Soul

Do not go gentle into that good night, 
Old age should burn and rave at close of day; 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, 
Because their words had forked no lightning they 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright 
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, 
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight 
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

And you, my father, there on that sad height, 
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

A lily-girl, not made for this world's pain,
With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,
And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears
Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:
Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,
Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,
And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,
Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.
Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease,
Even to kiss her feet I am not bold,
Being o'ershadowed by the wings of awe,
Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice
Beneath the flaming Lion's breast, and saw
The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.

Ascension


Salute the last and everlasting day,
Joy at th' uprising of this Sun, and Son,
Ye whose true tears, or tribulation
Have purely wash'd, or burnt your drossy clay.
Behold, the Highest, parting hence away,
Lightens the dark clouds, which He treads upon ;
Nor doth He by ascending show alone,
But first He, and He first enters the way.
O strong Ram, which hast batter'd heaven for me !
Mild Lamb, which with Thy Blood hast mark'd the path !
Bright Torch, which shinest, that I the way may see !
O, with Thy own Blood quench Thy own just wrath ;
And if Thy Holy Spirit my Muse did raise,
Deign at my hands this crown of prayer and praise.

Shadow


Here you are beside me again
Memories of my companions killed in the war
The olive-branch of time
Memories that make only a single memory
As a hundred skins make only a single coat
As these thousands of wounds make only a single
newspaper article
Impalpable and ark presence who have assumed
the changing shape of my shadow
an Indian on the watch through all Eternity
shadow you creep beside me
but you do not hear me any more
you will not know any more the divine poems I sing
but I hear you still and see you still
Destinies
Multiple shadows may the sun preserve you
You who love me so much that you will never leave me
And who dance in the sun without stirring the dust
Shadow ink of the sun
Signature of my light
Holder of sorrows
A god that condescends.

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.

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.

Carpe Diem

O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O stay and hear! your true-love's coming
That can sing both high and low;
Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
Journey's end in lovers' meeting--
Every wise man's son doth know.


What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty,--
Then come kiss me, Sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

Don't be afraid, O human soul!

The power thrones of today represent devil's affair,
the power-hungry monsters are busy playing there.
Don't be afraid, O human soul! Don't break down in tear!
The drunkard of the underworld won't prevail much longer here.
With injustice and wrongs black-stained is his throne,
his sword is rusted with curse of those under oppression.
Painting the sky dark yellow approaches the monsoon storm in full power,
the greedy ones are beguiled thinking, this is beautiful twilight hour.
The fire they have spread around the world, now in its flame in turn,
like blazing fire, everywhere, these wretcheds will burn.


The traveler of the path of truth! Don't be afraid, don't fear!
Those who seek peace, defeat is not for them, my dear!
Sometimes the enemies of peace win in their disguise,
at the end only in humiliation and shame comes their inevitable demise.
Dusts of the road rise off the ground as wind blows strong,
if you think, they are on the rise, won't that be wrong?
Those who want to ascend above, these trash stand in their way;
they can make the road slippery, but the mud doesn't win the day.


In tranquility, win or defeat, we will treat the same,
if we win, we will dedicate it to His glory and name.
If we lose, we will be greeted by Him in the hereafter,
if we are battle-wounded, we will be His beloved, forever.
Sometimes they will win, but never shall we retreat!
Our Lord tests us - we will take it as His treat.
Does hatred ever bring back those who are lost?
To win their heart, with love first our heart must defrost.
Those who knowingly practice oppression and take away others' right,
it is against them, the sword of God is always ready and upright.


Don't be hard on those who, in ignorance, go astray!
They might return to the truth, if you show love, and pray!
In His one name, invite people of all nation;
Hold sword in hand, while offer your heart with love and affection.
The whole world would be in your favor, if at you His grace flashes;
all the enemies of the truth, you will see, will burn into ashes.
Those whose hearts among us are stained with temptation,
they also deserve discipline, before facing God's condemnation.


