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Cees van Raak gedicht: De hotelkamer

C e e s v a n R a a k

(1954)

De hotelkamer

Het register neemt zijn naam en adres op

– hoe zijn ogen razendsnel de handschrifen…

Een sleutel met een verweerd nummer

leidt hem naar de deur. Daarachter heropent

de kamer de geschiedenis

voor zijn komst (denkt hij).

Hij wilde zien, hij wilde beleven.

En het interieur eist alle aandacht.

Een massief bed, ongenaakbaar, waarop

een lichtgroene, serene sprei.

Twee stoelen, tenger, toeschikkelijk.

Een zware kast die slechts zijn binnenkant

prijsgeeft. Bij het raam,

naast de buitenwereld, een tafeltje

met een telefoon en een beduimelde gids.

Hij opent de deur van de badkamer…

Zoveel is zeker, dit alles is reeds gebruikt.

Attributen nu, die zwijgen, afwachten.

Hij heeft ervoor betaald, maar de indringer

blijft (die spanning!). Ondanks

het bloedloze aroma van proper en orde,

de anonieme geur van gewassen lakens, boenwas,

is dit de plek. Hij is binnen…

(zij was een bloot meisje,

zij was een vrouw

die haar benen spreidde)

Zien is benoemen, zien is ook

beschrijven, aanvullen, toekennen.

De frêle nachtkastjes tonen zich, geklemd

in de hoeken van het behang en dat bed.

De oren van de liefde en de leugen (denkt hij),

dadelijk openen de bolle kussens zich als ogen.

Vergeet de kastdeurspiegel niet! (hoe zij

handen omvat die haar borsten kneden,

hoe haar hoofd naar achteren draait, haar ogen

verwilderen, tanden zich ontbloten, hoe

kreunend, heftig ademend, zich bevrijdend…)

Plots grijpt hij zijn koffer, smijt hem op het bed,

opent hem gehaast, graait erin en

diept verfommeld papier op.

`Sinds haar vertrek, voor mijn aankomst

is de kamer gelucht en bezoedeld en nu ben ik er,

tastend en dromend, omdat ik zoeken moest,

omdat ik weten wilde hoe zij…’

– hoe hij, laatste bewoner van haar rijk

(zo denkt hij), zijn fantasie vette brokken voert.

Diezelfde avond zal hij vertrekken (de gekreukelde

sprei, een bevuilde asbak, een prop papier),

hij kan niet meer wachten.

Op 30 augustus 2009 wordt Cees van Raak tijdens de 12e editie van Boeken rond het Paleis in Tilburg, geïnstalleerd als stadsdichter van Tilburg. Cees van Raak (1954) is de vierde stadsdichter van Tilburg en is benoemd voor de periode 2009 – 2011.

KEMP=MAG – kempis poetry magazine

More in: City Poets / Stadsdichters, Raak, Cees van

Willem de Mérode: Drie gedichten

Willem de Mérode

(1887-1939)

De jongen te paard

Hij laat den wind maar waaien door zijn haren.
Blootshoofds zit hij op ‘t steigerende paard.
Hij lacht gelukkig; zijn onrustige aard
Houdt van vermetelheden en gevaren

Hij is één met zijn ros; en ‘t zal bedaren
Als hij den drift van ‘t eigen bloed bedaart.
Maar hij is jong, en levens snelle vaart
Beteugelt hij eerst in kalmer jaren.

Hij voelt de warmte van het schokkend dier
Weldadig door zijn jonge leden stijgen,
En weet zich rap en lenig zooals hij.

Hij zit zoo rustig en hij lacht zoo fier
Dat alle menschen iets gelukkigs krijgen,
Zoo lustig galoppeert hij hen voorbij..

In school

Rustig zit de heele klas te schrijven.
Jongens buigen over ‘t blanke schrift.
IJverig hun lenig-jonge lijven;
Bij de meisjes krast de harde grift.

Annie kan ‘t niet laten om te kijken,
Fluistert even met de blonde Brecht:
– Zeg, wil jij eens naar mijn lintje kijken
En ‘t wat vaster strikken om mijn vlecht? –

Heel voorzichtig tasten Brechtjes handen
In het voor haar hangend fijne haar,
En ze strikt de blauwe zijden banden
Met een blik naar mij: ik knipoog maar.

En dan gaan weer ijvrig, griffels tikken,
Kleine handjes rusteloos hun gang.
Dan een grapje, met verstolen blikken,
Doet weer lachjes leve’ in ‘t oog, op wang.

Willem wil aan Henk een appel geven
En nu, denkend dat ik hem niet zie,
Legt hij, na wat schichtig kijken, even
‘t Kleine handje op groote Henk zijn knie.

Zoo wordt ‘t wichtig evenwicht gebroken
Van de tijden die eentonig gaan,
Door een lach, een woordje zacht gesproken. –
Ach! ‘k heb vroeger zelf ook school gegaan.

In memoriam

Er is een schaduwspel van twijgen
en knoppen over ‘t zonnig grind,
en bloemengeur en licht en wind
verzaligen het grote zwijgen.

Het is zo stil, dat het bewegen
van ‘t licht wordt of een ver geruis
van vleugelen ging door het huis
en of zich engelen om u negen.

Het is zo stil en wit dit rusten.
Zo slapen enkel Gods gekusten,
zo vredig licht en grondloos diep.
De tijd valt lang voor hen die waken.
Maar God zal samen wakker maken,
die Hij gescheiden tot zich riep.

