Пять искусств. Литература. Голосование
Золотой Пегас
Итак, друзья, голосование открывается.
На конкурс принято 21 стихотворение.
Из них Вам потребуется выбрать 5 наиболее понравившихся.
Голосование проходит в ЗАКРЫТОМ режиме на е-мейл ведущей. Голосуют только участники.
Шорт-листы присылайте мне по адресу: kruglyakova.rita@mail.ru
Под этой публикацией шорт не оставлем, делаем только отметку в виде рецензии: "Шорт отправлен."
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Салон откроем, когда проголосуют как минимум 15 авторов.
Желаю приятного прочтения и удачи в конкурсе!
Лонг-лист:
1.
.........
Он очень стар. Во сне живет обычно,
где все еще могуч, и где земля
приветствует его на трассах птичьих
как рыцаря стихий и короля.
Но беспокоит рать драконоборцев,
вынюхивая след его… Смешно.
Неуязвимо плавая у солнца,
он скрыт от глаз безумцев пеленой.
Заботливо поддерживает ветер.
И шансы тех, кто ищет, у нуля.
Его надежный дом в большом секрете.
А те, внизу, пусть бегают, пыля.
… Он очень горд. Признаться, что бессилен! –
достойнее рвануть с вершины вниз.
Но так брезглив. Гниение могилы… (бр-р)
Сгореть звездой, и легкой дымкой – ввысь.
Туманности расправленные крылья,
небесный контур бывшего его –
вот это смерть…
Недавно волки выли
вокруг убежища. И их голодный вой
три ночи кряду был до жути слажен.
В броне – прорех не счесть, за ними – плоть.
Но он пока живой и в грязь размажет
любую тварь. За так не побороть.
Вуаль воспоминаний легче пуха.
Вчерашнее лизнет, как в полусне,
напомнив молодость. Но память-повитуха
связала пуповины прошлых дней,
перемешав и образы, и время.
А мудрость? От нее одна тоска.
Туман ползет в ущелье взбитым кремом.
Жизнь перемолота – ненужная мука.
Уснуть бы и проснуться звездным духом.
И небо сжалилось, послав копье луча.
Сгорел за миг, посеяв гору слухов.
Теперь он виден только по ночам.
2.
Скоморох
Белый-белый снег моих желаний,
Сколько лет витаешь высоко!
Падаешь закатами рыданий,
По тебе иду я босиком.
Сколько стран за далью дивной сказки
Я встречал и скольких не нашёл...
Скоморошьи глупости и пляски,
Сколько есть и будет их ещё?
На потеху... Да кому расскажешь?...
Три желанья взять бы от судьбы:
Быть как все и быть немного каждым,
Чтоб смеялись в будущем шуты!
3.
Старец-отшельник
Он живёт на отшибе средь вечных дубов,
потерявший три части волос и зубов,
варит кашу из манки и проса.
Дотянувший до самых преклонных седин,
понимает, что он безоглядно один,
а в руках только мудрость и посох.
В прошлой жизни он соли отведал сполна,
силы нет, да и мудрость уже не нужна.
Как она пригодилась бы раньше!
Понапрасну считают, что он чародей,
старец так одичал, что боится людей.
Но дубы возмущаются: «Встань же!
Если что-то ещё согревает в груди,
выбирайся из леса и к людям иди,
там ты мудрость свою и приложишь:
счастью будешь учить их, как глупых котят,
потому что по-доброму жить не хотят,
утешаясь дурманом и ложью.»
И старик отвечает с глубокой тоской:
«Обладал бы и вправду я силой такой,
чтобы тучи прогнать роковые,
я бы каждому дал драгоценный совет,
как по-доброму жить. Но желающих нет,
лишь трава и дубы вековые."
4.
Яга
Подойди, Иванушка, сокол ясный, –
Заждалась тебя средь болот бескрайних.
Много лет гляжу на тропу напрасно –
не явился ни конный, ни пеший странник.
Проходи, Иванушка, в свет-избушку,
да сперва прими мою чудо-баню.
Про твою беду я готова слушать –
говори же, Ваня.
Знай, Ванюша: непросто с Кощеем биться –
кладенец тебе не поможет, Ваня.
Полететь бы с тобой, обернувшись птицей,
да нога мешает мне костяная.
Всё болит спина, поясницу ломит...
А ведь было время: взмывала в небо,
не страшась летала меж ярких молний.
И любила слепо.
В русы косы вплетала вороньи перья,
по ночам гадала на звёздных картах.
Только кто мне, старой, теперь поверит?..
Ты ложись, Иван, отдохни до завтра.
Утро, знаешь, вечера мудренее.
Поутру тебе укажу дорожку
к золотому дубу, где смерть Кощея.
Подсоблю немножко.
Подарю заветные три вещицы:
меткий лук, чтоб утку сразить на взлёте,
шерстяной клубок, чтоб с пути не сбиться,
и косынку-мост – не пропасть в болоте.
А в ответ, Ванюша, меня ты вспомни
добрым словом кротким на ясной зорьке.
Неспокойно Яге в её тёплом доме.
Одиноко. Горько.
5.
Яблоки собраны
Яблоки собраны, клевер скошен...
Только по осени так, скажи мне,
Ведьма прекрасна - подобно кошке
В апофеозе девятой жизни?
Светлая, словно ей бог ответил,
Осенью шепчет:" скорей, скорее
Травы сухие развей же, ветер,
Ветер, зовущий в Гиперборею"
Точки расставлены. Век отметил
Обворовавших горбушкой постной.
Всем, возжелавшим для ведьмы смерти,
Носят гвоздики на три погоста.
Кончены битвы. Остались нежность,
Золото в голосе и октябрь.
Ткнуться в колени не хочешь нешто?
Руку держать и молчать хотя бы?
Если твердишь, что она - несносна,
Смотришь и смотришь зачем, ответь мне,
Как фиолетовый плещет космос
В медленном взгляде осенней ведьмы?
6.
Змей Горюныч
Три головы -
Мудрёно самому!
И что дались, они богатырям?
Ну, да! Сожрал я барышню одну,
Спалил село одно, ко всем чертям!
А что они?
За вилы , топоры...
Подняли бабы визгу...
До небес...
Мне самому противно, хоть ори...
Ну да! Переборщил!
Попутал бес!
Они,
Как что, так сразу богатырь!
А он?
Как только, так мечом махать!
Ему за это царь закатит пир!
А мне не мёда с пивом, не пожрать...
Среди болотных, спрятавшись, трясин,
Нелепую судьбинушку кляну...
Ох! Не сносить мне на Святой Руси
Три головы...
Сносить бы, хоть одну...
7.
*****
Изба в лесу – кто тут? Ведь мою
избранницу зовут ведьмою.
Неужели я медведь? Молюсь,
ворожее исповедуюсь.
И с губ или из рук мы пили,
пригубили да и смутились.
А она с повязкой опытно,
всё стонала вязким шёпотом...
Оберни меня, ведьма заново
в человека, хотя бы временно.
Я приму как награду заговор,
троекратное повторение.
Забери мою душу грешную.
Назови, как угодно, хоть имярек.
Я незримо пройду за внешнюю,
нереальную красоту сумерек.
