segunda-feira, 22 de maio de 2017

Song from “Mater” - Percy MacKaye


Song from “Mater” - Percy MacKaye

LONG ago, in the young moonlight,
  I lost my heart to a hero;
Strong and tender and stern and right,
    Darker than night,
  And terribler than Nero.        5
  Heigh, but he was dear, O!

And there, to bind our fellowship,
  I laughed at him; and a moment after,
I laughed again till he bit his lip,
  For the test of love is laughter.        10

“Lord and master, look up!” I cried;
  “I wreathe your brow with a laurel!
Gloom and wisdom and right and pride
    Cast them aside,
  And kiss, and cure our quarrel.        15
  Never mind the moral!”

Alas! with strange and saddened eyes
  He looked on me; and my mirth grew dafter,
To feel the flush of his dark surprise;
  For the zest of love is laughter.        20

Long ago, in the old moonlight,
  I lost my hero and lover;
Strong and tender and stern and right,
    Never shall night
  Nor day his brow uncover.        25
  Ah, my heart, that is over!

Yet still, for joy of the fellowship
  That bound us both through the years long after,
I laugh to think how he bit his lip;
    For the test of love—        30
  And the best of love—is laughter.

Song of Myself - Section 17 Walt Whitman
Sussex Rudyard Kipling
To a Distant Friend William Wordsworth
The War Films Sir Henry Newbolt
When Earth's Last Picture is Painted Rudyard Kipling
When Lovely Woman Phoebe Cary
A White Rose John Boyle O'Reilly

Remorseful Apology - Robert Burns

The friend whom, wild from Wisdom's way,
The fumes of wine infuriate send,
(Not moony madness more astray)
Who but deplores that hapless friend?

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part,
Ah! why should I such scenes outlive?
Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!-
'Tis thine to pity and forgive.

The Lockless Door - Robert Frost

IT went many years,
But at last came a knock,
And I thought of the door
With no lock to lock.

I blew out the light,
I tip-toed the floor,
And raised both hands
In prayer to the door.

But the knock came again
My window was wide;
I climbed on the sill
And descended outside.

Back over the sill
I bade a “Come in”
To whoever the knock
At the door may have been.

So at a knock
I emptied my cage
To hide in the world
And alter with age.

Mithridates Ralph Waldo Emerson

Lazy Man's Song - Juyi Bai 白居易

  I have got patronage, but am too lazy to use it;
    I have got land, but am too lazy to farm it.
    My house leaks; I am too lazy to mend it.
    My clothes are torn; I am too lazy to darn them.
    I have got wine, but am too lazy to drink;
    So it's just the same as if my cellar were empty.
    I have got a harp, but am too lazy to play;
    So it's just the same as if it had no strings.
    My wife tells me there is no more bread in the house;
    I want to bake, but am too lazy to grind.
    My friends and relatives write me long letters;
    I should like to read them, but they're such a bother
        to open.
    I have always been told that Chi Shu-yeh1
    Passed his whole life in absolute idleness.
    But he played the harp and sometimes transmuted metals,
    So even he was not so lazy as I.

The Ivy Green - Charles Dickens

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,
That creepeth o’er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim:
And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he.
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
To his friend the huge Oak Tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men’s graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant, in its lonely days,
Shall fatten upon the past:
For the stateliest building man can raise,
Is the Ivy’s food at last.
Creeping on, where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Johnny's His'try Lesson Nixon Waterman

Dream-Land - Christina Rossetti

Where sunless rivers weep
Their waves into the deep,
She sleeps a charmed sleep:
Awake her not.
Led by a single star,
She came from very far
To seek where shadows are
Her pleasant lot.

She left the rosy morn,
She left the fields of corn,
For twilight cold and lorn
And water springs.
Through sleep, as through a veil,
She sees the sky look pale,
And hears the nightingale
That sadly sings.

Rest, rest, a perfect rest
Shed over brow and breast;
Her face is toward the west,
The purple land.
She cannot see the grain
Ripening on hill and plain;
She cannot feel the rain
Upon her hand.

Rest, rest, for evermore
Upon a mossy shore;
Rest, rest at the heart's core
Till time shall cease:
Sleep that no pain shall wake;
Night that no morn shall break
Till joy shall overtake
Her perfect peace.

The Garden of Proserpine Algernon Charles Swinburne

Christmas: 1915 - Percy MacKaye

Now is the midnight of the nations: dark
    Even as death, beside her blood-dark seas,
    Earth, like a mother in birth agonies,
Screams in her travail, and the planets hark
Her million-throated terror. Naked, stark,
    Her torso writhes enormous, and her knees
    Shudder against the shadowed Pleiades
Wrenching the night’s imponderable arc.
Christ! What shall be delivered to the morn
    Out of these pangs, if ever indeed another
    Morn shall succeed this night, or this vast mother
Survive to know the blood-spent offspring, torn
    From her racked flesh?—What splendour from the smother?
What new-wing’d world, or mangled god still-born?

At the Club - Richard Hovey

When a pretty maiden passes
By the window down the street,
Cards and billiards lose their sweet;
Conversation on old brasses
Languishes; up go the glasses:-
'Nice complexion!' 'Dainty feet!'
When a pretty maiden passes
By the window down the street.

Smith forgets the 'toiling masses,'
Robinson, the fall in wheat;
All the club is indiscret.
Ah, the wisest men are asses
When a pretty maiden passes
By the window down the street!

Barbara Frietchie John Greenleaf Whittier
The Beginning of Summer Juyi Bai 白居易

Short Poetry Collection 041

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