TOMBEAU DE LA JEUNESSE – early death: writers, poets & artists who died young

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Charlotte Brontë: Mementos

Charlotte Brontë

(1816–1855)

Mementos

Arranging long-locked drawers and shelves

Of cabinets, shut up for years,

What a strange task we’ve set ourselves!

How still the lonely room appears!

How strange this mass of ancient treasures,

Mementos of past pains and pleasures;

These volumes, clasped with costly stone,

With print all faded, gilding gone;

These fans of leaves from Indian trees–

These crimson shells, from Indian seas–

These tiny portraits, set in rings–

Once, doubtless, deemed such precious things;

Keepsakes bestowed by Love on Faith,

And worn till the receiver’s death,

Now stored with cameos, china, shells,

In this old closet’s dusty cells.

I scarcely think, for ten long years,

A hand has touched these relics old;

And, coating each, slow-formed, appears

The growth of green and antique mould.

All in this house is mossing over;

All is unused, and dim, and damp;

Nor light, nor warmth, the rooms discover–

Bereft for years of fire and lamp.

The sun, sometimes in summer, enters

The casements, with reviving ray;

But the long rains of many winters

Moulder the very walls away.

And outside all is ivy, clinging

To chimney, lattice, gable grey;

Scarcely one little red rose springing

Through the green moss can force its way.

Unscared, the daw and starling nestle,

Where the tall turret rises high,

And winds alone come near to rustle

The thick leaves where their cradles lie,

I sometimes think, when late at even

I climb the stair reluctantly,

Some shape that should be well in heaven,

Or ill elsewhere, will pass by me.

I fear to see the very faces,

Familiar thirty years ago,

Even in the old accustomed places

Which look so cold and gloomy now,

I’ve come, to close the window, hither,

At twilight, when the sun was down,

And Fear my very soul would wither,

Lest something should be dimly shown,

Too much the buried form resembling,

Of her who once was mistress here;

Lest doubtful shade, or moonbeam trembling,

Might take her aspect, once so dear.

Hers was this chamber; in her time

It seemed to me a pleasant room,

For then no cloud of grief or crime

Had cursed it with a settled gloom;

I had not seen death’s image laid

In shroud and sheet, on yonder bed.

Before she married, she was blest–

Blest in her youth, blest in her worth;

Her mind was calm, its sunny rest

Shone in her eyes more clear than mirth.

And when attired in rich array,

Light, lustrous hair about her brow,

She yonder sat, a kind of day

Lit up what seems so gloomy now.

These grim oak walls even then were grim;

That old carved chair was then antique;

But what around looked dusk and dim

Served as a foil to her fresh cheek;

Her neck and arms, of hue so fair,

Eyes of unclouded, smiling light;

Her soft, and curled, and floating hair,

Gems and attire, as rainbow bright.

Reclined in yonder deep recess,

Ofttimes she would, at evening, lie

Watching the sun; she seemed to bless

With happy glance the glorious sky.

She loved such scenes, and as she gazed,

Her face evinced her spirit’s mood;

Beauty or grandeur ever raised

In her, a deep-felt gratitude.

But of all lovely things, she loved

A cloudless moon, on summer night,

Full oft have I impatience proved

To see how long her still delight

Would find a theme in reverie,

Out on the lawn, or where the trees

Let in the lustre fitfully,

As their boughs parted momently,

To the soft, languid, summer breeze.

Alas! that she should e’er have flung

Those pure, though lonely joys away–

Deceived by false and guileful tongue,

She gave her hand, then suffered wrong;

Oppressed, ill-used, she faded young,

And died of grief by slow decay.

Open that casket-look how bright

Those jewels flash upon the sight;

The brilliants have not lost a ray

Of lustre, since her wedding day.

But see–upon that pearly chain–

How dim lies Time’s discolouring stain!

I’ve seen that by her daughter worn:

For, ere she died, a child was born;–

A child that ne’er its mother knew,

That lone, and almost friendless grew;

For, ever, when its step drew nigh,

Averted was the father’s eye;

And then, a life impure and wild

Made him a stranger to his child:

Absorbed in vice, he little cared

On what she did, or how she fared.

The love withheld she never sought,

She grew uncherished–learnt untaught;

To her the inward life of thought

Full soon was open laid.

I know not if her friendlessness

Did sometimes on her spirit press,

But plaint she never made.

The book-shelves were her darling treasure,

She rarely seemed the time to measure

While she could read alone.

And she too loved the twilight wood

And often, in her mother’s mood,

Away to yonder hill would hie,

Like her, to watch the setting sun,

Or see the stars born, one by one,

Out of the darkening sky.

Nor would she leave that hill till night

Trembled from pole to pole with light;

Even then, upon her homeward way,

Long–long her wandering steps delayed

To quit the sombre forest shade,

Through which her eerie pathway lay.

You ask if she had beauty’s grace?

I know not–but a nobler face

My eyes have seldom seen;

A keen and fine intelligence,

And, better still, the truest sense

Were in her speaking mien.

