Tag: poetry
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Rubaiyat #6
And David’s Lips are lock’t; but in divine High piping Pehlevi, with “Wine! Wine! Wine! Red Wine!” – the Nightingale cries to the Rose That yellow Cheek of hers to incarnadine.
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Rubaiyat #5
Iram indeed is gone with all its Rose And Jamshyd’s Sev’n-ring’d Cup where no one knows; But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields, And still a Garden by the Water blows.
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Rubaiyat #4
Now the New Year reviving old Desires, The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires, Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
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Rubaiyat #3
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before The Tavern shouted – ” Open then the Door! You know little while we have to stay, And, once departed, may return no more.”
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Rubaiyat #2
Dreaming when Dawn’s Left Hand was in the Sky I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry, “Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup Before Life’s Liquor in its Cup be dry.”
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A Rubaiyat A Day?….
Despite its’ many controversies, the Rubaiyat remains one of the, arguably, most surprising hidden gems in second hand bookstores awaiting the unsuspecting reader. Bare with me as I borrow greatly from Laurence Housman for this introductory piece, my knowledge on the poetic works of yesteryear or even today is lacking to say the least. For…
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Rubaiyat #1
Awake! for Morning in the bowl of Night Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight : And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught The Sultan’s Turret in a Noose of light.
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Carrion Comfort
Written By Gerard Manley Hopkins Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee; Not untwist – slack they may be – these last strands of man In me or, most weary, cry I can no more. I can; Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose to be. But ah, but O thou…
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My Own Heart Let Me Have More Pity On
By Gerard Manley Hopkins My own heart let me have more pity on; let Me live to my sad self hereafter kind, Charitable; not live this tormented mind With this tormented mind tormenting yet. I cast for comfort I can no more get By groping round my comfortless, than blind Eyes in their dark can…
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In Time Of ‘The Breaking Of Nations’
Only a man harrowing clods In a slow silent walk With an old horse that stumbles and nods Half asleep as they stalk. Only thin smoke without flame From the heaps of couch-grass; Yet this will go onward the same Though Dynasties pass. Yonder a maid and her wight Come whispering by; War’s annals will…
THE NECROMANCER 