Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I

Between extremities
Man runs his course;
A brand, or flaming breath.
Comes to destroy
All those antinomies
Of day and night;
The body calls it death,
The heart remorse.
But if these be right
What is joy?

        II

A tree there is that from its topmost bough
Is half all glittering flame and half all green
Abounding foliage moistened with the dew;
And half is half and yet is all the scene;
And half and half consume what they renew,
And he that Attis' image hangs between
That staring fury and the blind lush leaf
May know not what he knows, but knows not grief

        III

Get all the gold and silver that you can,
Satisfy ambition, animate
The trivial days and ram them with the sun,
And yet upon these maxims meditate:
All women dote upon an idle man
Although their children need a rich estate;
No man has ever lived that had enough
Of children's gratitude or woman's love.

No longer in Lethean foliage caught
Begin the preparation for your death
And from the fortieth winter by that thought
Test every work of intellect or faith,
And everything that your own hands have wrought
And call those works extravagance of breath
That are not suited for such men as come
proud, open-eyed and laughing to the tomb.

        IV

My fiftieth year had come and gone,
I sat, a solitary man,
In a crowded London shop,
An open book and empty cup
On the marble table-top.
While on the shop and street I gazed
My body of a sudden blazed;
And twenty minutes more or less
It seemed, so great my happiness,
That I was blessed and could bless.

        V

Although the summer Sunlight gild
Cloudy leafage of the sky,
Or wintry moonlight sink the field
In storm-scattered intricacy,
I cannot look thereon,
Responsibility so weighs me down.

Things said or done long years ago,
Or things I did not do or say
But thought that I might say or do,
Weigh me down, and not a day
But something is recalled,
My conscience or my vanity appalled.

        VI

A rivery field spread out below,
An odour of the new-mown hay
In his nostrils, the great lord of Chou
Cried, casting off the mountain snow,
'Let all things pass away.'

Wheels by milk-white ***** drawn
Where Babylon or Nineveh
Rose; some conquer drew rein
And cried to battle-weary men,
'Let all things pass away.'

From man's blood-sodden heart are sprung
Those branches of the night and day
Where the gaudy moon is hung.
What's the meaning of all song?
'Let all things pass away.'

        VII

The Soul. Seek out reality, leave things that seem.
The Heart. What, be a singer born and lack a theme?
The Soul. Isaiah's coal, what more can man desire?
The Heart. Struck dumb in the simplicity of fire!
The Soul. Look on that fire, salvation walks within.
The Heart. What theme had Homer but original sin?

        VIII

Must we part, Von Hugel, though much alike, for we
Accept the miracles of the saints and honour sanctity?
The body of Saint Teresa lies undecayed in tomb,
Bathed in miraculous oil, sweet odours from it come,
Healing from its lettered slab.  Those self-same hands perchance
Eternalised the body of a modern saint that once
Had scooped out pharaoh's mummy.  I--though heart might find relief
Did I become a Christian man and choose for my belief
What seems most welcome in the tomb--play a pre-destined part.
Homer is my example and his unchristened heart.
The lion and the honeycomb, what has Scripture said?
So get you gone, Von Hugel, though with blessings on your head.
I
BETWEEN extremities
Man runs his course;
A brand, or flaming breath.
Comes to destroy
All those antinomies
Of day and night;
The body calls it death,
The heart remorse.
But if these be right
What is joy?

II
A tree there is that from its topmost bough
Is half all glittering flame and half all green
Abounding foliage moistened with the dew;
And half is half and yet is all the scene;
And half and half consume what they renew,
And he that Attis' image hangs between
That staring fury and the blind lush leaf
May know not what he knows, but knows not grief

III
Get all the gold and silver that you can,
Satisfy ambition, animate
The trivial days and ram them with the sun,
And yet upon these maxims meditate:
All women dote upon an idle man
Although their children need a rich estate;
No man has ever lived that had enough
Of children's gratitude or woman's love.
No longer in Lethean foliage caught
Begin the preparation for your death
And from the fortieth winter by that thought
Test every work of intellect or faith,
And everything that your own hands have wrought
And call those works extravagance of breath
That are not suited for such men as come
proud, open-eyed and laughing to the tomb.