March forward, O the new warriors, indomitable!
Prevent our journey and progress? No one would be able!
Let faith and patience be the lasting friends - yours and mine.
On our path, the light of such and of moon will always shine.
Don't be afraid! Have no fear!
Falsehood will definitely disappear!
Truth will triumph, O my dear!
Those who treat the meek with bloody eyes, finished is their share!
This world belongs to people, not to any throne; declare!


Those who disgrace the blessed power from their power-bed,
at the command of the King of kings, they lose their head.



The rule of the ship-owners is ending; it won't be very long,
to the real king of the universe, all the countries will belong.
O blood-eyed vultures, monsters! Beware, beware!
To beguile others and make forget God's command, how do you dare?
We fear one God only; no one else do we fear!
Our guide is the Omnipotent, our Lord so dear!
Sky, earth, moon, planets, and stars are witnesses, I say,
as to who are the followers of truth, and who go astray.


Don't be afraid; have no fear!
Falsehood will surely disappear!
Truth will be triumphant, my dear!


[Original: Bhoy Koriyo Na, He Manobata; Translation: Mohammad Omar Farooq]

On Jordan's Banks

On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray,
On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray,
The Baaladorer
bows on Sinai's steep Yet
there even
there Oh
God! thy thunders sleep:


There where
thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone!
There where
thy shadow to thy people shone!
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire:
Thyself none
living see and not expire!


Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear;
Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear!
How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod?
How long thy temple worshipless, Oh God?

Dum Capitolium Scandet

How many will come after me
singing as well as I sing, none better;
Telling the heart of their truth
as I have taught them to tell it;
Fruit of my seed,
O my unnameable children.
Know then that I loved you from afore-time,
Clear speakers, naked in the sun, untrammelled.

The Test of Love—is Death

573

The Test of Love—is Death—
Our Lord—"so loved"—it saith—
What Largest Lover—hath
Another—doth—


If smaller Patience—be—
Through less Infinity—
If Bravo, sometimes swerve—
Through fainter Nerve—


Accept its Most—
And overlook—the Dust—
Last—Least—
The Cross'—Request—

Love Lies Sleeping

Earliest morning, switching all the tracks


that cross the sky from cinder star to star,
coupling the ends of streets
to trains of light.


now draw us into daylight in our beds;


and clear away what presses on the brain:
put out the neon shapes
that float and swell and glare


down the gray avenue between the eyes


in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs.
Hang-over moons, wane, wane!
From the window I see


an immense city, carefully revealed,


made delicate by over-workmanship,
detail upon detail,
cornice upon facade,


reaching up so languidly up into


a weak white sky, it seems to waver there.
(Where it has slowly grown
in skies of water-glass


from fused beads of iron and copper crystals,


the little chemical "garden" in a jar
trembles and stands again,
pale blue, blue-green, and brick.)


The sparrows hurriedly begin their play.


Then, in the West, "Boom!" and a cloud of smoke.
"Boom!" and the exploding ball
of blossom blooms again.


(And all the employees who work in a plants


where such a sound says "Danger," or once said "Death,"
turn in their sleep and feel
the short hairs bristling


on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off.


A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line.
Along the street below
the water-wagon comes


throwing its hissing, snowy fan across


peelings and newspapers. The water dries
light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern
of the cool watermelon.


I hear the day-springs of the morning strike
from stony walls and halls and iron beds,



scattered or grouped cascades,
alarms for the expected:


queer cupids of all persons getting up,


whose evening meal they will prepare all day,
you will dine well
on his heart, on his, and his,


so send them about your business affectionately,


dragging in the streets their unique loves.
Scourge them with roses only,
be light as helium,


for always to one, or several, morning comes


whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed,
whose face is turned
so that the image of


the city grows down into his open eyes


inverted and distorted. No. I mean
distorted and revealed,
if he sees it at all.

Two crowned Kings, and One that stood alone
With no green weight of laurels round his head,
But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,
And wearied with man's never-ceasing moan
For sins no bleating victim can atone,
And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.
Girt was he in a garment black and red,
And at his feet I marked a broken stone
Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.
Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame,
I cried to Beatrice, 'Who are these?'
And she made answer, knowing well each name,
'AEschylos first, the second Sophokles,
And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.'

