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No Man Is an Island
No man is an island,
Entire of itself;
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less,
As well as if a promontory were:
As well as if a manor of thy friend’s
Or of thine own were.
Any man’s death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.
John Donne
(1572–1631)
No Man Is an Island
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More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Donne, John
I saw a man
pursuing the horizon
I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
“It is futile,” I said,
“You can never —”
“You lie,” he cried,
And ran on.
Stephen Crane
(1871 – 1900)
I saw a man pursuing the horizon
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More in: *War Poetry Archive, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Stephen Crane
A Burnt Ship
Out of a fired ship, which by no way
But drowning could be rescued from the flame,
Some men leap’d forth, and ever as they came
Near the foes’ ships, did by their shot decay;
So all were lost, which in the ship were found,
They in the sea being burnt, they in the burnt ship drown’d.
John Donne
(1572–1631)
A Burnt Ship
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More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Donne, John
Simplify Me When I’m Dead
Remember me when I am dead
and simplify me when I’m dead.
As the processes of earth
strip off the colour of the skin:
take the brown hair and blue eye
and leave me simpler than at birth,
when hairless I came howling in
as the moon entered the cold sky.
Of my skeleton perhaps,
so stripped, a learned man will say
“He was of such a type and intelligence,” no more.
Thus when in a year collapse
particular memories, you may
deduce, from the long pain I bore
the opinions I held, who was my foe
and what I left, even my appearance
but incidents will be no guide.
Time’s wrong-way telescope will show
a minute man ten years hence
and by distance simplified.
Through that lens see if I seem
substance or nothing: of the world
deserving mention or charitable oblivion,
not by momentary spleen
or love into decision hurled,
leisurely arrive at an opinion.
Remember me when I am dead
and simplify me when I’m dead.
Keith Douglas
(1920 – 1944)
Simplify Me When I’m Dead
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More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Douglas, Keith, WAR & PEACE
To a Wreath of Snow
O transient voyager of heaven!
O silent sign of winter skies!
What adverse wind thy sail has driven
To dungeons where a prisoner lies?
Methinks the hands that shut the sun
So sternly from this morning’s brow
Might still their rebel task have done
And checked a thing so frail as thou.
They would have done it had they known
The talisman that dwelt in thee,
For all the suns that ever shone
Have never been so kind to me!
For many a week, and many a day
My heart was weighed with sinking gloom
When morning rose in mourning grey
And faintly lit my prison room
But angel like, when I awoke,
Thy silvery form so soft and fair
Shining through darkness, sweetly spoke
Of cloudy skies and mountains bare;
The dearest to a mountaineer
Who, all life long has loved the snow
That crowned her native summits drear,
Better, than greenest plains below.
And voiceless, soulless, messenger
Thy presence waked a thrilling tone
That comforts me while thou art here
And will sustain when thou art gone
Emily Brontë
(1818 – 1848)
To a Wreath of Snow
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive A-B, Archive C-D, Brontë, Anne, Emily & Charlotte
Winter
We know ’tis good that old Winter should come,
Roving awhile from his Lapland home;
’Tis fitting that we should hear the sound
Of his reindeer sledge on the slippery ground:
For his wide and glittering cloak of snow
Protects the seeds of life below;
Beneath his mantle are nurtured and born
The roots of the flowers, the germs of the corn.
The whistling tone of his pure strong breath
Rides purging the vapours of pestilent death.
I love him, I say, and avow it again,
For God’s wisdom and might show well in his train.
But the naked—the poor! I know they quail
With crouching limbs from the biting gale;
They pine and starve by the fireless hearth,
And weep as they gaze on the frost-bound earth.
Stand nobly forth, ye rich of the land,
With kindly heart and bounteous hand;
Remember ’tis now their season of need,
And a prayer for help is a call ye must heed.
A few of thy blessings, a tithe of thy gold,
Will save the young, and cherish the old.
’Tis a glorious task to work such good—
Do it, ye great ones! Ye can, and ye should.
He is not worthy to hold from heaven
The trust reposed, the talents given,
Who will not add to the portion that’s scant,
In the pinching hours of cold and want.