Willem de Mérode: Drie gedichten

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive M-N, Mérode, Willem de

Poëzieprogramma Joke van Leeuwen in Paleis-Raadhuis Tilburg

Zondag 30 augustus 2009

Boeken rond het Paleis Tilburg

JOKE VAN LEEUWEN

Literair programma met Joke van Leeuwen in het Paleis-Raadhuis Tilburg

Stichting Dr. P.J. Cools organiseert tijdens de 12e editie van Boeken rond het Paleis een literair programma van Joke van Leeuwen – auteur, illustrator, performer én stadsdichter van Antwerpen- samen met pianiste Caroline Deutman. Zij zullen poëzie ten gehore brengen, met alle soorten muziek. Het wordt een programma, voor jong en oud, waarbij Joke van Leeuwen graag het publiek betrekt. Joke van Leeuwen heeft dit poëzieprogramma de titel:‘A ‘ gegeven.

Zondag 30 augustus 2009 – Van 11.30 – 12.30 in het Paleis-Raadhuis Tilburg –De toegang is gratis.

Zei ze

Zei ze hadden we nieuwe ontferming
besteld wij, ze zouden die brengen,
de nieuwe ontferming, op vrijdag.
Zeggen ze vrijdag kan het op zaterdag.
Zeggen we ja, maar dan wel in
de morgen. Zeggen ze gaat niet,
dat gaat niet, de morgen. Zegt mijn
man goed, dan kom ik die zelf halen,
zaterdag dan in de morgen, dat kan?
Ja dat kan, zeggen ze. Komt hij daar,
zaterdag, nergens ontferming. Zegt hij
hoezo niet, die zou er toch wezen?
Nee nee, die is er niet, komt u maar
vrijdag. Zegt hij wat vrijdag, ik moet
die meteen. Zeggen ze gaat niet, die
is nog niet binnen. Zegt hij u zei toch
dat die er nu was? Zeiden ze
moeten we zeggen van niet dan,
wilt u dat horen,
van zeggen van niet?

Joke van Leeuwen

Uit: Wuif de mussen uit (Querido)

Joke van Leeuwen (Den Haag, 1952) studeerde in Antwerpen en Brussel grafische technieken aan de kunstacademie en geschiedenis aan de universiteit van Brussel. Ze is veelzijdig: ze schrijft proza voor kinderen en volwassenen, poëzie, ze is illustrator, maakt theaterprogramma’s en treedt op als performer.

Ze ontving voor haar werk vele prijzen, waaronder de Theo Thijssenprijs in 2000 voor haar kinderboeken; de C. Buddingh’-prijs voor haar dichtbundel Laatste lezers (1994). Er volgden meer bundels, zoals Vier manieren om op iemand te wachten, waarvan het titelgedicht werd uitgeroepen tot een van de drie beste gedichten van 2001. De bundel Wuif de mussen uit (2007) werd genomineerd voor de VSB Poëzieprijs. In 2002 publiceerde zij de roman Vrije vormen.

Meer informatie over Boeken rond het Paleis website Stichting Cools: www.stichtingcools.nl

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive K-L, Art & Literature News

Arthur Rimbaud: Les reparties de Nina

A r t h u r R i m b a u d

(1854-1891)

Les reparties de Nina

LUI – Ta poitrine sur ma poitrine,
Hein ? nous irions,
Ayant de l’air plein la narine,
Aux frais rayons

Du bon matin bleu, qui vous baigne
Du vin de jour ?…
Quand tout le bois frissonnant saigne
Muet d’amour

De chaque branche, gouttes vertes,
Des bourgeons clairs,
On sent dans les choses ouvertes
Frémir des chairs :

Tu plongerais dans la luzerne
Ton blanc peignoir,
Rosant à l’air ce bleu qui cerne
Ton grand oeil noir,

Amoureuse de la campagne,
Semant partout,
Comme une mousse de champagne,
Ton rire fou :

Riant à moi, brutal d’ivresse,
Qui te prendrais
Comme cela, – la belle tresse,
Oh ! – qui boirais

Ton goût de framboise et de fraise,
O chair de fleur !
Riant au vent vif qui te baise
Comme un voleur,

Au rose, églantier qui t’embête
Aimablement :
Riant surtout, ô folle tête,
À ton amant !….

………………………………………………..

– Ta poitrine sur ma poitrine,
Mêlant nos voix,
Lents, nous gagnerions la ravine,
Puis les grands bois !…

Puis, comme une petite morte,
Le coeur pâmé,
Tu me dirais que je te porte,
L’oeil mi-fermé…

Je te porterais, palpitante,
Dans le sentier :
L’oiseau filerait son andante
Au Noisetier…

Je te parlerais dans ta bouche..
J’irais, pressant
Ton corps, comme une enfant qu’on couche,
Ivre du sang

Qui coule, bleu, sous ta peau blanche
Aux tons rosés.
Et te parlant la langue franche – …..
Tiens !… – que tu sais…

Nos grands bois sentiraient la sève,
Et le soleil
Sablerait d’or fin leur grand rêve
Vert et vermeil

………………………………………………..

Le soir ?… Nous reprendrons la route
Blanche qui court
Flânant, comme un troupeau qui broute,
Tout à l’entour

Les bons vergers à l’herbe bleue,
Aux pommiers tors !
Comme on les sent toute une lieue
Leurs parfums forts !

