I noo mwore do zee your fe{‘a}ce,
Up ste{‘a}rs or down below,
I’ll zit me in the lwonesome ple{‘a}ce,
Where flat-bough’d beech do grow;
Below the beeches’ bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An’ I don’t look to meet ye now,
As I do look at hwome.
Since you noo mwore be at my zide,
In walks in zummer het,
I’ll goo alwone where mist do ride,
Drough trees a-drippèn wet;
Below the ra{‘i}n-wet bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An’ I don’t grieve to miss ye now,
As I do grieve at hwome.
Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard
Your va{‘i}ce do never sound,
I’ll eat the bit I can avword,
A-vield upon the ground;
Below the darksome bough, my love,
Where you did never dine,
An’ I don’t grieve to miss ye now,
As I at hwome do pine.
Since I do miss your va{‘i}ce an’ fe{‘a}ce
In pra{‘y}er at eventide,
I’ll pray wi’ woone sad va{‘i}ce vor gre{‘a}ce
To goo where you do bide;
Above the tree an’ bough, my love,
Where you be gone avore,
An’ be a-w{‘a}itèn vor me now,
To come vor evermwore.
FROM:
The Oxford Library of English Poetry
Volume II
Darley to Heaney
Chosen & edited by John Wain
Diary of the Plague Year: Day 61 15 May 2020: Quotidian Poetry: Charles Baudelaire (1821 – 1867)
L'INVITATION AU VOYAGE Mon enfant, ma soeur, Songe à la douceur D'aller là-bas vivre ensemble! Aimer à loisir, Aimer et mourir Au pays qui te ressemble! Les soleils mouillés De ces ciels brouillés Pour mon esprit ont les charmes Si mystérieux De tes traîtres yeux, Brillant à travers leurs larmes. Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté, Luxe, calme et volupté. Des meubles luisants, Polis par les ans, Décoreraient notre chambre; Les plus rares fleurs Mêlant leurs odeurs Aux vagues senteurs de l'ambre, Les riches plafonds, Les miroirs profonds, La splendeur orientale, Tout y parlerait À l'âme en secret Sa douce langue natale. Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté, Luxe, calme et volupté. Vois sur ces canaux Dormir ces vaisseaux Dont l'humeur est vagabonde; C'est pour assouvir Ton moindre désir Qu'ils viennent du bout du monde. — Les soleils couchants Revêtent les champs, Les canaux, la ville entière, D'hyacinthe et d'or; Le monde s'endort Dans une chaude lumière. Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté, Luxe, calme et volupté.
THE INVITATION TO THE VOYAGE
Child, sister, think of the sweetness of going to that far country to live together! To love at our leisure, to love and to die in the country which is like you! The watery suns of those overcast skies have, for my spirit, the same mysterious charm as your killing eyes, shining through their tears.
There, there is nothing but order and beauty, luxury, calm and sensual pleasure.
Shining furniture, polished by the years, would decorate our room; the rarest flowers, mingling their scents with the vague perfume of ambergris; the rich ceilings, the deep mirrors, the oriental splendour, everything would speak to the soul in secret its sweet native tongue.
There, there is nothing but order and beauty, luxury, calm and sensual pleasure.
See, on the canals, the vessels sleeping, their wandering humour stilled; it is to satisfy your every desire that they have come from the ends of the earth. The setting suns clothe the fields, the canals, the whole city, in hyacinth and gold; the world is falling asleep in a warm light.
There, there is nothing but order and beauty, luxury, calm and sensual pleasure.
Diary of the Plague Year: Day 33 17 April 2020: Quotidian Poetry John Keats (1795-1821)
THIS LIVING HAND, NOW WARM AND CAPABLE
This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou would wish thine heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed – see here it is –
I hold it towards you.
FROM:
Love Letters and Poems
of John Keats to Fanny Brawne
Penguin
Diary of the Plague Year: Day 27 11 April 2020: Quotidian Poetry Gerard Manley Hopkins (1884-1889)
INVERSNAID
This darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home
A windpuff-bonnet of fawn-fróth
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, fell-frówning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.
Degged with dew, dappled with dew
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.
What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.
FROM:
Hopkins
Pocket Poets
Studio Vista, London
Bluestar House
Highgate Hill
Diary of the Plague Year: Day 22 6 April 2020: Quotidian Poetry William Blake (1757-1827)
The Sick Rose
O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm.
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
From:
Songs of Innocence and Experience
Shewing the Two Contrary States of the Human Soul
William Blake
Tate Publishing
THE CREEKSIDE HERMIT 