А когда мы проснёмся вместе, нам
безопасен колдун и на пользу яд.
Ты откроешь лукошко с песнями.
Я оставил одну – пользуйся!
8.
* * *
ВЕДЬМА
Что-то тихо да гладко… Тоскливо.
Позабавиться б гостем случайным.
Только люди обычно трусливы.
На порог лишь под палкой печали,
кто за зельем – спастись от недуга,
кто греховное тайно задумал,
и нужны колдовские услуги,
чтобы быстро, легко и без шума.
Бестолковые. Ведьме не трудно.
Ведьмы – это особая каста.
Зло с добром в них (что кажется чудом)
в равновесии и не зубасто.
Но просящим потом отдуваться
за страстишки и мелкие цели.
Поделом. Прибегают, как зайцы,
и домой, – лишь бы к ночи успели,
потому что ночами опасно.
Ночью морок тропинки туманит.
Если кто-то задержится часом –
берегись. Ведьма тоже живая.
Позабавиться любит, являясь
миражом. Увлечет – не заметишь.
По характеру ведьма не злая,
Просто скучно.
Три по три столетья
коротает в избушке. Устала.
А вокруг только глупая нечисть.
Ну а ведьме ни много ни мало
пообщаться бы по-человечьи.
И умна ведь она, и хозяйка.
Да и внешне довольно приятна.
Но как вороны, кружатся байки,
мол коварная невероятно.
Благодарность – великая редкость…
… Кот клубочком лежит на коленях.
Гладит крышу еловая ветка,
да мелькают за окнами тени…
9.
Лорелея
Там шепчет скала ли, утёс ли,
Играет речная волна:
Ночною порою над плёсом
Их грустная песня слышна.
Матрос ли пытливый, рыбак ли,
Заслышав, вглядится во мглу.
И видит он груди русалки –
Нагая взошла на скалу.
Волос золотистые кудри,
Чешуйки у бёдер блестят,
И словно померкшие угли
Глаза. Зазывающий взгляд.
Заманит красой Лорелея,
Тоской надрывая сердца.
И гибнут отважные Греи –
Их списку не видно конца…
Она улыбнётся лукаво –
Лишь трое за месяц спаслись.
А Рейн – он волною исправно
Смывает кровавую слизь…
И звёзды свой шёпот вплетают
В русалки бессвязную речь,
Висят словно хищная стая,
Чтоб души усопших стеречь…
10.
Повелитель
Целый мир – твой дворец: непростая обитель
поперёк, по периметру, вдоль.
Равный солнцу в зените, кумир, повелитель,
справедливый король.
Твой диктат принимают на трёх континентах,
где тебя почитает народ,
строишь планы великие в духе момента
и на годы вперёд.
Пред тобою склоняется чопорный запад,
для тебя расцветает восток.
А в дворцовом саду восхитительный запах,
значит, мир не жесток.
Гнев твой прячется в жерлах заряженных пушек,
ты спокоен с врагом визави.
Во дворец доставляют прелестных пастушек
для забав и любви.
На любовь не скупишься, даруя в объятьях
чистоту благородных кровей.
Но единую власть охраняешь от братьев
и своих сыновей.
Опускается ночь к твоему изголовью.
Нежным шёлком ласкает бельё.
Отчего же в тоске не слезами, а кровью,
плачет сердце твоё?
В смутных снах проплывают любимые лица,
и, лишённый свободы ферзя,
ты, король, с ними жизнью готов поделиться,
но престолом – нельзя.
А наутро опять у подножия трона
унижаешь чужого посла.
Ты бы сбросил на время тугую корону,
да она приросла.
11.
Три карты
Спасения нет… слишком дорого я оплатил
Удачу в игре, но коварна, ревнива фортуна.
Зачем же погоне за фартом отдАл столько сил?!
Три карты узнал, – и судьбой завладели три руны…
Мне тридцать всего, но устал, изнемог и вокруг
Всё хмуро, уныло, пропало куда-то веселье.
Чужим и враждебным родное становится вдруг,
Цветистая радуга жизни – испитой и серой.
Не тешат ни пьянки, ни бабы, ни сабельный бой,
И рушится прахом, к чему прикоснусь ненароком.
Судьбой обделён?.. или болен всерьёз головой?..
Всё чаще назойливо: жизнь завершилась до срока…
Три карты на стол – нагадайте последний совет.
Две фоски молчат, но туз пик наливается алым.
Улыбка мрачна, у виска не дрожит пистолет.
Раскаянье? – бред… невозможно уже, запоздало…
Пора… всем – прощайте… простите… спускаю курок.
Щелчок! – и я слышу?.. я жив?.. о, проклятье, осечка!
Опять неудача!.. внезапно – как вспышка, ожог –
Врывается смех, превращая меня в человечка:
«Рабу своему не позволю легко умереть!
Простак, – понадеялся: тайну задаром получишь?!
Теперь ты – орудье, ты ведьмы послушная плеть!»
О, Господи, смилуйся, вызволь пропащую душу…
(вскрывая...) Сердце бытия...
Где проживаем!
Ты и я.
...
... тот. Что внутри... он. Золотой!!
(вобрал в себя...
Весь Мир! Живой...
Ему присущи - страсть. И власть (вот...
(в когти бы...!!
К нему.
Не впасть! Но...
... если. Победить. Сумеешь...
(врага...!) Другого!!!
Одолеешь.
А...
Враг другой - Дракон вовне...!!
Шагает гордо! По Земле.
Он...
Носит.
Чёрные Одежды...
... и прикрывает. Злые вежды.
...
(но если...
Золотой Дракон (с цепи сорвётся! (выйдет вон...
Сольётся с Чёрным!!
То... беда.
... не победить их. Никогда.
...
Когда... себя не соблюдаешь...
Победу-Птицу... (не поймаешь!
(коль коготок...
То... птичка тоже.
...
Нет...
(ноготка...) Того.
Дороже...
Дракона победит. Дракон...
(таков...
Неписанный. Закон.
13.
Свадьба
Нынче, царь играет свадьбу,
В царстве пир горой три дня.
В склоне лет...утехи ради,
Стару жинку схороня,
Царь нашёл себе молодку -
Брови чёрные вразлет...
Щедро подчивает водкой
За невестушку народ.
А царевна молодая
Нежива и немертва
То вздохнет, то зарыдает...
Ходит по селу молва,
Будто царь её миленка,
Спроводив на смертный бой,
Утащил его Аленку
У родителей. С собой
Их единственную дочку
Он забрал в престольный град.
Словно вор, безлунной ночкой
Выкрал сладкий виноград.
У царя свои утехи:
Раскрасавица жена,
А соперник - не помеха!
Для того то, и война!
14.&
"Баба-Яга"
Седина, как пакля, под косынкой.
Из друзей - сова и чёрный кот.
А избушка, словно для разминки,
В лес - то задом, то наоборот.
Словом, веселиться нет причины.
Одичала я без новостей.
Узнаю по запаху мужчину
И люблю приманивать детей.
Ведь своих и не было в помине,
Да и мужа не было совсем.
Лишь мечты о дочке или сыне.
Брешут люди. Я детей не ем.
Просто скучно. Старая, больная...
