No Subject
- Locked due to inactivity on Aug 4, '16 4:34pm
Thread Topic: No Subject
-
Eli2 NewbieGo to the western gate, Luke Havergal, There where the vines cling crimson on the wall, And in the twilight wait for what will come. The leaves will whisper there of her, and some, Like flying words, will strike you as they fall; But go, and if you listen, she will call. Go to the western gate, Luke HavergalLuke Havergal.
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes; But there, where western glooms are gathering The dark will end the dark, if anything: God slays Himself with every leaf that flies, And hell is more than half of paradise. No, there is not a dawn in eastern skiesIn eastern skies.
Out of a grave I come to tell you this, Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss That flames upon your forehead with a glow That blinds you to the way that you must go. Yes, there is yet one way to where she is, Bitter, but one that faith may never miss. Out of a grave I come to tell you thisTo tell you this.
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal, There are the crimson leaves upon the wall, Go, for the winds are tearing them away,Nor think to riddle the dead words they say, Nor any more to feel them as they fall; But go, and if you trust her she will call. There is the western gate, Luke HavergalLuke Havergal. -
Eli2 Newbie'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest's ferny floor: And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller's head And he smote upon the door again a second time; 'Is there anybody there?' he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:'Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word,' he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.
-
Eli2 NewbiePART ONE
I THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came ridingRidingridingThe highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh! And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked; His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, But he loved the landlord's daughter, The landlord's red-lipped daughter, Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say
V "One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
VI He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.
PART TWO
I He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marchingMarchingmarchingKing George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.
II They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
III They had tied her up to attention, with many a sn-----ing jest; They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! "Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man sayLook for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
IV She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
V The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.
VI Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
VII Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned himwith her death.
VIII He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
IX Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
X And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes ridingRidingridingA highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard; He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. -
Eli2 NewbieFrom childhood's hour I have not been As others were; I have not seen As others saw; I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone. Thenin my childhood, in the dawn Of a most stormy lifewas drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still: From the torrent, or the fountain, From the red cliff of the mountain, From the sun that round me rolled In its autumn tint of gold, From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by, From the thunder and the storm, And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view.
-
Eli2 NewbieI have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rainand back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-by; And further still at an unearthly height, One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted
with the night.
*sighs* what am I doing? -
Sweetie?
-
Eli2 NewbieFrom the hag and hungry goblin That into rags would rend ye, The spirit that stands by the naked man In the Book of Moons, defend ye. That of your five sound senses You never be forsaken, Nor wander from your selves with Tom Abroad to beg your bacon, While I do sing, Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink or clothing; Come dame or maid, be not afraid, Poor Tom will injure nothing.
Of thirty bare years have I Twice twenty been enragd, And of forty been three times fifteen In durance soundly cagd. On the lordly lofts of Bedlam With stubble soft and dainty, Brave bracelets strong, sweet whips, ding-dong, With wholesome hunger plenty, And now I sing, Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink or clothing; Come dame or maid, be not afraid, Poor Tom will injure nothing.
With a thought I took for Maudlin, And a cruse of cockle pottage, With a thing thus tall, sky bless you all, I befell into this dotage. I slept not since the Conquest, Till then I never wakd, Till the roguish boy of love where I lay Me found and stript me nakd. While I do sing, Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink or clothing; Come dame or maid, be not afraid, Poor Tom will injure nothing.
When I short have shorn my sow's face And swigged my horny barrel, In an oaken inn, I pound my skin As a suit of gilt apparel; The moon's my constant mistress, And the lovely owl my marrow; The flaming drake and the night crow make Me music to my sorrow. While I do sing, Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink or clothing; Come dame or maid, be not afraid, Poor Tom will injure nothing.
The palsy plagues my pulses When I prig your pigs or pullen Your culvers take, or matchless make Your Chanticleer or Sullen. When I want provant, with Humphry I sup, and when benighted, I repose in Paul's with waking souls, Yet never am affrighted. But I do sing, Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink or clothing; Come dame or maid, be not afraid, Poor Tom will injure nothing.
I know more than Apollo, For oft when he lies sleeping I see the stars at mortal wars In the wounded welkin weeping. The moon embrace her shepherd, And the Queen of Love her warrior, While the first doth horn the star of morn, And the next the heavenly Farrier. While I do sing, Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink or clothing; Come dame or maid, be not afraid, Poor Tom will injure nothing.
The Gypsies, Snap and Pedro, Are none of Tom's comradoes, The punk I scorn, and the cutpurse sworn And the roaring boy's bravadoes. The meek, the white, the gentle, Me handle not nor spare not; But those that cross Tom Rynosseross Do what the panther dare not. Although I sing, Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink or clothing; Come dame or maid, be not afraid, Poor Tom will injure nothing.
With an host of furious fancies, Whereof I am commander, With a burning spear and a horse of air To the wilderness I wander. By a knight of ghosts and shadows I summoned am to tourney Ten leagues beyond the wide world's end: Methinks it is no journey. Yet I will sing, Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink or clothing; Come dame or maid, be not afraid, Poor Tom will injure nothing. -
Eli2 NewbieGot an hour before I have to go to work but I will give u more of that stuff I keep posting.....