But bloom or lustre was there none,

Only at moments, fitful shone

An ardour in her eye,

That kindled on her cheek a flush,

Warm as a red sky’s passing blush

And quick with energy.

Her speech, too, was not common speech,

No wish to shine, or aim to teach,

Was in her words displayed:

She still began with quiet sense,

But oft the force of eloquence

Came to her lips in aid;

Language and voice unconscious changed,

And thoughts, in other words arranged,

Her fervid soul transfused

Into the hearts of those who heard,

And transient strength and ardour stirred,

In minds to strength unused,

Yet in gay crowd or festal glare,

Grave and retiring was her air;

‘Twas seldom, save with me alone,

That fire of feeling freely shone;

She loved not awe’s nor wonder’s gaze,

Nor even exaggerated praise,

Nor even notice, if too keen

The curious gazer searched her mien.

Nature’s own green expanse revealed

The world, the pleasures, she could prize;

On free hill-side, in sunny field,

In quiet spots by woods concealed,

Grew wild and fresh her chosen joys,

Yet Nature’s feelings deeply lay

In that endowed and youthful frame;

Shrined in her heart and hid from day,

They burned unseen with silent flame.

In youth’s first search for mental light,

She lived but to reflect and learn,

But soon her mind’s maturer might

For stronger task did pant and yearn;

And stronger task did fate assign,

Task that a giant’s strength might strain;

To suffer long and ne’er repine,

Be calm in frenzy, smile at pain.

Pale with the secret war of feeling,

Sustained with courage, mute, yet high;

The wounds at which she bled, revealing

Only by altered cheek and eye;

She bore in silence–but when passion

Surged in her soul with ceaseless foam,

The storm at last brought desolation,

And drove her exiled from her home.

And silent still, she straight assembled

The wrecks of strength her soul retained;

For though the wasted body trembled,

The unconquered mind, to quail, disdained.

She crossed the sea–now lone she wanders

By Seine’s, or Rhine’s, or Arno’s flow;

Fain would I know if distance renders

Relief or comfort to her woe.

Fain would I know if, henceforth, ever,

These eyes shall read in hers again,

That light of love which faded never,

Though dimmed so long with secret pain.

She will return, but cold and altered,

Like all whose hopes too soon depart;

Like all on whom have beat, unsheltered,

The bitter blasts that blight the heart.

No more shall I behold her lying

Calm on a pillow, smoothed by me;

No more that spirit, worn with sighing,

Will know the rest of infancy.

If still the paths of lore she follow,

‘Twill be with tired and goaded will;

She’ll only toil, the aching hollow,

The joyless blank of life to fill.

And oh! full oft, quite spent and weary,

Her hand will pause, her head decline;

That labour seems so hard and dreary,

On which no ray of hope may shine.

Thus the pale blight of time and sorrow

Will shade with grey her soft, dark hair;

Then comes the day that knows no morrow,

And death succeeds to long despair.

So speaks experience, sage and hoary;

I see it plainly, know it well,

Like one who, having read a story,

Each incident therein can tell.

Touch not that ring; ’twas his, the sire

Of that forsaken child;

And nought his relics can inspire

Save memories, sin-defiled.

I, who sat by his wife’s death-bed,

I, who his daughter loved,

Could almost curse the guilty dead,

For woes the guiltless proved.

And heaven did curse–they found him laid,

When crime for wrath was rife,

Cold–with the suicidal blade

Clutched in his desperate gripe.

‘Twas near that long deserted hut,

Which in the wood decays,

Death’s axe, self-wielded, struck his root,

And lopped his desperate days.

You know the spot, where three black trees,

Lift up their branches fell,

And moaning, ceaseless as the seas,

Still seem, in every passing breeze,

The deed of blood to tell.

They named him mad, and laid his bones

Where holier ashes lie;

Yet doubt not that his spirit groans

In hell’s eternity.

But, lo! night, closing o’er the earth,

Infects our thoughts with gloom;

Come, let us strive to rally mirth

Where glows a clear and tranquil hearth

In some more cheerful room.

Currer Bell (Charlotte Brontë) poetry

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Emily Brontë: Stars

Emily Jane Brontë

(1818-1848)

S t a r s

Ah! why, because the dazzling sun

Restored our Earth to joy,

Have you departed, every one,

And left a desert sky?

All through the night, your glorious eyes

Were gazing down in mine,

And, with a full heart’s thankful sighs,

I blessed that watch divine.

I was at peace, and drank your beams

As they were life to me;

And revelled in my changeful dreams,

Like petrel on the sea.

Thought followed thought, star followed star,

Through boundless regions, on;

While one sweet influence, near and far,

Thrilled through, and proved us one!

Why did the morning dawn to break

So great, so pure, a spell;

And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek,

Where your cool radiance fell?

Blood-red, he rose, and, arrow-straight,

His fierce beams struck my brow;

The soul of nature sprang, elate,

But mine sank sad and low!

