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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
A POEM WITHOUT A NAME: 2, by DIGBY MACKWORTH DOLBEN Poet's Biography First Line: I pray you this my song to take Last Line: Indeed a poem, though without a name. Alternate Author Name(s): Dolben, Digby Augustus Stewart Mackworth Subject(s): Poetry & Poets | |||
I pray you this my song to take Not scornfully, for Boyhood's sake; It is the last, until the day When your kind eyes shall bid me say Take, Archie, not of mine but me, And be mine only Poetry. THE PAST METHOUGHT the sun in terror made his bed, The gentle stars in angry lightning fell, And shuddering winds thro' all the woodland fled, Pulling in every tree a passing bell. That night, on all the glory and the grace There rolled a numbing mist, and wrapped from sight The greening fields of my delightsome land, Mildewing every tender bud to blight, -- As the grey change o'erspreads a dying face -- Till, corpse-like, stretched beneath a pall of skies, Earth stared at heaven with open sightless eyes; Then in the hush went forth the soul of life, Drawn through the darkness by a gleaming hand: The strength of agony awoke, and strove Awhile for mastery to hold it back, But comet-like, beyond the laws of love, Branding the blackness with a fiery track It passed to space; and, wearied of the strife, In the great after calm, I passed to sleep. Did they not call ambrosial the night And holy once? when (from the feet of God Set on the height where circles round and full The rainbow of perfection) starry troops Came floating, aureoled in dreamy light, And gracious dews distilling, as they trod The poppied plains of slumber. -- Ah too dull My sense, such visions for my aid to call, My sleep too dry with fever, for the fall Of those strange dews, which quicken withered hopes. THE PRESENT And yet why strive to syllable my loss In chilly metaphors of night and sleep? Leap in, O Love, O Flame divine, yea leap Upon them, shrivel them like paper; so, In that refining fire, the encircling dross Of words shall melt away; then will I keep, Stored in a silent Treasury I know, The pure reality, that in the spring -- The resurrection of all loveliness -- For me a star shall pierce the eastern cloud, And western breezes bear the tender rain; For me a crocus flower shall burst its shroud, My Love, my buried Love, shall rise again. Blow, winds, and make the fields a wilderness; Roar, hurrying rivers to the weary sea; Fall, cruel veils of snow, as desolate As human hearts, when passion fires have burnt To greyest ash; -- I shall nor hear nor see. Within that Treasure-house of mine I wait, I wait, with Eros glowing at my side, From him, the mighty artist, I have learned How memories to brushes may be tied; And tho' I moistened all my paints with tears, Yet on my walls as joyous imagery, With golden hopes inframed, now appears As e'er of old was dreamed to vivify Ionian porticoes, when Greece was young, And wreathed with glancing vine Anacreon sung. Here, on the granite headland he is set, Like Michael in his triumph, and the waves In wild desire have tossed about his feet Their choicest pearls; -- and, here, he softly laves Limbs delicate, where beechen boughs are wet With jewelled drops and all is young and sweet; -- And here, a stranded lily on the beach, My Hylas, coronalled with curly gold, He lies beyond the water's longing reach Him once again essaying to enfold; -- Here, face uplifted to the twinkling sky He walks, like Agathon the vastly-loved, Till with the dear Athenian I cry, 'My Star of stars, would I might heaven be, Night-long, with many eyes, to gaze on thee!' -- And here, like Hyacinthus, as he moved Among the flowers, ere flower-like he sank Too soon to fade on green Eurotas' bank. But it is profanation now to speak Of thoughtless Hellene boys, or to compare The majesty and spiritual grace Of that design which consummates the whole. It is himself, as I have watched him, where The mighty organ's great Teutonic soul Passed into him and lightened in his face, And throbbed in every nerve and fired his cheek. See, Love, I sing not of thee now alone, But am become a painter all thine own. THE FUTURE Ah now in truth how shall we, can we meet? Or wilt thou come to me through careless eyes, Loveliest 'mid the unlovely, in the street? Or will thy voice be there, to harmonize The clanging and the clamour, where beneath The panting engines draw their burning breath? Or shall I have to seek thee in a throng Of noble comrades round thee? -- have to pass The low luxurious laugh, or merry song, The piled golden fruit, and flashing glass? I care not much; however it may be, Eyes, ears and heart will compass only thee. Yet could I choose, then surely would I fix On that half-light, whose very name is sweet, The gloaming, when the sun and moonbeams mix, And light and darkness on each other rest Like lovers' lips, uncertain, tremulous; And the All-mother's heart is loth to beat And break their union: then, I think, 'twere best To find thee pacing 'neath the sprouting boughs Of lime, alone -- for so I saw thee first, When scarce my rose's crimson life had burst In blushes, from its calix to the sun. Alone -- throughout my love has been apart; When seen, then misconceived so utterly, I liken it (forgive the vanity) To those vermilion shades since light begun Existing, but which Turner only drew, While pointing critics had their little say, And all the world cried out, of course they knew Much better than the sun, could tell the way To colour him and his by proper rules, And Claude was great, great, great in all the schools As once Ephesian Dian. -- Matters it To him, or you, or me? While truth is truth, And love is love, you'll answer -- Not a whit. FOR EVER Enough, the yearning is unsatisfied, Resolved again into a plea for faith. Believe the true elixir is within, Although I sought to draw from that full tide Some crystal drops of evidence, to win A little vapour only -- yet believe, Believe the essence of a perfect love Is there, and worthy. Not a tinge of shame My words can colour. Of thine own receive, Yes, of thy very being. It shall prove Indeed a poem, though without a name. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ENVY OF OTHER PEOPLE'S POEMS by ROBERT HASS THE NINETEENTH CENTURY AS A SONG by ROBERT HASS THE FATALIST: TIME IS FILLED by LYN HEJINIAN OXOTA: A SHORT RUSSIAN NOVEL: CHAPTER 192 by LYN HEJINIAN LET ME TELL YOU WHAT A POEM BRINGS by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA JUNE JOURNALS 6/25/88 by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA FOLLOW ROZEWICZ by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA HAVING INTENDED TO MERELY PICK ON AN OIL COMPANY, THE POEM GOES AWRY by HICOK. BOB A LETTER by DIGBY MACKWORTH DOLBEN |
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