How sweetly shines, through azure skies,
  The lamp of Heaven on Lora’s shore;
Where Alva’s hoary turrets rise,
  And hear the din of arms no more!

But often has yon rolling moon,
  On Alva’s casques of silver play’d;
And view’d, at midnight’s silent noon,
  Her chiefs in gleaming mail array’d:

And, on the crimson’d rocks beneath,
  Which scowl o’er ocean’s sullen flow,
Pale in the scatter’d ranks of death,
  She saw the gasping warrior low;

While many an eye, which ne’er again
  Could mark the rising orb of day,
Turn’d feebly from the gory plain,
  Beheld in death her fading ray.

Once, to those eyes the lamp of Love,
  They blest her dear propitious light;
But, now, she glimmer’d from above,
  A sad, funereal torch of night.

Faded is Alva’s noble race,
  And grey her towers are seen afar;
No more her heroes urge the chase,
  Or roll the crimson tide of war.

But, who was last of Alva’s clan?
  Why grows the moss on Alva’s stone?
Her towers resound no steps of man,
  They echo to the gale alone.

And, when that gale is fierce and high,
  A sound is heard in yonder hall;
It rises hoarsely through the sky,
  And vibrates o’er the mould’ring wall.

Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs,
  It shakes the shield of Oscar brave;
But, there, no more his banners rise,
  No more his plumes of sable wave.

Fair shone the sun on Oscar’s birth,
  When Angus hail’d his eldest born;
The vassals round their chieftain’s hearth
  Crowd to applaud the happy morn.

They feast upon the mountain deer,
  The Pibroch rais’d its piercing note,
To gladden more their Highland cheer,
  The strains in martial numbers float.

And they who heard the war-notes wild,
  Hop’d that, one day, the Pibroch’s strain
Should play before the Hero’s child,
  While he should lead the Tartan train.

Another year is quickly past,
  And Angus hails another son;
His natal day is like the last,
  Nor soon the jocund feast was done.

Taught by their sire to bend the bow,
  On Alva’s dusky hills of wind,
The boys in childhood chas’d the roe,
  And left their hounds in speed behind.

But ere their years of youth are o’er,
  They mingle in the ranks of war;
They lightly wheel the bright claymore,
  And send the whistling arrow far.

Dark was the flow of Oscar’s hair,
  Wildly it stream’d along the gale;
But Allan’s locks were bright and fair,
  And pensive seem’d his cheek, and pale.

But Oscar own’d a hero’s soul,
  His dark eye shone through beams of truth;
Allan had early learn’d controul,
  And smooth his words had been from youth.

Both, both were brave; the Saxon spear
  Was shiver’d oft beneath their steel;
And Oscar’s ***** scorn’d to fear,
  But Oscar’s ***** knew to feel;

While Allan’s soul belied his form,
  Unworthy with such charms to dwell:
Keen as the lightning of the storm,
  On foes his deadly vengeance fell.

From high Southannon’s distant tower
  Arrived a young and noble dame;
With Kenneth’s lands to form her dower,
  Glenalvon’s blue-eyed daughter came;

And Oscar claim’d the beauteous bride,
  And Angus on his Oscar smil’d:
It soothed the father’s feudal pride
  Thus to obtain Glenalvon’s child.

Hark! to the Pibroch’s pleasing note,
  Hark! to the swelling nuptial song,
In joyous strains the voices float,
  And, still, the choral peal prolong.

See how the Heroes’ blood-red plumes
  Assembled wave in Alva’s hall;
Each youth his varied plaid assumes,
  Attending on their chieftain’s call.

It is not war their aid demands,
  The Pibroch plays the song of peace;
To Oscar’s nuptials throng the bands
  Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease.

But where is Oscar? sure ’tis late:
  Is this a bridegroom’s ardent flame?
While thronging guests and ladies wait,
  Nor Oscar nor his brother came.

At length young Allan join’d the bride;
  “Why comes not Oscar?” Angus said:
“Is he not here?” the Youth replied;
  “With me he rov’d not o’er the glade:

“Perchance, forgetful of the day,
  ’Tis his to chase the bounding roe;
Or Ocean’s waves prolong his stay:
  Yet, Oscar’s bark is seldom slow.”

