"lydian" poems
In the Midnight heaven's burning
Through the ethereal deeps afar
Once I watch'd with restless yearning
An alluring aureate star;
Ev'ry eve aloft returning
Gleaming nigh the Arctic Car.
Mystic waves of beauty blended
With the gorgeous golden rays
Phantasies of bliss descended
In a myrrh'd Elysian haze.
In the lyre-born chords extended
Harmonies of Lydian lays.
And (thought I) lies scenes of pleasure,
Where the free and blessed dwell,
And each moment bears a treasure,
Freighted with the lotos-spell,
And there floats a liquid measure
From the lute of Israfel.
There (I told myself) were shining
Worlds of happiness unknown,
Peace and Innocence entwining
By the Crowned Virtue's throne;
Men of light, their thoughts refining
Purer, fairer, than my own.
Thus I mus'd when o'er the vision
Crept a red delirious change;
Hope dissolving to derision,
Beauty to distortion strange;
Hymnic chords in weird collision,
Spectral sights in endless range….
Crimson burn'd the star of madness
As behind the beams I peer'd;
All was woe that seem'd but gladness
Ere my gaze with Truth was sear'd;
Cacodaemons, mir'd with madness,
Through the fever'd flick'ring leer'd….
Now I know the fiendish fable
The the golden glitter bore;
Now I shun the spangled sable
That I watch'd and lov'd before;
But the horror, set and stable,
Haunts my soul forevermore!
13.2k
From citron-bower be her bed,
cut from branch of tree a-flower,
fashioned for her maidenhead.
From Lydian apples, sweet of hue,
cut the width of board and lathe,
carve the feet from myrtle-wood.
Let the palings of her bed
be quince and box-wood overlaid
with the scented bark of yew.
That all the wood in blossoming,
may calm her heart and cool her blood,
for losing of her maidenhood.
3.1k
Yes, Atthis, you may be sure
Even in Sardis
Anactoria will think often of us
of the life we shared here, when you seemed
the Goddess incarnate
to her and your singing pleased her best
Now among Lydian women she in her
turn stands first as the red-
fingered moon rising at sunset takes
precedence over stars around her;
her light spreads equally
on the salt sea and fields thick with bloom
Delicious dew pours down to freshen
roses, delicate thyme
and blossoming sweet clover; she wanders
aimlessly, thinking of gentle
Atthis, her heart hanging
heavy with longing in her little breast
She shouts aloud, Come! we know it;
thousand-eared night repeats that cry
across the sea shining between us
2.6k
I have a daughter,
Claïs fair,
Poised like a golden flower in the air,
Lydian treasures her limbs outshine
(Claïs, beloved one,
Claïs mine!)
2.2k
SWEET daughter of a rough and stormy fire,
**** Winter's blooming child ; delightful Spring !
Whose unshorn locks with leaves
And swelling buds are crowned ;
From the green islands of eternal youth,
(Crown'd with fresh blooms, and ever springing shade,)
Turn, hither turn thy step,
O thou, whose powerful voice
More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed,
Or Lydian flute, can sooth the madding winds,
And thro' the stormy deep
Breathe thy own tender calm.
Thee, best belov'd ! the ****** train await
With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove
Thy blooming wilds among,
And vales and dewy lawns,
With untir'd feet ; and cull thy earliest sweets
To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow
Of him, the favour'd youth
That prompts their whisper'd sigh.
Unlock thy copious stores ; those tender showers
That drop their sweetness on the infant buds,
And silent dews that swell
The milky ear's green stem.
And feed the slowering osier's early shoots ;
And call those winds which thro' the whispering boughs
With warm and pleasant breath
Salute the blowing flowers.
Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn,
And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale ;
And watch with patient eye
Thy fair unfolding charms.
O nymph approach ! while yet the temperate sun
With bashful forehead, thro' the cool moist air
Throws his young maiden beams,
And with chaste kisses woes
The earth's fair ***** ; while the streaming veil
Of lucid clouds with kind and frequent shade
Protect thy modest blooms
From his severer blaze.
Sweet is thy reign, but short ; The red dog-star
Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's scythe
Thy greens, thy flow'rets all,
Remorseless shall destroy.
Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewel ;
For O, not all the Autumn's lap contains,
Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits,
Can aught for thee atone
Fair Spring ! whose simplest promise more delights
Than all their largest wealth, and thro' the heart
Each joy and new-born hope
With softest influence breathes.