Your Laughter

Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.


Do not take away the rose,
the lance flower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.


My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.


My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.


Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.


Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.

When Klopstock England Defied
When Klopstock England defied,
Uprose William Blake in his pride;
For old Nobodaddy aloft
. . . and belch'd and cough'd;
Then swore a great oath that made Heaven quake,
And call'd aloud to English Blake.
Blake was giving his body ease,
At Lambeth beneath the poplar trees.
From his seat then started he
And turn'd him round three times three.
The moon at that sight blush'd scarlet red,
The stars threw down their cups and fled,
And all the devils that were in hell,
Answerèd with a ninefold yell.
Klopstock felt the intripled turn,
And all his bowels began to churn,
And his bowels turn'd round three times three,
And lock'd in his soul with a ninefold key; . . .
Then again old Nobodaddy swore
He ne'er had seen such a thing before,
Since Noah was shut in the ark,
Since Eve first chose her hellfire spark,
Since 'twas the fashion to go naked,
Since the old Anything was created . . .

Night Song

WHEN on thy pillow lying,

Half listen, I implore,
And at my lute's soft sighing,
Sleep on! what wouldst thou more?
For at my lute's soft sighing
The stars their blessings pour


On feelings never-dying;
Sleep on! what wouldst thou more?
Those feelings never-dying
My spirit aid to soar


From earthly conflicts trying;
Sleep on! what wouldst thou more?
From earthly conflicts trying
Thou driv'st me to this shore;


Through thee I'm thither flying,--
Sleep on! what wouldst thou more?
Through thee I'm hither flying,
Thou wilt not list before


In slumbers thou art lying:
Sleep on! what wouldst thou more?

The Dying Child

Mother, I'm tired, and I would fain be sleeping;
Let me repose upon thy bosom sick;
But promise me that thou wilt leave off weeping,
Because thy tears fall hot upon my cheek.


Here it is cold: the tempest raveth madly;
But in my dreams all is so wondrous bright;
I see the angel-children smiling gladly,
When from my weary eyes I shut out light.


Mother, one stands beside me now! and, listen!
Dost thou not hear the music's sweet accord?
See how his white wings beautifully glisten?
Surely those wings were given him by the Lord!


Green, gold, and red, are floating all around me;
They are the flowers the angel scattereth.
Should I have also wings while life has bound me?
Or, mother, are they given alone in death?


Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going?
Why dost thou press thy cheek so unto mine?
Thy cheek is hot, and yet thy tears are flowing!
I will, dear mother, will be always thine!


Do not sigh thus - it marreth my reposing;
But if thou weep, then I must weep with thee!
Ah, I am tired - my weary eyes are closing -
Look, mother, look! the angel kisseth me!

A Father's Prayer

Lord, make me tolerant and wise;
Incline my ears to hear him through;
Let him not stand with downcast eyes,
Fearing to trust me and be true.
Instruct me so that I may know
The way my son and I should go.


When he shall err, as once did I,
Or boyhood folly bids him stray,
Let me not into anger fly
And drive the good in him away.
Teach me to win his trust, that he
Shall keep no secret hid from me.


Lord, strengthen me that I may be .
A fit example for my son.
Grant he may never hear or see
A shameful deed that I have done.
However sorely I am tried,
Let me not undermine his pride.


In spite of years and temples gray,
Still let my spirit beat with joy;
Teach me to share in all his play
And be a comrade with my boy.
Wherever we may chance to be,
Let him find happiness with me.


Lord, as his father, now I pray
For manhood's strength and counsel wise;
Let me deal justly, day by day,
In all that fatherhood implies.
To be his father, keep me fit;
Let me not play the hypocrite!

Egypt, Tobago

There is a shattered palm
on this fierce shore,
its plumes the rusting helmet
of a dead warrior.


Numb Antony, in the torpor
stretching her inert
sex near him like a sleeping cat,
knows his heart is the real desert.