Тусклых дней остаток-завиток...
И нога всё ноет костяная.
Подсобил бы кто-нибудь чуток:
Постирал, травы набрал для супа,
Заменил на крыше старый толь.
Требуют починки пест и ступа,
Дверь скрипит - то си, то ля-бемоль.
Загуляло где-то бабье лето.
Ветер мне нашёптывает: "Зря
Копишь ты волшебные предметы,
У окошка ждёшь богатыря."
Только, чу! хрустит валежник где-то,
А за печкой завозилась мышь.
"Я стучал три раза без ответа.
Ты глуха, бабуля, или спишь?"
15.
Старость - второе детство.
На «территории сердца»
Сказки смешались с былью.
Старость – второе детство.
Яркие образы пылью.
Внутренний мир бездонный.
В нём притаились Драконы,
Жрущие дев невинных,
В поисках половинок.
Три головы у змея,
Злобу, коварство лелея,
Страхом пронзают ночи,
Сны, разрывая в клочья.
Как укротить злодея?
Сделать свой мир добрее.
Свет отделить от тени.
Радость познать решений,
Сложных задач от жизни.
Преодолев катаклизмы,
Снова поверить в Чудо
И уберечь рассудок…
16.
Король и шут
Начиная не сначала, а как раз с того момента,
Где сошлись в извечном споре зло, любовь и красота,
Я спою тебе балладу как в своих апартаментах
Принимала королева синеглазого шута.
Как сжимал он ей ладони, не желая расставаться,
Только стоило рассвету отразиться на стекле,
Как смеялась королева шуткам юного паяца
О рогатом и безмозглом престарелом короле.
Проскользнув по коридорам, синеглазый, глядя в оба,
Шутовской своей звездою и обласкан, и храним,
Потирал худые руки: венценосная особа,
Как подстреленная птица трепыхается под ним!
И, придя в свою каморку, натянув колпак на ухо,
Трижды пафосно крестился посреди зеркал кривых:
"Вот! Первейшая из женщин - королева - тоже шлюха!
И теперь ответь мне, Боже: так кого любить из них?!
Видно, где-то ты ошибся на законах мирозданья...
Прямо скажем: я монарха по-особому люблю,
Но меня сжигает жажда. Это жажда обладанья
Тем, что по твоим законам можно только королю".
Ночью пела королева сонной дочери балладу:
"Ты не слушай трубадуров! Помни, дочка, об одном:
Если муж - король по праву, не ищи в шутах отрады.
Благородный, честный, храбрый
Не становится шутом!"
17.
Русалка..
В полночь ветер качнёт камыши,
Тихо бродят волшебные сны,
На свиданье Русалка спешит,
Озарённая светом луны.
Бледнолицая дева грустна,
Но в глаза не спеши заглянуть!
Длинный хвост укрывает волна,
Над водой - обнажённая грудь.
Ей три сотни отпущено лет,
Только хочется в мире людей
Миг любви обрести, сняв запрет,
Даже жертвуя жизнью своей.
Равнодушна она к жемчугам,
Очень робкой бывает подчас.
Но, к морским обратившись Богам,
Без сомнения сердце отдаст.
И, простившись с мечтой навсегда,
Со слезами в потухших глазах,
На земле не оставив следа?
Станет белою пеной в волнах.
Берегини - хранители вод –
Эти нимфы не так холодны!
В их душе состраданье живёт,
Если чувства любовью полны.
18.
Ведьма из Потсдама.
Не усидеть на трех китах
горбатой ведьме из Потсдама.
Она давно не молода,
но все же держит спину прямо -
и это несмотря на горб
и возраст(что немаловажно).
Людей спасает от хвороб
без всякой мишуры бумажной.
.
Но есть на ней тяжелый грех
почти тысячелетним грузом -
любимый муж ушел к сестре,
поставив крест на их союзе -
она обоих прокляла,
да и племянницу грудную,
через кривые зеркала
и шар хрустальный, смерть колдуя.
.
Они погибли в тот же миг,
как дом заполыхал пожаром.
Остался шрам, как лунный блик
на смуглой шее ведьмы старой.
.
Ей б умереть, да в том беда,
что не придет ее минута,
пока свой дар не передаст -
волшебный дар она кому-то.
Но ни родных и ни детей,
одна она на белом свете,
и навсегда остались с ней
лишь черный кот и вольный ветер.
.
Сто пятьдесят веков живет...
Земля из плоской стала круглой.
На небе звездный хоровод,
как будто тлеющие угли...
19.
Принцу не моей сказки
Расплескалась тоской зелёной
вдоль дороги полынь-трава,
колдовства узелок плетённый
нам с тобою не разорвать.
Будто волей чужой привязан,
неотступно идешь вослед –
не прочёл в детстве нужных сказок,
не услышал чужой совет.
Ну, лети же, мой милый мальчик,
за границы дуальных стен,
странный мир без интриг и фальши
ты отринь и вернись смирен.
Где-то ждёт у окна принцесса,
предначертанная тебе,
воплотив кроткий образ с фресок,
доверяя своей судьбе.
Ты найди, поцелуй, поведай,
как нелёгок был к счастью путь,
а меня, оживясь победой,
в небо сойкой пусти, забудь.
Навсегда улечу в пространство
хрупких знаний, забытых снов,
в чаде зелий на грани транса
возрождаться с надеждой вновь.
Но коль выпадет сыну случай
выбирать между трёх дорог,
пусть отыщет в лесу дремучем –
подарю, так и быть, клубок.
20.
Я отвернусь
Нет, это не сверкающие латы.
В заношенной джинсовке - до бела -
Несёт по миру рыцарь безлошадный
Свои мечты на кончике пера.
Да, он из тех, кто тратит бестолково ,
Из тех, которым жизнь не дорога.
Но острое рифмованное слово
Сражает на ристалище врага.
Таким всегда открыто три дороги.
На каждой он останется один.
Воздушный замок, видимый не многим,
Всю жизнь обороняет паладин.
И вот он в переходе перед нами.
Я отвернусь - расплакаться боюсь,
Когда попросит на цветы для Дамы
Последний сын воинствующих муз.
21.
РЫЦАРСКОЕ СЛОВО
Дышал туман. Тропинка извивалась.
По ней трусил покрытый пеной конь.
Закутан в плащ наездник. До привала –
как выдаст бог. Нещадно мучил сон.
Повел в поход каприз прекрасной дамы.
А рыцарское слово – приговор.
Теперь умри, но сделай. Слово – знамя,
ронять нельзя.
Подножье черных гор.
Три речки вброд и мелкая пещера.
Еще усилие – и радует очаг.
За гранью света рык ночного зверя.
Метнулся конь у входа сгоряча.
Но зверь ушел. Привычному к походам
постель в камнях – что мягкий сеновал.
Сдул ветер муть. Подмигивали звезды.
Глоток воды, минута – и провал
в страну видений. Снилось – он мальчишка.
Отец, учитель, первые бои
и первые победы. Выше, выше.
Взросление и радости любви.
Улыбка смерти, крах былых иллюзий
и вечный долг кого-то защищать.
Потери, расставания, союзы,
года скитаний. Но его душа
легка, как свет, – не выгорела в схватках.
