Beneath the grey bark of the treeOf wisdom, and clouds, and eternalDebate on verse, transport, the partThe army will play-and on art.We used to be human. We’re eras,We’re trains, in a caravan rippingThrough woods, to the sighing and fearsOf engines, and groans of the sleepers.We’ll rush in, and circle in the throesOf being, like a…
Your lines with blood in them destroy you,Roll up into your throat and kill,My answer to this kind of jokingHad been a most decisive ‘no’.So distant was the start, so timidThe first approach-what could one know?But older age is Rome, demandingFrom actors not a gaudy blendOf props and reading, but in earnestA tragedy, with tragic…
And once again an age-long lonelinessComes in to fill all nature and my heart.Alone this cottage shelters me and you:The wood is an unpeopled wildernessAnd ways and footpaths wear, as in the song.Weeds almost overgrowing each recess;And where we sit together by ourselvesThe log walls gaze upon us mournfully.We gave no promise to leap obstacles,We…
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And freezing garden snowstorms burstIn sudden fury, I reflectedThat I would shut myself awayAnd in seclusion write a sectionOf winter poems, day by day,To supplement my spring collection.But nonsense piled up mountain-high,Like snow-drifts hindering and stiflingAnd half the winter had gone by,Against all hopes, in petty trifling.I understood, alas, too lateWhy winter-while the snow was…
Our conscience, dreams, the night and love,Are as chessmen covered by its hands.And one black king upon the board:In sadness and in rage, forthrightIt brings the day of doom.-AgainstThe pawn it brings the mounted knight.In gardens where from icy spheresThe stars lean tender, linger near,Tristan still sings, like a nightingaleOn Isolde’s vine, with trembling fear.The…
I witness, by my lighted candle,A newly blossomed universe.And like a not yet known religionI enter this unheard of night,In which the shabbily-grey poplarHas curtained off the lunar light.The pond is a presented secret.Oh, whispers of the appletree!The garden hangs-a pile construction,And holds the sky in front of me.
It bursts from throats, a clamouran outpour that can’t grow less.The swifts have no way, highup there, overhead, of restrainingtheir clarion cries: ‘O, triumph,see, see, how the earth’s receding!’Like steam from a boiling kettle,the furious flow rushes by –‘See, see – no space for the earthbetween the ravine and the sky.’
with a first-class education, a rare knowledge of Greek-is seriously ill. He caught the feverthat reaped a harvest this year in Alexandria.The fever found him already worn out morallyby the pain of knowing that his friend, a young actor,had stopped loving and wanting him.He’s seriously ill, and his parents are terribly worried.An old servant who…
his plan to learn the incense trade.But ill during the voyage,he died as soon as he was put ashore.His burial, the poorest possible, took place here.A few hours before dying he whispered somethingabout ‘home’, about ‘very old parents.’But nobody he called homein the great pan Hellenic world.Better that way; because as it is,though he lies…
how sadly those around him talk.Kyr Theophilos Palaiologosin his grief, in his despair, says:‘I would rather die than live.’Ah, Kyr Theophilos Palaiologos,how much of the pathos, the yearning of our race,how much weariness-such exhaustion from injustice and persecution-your six tragic words contained.