-
Eli2 NewbieBack out of all this now too much for us, Back in a time made simple by the loss Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather, There is a house that is no more a house Upon a farm that is no more a farm And in a town that is no more a town. The road there, if you'll let a guide direct you Who only has at heart your getting lost, May seem as if it should have been a quarry Great monolithic knees the former town Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered. And there's a story in a book about it: Besides the wear of iron wagon wheels The ledges show lines ruled southeast-northwest, The chisel work of an enormous Glacier That braced his feet against the Arctic Pole. You must not mind a certain coolness from him Still said to haunt this side of Panther Mountain. Nor need you mind the serial ordeal Of being watched from forty cellar holes As if by eye pairs out of forty firkins. As for the woods' excitement over you That sends light rustle rushes to their leaves, Charge that to upstart inexperience. Where were they all not twenty years ago? They think too much of having shaded out A few old pecker-fretted apple trees. Make yourself up a cheering song of how Someone's road home from work this once was, Who may be just ahead of you on foot Or creaking with a buggy load of grain. The height of the adventure is the height Of country where two village cultures faded Into each other. Both of them are lost. And if you're lost enough to find yourself By now, pull in your ladder road behind you And put a sign up CLOSED to all but me. Then make yourself at home. The only field Now left's no bigger than a harness gall. First there's the children's house of make-believe, Some shattered dishes underneath a pine, The playthings in the playhouse of the children. Weep for what little things could make them glad. Then for the house that is no more a house, But only a belilaced cellar hole, Now slowly closing like a dent in dough. This was no playhouse but a house in earnest. Your destination and your destiny's A brook that was the water of the house, Cold as a spring as yet so near its source, Too lofty and original to rage. (We know the valley streams that when aroused Will leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.) I have kept hidden in the instep arch Of an old cedar at the waterside A broken drinking goblet like the Grail Under a spell so the wrong ones can't find it, So can't get saved, as Saint Mark says they mustn't. (I stole the goblet from the children's playhouse.) Here are your waters and your watering place. Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.
-
Eli2 NewbieThe bell-rope that gathers God at dawn Dispatches me as though I dropped down the knell Of a spent dayto wander the cathedral lawn From pit to crucifix, feet chill on steps from hell.
Have you not heard, have you not seen that corps Of shadows in the tower, whose shoulders sway Antiphonal carillons launched before The stars are caught and hived in the sun's ray?
The bells, I say, the bells break down their tower; And swing I know not where. Their tongues engrave Membrane through marrow, my long-scattered score Of broken intervals ... And I, their sexton slave!
Oval encyclicals in canyons heaping The impasse high with choir. Banked voices slain! Pagodas, campaniles with reveilles out leaping O terraced echoes prostrate on the plain! ...
And so it was I entered the broken world To trace the visionary company of love, its voice An instant in the wind (I know not whither hurled) But not for long to hold each desperate choice.
My word I poured. But was it cognate, scored Of that tribunal monarch of the air Whose thighs embronzes earth, strikes crystal Word In wounds pledged once to hopecleft to despair?
The steep encroachments of my blood left me No answer (could blood hold such a lofty tower As flings the question true?)or is it she Whose sweet mortality stirs latent power?
And through whose pulse I hear, counting the strokes My veins recall and add, revived and sure The angelus of wars my chest evokes: What I hold healed, original now, and pure ...
And builds, within, a tower that is not stone (Not stone can jacket heaven)but slip Of pebbles,visible wings of silence sown In azure circles, widening as they dip
The matrix of the heart, lift down the eyes That shrines the quiet lake and swells a tower ... The commodious, tall decorum of that sky Unseals her earth, and lifts love in its shower. -
Eli2 NewbieReading all the poems you once wrote for me, every line now having a different meaning then what it was before. Wanting to put down all the papers as my mind starts to spin, knowing the pain will continue to grow as I cannot take it anymore.
Every tear not pouring from my eyes as I cannot stop, while the pieces of my heart are now again ripped from my chest. Watching you walk away was the hardest thing for me to do, while I now have to move on with my life from where it was so stressed.
Letters, poems, pictures are now laying around the bed, with every word brings back the time I was still so in love with you. Wanting all the things you once said to me about how you felt, to once again be the way we still feel in the end how its true.
With every pain become the relization of you no longer by my side, and the lonely night that I must once again be faced with in my dreams. Reaching out for you where you once would sleep by me in the bed, pressing my head against the pillow for nobody wants to hear my cries and screams.
Looking at the pictures of when our eyes once sparkled with joy, but now I can no longer recognize the person starring back in the mirror. Wanting the love we used to share when we were once so younger, while remembering one day the things that happened will become clearer.
Letters, poems, and pictures no longer making any sense to how you used to be, life spinning out of control with you no longer wanting to be by my side. Trying to face the world in a whole new light when they know they truth, but not being able to hide anything that has made the tears I have cried.
Hoping you will let me explain all the pain that you now feel, but knowing I may never again get the chance to tell you how is now the truth. Knowing I may be your first for many different things that happened, but marriage was never mixed in with the fountain of youth.
This thread is locked, therefore no new posts can be made.