Он уважал и каплю, и росток.
И, как обычай, хлебные остатки
дарил пернатым. Даже мотылек
мог отыскать спасение в ладони.
Не стар, не молод путник. Просто жизнь
ценил как высший дар и свято помнил:
судить и ненавидеть не спеши.
А потому давно дружил с драконом
(охотники загнали, умирал).
Больного спас, и нынче по закону
тот вне угроз живет у дальних скал.
… Бледнело небо. Птицы совещались.
Взбодрила родниковая вода.
Рассвет спокойный – доброе начало.
Вдали эльфийский лес. Ему туда.
Уильям Блэйк/ William Blake, (28 ноября 1757 — 12 августа 1827) — английский поэт и художник
To those who Dwell in Realms of day.
==================
Broken Love
MY Spectre around me night and day
Like a wild beast guards my way;
My Emanation far within
Weeps incessantly for my sin.
‘A fathomless and boundless deep,
There we wander, there we weep;
On the hungry craving wind
My Spectre follows thee behind.
‘He scents thy footsteps in the snow
Wheresoever thou dost go,
Thro’ the wintry hail and rain.
When wilt thou return again?
’Dost thou not in pride and scorn
Fill with tempests all my morn,
And with jealousies and fears
Fill my pleasant nights with tears?
‘Seven of my sweet loves thy knife
Has bereaved of their life.
Their marble tombs I built with tears,
And with cold and shuddering fears.
‘Seven more loves weep night and day
Round the tombs where my loves lay,
And seven more loves attend each night
Around my couch with torches bright.
‘And seven more loves in my bed
Crown with wine my mournful head,
Pitying and forgiving all
Thy transgressions great and small.
‘When wilt thou return and view
My loves, and them to life renew?
When wilt thou return and live?
When wilt thou pity as I forgive?’
‘O’er my sins thou sit and moan:
Hast thou no sins of thy own?
O’er my sins thou sit and weep,
And lull thy own sins fast asleep.
‘What transgressions I commit
Are for thy transgressions fit.
They thy harlots, thou their slave;
And my bed becomes their grave.
‘Never, never, I return:
Still for victory I burn.
Living, thee alone I’ll have;
And when dead I’ll be thy grave.
‘Thro’ the Heaven and Earth and Hell
Thou shalt never, quell:
I will fly and thou pursue:
Night and morn the flight renew.’
‘Poor, pale, pitiable form
That I follow in a storm;
Iron tears and groans of lead
Bind around my aching head.
‘Till I turn from Female love
And root up the Infernal Grove,
I shall never worthy be
To step into Eternity.
‘And, to end thy cruel mocks,
Annihilate thee on the rocks,
And another form create
To be subservient to my fate.
‘Let us agree to give up love,
And root up the Infernal Grove;
Then shall we return and see
The worlds of happy Eternity.
‘And throughout all Eternity
I forgive you, you forgive me.
As our dear Redeemer said:
“This the Wine, and this the Bread.”
But in the Wine-presses the Human Grapes Sing not nor Dance
But in the Wine-presses the human grapes sing not nor dance:
They howl and writhe in shoals of torment, in fierce flames consuming,
In chains of iron and in dungeons circled with ceaseless fires,
In pits and dens and shades of death, in shapes of torment and woe:
The plates and screws and racks and saws and cords and fires and cisterns
The cruel joys of Luvah's Daughters, lacerating with knives
And whips their victims, and the deadly sport of Luvah's Sons.
They dance around the dying and they drink the howl and groan,
They catch the shrieks in cups of gold, they hand them to one another:
These are the sports of love, and these the sweet delights of amorous play,
Tears of the grape, the death sweat of the cluster, the last sigh
Of the mild youth who listens to the luring songs of Luvah.
Cradle Song
Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,
Dreaming in the joys of night;
Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
Little sorrows sit and weep.
Sweet babe, in thy face
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles.
As thy softest limbs I feel
Smiles as of the morning steal
O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast
Where thy little heart doth rest.
O the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep!
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful night shall break
Day
The Sun arises in the East,
Cloth'd in robes of blood and gold;
Swords and spears and wrath increast
All around his bosom roll'd
Crown'd with warlike fires and raging desires.
Devine Image
To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,
All pray in their distress,
And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.
For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,
Is God our Father dear;
And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love,
Is man, his child and care.
For Mercy has a human heart
Pity, a human face;
And Love, the human form divine;
And Peace, the human dress.
Then every man, of every clime,
That prays in his distress,
Prays to the human form divine:
Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.
And all must love the human form,
In heathen, Turk, or Jew.
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell,
There God is dwelling too.
Earth's Answer
Earth raised up her head
From the darkness dread and drear,
Her light fled,
Stony, dread,
And her locks covered with grey despair.
'Prisoned on watery shore,
Starry jealousy does keep my den
Cold and hoar;
Weeping o're,
I hear the father of the ancient men.
'Selfish father of men!
Cruel, jealous, selfish fear!
Can delight,
Chained in night,
The virgins of youth and morning bear?
'Does spring hide its joy,
When buds and blossoms grow?
Does the sower
Sow by night,
Or the plowman in darkness plough?
'Break this heavy chain,
That does freeze my bones around!
Selfish, vain,
Eternal bane,
That free love with bondage bound.'
England! awake! awake! awake!
England! awake! awake! awake!
Jerusalem thy Sister calls!
Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death
And close her from thy ancient walls?
Thy hills and valleys felt her feet
Gently upon their bosoms move:
Thy gates beheld sweet Zion's ways:
Then was a time of joy and love.
And now the time returns again:
Our souls exult, and London's towers
Receive the Lamb of God to dwell
In England's green and pleasant bowers.
Eternity
He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sun rise.
Fair Elanor
The bell struck one, and shook the silent tower;
The graves give up their dead: fair Elenor
Walk'd by the castle gate, and looked in.
A hollow groan ran thro' the dreary vaults.
She shriek'd aloud, and sunk upon the steps,
On the cold stone her pale cheeks. Sickly smells
Of death issue as from a sepulchre,
And all is silent but the sighing vaults.
Chill Death withdraws his hand, and she revives;
Amaz'd, she finds herself upon her feet,
And, like a ghost, thro' narrow passages
Walking, feeling the cold walls with her hands.
Fancy returns, and now she thinks of bones
And grinning skulls, and corruptible death
Wrapp'd in his shroud; and now fancies she hears
Deep sighs, and sees pale sickly ghosts gliding.
At length, no fancy but reality
Distracts her. A rushing sound, and the feet
Of one that fled, approaches--Ellen stood
Like a dumb statue, froze to stone with fear.
The wretch approaches, crying: `The deed is done;
Take this, and send it by whom thou wilt send;
It is my life--send it to Elenor:--
He's dead, and howling after me for blood!
`Take this,' he cried; and thrust into her arms
A wet napkin, wrapp'd about; then rush'd
Past, howling: she receiv'd into her arms
Pale death, and follow'd on the wings of fear.
They pass'd swift thro' the outer gate; the wretch,
Howling, leap'd o'er the wall into the moat,
Stifling in mud. Fair Ellen pass'd the bridge,
And heard a gloomy voice cry `Is it done?'