IV
My fiftieth year had come and gone,
I sat, a solitary man,
In a crowded London shop,
An open book and empty cup
On the marble table-top.
While on the shop and street I gazed
My body of a sudden blazed;
And twenty minutes more or less
It seemed, so great my happiness,
That I was blessed and could bless.
Although the summer Sunlight gild
Cloudy leafage of the sky,
Or wintry moonlight sink the field
In storm-scattered intricacy,
I cannot look thereon,
Responsibility so weighs me down.
Things said or done long years ago,
Or things I did not do or say
But thought that I might say or do,
Weigh me down, and not a day
But something is recalled,
My conscience or my vanity appalled.
A rivery field spread out below,
An odour of the new-mown hay
In his nostrils, the great lord of Chou
Cried, casting off the mountain snow,
"Let all things pass away.'
Wheels by milk-white ***** drawn
Where Babylon or Nineveh
Rose; some conquer drew rein
And cried to battle-weary men,
"Let all things pass away.'
From man's blood-sodden heart are sprung
Those branches of the night and day
Where the gaudy moon is hung.
What's the meaning of all song?
"Let all things pass away.'

VII
The Soul.  Seek out reality, leave things that seem.
The Heart. What, be a singer born and lack a theme?
The Soul. Isaiah's coal, what more can man desire?
The Heart. Struck dumb in the simplicity of fire!
The Soul. Look on that fire, salvation walks within.
The Heart. What theme had Homer but original sin?

VIII
Must we part, Von Hugel, though much alike, for we
Accept the miracles of the saints and honour sanctity?
The body of Saint Teresa lies undecayed in tomb,
Bathed in miraculous oil, sweet odours from it come,
Healing from its lettered slab.  Those self-same hands
perchance
Eternalised the body of a modern saint that once
Had scooped out pharaoh's mummy.  I -- though heart
might find relief
Did I become a Christian man and choose for my belief
What seems most welcome in the tomb -- play a pre-
destined part.
Homer is my example and his unchristened heart.
The lion and the honeycomb, what has Scripture said?
So get you gone, Von Hugel, though with blessings on
your head.  0084
Abbigail Nicole Apr 2017
the dire debonair of the arena
feral fatalist fettered to insatiable throes
his triad of tenets: slit throats, slain soldiers, serial sin
ethos eternalised as a brothel of bodies

ballad of the battle
this altar of adrenalin, stilled at the shrill aria of blade
betrothal of shattered bones and faltered breath
frail life for a radiant death, liberation befallen

behold, birth bred on the front
heartbeat hell-bent for the taint of blood
tender thrall afresh, befit to bite
isolated inhale of desire, arise the hostile

lord of the lost
to dine on heroes, relish their finale
his alienation as a bane of fate
adrift in a red tide that threatens silent desolation
beau présent format
Him Jan 2021
Love is at first a whisper... pressed against your ears, by the wind. Then it becomes a flicker, that burns from within; emotions expressed... exposed and eternalised; though you would wish them only to end.

So, in a futile attempt to repent, you remind yourself of a reality well known; though you would wish it, not your own: "We are friends, just friends... and nothing more."

So you brace yourself, content to never show, those emotions that you have buried in an unmarked grave; so that they will never know.

Lo, you embrace your hell, content to type the words that you cannot tell; love is the blurred line, between heaven and hell.

Love is the lullaby, that you sing to yourself; an elixir of poison mercury, that you drink for your health.
Perhaps you have tasted of this cup, both bitter and cruel; perhaps you have seen the infinite line, that divides the two of you. Now, having both tasted and seen Love, what will you do?
Sparsh Porwal Jun 2019
Here i lay, bound in an adamant vial
An aesthetic fragrance satiating enough
circumscribed by royal attire
Princely walls, buggies and puppets
Longing to aspirate through the vial
To diffuse and be volatile
For obscured will be the royalty
And eternalised exists conscious volatility

Lured was i, the fragrance itself
Encountered when did i her pretty self
Beauty to which holy moon did hail
Graciously humble so sweet a frail
Within the vial i lay enchanted
Simplicity, the world took for granted
Loved her did i deeper than any trench
Thirst of expressing love i was to quench.

Gaining her vicinity meant captivity of mine
Thwart would it my  pious purpose
Of escaping to volatility
Unbound, unearthed, uncapped
From something to nothing
Yet be omnipresent
Be sensed by her as an aroma pure
Caress her with utmost detail
Though i may possess her not
Nor may i keep her bound
Yet closest to her would i be
Expression of true love have i found
    
                            -consciously_volatile

— The End —