Nous regagnerons le village
Au ciel mi-noir ;
Et ça sentira le laitage
Dans l’air du soir ;

Ca sentira l’étable, pleine
De fumiers chauds,
Pleine d’un lent rythme d’haleine,
Et de grands dos

Blanchissant sous quelque lumière ;
Et, tout là-bas,
Une vache fientera, fière,
À chaque pas…

– Les lunettes de la grand-mère
Et son nez long
Dans son missel ; le pot de bière
Cerclé de plomb,

Moussant entre les larges pipes
Qui, crânement,
Fument : les effroyables lippes
Qui, tout fumant,

Happent le jambon aux fourchettes
Tant, tant et plus :
Le feu qui claire les couchettes
Et les bahuts.

Les fesses luisantes et grasses
D’un gros enfant
Qui fourre, à genoux, dans les tasses,
Son museau blanc

Frôlé par un mufle qui gronde
D’un ton gentil,
Et pourlèche la face ronde
Du cher petit…..

Que de choses verrons-nous, chère,
Dans ces taudis,
Quand la flamme illumine, claire,
Les carreaux gris !…

– Puis, petite et toute nichée,
Dans les lilas
Noirs et frais : la vitre cachée,
Qui rit là-bas….

Tu viendras, tu viendras, je t’aime !
Ce sera beau.
Tu viendras, n’est-ce pas, et même…

Elle – Et mon bureau ?

Arthur Rimbaud, Les reparties de Nina

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive Q-R, Arthur Rimbaud, Rimbaud, Arthur, Rimbaud, Arthur

Alfred Jarry: Mon père a fait faire un étang

Alfred Jarry

(1873-1907)

Fable

Une boîte de corned-beef, enchaînée comme une lorgnette,
Vit passer un homard qui lui ressemblait fraternellement.
Il se cuirassait d’une carapace dure
Sur laquelle était écrit à l’intérieur, comme elle, il était sans arêtes,
(Boneless and economical);
Et sous sa queue repliée
Il cachait vraisemblablement une clef destinée à l’ouvrir.
Frappé d’amour, le corned-beef sédentaire
Déclara à la petite boîte automobile de conserves vivante
Que si elle consentait à s’acclimater,
Près de lui, aux devantures terrestres,
Elle serait décorée de plusieurs médailles d’or.

Je ne sais pas

Je ne sais pas si mon frère m’oublie
Mais je me sens tout seul, immensément,
Avec loin la chère tête apalie
Dans les essais d’un souvenir qui ment.

J’ai son portrait devant moi sur la table,
Je ne sais pas s’il était laid ou beau.
Le Double est vide et vain comme un tombeau.
J’ai perdu sa voix, sa voix adorable,

Juste et qui semble faite fausse exprès.
Peut-être il l’ignore, trésor posthume.
Hors de la lettre elle s’évoque, très
Soudain cassée et caressante plume.

Mon père a fait faire un étang

Mon père a fait faire un étang,
C’est le vent qui va frivolant,
Il est petit, il n’est pas grand,
C’est le vent qui vole, qui frivole,
C’est le vent qui va frivolant.

Il est petit, il n’est pas grand,
Trois canards blancs s’y vont baignant.

Trois canards blancs s’y vont baignant,
Le fils du roi les va chassant.

Le fils du roi les va chassant
Avec un p’tit fusil d’argent.

Avec un p’tit fusil d’argent
Tira sur celui de devant.

Tira sur celui de devant,
Visa le noir, tua le blanc.

Visa le noir, tua le blanc,
Ô fils du roi, qu’tu es méchant.

Ô fils du roi qu’tu es méchant,
D’avoir tué mon canard blanc,

D’avoir tué mon canard blanc,
Après la plume vint le sang,

Après la plume vint le sang,
Après le sang l’or et l’argent.

Après le sang l’or et l’argent,
C’est le vent qui va frivolant,
Après le sang, l’or et l’argent,
C’est le vent qui vole, qui frivole,
C’est le vent qui va frivolant.

Roses

Roses de feu, blanches d’effroi,
Les trois Filles sur le mur froid
Regardent luire les grimoires…

Roses de feu, blanches d’effroi,
En longues chemises de cygnes,
Les trois Filles sur le mur froid,
Regardant grimacer les signes,
Ouvrent, les bras d’effroi liés,
Leurs yeux comme des boucliers.

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive I-J, Archive I-J, Félix Vallotton, Jarry, Alfred, OULIPO (PATAFYSICA), Surrealism

Guido Gezelle: Bonte kraaie

Guido Gezelle

(1830-1899)

Bonte kraaie

Bonte kraaie, waar, och armen,

kunt gij, voor uw’ taaie darmen,

voedsel vinden, worme of slek,

in dit daaglijkschbroodgebrek?

Eerde en water zijn gesloten,

overal ligt snee’ gegoten;

en, ‘k en zie geen mensch die ooit

kaf voor u of kooren strooit.

Gij en weet van schuur noch schelven,

van geen’ wortelen weg te delven;

en ge’n hebt geen’ spiere brood

bijgeleid, tot meerder nood!

Gij en grijpt, gelijk de gieren,

niet uw’ eigen mededieren;

ook en heet uw kerstenbrief

"eier-" u, noch "kiekendief."

Welke een’ armoe komt deswegen,

gij nu, binst den winter, tegen;

als, alom met snee’ bezaaid,

veld en wee van honger kraait.

In die snee’ zie’k, aller straten,

uw tweevoetig speur gelaten:

eet gij snee’, of, half vergaan,

laaft gij uwen dorst daaraan?