As the deer wounded, Ellen flew over
The pathless plain; as the arrows that fly
By night, destruction flies, and strikes in darkness.
She fled from fear, till at her house arriv'd.
Her maids await her; on her bed she falls,
That bed of joy, where erst her lord hath press'd:
`Ah, woman's fear!' she cried; `ah, cursed duke!
Ah, my dear lord! ah, wretched Elenor!
`My lord was like a flower upon the brows
Of lusty May! Ah, life as frail as flower!
O ghastly death! withdraw thy cruel hand,
Seek'st thou that flow'r to deck thy horrid temples?
`My lord was like a star in highest heav'n
Drawn down to earth by spells and wickedness;
My lord was like the opening eyes of day
When western winds creep softly o'er the flowers;
`But he is darken'd; like the summer's noon
Clouded; fall'n like the stately tree, cut down;
The breath of heaven dwelt among his leaves.
O Elenor, weak woman, fill'd with woe!'
Thus having spoke, she raised up her head,
And saw the bloody napkin by her side,
Which in her arms she brought; and now, tenfold
More terrified, saw it unfold itself.
Her eyes were fix'd; the bloody cloth unfolds,
Disclosing to her sight the murder'd head
Of her dear lord, all ghastly pale, clotted
With gory blood; it groan'd, and thus it spake:
`O Elenor, I am thy husband's head,
Who, sleeping on the stones of yonder tower,
Was 'reft of life by the accursed duke!
A hired villain turn'd my sleep to death!
`O Elenor, beware the cursed duke;
O give not him thy hand, now I am dead;
He seeks thy love; who, coward, in the night,
Hired a villain to bereave my life.'
She sat with dead cold limbs, stiffen'd to stone;
She took the gory head up in her arms;
She kiss'd the pale lips; she had no tears to shed;
She hugg'd it to her breast, and groan'd her last.
From Milton: And did those feet
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?
Bring me my Bow of burning gold:
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear:O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!
I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green & pleasant Land.
Gwin King of Norway
Come, kings, and listen to my song:
When Gwin, the son of Nore,
Over the nations of the North
His cruel sceptre bore;
The nobles of the land did feed
Upon the hungry poor;
They tear the poor man's lamb, and drive
The needy from their door.
`The land is desolate; our wives
And children cry for bread;
Arise, and pull the tyrant down!
Let Gwin be humbled!'
Gordred the giant rous'd himself
From sleeping in his cave;
He shook the hills, and in the clouds
The troubl'd banners wave.
Beneath them roll'd, like tempests black,
The num'rous sons of blood;
Like lions' whelps, roaring abroad,
Seeking their nightly food.
Down Bleron's hills they dreadful rush,
Their cry ascends the clouds;
The trampling horse and clanging arms
Like rushing mighty floods!
Their wives and children, weeping loud,
Follow in wild array,
Howling like ghosts, furious as wolves
In the bleak wintry day.
`Pull down the tyrant to the dust,
Let Gwin be humbled,'
They cry, `and let ten thousand lives
Pay for the tyrant's head.'
From tow'r to tow'r the watchmen cry,
`O Gwin, the son of Nore,
Arouse thyself! the nations, black
Like clouds, come rolling o'er!'
Gwin rear'd his shield, his palace shakes,
His chiefs come rushing round;
Each, like an awful thunder cloud,
With voice of solemn sound:
Like reared stones around a grave
They stand around the King;
Then suddenly each seiz'd his spear,
And clashing steel does ring.
The husbandman does leave his plough
To wade thro' fields of gore;
The merchant binds his brows in steel,
And leaves the trading shore;
The shepherd leaves his mellow pipe,
And sounds the trumpet shrill;
The workman throws his hammer down
To heave the bloody bill.
Like the tall ghost of Barraton
Who sports in stormy sky,
Gwin leads his host, as black as night
When pestilence does fly,
With horses and with chariots--
And all his spearmen b 1000 old
March to the sound of mournful song,
Like clouds around him roll'd.
Gwin lifts his hand--the nations halt;
`Prepare for war!' he cries--
Gordred appears!--his frowning brow
Troubles our northern skies.
The armies stand, like balances
Held in th' Almighty's hand;--
`Gwin, thou hast fill'd thy measure up:
Thou'rt swept from out the land.'
And now the raging armies rush'd
Like warring mighty seas;
The heav'ns are shook with roaring war,
The dust ascends the skies!
Earth smokes with blood, and groans and shakes
To drink her children's gore,
A sea of blood; nor can the eye
See to the trembling shore!
And on the verge of this wild sea
Famine and death doth cry;
The cries of women and of babes
Over the field doth fly.
The King is seen raging afar,
With all his men of might;
Like blazing comets scattering death
Thro' the red fev'rous night.
Beneath his arm like sheep they die,
And groan upon the plain;
The battle faints, and bloody men
Fight upon hills of slain.
Now death is sick, and riven men
Labour and toil for life;
Steed rolls on steed, and shield on shield,
Sunk in this sea of strife!
The god of war is drunk with blood;
The earth doth faint and fail;
The stench of blood makes sick the heav'ns;
Ghosts glut the throat of hell!
O what have kings to answer for
Before that awful throne;
When thousand deaths for vengeance cry,
And ghosts accusing groan!
Like blazing comets in the sky
That shake the stars of light,
Which drop like fruit unto the earth
Thro' the fierce burning night;
Like these did Gwin and Gordred meet,
And the first blow decides;
Down from the brow unto the breast
Gordred his head divides!
Gwin fell: the sons of Norway fled,
All that remain'd alive;
The rest did fill the vale of death,
For them the eagles strive.
The river Dorman roll'd their blood
Into the northern sea;
Who mourn'd his sons, and overwhelm'd
The pleasant south country.
Hear the Voice
HEAR the voice of the Bard,
Who present, past, and future, sees;
Whose ears have heard
The Holy Word
That walk'd among the ancient trees;
Calling the lapsed soul,
And weeping in the evening dew;
That might control
The starry pole,
And fallen, fallen light renew!
'O Earth, O Earth, return!
Arise from out the dewy grass!
Night is worn,
And the morn
Rises from the slumbrous mass.
'Turn away no more;
Why wilt thou turn away?
The starry floor,
The watery shore,
Is given thee till the break of day.'
Holy Thursday
'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
Came children walking two and two, in read, and blue, and green:
Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow.
Oh what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town!
Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own.
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,
Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.
Now like a mighty wild they raise to heaven the voice of song,
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among:
Beneath them sit the aged man, wise guardians of the poor.
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
Holy Thursday (Experience)
Is this a holy thing to see.
In a rich and fruitful land.
Babes reduced to misery.
Fed with cold and usurous hand?
Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!
And their sun does never shine.
And their fields are bleak & bare.
And their ways are fill'd with thorns
It is eternal winter there.
For where-e'er the sun does shine.
And where-e'er the rain does fall:
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.
How Sweet I Roam'd
How sweet I roam'd from field to field,
And tasted all the summer's pride
'Til the prince of love beheld
Who in the sunny beams did glide!
He shew'd me lilies for my hair
And blushing roses for my brow;
He led me through his garden fair,
Where all his golden pleasures grow.