Oh! listen in mercy, ye sons of wealth,
Basking in comfort and glowing with health;
Give whate’er ye can spare, and be ye sure
He serveth his Maker who aideth the poor.
Eliza Cook
(1818 – 1889}
Winter
From: Melaia and Other Poems (1840)
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive C-D, Archive C-D
The Knife
Can I explain this to you? Your eyes
are entrances the mouths of caves
I issue from wonderful interiors
upon a blessed sea and a fine day,
from inside these caves I look and dream.
Your hair explicable as a waterfall
in some black liquid cooled by legend
fell across my thought in a moment
became a garment I am naked without
lines drawn across through morning and evening.
And in your body each minute I died
moving your thigh could disinter me
from a grave in a distant city:
your breasts deserted by cloth, clothed in twilight
filled me with tears, sweet cups of flesh.
Yes, to touch two fingers made us worlds
stars, waters, promontories, chaos
swooning in elements without form or time
come down through long seas among sea marvels
embracing like survivors in our islands.
This I think happened to us together
though now no shadow of it flickers in your hands
your eyes look down on ordinary streets
If I talk to you I might be a bird
with a message, a dead man, a photograph.
Keith Douglas
(1920 – 1944)
The Knife
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More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Douglas, Keith, WAR & PEACE
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom—
A field where a thousand corpses lie.
Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Swift, blazing flag of the regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.
Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Stephen Crane
(1871 – 1900)
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind
from: War is Kind
•fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: *War Poetry Archive, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Stephen Crane
Oxford
At home as in no other city, here
summer holds her breath in a dark street
the trees nocturnally scented, lovers like moths
go by silently on the footpaths
and spirits of the young wait,
cannot be expelled, multiply each year.
In the meadows, walks, over the walls
the sunlight, far-travelled, tired and content,
warms the recollections of old men, touching
the hand of the scholar on his book, marching
through quadrangles and arches, at last spent
it leans through the stained windows and falls.
This then is the city of young men, of beginning,
ideas, trials, pardonable follies,
the lightness, seriousness and sorrow of youth.
And the city of the old, looking for truth,
browsing for years, the mind’s seven bellies
filled, become legendary figures, seeming
stones of the city, her venerable towers;
dignified, clothed by erudition and time.
For them it is not a city but an existence;
outside which everything is a pretence:
within, the leisurely immortals dream,
venerated and spared by the ominous hours.
Keith Douglas
(1920 – 1944)
Oxford
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Douglas, Keith, WAR & PEACE
Desert Flowers
Living in a wide landscape are the flowers –
Rosenberg I only repeat what you were saying –
the shell and the hawk every hour
are slaying men and jerboas, slaying
the mind: but the body can fill
the hungry flowers and the dogs who cry words
at nights, the most hostile things of all.
But that is not new. Each time the night discards
draperies on the eyes and leaves the mind awake
I look each side of the door of sleep
for the little coin it will take
to buy the secret I shall not keep.
I see men as trees suffering
or confound the detail and the horizon.
Lay the coin on my tongue and I will sing
of what the others never set eyes on.
Keith Douglas
(1920 – 1944)
Desert Flowers
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More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Douglas, Keith, WAR & PEACE
Behold, the grave of a wicked man
Behold, the grave of a wicked man,
And near it, a stern spirit.
There came a drooping maid with violets,
But the spirit grasped her arm.
“No flowers for him,” he said.
The maid wept:
“Ah, I loved him.”
But the spirit, grim and frowning:
“No flowers for him.”
Now, this is it —
If the spirit was just,
Why did the maid weep?
Stephen Crane
(1871 – 1900)
Behold, the grave of a wicked man
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: *War Poetry Archive, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Stephen Crane
Letzte Lieder
–––––––––––––
Und leise, traumhaft wieder
Die Harfe mir erklang,
Es sind die letzten Lieder,
Die ich hienieden sang.
Es ist von meinem Herzen
Gelöst der letzte Hauch
––––––––––––––
––––––––––––––
Alfred Teniers.
1.