Of, hoe kunt gij, vast aan ‘t vliegen,

immers uwen buik bedriegen?

Kraait, of is hij, lijk uw’ stem,

zwijgende? Hoe snoert gij hem?

Neen, ‘k en hoor geen klachte u klagen,

schoon veel andere om hulpe vragen,

piepen, kriepen, om end om:

bonte kraaie, wordt gij stom?

Ei, onmooglijk is u ‘t leven,

stonde er niet dit woord geschreven,

dat daar Een is die u voedt,

en u nooddruft vinden doet.

Een, die de akkerlelie kleêren

weeft, als Salomons, vol eeren;

Een die, zonder naalde of naad,

vacht en veder groeien laat.

En, voorwaar, ‘k en zie geen lijken,

bonte kraaie, ooit in de dijken

liggen, van uw volk; of dood

uwe oorije, van hongersnood.

‘k Hoor de menschen bitter klagen,

van de kwade winterdagen;

‘k wete er, van gebrek en pijn,

louter, die gestorven zijn.

Gij betrouwt op God, onwetend

aan Zijn’ wetten vastgeketend;

die u vulte en voedsel schiep,

eer Hij u in ‘t leven riep.

Hij heeft u twee vlerken neven

‘t lijf gezet, en kracht gegeven;

en twee oogen voert gij fijn

die scherp ziende en verre zijn.

Op die vlerken zie ‘k u roeien

door de lucht, en voorwaards spoeien:

in een omzien, stikken breed,

verre weg van mij gescheed.

Uit die oogen zie ‘k u spieden,

hooge boven land en lieden;

hooge boven huis en al:

of u God iet geven zal.

Bonte kraaie, uw schamel wezen

leert een’ schoone lesse aan dezen

die verkwisten ‘t daaglijksch brood,

etend, zonder etensnood.

Ach, verdeelden ze, alle dagen,

‘t brood, dat ze onzen Vader vragen,

met zoo menig armen bloed,

die ‘t, lijk gij, gaan zoeken moet?

Waar de neerstig nauwe boeren

hun gegraande peerden voeren,

trekkende aan den wagenlast,

daar is ‘t dat uw kooren wast.

Hun verlies komt u te baten,

en zoo zie ‘k u, achter straten,

raad- en roekloos van gebrek,

pekken in nen peerdendrek!

‘k Zie u neerstig ‘t leven halen,

‘k zie u nederig zegepralen

op een hoopken mesch, verblijd,

lijk sint Job, in zijnen tijd.

Bonte kraaie, ‘t doet mij dere

dat ik uwen troost begere,

en, eilaas, het doen daarvan

dat ik daar niet aan en kan!

Laat den winter eens verdwijnen,

laat de Aprilsche zonne schijnen:

dan, o kraaie, krijgt ge uw deel

in Gods goedheid, algeheel.

Dan zal God u voedselvollen

nooddruft doen op de eerdeschollen

vinden, en den ploeg omtrent,

die den veien akker wendt.

Dan, uw herte omhoog gerezen,

laat den buik eens weeldig wezen;

dan, te lijze of luider stem,

looft met alle vogels Hem!

Guido Gezelle: Bonte kraaie

kempis poetry magazine

More in: Department of Ravens & Crows, Gezelle, Guido

Galerie Anita Berber – 3

Galerie Anita Berber – 3

Anita Berber (June 10, 1899 – November 10, 1928) was a German dancer, actress and writer. Anita Berber was painted by many artist, among them Otto Dix. Her lover was dancer Sebastian Droste. In 1922, Berber and Droste published a book of poems, photographs, drawings: Kokain.
Berber’s cocaine addiction and bisexuality were matters of public chatter. She was allegedly the sexual slave of a woman and the woman’s 15-year-old daughter. She could often be seen in Berlin’s hotel lobbies, nightclubs and casinos, naked apart from a sable wrap and a silver brooch filled with cocaine. Besides being a cocaine addict, she was an alcoholic.Anita Berber died of tubercolosis, at the age of 29, on November 10, 1928 in a Kreuzberg hospital and was buried at St. Thomas cemetery in Neukölln. In 1987 Rosa von Praunheim made a film titled: Anita – Tänze des Lasters.

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Anita Berber, Anita Berber, Berber, Anita, DANCE & PERFORMANCE

Luigi Pirandello: L’Occhio per la Morte

L u i g i P i r a n d e l l o

(1867-1936)

L’Occhio per la Morte

Sono stato a veder l’amico morto.

Sta benone. Men brutto (ah, brutto egli era

povero amico!): e quel pallor di cera

e la calma in cui sta da savio assorto,

gli dànno or l’aria mesta e tollerante,

che si sforzò d’avere in vita, e certo

non ebbe. Intanto, che peccato! aperto

gli è rimasto quell’occhio, che in costante

studio lo tenne: or possiam dirlo, credo:

l’occhio di vetro. Orrendo, nella faccia

spenta, quel guardo fiso, di minaccia…

Quell’occhio par che dica ora: – «Io ci vedo!»

kempis poetry magazine

Elizabeth Barrett Browning: Sonnets from the Portuguese

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

(1806-1861)

SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE

I thought once how Theocritus had sung

Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,

Who each one in a gracious hand appears

To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:

And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,

I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,

The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,

Those of my own life, who by turns had flung

A shadow across me. Straightway I was ‘ware,

So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move

Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;

And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,–

"Guess now who holds thee!"–"Death," I said, But, there,

The silver answer rang, "Not Death, but Love."

