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Cast jewels upon fair breast poem

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From: Kilmaran
Category: Brunette
Added: 23.08.2019
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From her bright palm she fed her fawn, Her swift eyes chased the swallow's wing; Her restless lips, smile-haunted, cast Shrill silver calls to hound and dove; Her young locks wove them with the blast. To the flushed azure shrine above The light boughs o'er her golden head Tossed emerald arm and blossom palm; The perfume of their prayer was spread On the sweet wind in breath of balm. Let me go Unquestioned for a longer space; Perchance when day is at the flood In thy true palm I'll gladly place Love's flower in its rounding bud. But now the day is all too young, The Dawn and I are playmates still. Again they stand--Imperial Noon Lays her red sceptre on the earth-- Where golden hangings make a gloom, And far-off lutes sing dreamy mirth. The peacocks cry to lily cloud From the white gloss of balustrade; Tall urns of gold the gloom make proud; Tall statues whitely strike the shade And pulse in the dim quivering light Until, most Galatea-wise, Each looks from base of malachite With mystic life in limbs and eyes.
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Weird Poems

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Poems by Francis Thompson - Full Text Free Book

Whether considered as the brilliant genius, who, grasping the lute of the Hungarian people, imparted to it a more harmonious string and a sweeter tone than it probably ever had, or, considered as the young warrior - a chieftain of liberty throughout the world - who, with sword in hand struggling for freedom, fell a victim to his valor and heroism; or considered as a nation's great poet, who was equally great as a dutiful citizen; - his story is calculated to strike forcibly the attention and to touch the springs of admiration and of sympathy in no common sense. The character of the times in which he lived, the cause he served, his own adventures, his deep devotion to the muses during all his lifetime, his participation in a most glorious war, the amiable qualities and fine taste developed in his writings, above all the influence of his songs over the nation - all offer to the essayist a theme more fertile than usually falls to his lot in recording the lives of poets, and one upon which he would love to bestow the illustration it deserves. Both language and versification present themselves more fully formed and more vigorous in the poetry written by Hungarians since the beginning of the last quarter of the last century; and this progress is a matter of no surprise if we attend to the multitude of circumstances which at that time concurred to favor poetical thought. This division is not merely the dictum of one man. The nation adopted it and the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, the foremost scientific-literary body of the land, celebrated in the centennial birthday of rejuvenated Hungarian literature. Hungarian patriots - says Toldy while speaking of those days - noticed with sadness that the traditional tongue was beginning to lose the hold it had upon the masses.
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Funeral Poems for Loved Ones

When you sit at the feast, And are wanting a great song for Italy free, Let none look at me! Yet I was a poetess only last year, And good at my art, for a woman, men said. But this woman, this, who is agonized here, The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head Forever instead. What art can a woman be good at?
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O thou! At that first moment, which of life's fair springtide is the last, 'Tis need the tulip cheek the tint of autumn leaf should wear; 'Tis need that thy last home should be, e'en like the dregs', the dust; 'Tis need the stone from hand of Fate should be joy's beaker's share. He is a man indeed whose heart is as a mirror clear; Man art thou? In understanding's eye how long shall heedless slumber bide? Will not war's Lion-Monarch's fate suffice to make thee ware?

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