(en construcció…)
SONNET TO ZANTE
Fair
isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
Thy gentlest of all gentle
names dost take!
How many memories of what
radiant hours
At sight of thee and thine at
once awake!
How many scenes of what
departed bliss!
How many thoughts of what
emtombèd hopes!
How many visions of a maiden
that is
No more no more upon thy
verdant slopes!
No
more! Alas, that magical sad sound
Transforming all! Thy charms
shall please no more
Thy memory no more! Accursèd ground
Henceforth I hold thy
flower-enamelled shore,
O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
?Isola d?oro! Fior di Levante!?
[Hi ha més…]
SONNET SILENCE
There are some qualities some
incorporate things,
That have a double life, which
thus is made
A type of that twin entity
which springs
From matter and light, evinced
in solid and shade.
There is a two-fold Silence sea and shore
Body and soul. One dwells in
lonely places.
Newly with grass o?ergrown;
some solemn graces,
Some human memories and tearful
lore,
Render him terrorless: his
name?s ?No More?.
He is the corporate Silence:
dread him not!
No power hath he of evil in
himself;
But should some urgent fate
(untimely lot!)
Bring thee to meet his shadow
(nameless elf,
That haunteth the lone regions
where hath trod
No foot of man) commend thyself
to God!
SONNET
?Seldom we find?, says Salomon
Don Dunce,
?Half an idea in the
profoundest sonnet.
Through all the flimsy things
we see at once
As easily as through a Naples bonnet
Trash of all trash! How can a
lady don it?
Yet heavier than your
Petrarchan stuff
Owl-downy nonsense that the
faintest puff
Twirls into trunk-paper the
while you con it?
And, veritably, Sol is right
enough.
The general Petrachanities are
arrant
Bubbles ephemeral and so transparent
But this is, now, you may
depend upon it
Stable, opaque, immortal all by
dint
Of the dear names that lie
concealed within?t.
SONNET TO MY MOTHER
Because the angels in the
Heavens above,
Devoutly singing unto one
another,
Can find amid their burning
terms of love,
None so devotional as that of
?Mother?,
Therefore by that sweet name I
long called you;
You who are more than mother
unto me,
Felling my heart of hearts,
where God installed you,
In setting my Virginia?s spirit free.
My mother, my own mother, who
died early,
Was but the mother of myself;
but you
Are mother to the dead I loved
so dearly,
Are thus more precious than the
one I knew,
By that infinity with which my
wife
Was dearer to my soul than its
soul life.
SONNET TO SCIENCE
SCIENCE! True daughter of Old
Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy
peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the
poet?s heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull
realities?
How should he love thee? Or how
deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in
his wandering
To seek for treasure in the
jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an
undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana
from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from
the wood
To seek a shelter in some
happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad
from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass,
and from me
The summer dream beneath the
tamarind tree?
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