But only three in all God’s universe

Have heard this word thou hast said,–Himself, beside

Thee speaking, and me listening! and replied

One of us . . . that was God, . . . and laid the curse

So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce

My sight from seeing thee,–that if I had died,

The death-weights, placed there, would have signified

Less absolute exclusion. "Nay" is worse

From God than from all others, O my friend!

Men could not part us with their worldly jars,

Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend;

Our hands would touch for all the mountain-bars:

And, heaven being rolled between us at the end,

We should but vow the faster for the stars.

III

Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!

Unlike our uses and our destinies.

Our ministering two angels look surprise

On one another, as they strike athwart

Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art

A guest for queens to social pageantries,

With gages from a hundred brighter eyes

Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part

Of chief musician. What hast thou to do

With looking from the lattice-lights at me,

A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through

The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree?

The chrism is on thine head,–on mine, the dew,–

And Death must dig the level where these agree.

Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,

Most gracious singer of high poems! where

The dancers will break footing, from the care

Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.

And dost thou lift this house’s latch too poor

For hand of thine? and canst thou think and bear

To let thy music drop here unaware

In folds of golden fulness at my door?

Look up and see the casement broken in,

The bats and owlets builders in the roof!

My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.

Hush, call no echo up in further proof

Of desolation! there’s a voice within

That weeps . . . as thou must sing . . . alone, aloof.

I lift my heavy heart up solemnly,

As once Electra her sepulchral urn,

And, looking in thine eyes, I over-turn

The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see

What a great heap of grief lay hid in me,

And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn

Through the ashen greyness. If thy foot in scorn

Could tread them out to darkness utterly,

It might be well perhaps. But if instead

Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow

The grey dust up, . . . those laurels on thine head,

O my Beloved, will not shield thee so,

That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred

The hair beneath. Stand further off then! go!

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand

Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore

Alone upon the threshold of my door

Of individual life, I shall command

The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand

Serenely in the sunshine as before,

Without the sense of that which I forbore–

Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land

Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine

With pulses that beat double. What I do

And what I dream include thee, as the wine

Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue

God for myself, He hears that name of thine,

And sees within my eyes the tears of two.

VII

The face of all the world is changed, I think,

Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul

Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole

Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink

Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink,

Was caught up into love, and taught the whole

Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole

God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink,

And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear.

The names of country, heaven, are changed away

For where thou art or shalt be, there or here;

And this . . . this lute and song . . . loved yesterday,

(The singing angels know) are only dear

Because thy name moves right in what they say.

VIII

What can I give thee back, O liberal

And princely giver, who hast brought the gold

And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold,

And laid them on the outside of the wall

For such as I to take or leave withal,

In unexpected largesse? am I cold,

Ungrateful, that for these most manifold

High gifts, I render nothing back at all?

Not so; not cold,–but very poor instead.

Ask God who knows. For frequent tears have run

The colours from my life, and left so dead

And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done

To give the same as pillow to thy head.

Go farther! let it serve to trample on.

Can it be right to give what I can give?

To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears

As salt as mine, and hear the sighing years

Re-sighing on my lips renunciative

Through those infrequent smiles which fail to live

For all thy adjurations? O my fears,

That this can scarce be right! We are not peers

So to be lovers; and I own, and grieve,

That givers of such gifts as mine are, must

Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, alas!

I will not soil thy purple with my dust,

Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice-glass,

Nor give thee any love–which were unjust.

Beloved, I only love thee! let it pass.

Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed

And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright,

Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light

Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed:

And love is fire. And when I say at need

I love thee . . . mark! . . . I love thee–in thy sight

I stand transfigured, glorified aright,

With conscience of the new rays that proceed

Out of my face toward thine. There’s nothing low

In love, when love the lowest: meanest creatures

Who love God, God accepts while loving so.

And what I feel, across the inferior features

Of what I am, doth flash itself, and show

How that great work of Love enhances Nature’s.

And therefore if to love can be desert,

I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as pale

As these you see, and trembling knees that fail

To bear the burden of a heavy heart,–

This weary minstrel-life that once was girt

To climb Aornus, and can scarce avail

To pipe now ‘gainst the valley nightingale

A melancholy music,–why advert

To these things? O Beloved, it is plain

I am not of thy worth nor for thy place!

And yet, because I love thee, I obtain

From that same love this vindicating grace

To live on still in love, and yet in vain,–

To bless thee, yet renounce thee to thy face.

XII

Indeed this very love which is my boast,

And which, when rising up from breast to brow,

Doth crown me with a ruby large enow

To draw men’s eyes and prove the inner cost,–

This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost,

I should not love withal, unless that thou

Hadst set me an example, shown me how,

When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed,

And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak

Of love even, as a good thing of my own:

Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,

And placed it by thee on a golden throne,–

And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)

Is by thee only, whom I love alone.

XIII

And wilt thou have me fashion into speech

The love I bear thee, finding words enough,

And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough,

Between our faces, to cast light on each?–

I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach

My hand to hold my spirits so far off

From myself–me–that I should bring thee proof

In words, of love hid in me out of reach.

Nay, let the silence of my womanhood

Commend my woman-love to thy belief,–

Seeing that I stand unwon, however wooed,

And rend the garment of my life, in brief,

By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude,

Lest one touch of this heart convey its grief.