My lids closed down, yet through their veil

I saw him, blazing, still,

And steep in gold the misty dale,

And flash upon the hill.

I turned me to the pillow, then,

To call back night, and see

Your worlds of solemn light, again,

Throb with my heart, and me!

It would not do–the pillow glowed,

And glowed both roof and floor;

And birds sang loudly in the wood,

And fresh winds shook the door;

The curtains waved, the wakened flies

Were murmuring round my room,

Imprisoned there, till I should rise,

And give them leave to roam.

Oh, stars, and dreams, and gentle night;

Oh, night and stars, return!

And hide me from the hostile light

That does not warm, but burn;

That drains the blood of suffering men;

Drinks tears, instead of dew;

Let me sleep through his blinding reign,

And only wake with you!

Emily Brontë poetry

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Anne Brontë: 4 Poems

Anne Brontë

(1820-1849)

The Penitent

I mourn with thee, and yet rejoice

That thou shouldst sorrow so;

With angel choirs I join my voice

To bless the sinner’s woe.

Though friends and kindred turn away,

And laugh thy grief to scorn;

I hear the great Redeemer say,

“Blessed are ye that mourn.”

Hold on thy course, nor deem it strange

That earthly cords are riven:

Man may lament the wondrous change,

But “there is joy in heaven!”

A Reminiscence

Yes, thou art gone! and never more

Thy sunny smile shall gladden me;

But I may pass the old church door,

And pace the floor that covers thee,

May stand upon the cold, damp stone,

And think that, frozen, lies below

The lightest heart that I have known,

The kindest I shall ever know.

Yet, though I cannot see thee more,

‘Tis still a comfort to have seen;

And though thy transient life is o’er,

‘Tis sweet to think that thou hast been;

To think a soul so near divine,

Within a form so angel fair,

United to a heart like thine,

Has gladdened once our humble sphere.

Lines composed in a Wood

on a windy Day

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring

And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze;

For above and around me the wild wind is roaring,

Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.

The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,

The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;

The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing,

The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky

I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing

The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray;

I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing,

And hear the wild roar of their thunder to-day!

The Arbour

I’ll rest me in this sheltered bower,

And look upon the clear blue sky

That smiles upon me through the trees,

Which stand so thick clustering by;

And view their green and glossy leaves,

All glistening in the sunshine fair;

And list the rustling of their boughs,

So softly whispering through the air.

And while my ear drinks in the sound,

My winged soul shall fly away;

Reviewing lone departed years

As one mild, beaming, autumn day;

And soaring on to future scenes,

Like hills and woods, and valleys green,

All basking in the summer’s sun,

But distant still, and dimly seen.

Oh, list! ’tis summer’s very breath

That gently shakes the rustling trees–

But look! the snow is on the ground–

How can I think of scenes like these?

‘Tis but the FROST that clears the air,

And gives the sky that lovely blue;

They’re smiling in a WINTER’S sun,

Those evergreens of sombre hue.

And winter’s chill is on my heart–

How can I dream of future bliss?

How can my spirit soar away,

Confined by such a chain as this?

Acton Bell (Anna Brontë) poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

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Anita Berber Gedicht: Kokain

A n i t a B e r b e r

(1899-1928)

K o k a i n

Wände
Tisch
Schatten und Katzen
Grüne Augen
Viele Augen
Millionenfache Augen
Das Weib
Nervöses zerflatterndes Begehren
Aufflackerndes Leben
Schwälende Lampe
Tanzender Schatten
Kleiner Schatten
Großer Schatten
Der Schatten
Oh – der Sprung über den Schatten
Er quält dieser Schatten
Er martert dieser Schatten
Er frißt mich dieser Schatten
Was will dieser Schatten
Kokain

Aufschrei
Tiere
Blut
Alkohol
Schmerzen
Viele Schmerzen
Und die Augen
Die Tiere
Die Mäuse
Das Licht
Dieser Schatten
Dieser schrecklich große schwarze Schatten.

anita berber gedichte

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Hans Hermans Natuurdagboek: To Autumn van John Keats

J o h n K e a t s

(1795-1821)

T o A u t u m n

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,–
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Natuurdagboek Hans Hermans October 2009

Photos Hans Hermans – Poem: John Keats

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Galerie Anita Berber – 8

Galerie Anita Berber – 8

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 film Rosa von Praunheim made a film titled: Anita – Tänze des Lasters.

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Galerie Anita Berber – 7

Galerie Anita Berber – 7

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Galerie Anita Berber -6-

Galerie Anita Berber – 6

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 film Rosa von Praunheim made a film titled: Anita – Tänze des Lasters.

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Galerie Anita Berber – 5

Galerie Anita Berber – 5

(Anita Berber 1899-1928)

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Galerie Anita Berber – 4

Bridge Markland as Anita Berber in her performance A.B. – Photo: Nina Rücker

Galerie Anita Berber – 4

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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

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.