Schwarz und still in meinem Hirn,
Schwarz und still in meiner Stube,
Nur der Pendel meiner Uhr
Hüpfet wie ein munt’rer Bube.
Plötzlich zuckt auf Deinem Bild,
Farblos, wie auf einem Grabe –
Ein verirrter Mondenstrahl,
Mahnt, daß ich noch Thränen habe.
2.
Ist es Friede, ist es Glück,
Was durch meine Träume zieht,
Unsichtbar, wie Blumenduft,
Leise, wie ein Kindeslied?
Kehrt die Jugend mir zurück,
Jene Sehnsucht, die mich mied,
Seit des Lebens kalte Luft
Mich und meine Seele schied?
3.
Durch die dicht verhängten Fenster
Dringt das dumpfe Wagenrollen,
Und verscheucht die Nachtgespenster,
Die im Traum mir nahen wollen.
Aber rauschend durch mein Zimmer
Wogt ein Meer von wirren Tönen,
Und aus all’ dem Schmerzgewimmer
Hör’ ich meine Seele stöhnen!
Hör’ ich meine Seele weinen –
Nicht um dieses Leibes Sterben –
Doch es bangt ihr vor dem kleinen,
Müden, einsamen Verderben.
4.
Über meinem Lager hängt,
Welk, bestaubt und abgestorben,
Ein beflorter Lorbeerkranz
Neben Myrthen, längst verdorben.
Und in meinem Fiebertraum
Schaute ich sie wieder blühen –
Und mich selber jugendfreudig
Unter ihrem Duft erglühen.
Aber ach, das Fieber schwand.
Welk, so wie mein eig’nes Leben,
Schaue ich die Kränze dort
Nur an dünnen Fäden schweben.
5.
Der alte Kampf ist ausgekämpft;
Weit hinter mir liegt jede Qual,
70Es fiel in meines Lebens Frost
Der erste warme Sonnenstrahl.
Weit hinter mir liegt Groll und Leid
Durch milde Thränen aufgethaut.
Mein Auge hat zum ersten Mal
Die Wahrheit und das Glück geschaut.
6.
Leg’ auf mein Haupt, so fieberheiß,
Die kühle weiche Hand,
Mein brennend Antlitz wende leis’
Und sachte hin zur Wand;
Es ist so schwer mein Augenlied
Daß ich’s nicht heben kann,
Und meine Lippe dürr’ und müd’
O schaue mich nicht an! –
Wend’ sachte mein Gesicht zur Wand;
Kann ich Dich auch nicht seh’n,
Fühl’ ich doch Deine weiche Hand
Und Deines Athem’s Weh’n.
7.
Rasch durch das dunkle Zimmer huscht
Mein Vogel, traurig singend,
Er will hinaus in’s Sonnenlicht,
Er zwitschert schüchtern-dringend.
Flieg’ in die kalte fremde Welt,
Flieg’ über Thal und Hügel,
Du kleiner Vogel, hast ja heut’
Noch ungebroch’ne Flügel. –
8.
Es pfeift der Wind sein frostig Lied,
Und eiserstarrte Tropfen
Wirft klirrend an die Scheiben er,
Die Kranken wach zu klopfen.
Die alte Frau an meinem Bett
Nickt müd’, in Schlaf versunken,
Die Kohlen im Kamine sprüh’n
Bei jedem Windstoß Funken.
Aufhorchend knurrt der kleine Hund,
Um ächzend fortzuträumen,
Das Lampenlicht spielt flackernd roth
Mit der Tapete Bäumen.
Der nackten Göttin weißes Bild
Lacht höhnisch auf mich nieder.
Es pfeift der Wind – Gedanken zieh’n. –
Ich find’ den Schlaf nicht wieder.
9.
Leg’ Du mich in den Sarg hinein,
Schließ Du den Deckel zu,
Und hinter meinem Sarg allein,
Geh’ Du – Niemand als Du.
Den ich geliebt, und Leid’s gethan
Warst Du – nur Du allein….
Komm’ nie zu meinem Grabe Mann,
Ich will vergessen sein.
Ada Christen
(1839 – 1901)
Letzte Lieder
1870
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Christen, Ada
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