“Oh, no!” the anguish’d Sire rejoin’d,
  “Nor chase, nor wave, my Boy delay;
Would he to Mora seem unkind?
  Would aught to her impede his way?

“Oh, search, ye Chiefs! oh, search around!
  Allan, with these, through Alva fly;
Till Oscar, till my son is found,
  Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply.”

All is confusion—through the vale,
  The name of Oscar hoarsely rings,
It rises on the murm’ring gale,
  Till night expands her dusky wings.

It breaks the stillness of the night,
  But echoes through her shades in vain;
It sounds through morning’s misty light,
  But Oscar comes not o’er the plain.

Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief
  For Oscar search’d each mountain cave;
Then hope is lost; in boundless grief,
  His locks in grey-torn ringlets wave.

“Oscar! my son!—thou God of Heav’n,
  Restore the prop of sinking age!
Or, if that hope no more is given,
  Yield his assassin to my rage.

“Yes, on some desert rocky shore
  My Oscar’s whiten’d bones must lie;
Then grant, thou God! I ask no more,
  With him his frantic Sire may die!

“Yet, he may live,—away, despair!
  Be calm, my soul! he yet may live;
T’ arraign my fate, my voice forbear!
  O God! my impious prayer forgive.

“What, if he live for me no more,
  I sink forgotten in the dust,
The hope of Alva’s age is o’er:
  Alas! can pangs like these be just?”

Thus did the hapless Parent mourn,
  Till Time, who soothes severest woe,
Had bade serenity return,
  And made the tear-drop cease to flow.

For, still, some latent hope surviv’d
  That Oscar might once more appear;
His hope now droop’d and now revived,
  Till Time had told a tedious year.

Days roll’d along, the orb of light
  Again had run his destined race;
No Oscar bless’d his father’s sight,
  And sorrow left a fainter trace.

For youthful Allan still remain’d,
  And, now, his father’s only joy:
And Mora’s heart was quickly gain’d,
  For beauty crown’d the fair-hair’d boy.

She thought that Oscar low was laid,
  And Allan’s face was wondrous fair;
If Oscar liv’d, some other maid
  Had claim’d his faithless *****’s care.

And Angus said, if one year more
  In fruitless hope was pass’d away,
His fondest scruples should be o’er,
  And he would name their nuptial day.

Slow roll’d the moons, but blest at last
  Arriv’d the dearly destin’d morn:
The year of anxious trembling past,
  What smiles the lovers’ cheeks adorn!

Hark to the Pibroch’s pleasing note!
  Hark to the swelling nuptial song!
In joyous strains the voices float,
  And, still, the choral peal prolong.

Again the clan, in festive crowd,
  Throng through the gate of Alva’s hall;
The sounds of mirth re-echo loud,
  And all their former joy recall.

But who is he, whose darken’d brow
  Glooms in the midst of general mirth?
Before his eyes’ far fiercer glow
  The blue flames curdle o’er the hearth.

Dark is the robe which wraps his form,
  And tall his plume of gory red;
His voice is like the rising storm,
  But light and trackless is his tread.

’Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round,
  The bridegroom’s health is deeply quaff’d;
With shouts the vaulted roofs resound,
  And all combine to hail the draught.

Sudden the stranger-chief arose,
  And all the clamorous crowd are hush’d;
And Angus’ cheek with wonder glows,
  And Mora’s tender ***** blush’d.

“Old man!” he cried, “this pledge is done,
  Thou saw’st ’twas truly drunk by me;
It hail’d the nuptials of thy son:
  Now will I claim a pledge from thee.

“While all around is mirth and joy,
  To bless thy Allan’s happy lot,
Say, hadst thou ne’er another boy?
  Say, why should Oscar be forgot?”

“Alas!” the hapless Sire replied,
  The big tear starting as he spoke,
“When Oscar left my hall, or died,
  This aged heart was almost broke.

“Thrice has the earth revolv’d her course
  Since Oscar’s form has bless’d my sight;
And Allan is my last resource,
  Since martial Oscar’s death, or flight.”

“’Tis well,” replied the stranger stern,
  And fiercely flash’d his rolling eye;
“Thy Oscar’s fate, I fain would learn;
  Perhaps the Hero did not die.

“Perchance, if those, whom most he lov’d,
  Would call, thy Oscar might return;
Perchance, the chief has only rov’d;
  For him thy Beltane, yet, may burn.

