Poetry, 9. kötetHarriet Monroe Modern Poetry Association, 1917 |
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128. oldal - Break of Day in the Trenches The darkness crumbles away It is the same old druid Time as ever. Only a live thing leaps my hand A queer sardonic rat As I pull the parapet's poppy To stick behind my ear. Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew Your cosmopolitan sympathies. Now you have touched this English hand You will do the same to a German Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure To cross the sleeping green between. It seems you inwardly grin as you pass...
201. oldal - I've run ; Now hope all ending, and Death befriending, His last aid lending, my cares are done : No more a rover, or hapless lover, My griefs are over — my glass runs low ; Then for that reason, and for a season, MAIRGREAD NI CHEALLEADH.
201. oldal - Is this fancy, or is it fact ? Have you not seen him after his resurrection from that tomb, after having been dug out of the region of death and corruption, make his appearance upon the table, the living image of life and of death, and the supreme arbiter of both ? Have you not marked when he entered how the stormy wave of the multitude retired at his approach ? Have you not marked how the human heart bowed to the supremacy of his power, in the...
261. oldal - To pain— it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me ; They may crush, but they shall not contemn; They may torture, but shall not subdue me; 'Tis of thee that I think— not of them.
81. oldal - I lie here thinking of you — The stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves, smears with saffron the horned branches that lean heavily against a smooth purple sky! There is no light only a honey-thick stain that drips from leaf to leaf and limb to limb spoiling the colors of the whole world— you, far off there under the wine-red selvage of the West!
250. oldal - THE UNKNOWN SHE is most fair, And when they see her pass The poets' ladies Look no more in the glass But after her. On a bleak moor Running under the moon She lures a poet, Once proud or happy, soon Far from his door. Beside a train, Because they saw her go, Or failed to see her, Travellers and watchers know Another pain. The simple lack Of her is more to me Than others' presence, Whether life splendid be Or utter black.
249. oldal - tis an empty thingless name — forgot Never can die because Spring after Spring Some thrushes learn to say it as they sing. There is always one at midday saying it clear And tart — the name, only the name I hear. While perhaps I am thinking of the elder scent That is like food, or while I am content With the wild rose scent that is like memory, This name suddenly is cried out to me From somewhere in the bushes by a bird Over and over again, a pure thrush word.
201. oldal - Have )ou not marked how the human heart bowed to the supremacy of his power, in the undissembled homage of deferential horror ? How his glance, like the lightning of heaven, seemed to rive the body of the accused, and mark it for the grave, while his...
248. oldal - Yet seem, too, to be listening, lying in wait For what I should, yet never can, remember; No garden appears, no path, no hoar-green bush Of Lad's-love, or Old Man, no child beside, Neither father nor mother, nor any playmate; Only an avenue, dark, nameless, without end.
302. oldal - SUNSHINE The pool is edged with the blade-like leaves of irises. If I throw a stone into the placid water, It suddenly stiffens Into rings and rings Of sharp gold wire.