Here is there naught of dead gods
But a procession of festival,
A procession, Giulio Romano,
Fit for your spirit to dwell in.
Dione, your nights are upon us.
The dew is upon the leaf.
The night about us is restless.
Similar Posts
I have tried to write Paradise
Let the wind speakthat is paradise.Let the Gods forgive what Ihave madeLet those I love try to forgivewhat I have made.
‘Tis of my country that I would endite,
My country? I love it well, and those good fellowsWho, since their wit’s unknown, escape the gallows.But you stuffed coats who’re neither tepid nor distinctly boreal,Pimping, conceited, placid, editorial,Could I but speak as ’twere in the ‘Restoration’I would articulate your perdamnation.This year perforce I must with circumspectionFor Mencken states somewhere, in this connection:‘It is a…
FROM ‘DIE HEIMKEHR’
Is your hate, then, of such measure?Do you, truly, so detest me?Through all the world will I complainOf how you have addressed me.O ye lips that are ungrateful,Hath it never once distressed you,That you can say such awful thingsOf any one who ever kissed you?IISo thou hast forgotten fullyThat I so long held thy heart…
O My songs,
people’s faces,Will you find your lost dead among them?
Who am I to condemn you, O Dives,
With povertyAs you are with useless riches ?