XIV

If thou must love me, let it be for nought

Except for love’s sake only. Do not say

"I love her for her smile–her look–her way

Of speaking gently,–for a trick of thought

That falls in well with mine, and certes brought

A sense of pleasant ease on such a day"–

For these things in themselves, Beloved, may

Be changed, or change for thee,–and love, so wrought,

May be unwrought so. Neither love me for

Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry,–

A creature might forget to weep, who bore

Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!

But love me for love’s sake, that evermore

Thou may’st love on, through love’s eternity.

Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I wear

Too calm and sad a face in front of thine;

For we two look two ways, and cannot shine

With the same sunlight on our brow and hair.

On me thou lookest with no doubting care,

As on a bee shut in a crystalline;

Since sorrow hath shut me safe in love’s divine,

And to spread wing and fly in the outer air

Were most impossible failure, if I strove

To fail so. But I look on thee–on thee–

Beholding, besides love, the end of love,

Hearing oblivion beyond memory;

As one who sits and gazes from above,

Over the rivers to the bitter sea.

XVI

And yet, because thou overcomest so,

Because thou art more noble and like a king,

Thou canst prevail against my fears and fling

Thy purple round me, till my heart shall grow

Too close against thine heart henceforth to know

How it shook when alone. Why, conquering

May prove as lordly and complete a thing

In lifting upward, as in crushing low!

And as a vanquished soldier yields his sword

To one who lifts him from the bloody earth,

Even so, Beloved, I at last record,

Here ends my strife. If thou invite me forth,

I rise above abasement at the word.

Make thy love larger to enlarge my worth!

XVII

My poet, thou canst touch on all the notes

God set between His After and Before,

And strike up and strike off the general roar

Of the rushing worlds a melody that floats

In a serene air purely. Antidotes

Of medicated music, answering for

Mankind’s forlornest uses, thou canst pour

From thence into their ears. God’s will devotes

Thine to such ends, and mine to wait on thine.

How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use?

A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fine

Sad memory, with thy songs to interfuse?

A shade, in which to sing–of palm or pine?

A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose.

XVIII

I never gave a lock of hair away

To a man, Dearest, except this to thee,

Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully

I ring out to the full brown length and say

"Take it." My day of youth went yesterday;

My hair no longer bounds to my foot’s glee,

Nor plant I it from rose- or myrtle-tree,

As girls do, any more: it only may

Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears,

Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside

Through sorrow’s trick. I thought the funeral-shears

Would take this first, but Love is justified,–

Take it thou,–finding pure, from all those years,

The kiss my mother left here when she died.

XIX

The soul’s Rialto hath its merchandize;

I barter curl for curl upon that mart,

And from my poet’s forehead to my heart

Receive this lock which outweighs argosies,–

As purply black, as erst to Pindar’s eyes

The dim purpureal tresses gloomed athwart

The nine white Muse-brows. For this counterpart, . . .

The bay crown’s shade, Beloved, I surmise,

Still lingers on thy curl, it is so black!

Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing breath,

I tie the shadows safe from gliding back,

And lay the gift where nothing hindereth;

Here on my heart, as on thy brow, to lack

No natural heat till mine grows cold in death.

Beloved, my Beloved, when I think

That thou wast in the world a year ago,

What time I sat alone here in the snow

And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink

No moment at thy voice, but, link by link,

Went counting all my chains as if that so

They never could fall off at any blow

Struck by thy possible hand,–why, thus I drink

Of life’s great cup of wonder! Wonderful,

Never to feel thee thrill the day or night

With personal act or speech,–nor ever cull

Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white

Thou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull,

Who cannot guess God’s presence out of sight.

XXI

Say over again, and yet once over again,

That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated

Should seem a "cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it,

Remember, never to the hill or plain,

Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain

Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed.

Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted

By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt’s pain

Cry, "Speak once more–thou lovest!" Who can fear

Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll,

Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?

Say thou dost love me, love me, love me–toll

The silver iterance!–only minding, Dear,

To love me also in silence with thy soul.

XXII

When our two souls stand up erect and strong,

Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,

Until the lengthening wings break into fire

At either curved point,–what bitter wrong

Can the earth do to us, that we should not long

Be here contented? Think! In mounting higher,

The angels would press on us and aspire

To drop some golden orb of perfect song

Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay

Rather on earth, Beloved,–where the unfit

Contrarious moods of men recoil away

And isolate pure spirits, and permit

A place to stand and love in for a day,

With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.

XXIII

Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead,

Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine?

And would the sun for thee more coldly shine

Because of grave-damps falling round my head?

I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read

Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine–

But . . . so much to thee? Can I pour thy wine

While my hands tremble? Then my soul, instead

Of dreams of death, resumes life’s lower range.

Then, love me, Love! look on me–breathe on me!

As brighter ladies do not count it strange,

For love, to give up acres and degree,

I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange

My near sweet view of heaven, for earth with thee!

XXIV

Let the world’s sharpness like a clasping knife

Shut in upon itself and do no harm

In this close hand of Love, now soft and warm,

And let us hear no sound of human strife

After the click of the shutting. Life to life–

I lean upon thee, Dear, without alarm,

And feel as safe as guarded by a charm

Against the stab of worldlings, who if rife

Are weak to injure. Very whitely still

The lilies of our lives may reassure

Their blossoms from their roots, accessible

Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer;

Growing straight, out of man’s reach, on the hill.

God only, who made us rich, can make us poor.