Over the dunes
of her heaving,
to his heart's drumming
fades the mirage of the legions,


across love-tousled sheets,
the triremes fading.
Ar the carved door of her temple
a fly wrings its message.


He brushes a damp hair
away from an ear
as perfect as a sleeping child's.
He stares, inert, the fallen column.


He lies like a copper palm
tree at three in the afternoon
by a hot sea
and a river, in Egypt, Tobago


Her salt marsh dries in the heat
where he foundered
without armor.
He exchanged an empire for her beads of sweat,


the uproar of arenas,
the changing surf
of senators, for
this silent ceiling over silent sand


this grizzled bear, whose fur,
moulting, is silvered for
this quick fox with her
sweet stench. By sleep dismembered,


his head
is in Egypt, his feet
in Rome, his groin a desert
trench with its dead soldier.


He drifts a finger
through her stiff hair



crisp as a mare's fountaining tail.
Shadows creep up the palace tile.


He is too tired to move;
a groan would waken
trumpets, one more gesture
war. His glare,


a shield
reflecting fires,
a brass brow that cannot frown
at carnage, sweats the sun's force.


It is not the turmoil
of autumnal lust,
its treacheries, that drove
him, fired and grimed with dust,


this far, not even love,
but a great rage without
clamor, that grew great
because its depth is quiet;


it hears the river
of her young brown blood,
it feels the whole sky quiver
with her blue eyelid.


She sleeps with the soft engine of a child,


that sleep which scythes
the stalks of lances, fells the
harvest of legions
with nothing for its knives,
that makes Caesars,


sputtering at flies,
slapping their foreheads
with the laurel's imprint,
drunkards, comedians.


All-humbling sleep, whose peace
is sweet as death,
whose silence has
all the sea's weight and volubility,


who swings this globe by a hair's trembling breath.


Shattered and wild and
palm-crowned Antony,
rusting in Egypt,
ready to lose the world,



to Actium and sand,

everything else
is vanity, but this tenderness
for a woman not his mistress
but his sleeping child.

The sky is cloudless. The afternoon is mild.

I wandered through Scoglietto's far retreat,
The oranges on each o'erhanging spray
Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;
Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet
Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet
Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:
And the curved waves that streaked the great green bay
Laughed i' the sun, and life seemed very sweet.
Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,
'Jesus the son of Mary has been slain,
O come and fill His sepulchre with flowers.'
Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours
Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,
The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the Spear.

The sin was mine; I did not understand.
So now is music prisoned in her cave,
Save where some ebbing desultory wave
Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.
And in the withered hollow of this land
Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave,
That hardly can the leaden willow crave
One silver blossom from keen Winter's hand.
But who is this who cometh by the shore?
(Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is this
Who cometh in dyed garments from the South?
It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss
The yet unravished roses of thy mouth,
And I shall weep and worship, as before.

These are the letters which Endymion wrote
To one he loved in secret, and apart.
And now the brawlers of the auction mart
Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,
Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote
The merchant's price. I think they love not art
Who break the crystal of a poet's heart
That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.

Is it not said that many years ago,
In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran
With torches through the midnight, and began
To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw
Dice for the garments of a wretched man,
Not knowing the God's wonder, or His woe?

To drift with every passion till my soul
Is a stringed lute on which can winds can play,
Is it for this that I have given away
Mine ancient wisdom and austere control?
Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll
Scrawled over on some boyish holiday
With idle songs for pipe and virelay,
Which do but mar the secret of the whole.
Surely there was a time I might have trod
The sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance
Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God:
Is that time dead? lo! with a little rod
I did but touch the honey of romance -
And must I lose a soul's inheritance?

Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach Thy hand,
For I am drowning in a stormier sea
Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee:
The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,
My heart is as some famine-murdered land
Whence all good things have perished utterly,
And well I know my soul in Hell must lie
If I this night before God's throne should stand.
'He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase,
Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name
From morn to noon on Carmel's smitten height.'
Nay, peace, I shall behold, before the night,
The feet of brass, the robe more white than flame,
The wounded hands, the weary human face.