With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
And Phoebus fir'd my vocal rage
He caught me in his silken net,
And shut me in his golden cage.
He loves to sit and hear me sing,
Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;
Then stretches out my golden wing,
And mocks my loss of liberty.
I Heard an Angel
I heard an Angel singing
When the day was springing,
'Mercy, Pity, Peace
Is the world's release.'
Thus he sung all day
Over the new mown hay,
Till the sun went down
And haycocks looked brown.
I heard a Devil curse
Over the heath and the furze,
'Mercy could be no more,
If there was nobody poor,
And pity no more could be,
If all were as happy as we.'
At his curse the sun went down,
And the heavens gave a frown.
Down pour'd the heavy rain
Over the new reap'd grain ...
And Miseries' increase
Is Mercy, Pity, Peace.
I Rose Up at the Dawn of Day
I rose up at the dawn of day--
`Get thee away! get thee away!
Pray'st thou for riches? Away! away!
This is the Throne of Mammon grey.'
Said I: This, sure, is very odd;
I took it to be the Throne of God.
For everything besides I have:
It is only for riches that I can crave.
I have mental joy, and mental health,
And mental friends, and mental wealth;
I've a wife I love, and that loves me;
I've all but riches bodily.
I am in God's presence night and day,
And He never turns His face away;
The accuser of sins by my side doth stand,
And he holds my money-bag in his hand.
For my worldly things God makes him pay,
And he'd pay for more if to him I would pray;
And so you may do the worst you can do;
Be assur'd, Mr. Devil, I won't pray to you.
Then if for riches I must not pray,
God knows, I little of prayers need say;
So, as a church is known by its steeple,
If I pray it must be for other people.
He says, if I do not worship him for a God,
I shall eat coarser food, and go worse shod;
So, as I don't value such things as these,
You must do, Mr. Devil, just as God please.
I Saw a Chapel
I saw a chapel all of gold
That none did dare to enter in,
And many weeping stood without,
Weeping, mourning, worshipping.
I saw a serpent rise between
The white pillars of the door,
And he forc'd and forc'd and forc'd,
Down the golden hinges tore.
And along the pavement sweet,
Set with pearls and rubies bright,
All his slimy length he drew
Till upon the altar white
Vomiting his poison out
On the bread and on the wine.
So I turn'd into a sty
And laid me down among the swine.
I see the Four-fold Man
I see the Four-fold Man, The Humanity in deadly sleep
And its fallen Emanation, the Spectre and its cruel Shadow.
I see the Past, Present and Future existing all at once
Before me. O Divine Spirit, sustain me on thy wings,
That I may awake Albion from his long and cold repose;
For Bacon and Newton, sheath'd in dismal steel, their terrors hang
Like iron scourges over Albion: reasonings like vast serpents
Infold around my limbs, bruising my minute articulations.
I turn my eyes to the schools and universities of Europe
And there behold the Loom of Locke, whose Woof rages dire,
Wash'd by the Water-wheels of Newton: black the cloth
In heavy wreaths folds over every nation: cruel works
Of many Wheels I view, wheel without wheel, with cogs tyrannic
Moving by compulsion each other, not as those in Eden, which,
Wheel within wheel, in freedom revolve in harmony and peace.
If It Is True What the Prophets Write
If it is true, what the Prophets write,
That the heathen gods are all stocks and stones,
Shall we, for the sake of being polite,
Feed them with the juice of our marrow-bones?
And if Bezaleel and Aholiab drew
What the finger of God pointed to their view,
Shall we suffer the Roman and Grecian rods
To compel us to worship them as gods?
They stole them from the temple of the Lord
And worshipp'd them that they might make inspired art abhorr'd;
The wood and stone were call'd the holy things,
And their sublime intent given to their kings.
All the atonements of Jehovah spurn'd,
And criminals to sacrifices turn'd.
Infant Joy
'I have no name;
I am but two days old.'
What shall I call thee?
'I happy am,
Joy is my name.'
Sweet joy befall thee!
Pretty joy!
Sweet joy, but two days old.
Sweet Joy I call thee:
Thou dost smile,
I sing the while;
Sweet joy befall thee!
Infant Sorrow
My mother groaned, my father wept,
Into the dangerous world I leapt;
Helpless, naked, piping loud,
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.
Struggling in my father's hands,
Striving against my swaddling bands,
Bound and weary, I thought best
To sulk upon my mother's breast.
Introduction to Songs of Experience
Hear the voice of the Bard,
Who present, past, and future, sees;
Whose ears have heard
The Holy Word
That walk'd among the ancient trees;
Calling the lapsed soul,
And weeping in the evening dew;
That might control
The starry pole,
And fallen, fallen light renew!
'O Earth, O Earth, return!
Arise from out the dewy grass!
Night is worn,
And the morn
Rises from the slumbrous mass.
'Turn away no more;
Why wilt thou turn away?
The starry floor,
The watery shore,
Is given thee till the break of day.'
Introduction to the Songs of Innocence
Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:
'Pipe a song about a Lamb!'
So I piped with merry cheer.
'Piper, pipe that song again;'
So I piped: he wept to hear.
'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;
Sing thy songs of happy cheer:!'
So I sang the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.
'Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book, that all may read.'
So he vanish'd from my sight;
And I pluck'd a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,
And I stain'd the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.
Jerusalem
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold:
Bring me my arrows of desire:
Bring me my spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire.
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land.
Jerusalem: England! awake! awake! awake!
England! awake! awake! awake!
Jerusalem thy Sister calls!
Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death
And close her from thy ancient walls?
Thy hills and valleys felt her feet
Gently upon their bosoms move:
Thy gates beheld sweet Zion's ways:
Then was a time of joy and love.
And now the time returns again:
Our souls exult, and London's towers
Receive the Lamb of God to dwell
In England's green and pleasant bowers.
Jerusalem: I see the Four-fold Man, The Humanity in deadly sleep
I see the Four-fold Man, The Humanity in deadly sleep
And its fallen Emanation, the Spectre and its cruel Shadow.
I see the Past, Present and Future existing all at once
Before me. O Divine Spirit, sustain me on thy wings,
That I may awake Albion from his long and cold repose;
For Bacon and Newton, sheath'd in dismal steel, their terrors hang
Like iron scourges over Albion: reasonings like vast serpents
Infold around my limbs, bruising my minute articulations.
I turn my eyes to the schools and universities of Europe
And there behold the Loom of Locke, whose Woof rages dire,
Wash'd by the Water-wheels of Newton: black the cloth
In heavy wreaths folds over every nation: cruel works
Of many Wheels I view, wheel without wheel, with cogs tyrannic
Moving by compulsion each other, not as those in Eden, which,
Wheel within wheel, in freedom revolve in harmony and peace.
Laughing Song
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;
when the meadows laugh with lively green,
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,
When Mary and Susan and Emily
With their sweet round mouths sing 'Ha, ha he!'
When the painted birds laugh in the shade,
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread:
Come live, and be merry, and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of 'Ha, ha, he!'
London
I wandered through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
A mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:
How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackening church appals,
And the hapless soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.
But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.
Love and Harmony
Love and harmony combine,
And round our souls entwine
While thy branches mix with mine,
And our roots together join.