“Fill high the bowl the table round,
  We will not claim the pledge by stealth;
With wine let every cup be crown’d;
  Pledge me departed Oscar’s health.”

“With all my soul,” old Angus said,
  And fill’d his goblet to the brim:
“Here’s to my boy! alive or dead,
  I ne’er shall find a son like him.”

“Bravely, old man, this health has sped;
  But why does Allan trembling stand?
Come, drink remembrance of the dead,
  And raise thy cup with firmer hand.”

The crimson glow of Allan’s face
  Was turn’d at once to ghastly hue;
The drops of death each other chace,
  Adown in agonizing dew.

Thrice did he raise the goblet high,
  And thrice his lips refused to taste;
For thrice he caught the stranger’s eye
  On his with deadly fury plac’d.

“And is it thus a brother hails
  A brother’s fond remembrance here?
If thus affection’s strength prevails,
  What might we not expect from fear?”

Roused by the sneer, he rais’d the bowl,
  “Would Oscar now could share our mirth!”
Internal fear appall’d his soul;
  He said, and dash’d the cup to earth.

“’Tis he! I hear my murderer’s voice!”
  Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming Form.
“A murderer’s voice!” the roof replies,
  And deeply swells the bursting storm.

The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink,
  The stranger’s gone,—amidst the crew,
A Form was seen, in tartan green,
  And tall the shade terrific grew.

His waist was bound with a broad belt round,
  His plume of sable stream’d on high;
But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there,
  And fix’d was the glare of his glassy eye.

And thrice he smil’d, with his eye so wild
  On Angus bending low the knee;
And thrice he frown’d, on a Chief on the ground,
  Whom shivering crowds with horror see.

The bolts loud roll from pole to pole,
  And thunders through the welkin ring,
And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm,
  Was borne on high by the whirlwind’s wing.

Cold was the feast, the revel ceas’d.
  Who lies upon the stony floor?
Oblivion press’d old Angus’ breast,
  At length his life-pulse throbs once more.

“Away, away! let the leech essay
  To pour the light on Allan’s eyes:”
His sand is done,—his race is run;
  Oh! never more shall Allan rise!

But Oscar’s breast is cold as clay,
  His locks are lifted by the gale;
And Allan’s barbèd arrow lay
  With him in dark Glentanar’s vale.

And whence the dreadful stranger came,
  Or who, no mortal wight can tell;
But no one doubts the form of flame,
  For Alva’s sons knew Oscar well.

Ambition nerv’d young Allan’s hand,
  Exulting demons wing’d his dart;
While Envy wav’d her burning brand,
  And pour’d her venom round his heart.

Swift is the shaft from Allan’s bow;
  Whose streaming life-blood stains his side?
Dark Oscar’s sable crest is low,
  The dart has drunk his vital tide.

And Mora’s eye could Allan move,
  She bade his wounded pride rebel:
Alas! that eyes, which beam’d with love,
  Should urge the soul to deeds of Hell.

Lo! see’st thou not a lonely tomb,
  Which rises o’er a warrior dead?
It glimmers through the twilight gloom;
  Oh! that is Allan’s nuptial bed.

Far, distant far, the noble grave
  Which held his clan’s great ashes stood;
And o’er his corse no banners wave,
  For they were stain’d with kindred blood.

What minstrel grey, what hoary bard,
  Shall Allan’s deeds on harp-strings raise?
The song is glory’s chief reward,
  But who can strike a murd’rer’s praise?

Unstrung, untouch’d, the harp must stand,
  No minstrel dare the theme awake;
Guilt would benumb his palsied hand,
  His harp in shuddering chords would break.

No lyre of fame, no hallow’d verse,
  Shall sound his glories high in air:
A dying father’s bitter curse,
  A brother’s death-groan echoes there.