2.2k
The church bells toll a melancholy round,
Calling the people to some other prayers,
Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,
More harkening to the sermon's horrid sound.
Surely the mind of man is closely bound
In some blind spell: seeing that each one tears
Himself from fireside joys and Lydian airs,
And converse high of those with glory crowned.
Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,
A chill as from a tomb, did I not know
That they are dying like an outburnt lamp,—
That 'tis their sighing, wailing, ere they go
Into oblivion—that fresh flowers will grow,
And many glories of immortal stamp.
1.6k
No spring nor summer Beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnall face.
Young beauties force our love, and that’s a ****
This doth but counsel, yet you cannot ’scape.
If ’twere a shame to love, here ’twere no shame,
Affection here takes Reverence’s name.
Were her first years the Golden Age; that’s true,
But now she’s gold oft tried, and ever new.
That was her torrid and inflaming time,
This is her tolerable Tropique clime.
Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence,
He in a fever wishes pestilence.
Call not these wrinkles, graves; if graves they were,
They were Love’s graves; for else he is no where.
Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit
Vowed to this trench, like an Anachorit.
And here, till hers, which must be his death, come,
He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb.
Here dwells he, though he sojourn ev’ry where,
In progress, yet his standing house is here.
Here, where still evening is; not noon, nor night;
Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight
In all her words, unto all hearers fit,
You may at revels, you at counsel, sit.
This is Love’s timber, youth his under-wood;
There he, as wine in June enrages blood,
Which then comes seasonabliest, when our taste
And appetite to other things is past.
Xerxes’ strange Lydian love, the Platane tree,
Was loved for age, none being so large as she,
Or else because, being young, nature did bless
Her youth with age’s glory, Barrenness.
If we love things long sought, Age is a thing
Which we are fifty years in compassing;
If transitory things, which soon decay,
Age must be loveliest at the latest day.
But name not winter-faces, whose skin’s slack;
Lank, as an unthrift’s purse; but a soul’s sack;
Whose eyes seek light within, for all here’s shade;
Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out than made;
Whose every tooth to a several place is gone,
To vex their souls at Resurrection;
Name not these living deaths-heads unto me,
For these, not ancient, but antique be.
I hate extremes; yet I had rather stay
With tombs than cradles, to wear out a day.
Since such love’s natural lation is, may still
My love descend, and journey down the hill,
Not panting after growing beauties so,
I shall ebb out with them, who homeward go.
1.5k
My unbroken chain, mingling heart with heart.
You I cherished, embracing with all my heart and soul,
As though a ****** bride; even as Elm loves vine,
Sharing coeval branches, twined foliage,
Praying for bountiful autumn, rejoicing to be wreathed
In the beloved clusters. Women who lack the moral
Virtues are praised for their gift of beauty;
They have the false esteem, but lack the true.
Your birth was splendid, your aspect pleasing
As I could desire; but greater the dignity
That came from yourself-to cherish one flame.
If I offer the wealth of Babylon, the weight
Of Lydian treasure, the potent riches of Indian
And Arabians; belief would she rather die
In chaste poverty, paying life for reputation,
Armed bands, lightning fire or the hazards
Of mid ocean for her love? I fall through
Liquid air that bear laurels of my dove,
Outstripping the sun in her heated flight,
Beneath Atlas' daughters in mid sky
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 4:24 PM UTC
Come back to me, Gongyla, here tonight,
You, my rose, with your Lydian lyre.
There hovers forever around you delight:
A beauty desired.
Even your garment plunders my eyes.
I am enchanted: I who once
Complained to the Cyprus-born goddess,
Whom I now beseech
Never to let this lose me grace
But rather bring you back to me:
Amongst all mortal women the one
I most wish to see.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 4:24 AM UTC
In this house so big,
where mammoth appears miniature as a twig,
is occupied by my family lil wacky,
and the members lil shabby.
Fancy dress is a quotidian.
And try to talk in lydian.
I love being with them.
Treat me as a rare gem.
We spend time ample.
But they leave me alone in a temple.
Few times their pretend cuts look real,
like denying to heal.
Forever with me.
But a visiter and no guarantee.
People are weirdly overwhelmed by sentiments,
and ask me how am i doing since the car accident.
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 4:14 AM UTC