William Butler

To The Rose Upon The Rood Of Time

Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!
Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways:
Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide;
The Druid, grey, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed,
Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold;
And thine own sadness, where of stars, grown old
In dancing silver-sandalled on the sea,
Sing in their high and lonely melody.
Come near, that no more blinded hy man's fate,
I find under the boughs of love and hate,
In all poor foolish things that live a day,
Eternal beauty wandering on her way.

Come near, come near, come near - Ah, leave me still
A little space for the rose-breath to fill!
Lest I no more bear common things that crave;
The weak worm hiding down in its small cave,
The field-mouse running by me in the grass,
And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass;
But seek alone to hear the strange things said
By God to the bright hearts of those long dead,
And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know.
Come near; I would, before my time to go,
Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways:
Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days.
                                    

William Butler..........................................

The Two Trees

 BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart,
 The holy tree is growing there;
 From joy the holy branches start,
 And all the trembling flowers they bear.
 The changing colours of its fruit
 Have dowered the stars with metry light;
 The surety of its hidden root
 Has planted quiet in the night;
 The shaking of its leafy head
 Has given the waves their melody,
 And made my lips and music wed,
 Murmuring a wizard song for thee.
 There the Joves a circle go,
 The flaming circle of our days,
 Gyring, spiring to and fro
 In those great ignorant leafy ways;
 Remembering all that shaken hair
 And how the winged sandals dart,
 Thine eyes grow full of tender care:

 Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.
 Gaze no more in the bitter glass
 The demons, with their subtle guile.
 Lift up before us when they pass,
 Or only gaze a little while;
 For there a fatal image grows
 That the stormy night receives,
 Roots half hidden under snows,
 Broken boughs and blackened leaves.
 For ill things turn to barrenness
 In the dim glass the demons hold,
 The glass of outer weariness,
 There, through the broken branches, go
 The ravens of unresting thought;
 Flying, crying, to and fro,
 Cruel claw and hungry throat,
 Or else they stand and sniff the wind,
 And shake their ragged wings; alas!
 Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:
 Gaze no more in the bitter glass. 
                                     

JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748)

THE SEASONS: WINTER (EXCERPTS)

        See, Winter comes to rule the varied year,
2     Sullen and sad, with all his rising train--
3     Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme,
4     These, that exalt the soul to solemn thought
5     And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms!
6     Congenial horrors, hail! With frequent foot,
7     Pleas'd have I, in my cheerful morn of life,
8     When nurs'd by careless solitude I liv'd
9     And sung of Nature with unceasing joy,
10   Pleas'd have I wander'd through your rough domain;
11   Trod the pure virgin-snows, myself as pure;
12   Heard the winds roar, and the big torrent burst;
13   Or seen the deep-fermenting tempest brew'd
14   In the grim evening-sky. Thus pass'd the time,
15   Till through the lucid chambers of the south
16   Look'd out the joyous Spring--look'd out and smil'd.

...

41       Now, when the cheerless empire of the sky
42   To Capricorn the Centaur-Archer yields,
43   And fierce Aquarius stains th' inverted year,
44   Hung o'er the farthest verge of heaven, the sun
45   Scarce spreads o'er ether the dejected day.
46   Faint are his gleams, and ineffectual shoot
47   His struggling rays in horizontal lines
48   Through the thick air; as cloth'd in cloudy storm,
49   Weak, wan, and broad, he skirts the southern sky;
50   And, soon descending, to the long dark night,
51   Wide-shading all, the prostrate world resigns.
52   Nor is the night unwish'd; while vital heat,
53   Light, life, and joy the dubious day forsake.
54   Meantime, in sable cincture, shadows vast,
55   Deep-ting'd and damp, and congregated clouds,
56   And all the vapoury turbulence of heaven
57   Involve the face of things. Thus Winter falls,
58   A heavy gloom oppressive o'er the world,
59   Through Nature shedding influence malign,
60   And rouses up the seeds of dark disease.
61   The soul of man dies in him, loathing life,
62   And black with more than melancholy views.
63   The cattle droop; and o'er the furrow'd land,
64   Fresh from the plough, the dun discolour'd flocks,
65   Untended spreading, crop the wholesome root.
66   Along the woods, along the moorish fens,
67   Sighs the sad genius of the coming storm;
68   And up among the loose disjointed cliffs
69   And fractur'd mountains wild, the brawling brook
70   And cave, presageful, sends a hollow moan,
71   Resounding long in listening Fancy's ear.

By Edgar Allan Poe

The Haunted Palace

In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace —
Snow-white palace — reared its head.
In the monarch thought's dominion —
It stood there!
Never Seraph spread his pinion
Over fabric half so fair.

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow —
This — all this — was in the olden
Time long ago —
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the rampart plumed and pallid,
A winged odour went away.

All wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows saw
Spirits moving musically
To a lute's well tuned law,
Round about a throne where sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well befitting,
The sovereign of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door ;
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate!
Ah, let us mourn — for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!
And round about his home the glory,
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers now within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows, see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a rapid ghastly river,
Through the pale door;
A hideous throng rush out forever,
And laugh — but smile no more.

-The End-