There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men
With most prevailing tinsel: who unpen
Their baaing vanities, to browse away
The comfortable green and juicy hay
From human pastures; or, O torturing fact!
Who, through an idiot blink, will see unpack'd
Fire-branded foxes to sear up and singe
Our gold and ripe-ear'd hopes. With not one tinge
Of sanctuary splendour, not a sight
Able to face an owl's, they still are dight
By the blear-eyed nations in empurpled vests,
And crowns, and turbans. With unladen *******,
Save of blown self-applause, they proudly mount
To their spirit's perch, their being's high account,
Their tiptop nothings, their dull skies, their thrones--
Amid the fierce intoxicating tones
Of trumpets, shoutings, and belabour'd drums,
And sudden cannon. Ah! how all this hums,
In wakeful ears, like uproar past and gone--
Like thunder clouds that spake to Babylon,
And set those old Chaldeans to their tasks.--
Are then regalities all gilded masks?
No, there are throned seats unscalable
But by a patient wing, a constant spell,
Or by ethereal things that, unconfin'd,
Can make a ladder of the eternal wind,
And poise about in cloudy thunder-tents
To watch the abysm-birth of elements.
Aye, 'bove the withering of old-lipp'd Fate
A thousand Powers keep religious state,
In water, fiery realm, and airy bourne;
And, silent as a consecrated urn,
Hold sphery sessions for a season due.
Yet few of these far majesties, ah, few!
Have bared their operations to this globe--
Few, who with gorgeous pageantry enrobe
Our piece of heaven--whose benevolence
Shakes hand with our own Ceres; every sense
Filling with spiritual sweets to plenitude,
As bees gorge full their cells. And, by the feud
'Twixt Nothing and Creation, I here swear,
Eterne Apollo! that thy Sister fair
Is of all these the gentlier-mightiest.
When thy gold breath is misting in the west,
She unobserved steals unto her throne,
And there she sits most meek and most alone;
As if she had not pomp subservient;
As if thine eye, high Poet! was not bent
Towards her with the Muses in thine heart;
As if the ministring stars kept not apart,
Waiting for silver-footed messages.
O Moon! the oldest shades '**** oldest trees
Feel palpitations when thou lookest in:
O Moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din
The while they feel thine airy fellowship.
Thou dost bless every where, with silver lip
Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine,
Couched in thy brightness, dream of fields divine:
Innumerable mountains rise, and rise,
Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes;
And yet thy benediction passeth not
One obscure hiding-place, one little spot
Where pleasure may be sent: the nested wren
Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken,
And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf
Takes glimpses of thee; thou art a relief
To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps
Within its pearly house.--The mighty deeps,
The monstrous sea is thine--the myriad sea!
O Moon! far-spooming Ocean bows to thee,
And Tellus feels his forehead's cumbrous load.

  Cynthia! where art thou now? What far abode
Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine
Such utmost beauty? Alas, thou dost pine
For one as sorrowful: thy cheek is pale
For one whose cheek is pale: thou dost bewail
His tears, who weeps for thee. Where dost thou sigh?
Ah! surely that light peeps from Vesper's eye,
Or what a thing is love! 'Tis She, but lo!
How chang'd, how full of ache, how gone in woe!
She dies at the thinnest cloud; her loveliness
Is wan on Neptune's blue: yet there's a stress
Of love-spangles, just off yon cape of trees,
Dancing upon the waves, as if to please
The curly foam with amorous influence.
O, not so idle: for down-glancing thence
She fathoms eddies, and runs wild about
O'erwhelming water-courses; scaring out
The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and fright'ning
Their savage eyes with unaccustomed lightning.
Where will the splendor be content to reach?
O love! how potent hast thou been to teach
Strange journeyings! Wherever beauty dwells,
In gulf or aerie, mountains or deep dells,
In light, in gloom, in star or blazing sun,
Thou pointest out the way, and straight 'tis won.
Amid his toil thou gav'st Leander breath;
Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death;
Thou madest Pluto bear thin element;
And now, O winged Chieftain! thou hast sent
A moon-beam to the deep, deep water-world,
To find Endymion.

                  On gold sand impearl'd
With lily shells, and pebbles milky white,
Poor Cynthia greeted him, and sooth'd her light
Against his pallid face: he felt the charm
To breathlessness, and suddenly a warm
Of his heart's blood: 'twas very sweet; he stay'd
His wandering steps, and half-entranced laid
His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds,
To taste the gentle moon, and freshening beads,
Lashed from the crystal roof by fishes' tails.
And so he kept, until the rosy veils
Mantling the east, by Aurora's peering hand
Were lifted from the water's breast, and fann'd
Into sweet air; and sober'd morning came
Meekly through billows:--when like taper-flame
Left sudden by a dallying breath of air,
He rose in silence, and once more 'gan fare
Along his fated way.