Joys upon our branches sit,
Chirping loud and singing sweet;
Like gentle streams beneath our feet
Innocence and virtue meet.
Thou the golden fruit dost bear,
I am clad in flowers fair;
Thy sweet boughs perfume the air,
And the turtle buildeth there.
There she sits and feeds her young,
Sweet I hear her mournful song;
And thy lovely leaves among,
There is love, I hear his tongue.
There his charming nest doth lay,
There he sleeps the night away;
There he sports along the day,
And doth among our branches play.
Love's Secret
Never seek to tell thy love,
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind does move
Silently, invisibly.
I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart;
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears,
Ah! she did depart!
Soon as she was gone from me,
A traveler came by,
Silently, invisibly
He took her with a sigh
Mad Song
The wild winds weep
And the night is a-cold;
Come hither, Sleep,
And my griefs infold:
But lo! the morning peeps
Over the eastern steeps,
And the rustling birds of dawn
The earth do scorn.
Lo! to the vault
Of paved heaven,
With sorrow fraught
My notes are driven:
They strike the ear of night,
Make weep the eyes of day;
They make mad the roaring winds,
And with tempests play.
Like a fiend in a cloud,
With howling woe,
After night I do crowd,
And with night will go;
I turn my back to the east,
From whence comforts have increas'd;
For light doth seize my brain
With frantic pain.
Milton: And did those feet in ancient time
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold:
Bring me my arrows of desire:
Bring me my spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire.
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land.
Milton: But in the Wine-presses the Human Grapes Sing not nor Dance
But in the Wine-presses the human grapes sing not nor dance:
They howl and writhe in shoals of torment, in fierce flames consuming,
In chains of iron and in dungeons circled with ceaseless fires,
In pits and dens and shades of death, in shapes of torment and woe:
The plates and screws and racks and saws and cords and fires and cisterns
The cruel joys of Luvah's Daughters, lacerating with knives
And whips their victims, and the deadly sport of Luvah's Sons.
They dance around the dying and they drink the howl and groan,
They catch the shrieks in cups of gold, they hand them to one another:
These are the sports of love, and these the sweet delights of amorous play,
Tears of the grape, the death sweat of the cluster, the last sigh
Of the mild youth who listens to the luring songs of Luvah.
Milton: The Sky is an Immortal Tent Built by the Sons of Los
The sky is an immortal tent built by the Sons of Los:
And every space that a man views around his dwelling-place
Standing on his own roof or in his garden on a mount
Of twenty-five cubits in height, such space is his universe:
And on its verge the sun rises and sets, the clouds bow
To meet the flat earth and the sea in such an order'd space:
The starry heavens reach no further, but here bend and set
On all sides, and the two Poles turn on their valves of gold:
And if he moves his dwelling-place, his heavens also move
Where'er he goes, and all his neighbourhood bewail his loss.
Such are the spaces called Earth and such its dimension.
As to that false appearance which appears to the reasoner
As of a globe rolling through voidness, it is a delusion of Ulro.
The microscope knows not of this nor the telescope: they alter
The ratio of the spectator's organs, but leave objects untouch'd.
For every space larger than a red globule of Man's blood
Is visionary, and is created by the Hammer of Los;
And every space smaller than a globule of Man's blood opens
Into Eternity of which this vegetable Earth is but a shadow.
The red globule is the unwearied sun by Los created
To measure time and space to mortal men every morning
Mock On, Mock On, Voltaire, Rousseau
Mock on, mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau;
Mock on, mock on; 'tis all in vain!
You throw the sand against the wind,
And the wind blows it back again.
And every sand becomes a gem
Reflected in the beams divine;
Blown back they blind the mocking eye,
But still in Israel's paths they shine.
The Atoms of Democritus
And Newton's Particles of Light
Are sands upon the Red Sea shore,
Where Israel's tents do shine so brigh
My Pretty Rose Tree
A flower was offered to me,
Such a flower as May never bore;
But I said 'I've a pretty rose tree,'
And I passed the sweet flower o'er.
Then I went to my pretty rose tree,
To tend her by day and by night;
But my rose turned away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight
My Spectre Around Me
My spectre around me night and day
Like a wild beast guards my way.
My emanation far within
Weeps incessantly for my sin.
A fathomless and boundless deep,
There we wander, there we weep;
On the hungry craving wind
My spectre follows thee behind.
He scents thy footsteps in the snow,
Wheresoever thou dost go
Through the wintry hail and rain.
When wilt thou return again?
Dost thou not in pride and scorn
Fill with tempests all my morn,
And with jealousies and fears
Fill my pleasant nights with tears?
Seven of my sweet loves thy knife
Has bereaved of their life.
Their marble tombs I built with tears
And with cold and shuddering fears.
Seven more loves weep night and day
Round the tombs where my loves lay,
And seven more loves attend each night
Around my couch with torches bright.
And seven more loves in my bed
Crown with wine my mournful head,
Pitying and forgiving all
Thy transgressions, great and small.
Never Seek to Tell thy Love
Never seek to tell thy love
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind does move
Silently, invisibly.
I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart,
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears--
Ah, she doth depart.
Soon as she was gone from me
A traveller came by
Silently, invisibly--
O, was no deny.
Night
The sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower,
In heaven's high bower,
With silent delight
Sits and smiles on the night.
Farewell, green fields and happy groves,
Where flocks have took delight.
Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,
And each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nest,
Where birds are covered warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm.
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.
When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
They pitying stand and weep;
Seeking to drive their thirst away,
And keep them from the sheep.
But if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,
Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.
And there the lion's ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold,
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking round the fold,
Saying, 'Wrath, by His meekness,
And, by His health, sickness
Is driven away
From our immortal day.
'And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep;
Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee and weep.
For, washed in life's river,
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold
As I guard o'er the fold.'
Now Art Has Lost Its Mental Charms
`Now Art has lost its mental charms
France shall subdue the world in arms.'
So spoke an Angel at my birth;
Then said `Descend thou upon earth,
Renew the Arts on Britain's shore,
And France shall fall down and adore.
With works of art their armies meet
And War shall sink beneath thy feet.
But if thy nation Arts refuse,
And if they scorn the immortal Muse,
France shall the arts of peace restore
And save thee from the ungrateful shore.'
Spirit who lov'st Britannia's Isle
Round which the fiends of commerce smile
Nurse's Song (Innocence)
When voices of children are heard on the green
And laughing is heard on the hill,
My heart is at rest within my breast
And everything else is still
Then come home my children the sun is gone down
And the dews of night arise
Come come leave off play, and let us away
Till the morning appears in the skies
No no let us play, for it is yet day
And we cannot go to sleep
Besides in the sky, the little birds fly
And the hills are all covered with sheep
Well well go and play till the light fades away
And then go home to bed
The little ones leaped and shouted and laugh'd
And all the hills echoed
On Another's Sorrow
Can I see another's woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another's grief,
And not seek for kind relief?
Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow's share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?
Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird's grief and care,
Hear the woes that infants bear --
And not sit beside the next,
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant's tear?
And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
Oh no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
He doth give his joy to all:
He becomes an infant small,
He becomes a man of woe,
He doth feel the sorrow too.
Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by:
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not year.
Oh He gives to us his joy,
That our grief He may destroy:
Till our grief is fled an gone
He doth sit by us and moan.
Piping Down the Valleys Wild
Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:
'Pipe a song about a lamb!'
So I piped with merry cheer.
'Piper, pipe that song again.'
So I piped: he wept to hear.
'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;
Sing thy songs of happy cheer.'
So I sung the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.
'Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book, that all may read.'
So he vanished from my sight,
And I plucked a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,
And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.
Preludium to America
The shadowy Daughter of Urthona stood before red Orc,
When fourteen suns had faintly journey'd o'er his dark abode:
His food she brought in iron baskets, his drink in cups of iron:
Crown'd with a helmet and dark hair the nameless female stood;
A quiver with its burning stores, a bow like that of night,
When pestilence is shot from heaven: no other arms she need!
Invulnerable though naked, save where clouds roll round her loins
Their awful folds in the dark air: silent she stood as night;
For never from her iron tongue could voice or sound arise,
But dumb till that dread day when Orc assay'd his fierce embrace.
'Dark Virgin,' said the hairy youth, 'thy father stern, abhorr'd,
Rivets my tenfold chains while still on high my spirit soars;
Sometimes an Eagle screaming in the sky, sometimes a Lion
Stalking upon the mountains, and sometimes a Whale, I lash
The raging fathomless abyss; anon a Serpent folding
Around the pillars of Urthona, and round thy dark limbs
On the Canadian wilds I fold; feeble my spirit folds,
For chain'd beneath I rend these caverns: when thou bringest food
I howl my joy, and my red eyes seek to behold thy face--
In vain! these clouds roll to and fro, and hide thee from my sight.'
Silent as despairing love, and strong as jealousy,
The hairy shoulders rend the links; free are the wrists of fire;
Round the terrific loins he seiz'd the panting, struggling womb;
It joy'd: she put aside her clouds and smiled her first-born smile,
As when a black cloud shews its lightnings to the silent deep.
Soon as she saw the terrible boy, then burst the virgin cry:
'I know thee, I have found thee, and I will not let thee go:
Thou art the image of God who dwells in darkness of Africa,
And thou art fall'n to give me life in regions of dark death.
On my American plains I feel the struggling afflictions
Endur'd by roots that writhe their arms into the nether deep.
I see a Serpent in Canada who courts me to his love,
In Mexico an Eagle, and a Lion in Peru;
I see a Whale in the south-sea, drinking my soul away.
O what limb-rending pains I feel! thy fire and my frost
Mingle in howling pains, in furrows by thy lightnings rent.
This is eternal death, and this the torment long foretold.'
Preludium to Europe
The nameless shadowy female rose from out the breast of Orc,
Her snaky hair brandishing in the winds of Enitharmon;
And thus her voice arose:
'O mother Enitharmon, wilt thou bring forth other sons?
To cause my name to vanish, that my place may not be found,
For I am faint with travail,
Like the dark cloud disburden'd in the day of dismal thunder.
My roots are brandish'd in the heavens, my fruits in earth beneath
Surge, foam and labour into life, first born and first consum'd!
Consumed and consuming!
Then why shouldst thou, accursed mother, bring me into life?
I wrap my turban of thick clouds around my lab'ring head,
And fold the sheety waters as a mantle round my limbs;
Yet the red sun and moon
And all the overflowing stars rain down prolific pains.
Unwilling I look up to heaven, unwilling count the stars:
Sitting in fathomless abyss of my immortal shrine
I seize their burning power
And bring forth howling terrors, all devouring fiery kings,
Devouring and devoured, roaming on dark and desolate mountains,
In forests of eternal death, shrieking in hollow trees.
Ah mother Enitharmon!
Stamp not with solid form this vig'rous progeny of fires.
I bring forth from my teeming bosom myriads of flames,
And thou dost stamp them with a signet; then they roam abroad
And leave me void as death.
Ah! I am drown'd in shady woe and visionary joy.
And who shall bind the infinite with an eternal band?
To compass it with swaddling bands? and who shall cherish it
With milk and honey?
I see it smile, and I roll inward, and my voice is past.'
She ceased, and roll'd her shady clouds
Into the secret place.
Proverbs of Hell (Excerpt from The Marriage of Heaven and H
In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy.
Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.
The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.
Prudence is a rich, ugly old maid courted by Incapacity.
He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence.
The cut worm forgives the plow.
Dip him in the river who loves water.
A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees.
He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.
Eternity is in love with the productions of time.
The busy bee has no time for sorrow.
The hours of folly are measur'd by the clock; but of wisdom, no clock can measure.
All wholesome food is caught without a net or a trap.
Bring out number, weight and measure in a year of dearth.
No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings.
A dead body revenges not injuries.
The most sublime act is to set another before you.
If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.
Folly is the cloak of knavery.
Shame is Pride's cloke.
Prisons are built with stones of law, brothels with bricks of religion.
The pride of the peacock is the glory of God.
The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.
The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.
The nakedness of woman is the work of God.
Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps.
The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword, are portions of eternity, too great for the eye of man.
The fox condemns the trap, not himself.
Joys impregnate. Sorrows bring forth.
Let man wear the fell of the lion, woman the fleece of the sheep.
The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.
The selfish, smiling fool, and the sullen, frowning fool shall be both thought wise, that they may be a rod.
What is now proved was once only imagin'd.
The rat, the mouse, the fox, the rabbit watch the roots; the lion, the tyger, the horse, the elephant watch the fruits.
The cistern contains: the fountain overflows.
One thought fills immensity.
Always be ready to speak your mind, and a base man will avoid you.
Every thing possible to be believ'd is an image of truth.
The eagle never lost so much time as when he submitted to learn of the crow.
The fox provides for himself, but God provides for the lion.
Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night.
He who has suffer'd you to impose on him, knows you.
As the plow follows words, so God rewards prayers.
The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.
Expect poison from the standing water.
You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.
Listen to the fool's reproach! it is a kingly title!
The eyes of fire, the nostrils of air, the mouth of water, the beard of earth.
The weak in courage is strong in cunning.
The apple tree never asks the beech how he shall grow; nor the lion, the horse, how he shall take his prey.
The thankful receiver bears a plentiful harvest.
If others had not been foolish, we should be so.
The soul of sweet delight can never be defil'd.
When thou seest an eagle, thou seest a portion of genius; lift up thy head!
As the caterpiller chooses the fairest leaves to lay her eggs on, so the priest lays his curse on the fairest joys.
To create a little flower is the labour of ages.
Damn braces. Bless relaxes.
The best wine is the oldest, the best water the newest.
Prayers plow not! Praises reap not!
Joys laugh not! Sorrows weep not!
The head Sublime, the heart Pathos, the genitals Beauty, the hands and feet Proportion.
As the air to a bird or the sea to a fish, so is contempt to the contemptible.
The crow wish'd every thing was black, the owl that every thing was white.
Exuberance is Beauty.
If the lion was advised by the fox, he would be cunning.
Improvement makes strait roads; but the crooked roads without improvement are roads of genius.
Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.
Where man is not, nature is barren.
Truth can never be told so as to be understood, and not be believ'd.
Enough! or too much.
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