XXV

A heavy heart, Beloved, have I borne

From year to year until I saw thy face,

And sorrow after sorrow took the place

Of all those natural joys as lightly worn

As the stringed pearls, each lifted in its turn

By a beating heart at dance-time. Hopes apace

Were changed to long despairs, till God’s own grace

Could scarcely lift above the world forlorn

My heavy heart. Then thou didst bid me bring

And let it drop adown thy calmly great

Deep being! Fast it sinketh, as a thing

Which its own nature does precipitate,

While thine doth close above it, mediating

Betwixt the stars and the unaccomplished fate.

XXVI

I lived with visions for my company

Instead of men and women, years ago,

And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know

A sweeter music than they played to me.

But soon their trailing purple was not free

Of this world’s dust, their lutes did silent grow,

And I myself grew faint and blind below

Their vanishing eyes. Then thou didst come–to be,

Beloved, what they seemed. Their shining fronts,

Their songs, their splendours, (better, yet the same,

As river-water hallowed into fonts)

Met in thee, and from out thee overcame

My soul with satisfaction of all wants:

Because God’s gifts put man’s best dreams to shame.

XXVII

My own Beloved, who hast lifted me

From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown,

And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown

A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully

Shines out again, as all the angels see,

Before thy saving kiss! My own, my own,

Who camest to me when the world was gone,

And I who looked for only God, found thee!

I find thee; I am safe, and strong, and glad.

As one who stands in dewless asphodel,

Looks backward on the tedious time he had

In the upper life,–so I, with bosom-swell,

Make witness, here, between the good and bad,

That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well.

XXVIII

My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!

And yet they seem alive and quivering

Against my tremulous hands which loose the string

And let them drop down on my knee to-night.

This said,–he wished to have me in his sight

Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring

To come and touch my hand . . . a simple thing,

Yet I wept for it!–this, . . . the paper’s light . . .

Said, Dear I love thee; and I sank and quailed

As if God’s future thundered on my past.

This said, I am thine–and so its ink has paled

With lying at my heart that beat too fast.

And this . . . O Love, thy words have ill availed

If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!

XXIX

I think of thee!–my thoughts do twine and bud

About thee, as wild vines, about a tree,

Put out broad leaves, and soon there’s nought to see

Except the straggling green which hides the wood.

Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood

I will not have my thoughts instead of thee

Who art dearer, better! Rather, instantly

Renew thy presence; as a strong tree should,

Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare,

And let these bands of greenery which insphere thee,

Drop heavily down,–burst, shattered everywhere!

Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee

And breathe within thy shadow a new air,

I do not think of thee–I am too near thee.

XXX

I see thine image through my tears to-night,

And yet to-day I saw thee smiling. How

Refer the cause?–Beloved, is it thou

Or I, who makes me sad? The acolyte

Amid the chanted joy and thankful rite

May so fall flat, with pale insensate brow,

On the altar-stair. I hear thy voice and vow,

Perplexed, uncertain, since thou art out of sight,

As he, in his swooning ears, the choir’s amen.

Beloved, dost thou love? or did I see all

The glory as I dreamed, and fainted when

Too vehement light dilated my ideal,

For my soul’s eyes? Will that light come again,

As now these tears come–falling hot and real?

XXXI

Thou comest! all is said without a word.

I sit beneath thy looks, as children do

In the noon-sun, with souls that tremble through

Their happy eyelids from an unaverred

Yet prodigal inward joy. Behold, I erred

In that last doubt! and yet I cannot rue

The sin most, but the occasion–that we two

Should for a moment stand unministered

By a mutual presence. Ah, keep near and close,

Thou dove-like help! and when my fears would rise,

With thy broad heart serenely interpose:

Brood down with thy divine sufficiencies

These thoughts which tremble when bereft of those,

Like callow birds left desert to the skies.

XXXII

The first time that the sun rose on thine oath

To love me, I looked forward to the moon

To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon

And quickly tied to make a lasting troth.

Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe;

And, looking on myself, I seemed not one

For such man’s love!–more like an out-of-tune

Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth

To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste,

Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note.

I did not wrong myself so, but I placed

A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float

‘Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced,–

And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat.

XXXIII

Yes, call me by my pet-name! let me hear

The name I used to run at, when a child,

From innocent play, and leave the cowslips plied,

To glance up in some face that proved me dear

With the look of its eyes. I miss the clear

Fond voices which, being drawn and reconciled

Into the music of Heaven’s undefiled,

Call me no longer. Silence on the bier,

While I call God–call God!–so let thy mouth

Be heir to those who are now exanimate.

Gather the north flowers to complete the south,

And catch the early love up in the late.

Yes, call me by that name,–and I, in truth,

With the same heart, will answer and not wait.

XXXIV

With the same heart, I said, I’ll answer thee

As those, when thou shalt call me by my name–

Lo, the vain promise! is the same, the same,

Perplexed and ruffled by life’s strategy?

When called before, I told how hastily

I dropped my flowers or brake off from a game.

To run and answer with the smile that came

At play last moment, and went on with me

Through my obedience. When I answer now,

I drop a grave thought, break from solitude;

Yet still my heart goes to thee–ponder how–

Not as to a single good, but all my good!

Lay thy hand on it, best one, and allow

That no child’s foot could run fast as this blood.

XXXV

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange

And be all to me? Shall I never miss

Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss

That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,

When I look up, to drop on a new range

Of walls and floors, another home than this?

Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is

Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change

That’s hardest. If to conquer love, has tried,

To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove,

For grief indeed is love and grief beside.

Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love.

Yet love me–wilt thou? Open thy heart wide,

And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove.

XXXVI

When we met first and loved, I did not build

Upon the event with marble. Could it mean

To last, a love set pendulous between

Sorrow and sorrow? Nay, I rather thrilled,

Distrusting every light that seemed to gild

The onward path, and feared to overlean

A finger even. And, though I have grown serene

And strong since then, I think that God has willed

A still renewable fear . . . O love, O troth . . .

Lest these enclasped hands should never hold,

This mutual kiss drop down between us both

As an unowned thing, once the lips being cold.

And Love, be false! if he, to keep one oath,

Must lose one joy, by his life’s star foretold.

XXXVII

Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make

Of all that strong divineness which I know

For thine and thee, an image only so

Formed of the sand, and fit to shift and break.

It is that distant years which did not take

Thy sovranty, recoiling with a blow,

Have forced my swimming brain to undergo

Their doubt and dread, and blindly to forsake

Thy purity of likeness and distort

Thy worthiest love to a worthless counterfeit.

As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port,

His guardian sea-god to commemorate,

Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a-snort

And vibrant tail, within the temple-gate.

XXXVIII

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed

The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;

And ever since, it grew more clean and white.

Slow to world-greetings, quick with its "O, list,"

When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst

I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,

Than that first kiss. The second passed in height

The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,

Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed!

That was the chrism of love, which love’s own crown,

With sanctifying sweetness, did precede

The third upon my lips was folded down

In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,

I have been proud and said, "My love, my own."

XXXIX

Because thou hast the power and own’st the grace

To look through and behind this mask of me,

(Against which, years have beat thus blanchingly,

With their rains,) and behold my soul’s true face,

The dim and weary witness of life’s race,–

Because thou hast the faith and love to see,

Through that same soul’s distracting lethargy,

The patient angel waiting for a place

In the new Heavens,–because nor sin nor woe,

Nor God’s infliction, nor death’s neighbourhood,

Nor all which others viewing, turn to go,

Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed,–

Nothing repels thee, . . . Dearest, teach me so

To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good!

Oh, yes! they love through all this world of ours!

I will not gainsay love, called love forsooth:

I have heard love talked in my early youth,

And since, not so long back but that the flowers

Then gathered, smell still. Mussulmans and Giaours

Throw kerchiefs at a smile, and have no ruth

For any weeping. Polypheme’s white tooth

Slips on the nut if, after frequent showers,

The shell is over-smooth,–and not so much

Will turn the thing called love, aside to hate

Or else to oblivion. But thou art not such

A lover, my Beloved! thou canst wait

Through sorrow and sickness, to bring souls to touch,

And think it soon when others cry "Too late."

XLI

I thank all who have loved me in their hearts,

With thanks and love from mine. Deep thanks to all

Who paused a little near the prison-wall

To hear my music in its louder parts

Ere they went onward, each one to the mart’s

Or temple’s occupation, beyond call.

But thou, who, in my voice’s sink and fall

When the sob took it, thy divinest Art’s

Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot

To harken what I said between my tears, . . .

Instruct me how to thank thee! Oh, to shoot

My soul’s full meaning into future years,

That they should lend it utterance, and salute

Love that endures, from life that disappears!

XLII

My future will not copy fair my past–

I wrote that once; and thinking at my side

My ministering life-angel justified

The word by his appealing look upcast

To the white throne of God, I turned at last,

And there, instead, saw thee, not unallied

To angels in thy soul! Then I, long tried

By natural ills, received the comfort fast,

While budding, at thy sight, my pilgrim’s staff

Gave out green leaves with morning dews impearled.

I seek no copy now of life’s first half:

Leave here the pages with long musing curled,

And write me new my future’s epigraph,

New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!

XLIII

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints,–I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!–and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

XLIV

Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers

Plucked in the garden, all the summer through,

And winter, and it seemed as if they grew

In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers.

So, in the like name of that love of ours,

Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too,

And which on warm and cold days I withdrew

From my heart’s ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers

Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,

And wait thy weeding; yet here’s eglantine,

Here’s ivy!–take them, as I used to do

Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine.

Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true,

And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning: Sonnets from the Portuguese

KEMP=MAG – kempis poetry magazine

Galerie Anita Berber – 2

Galerie Anita Berber – 2

Anita Berber (1899-1928)

fleursdumal.nl magazine – magazine for art & literature

More in: Anita Berber, Anita Berber, Berber, Berber, Anita, DANCE & PERFORMANCE

Edgar Allan Poe & Gustave Doré: The Raven II

Edgar Allan Poe

(1809-1849)

poem

& Gustave Doré

(1832-1883)

illustrations

T H E R A V E N

Edgar Allan Poe

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door –
Only this, and nothing more.’

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore –
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore –
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; –
This it is, and nothing more,’

Presently my heart grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,’ said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you’ – here I opened wide the door; –
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!’
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!’
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,’ said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; –
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!’

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door –
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door –
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,’ I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore –
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door –
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.’

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered –
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before –
On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.’

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,’ said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore –
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of “Never-nevermore.”‘

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore –
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.’

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet violet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamo-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,’ I cried, `thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he has sent thee
Respite – respite and nepenthe from tha memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! –
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted –
On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore –
Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore –
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore –
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!’ I shrieked upstarting –
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take tha form from off my door!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – nevermore!

T H E E N D