                      Far had he roam'd,
With nothing save the hollow vast, that foam'd
Above, around, and at his feet; save things
More dead than Morpheus' imaginings:
Old rusted anchors, helmets, breast-plates large
Of gone sea-warriors; brazen beaks and targe;
Rudders that for a hundred years had lost
The sway of human hand; gold vase emboss'd
With long-forgotten story, and wherein
No reveller had ever dipp'd a chin
But those of Saturn's vintage; mouldering scrolls,
Writ in the tongue of heaven, by those souls
Who first were on the earth; and sculptures rude
In ponderous stone, developing the mood
Of ancient Nox;--then skeletons of man,
Of beast, behemoth, and leviathan,
And elephant, and eagle, and huge jaw
Of nameless monster. A cold leaden awe
These secrets struck into him; and unless
Dian had chaced away that heaviness,
He might have died: but now, with cheered feel,
He onward kept; wooing these thoughts to steal
About the labyrinth in his soul of love.

  "What is there in thee, Moon! that thou shouldst move
My heart so potently? When yet a child
I oft have dried my tears when thou hast smil'd.
Thou seem'dst my sister: hand in hand we went
From eve to morn across the firmament.
No apples would I gather from the tree,
Till thou hadst cool'd their cheeks deliciously:
No tumbling water ever spake romance,
But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance:
No woods were green enough, no bower divine,
Until thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine:
In sowing time ne'er would I dibble take,
Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake;
And, in the summer tide of blossoming,
No one but thee hath heard me blithly sing
And mesh my dewy flowers all the night.
No melody was like a passing spright
If it went not to solemnize thy reign.
Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain
By thee were fashion'd to the self-same end;
And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend
With all my ardours: thou wast the deep glen;
Thou wast the mountain-top--the sage's pen--
The poet's harp--the voice of friends--the sun;
Thou wast the river--thou wast glory won;
Thou wast my clarion's blast--thou wast my steed--
My goblet full of wine--my topmost deed:--
Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon!
O what a wild and harmonized tune
My spirit struck from all the beautiful!
On some bright essence could I lean, and lull
Myself to immortality: I prest
Nature's soft pillow in a wakeful rest.
But, gentle Orb! there came a nearer bliss--
My strange love came--Felicity's abyss!
She came, and thou didst fade, and fade away--
Yet not entirely; no, thy starry sway
Has been an under-passion to this hour.
Now I begin to feel thine orby power
Is coming fresh upon me: O be kind,
Keep back thine influence, and do not blind
My sovereign vision.--Dearest love, forgive
That I can think away from thee and live!--
Pardon me, airy planet, that I prize
One thought beyond thine argent luxuries!
How far beyond!" At this a surpris'd start
Frosted the springing verdure of his heart;
For as he lifted up his eyes to swear
How his own goddess was past all things fair,
He saw far in the concave green of the sea
An old man sitting calm and peacefully.
Upon a weeded rock this old man sat,
And his white hair was awful, and a mat
Of weeds were cold beneath his cold thin feet;
And, ample as the largest winding-sheet,
A cloak of blue wrapp'd up his aged bones,
O'erwrought with symbols by the deepest groans
Of ambitious magic: every ocean-form
Was woven in with black distinctness; storm,
And calm, and whispering, and hideous roar
Were emblem'd in the woof; with every shape
That skims, or dives, or sleeps, 'twixt cape and cape.
The gulphing whale was like a dot in the spell,
Yet look upon it, and 'twould size and swell
To its huge self; and the minutest fish
Would pass the very hardest gazer's wish,
And show his little eye's anatomy.
Then there was pictur'd the regality
Of Neptune; and the sea nymphs round his state,
In beauteous vassalage, look up and wait.
Beside this old man lay a pearly wand,
And in his lap a book, the which he conn'd
So stedfastly, that the new denizen
Had time to keep him in amazed ken,
To mark these shadowings, and stand in awe.

  The old man rais'd his hoary head and saw
The wilder'd stranger--seeming not to see,
His features were so lifeless. Suddenly
He woke as from a trance; his snow-white brows
Went arching up, and like two magic ploughs
Furrow'd deep wrinkles in his forehead large,
Which kept as fixedly as rocky marge,
Till round his wither'd lips had gone a smile.
Then up he rose, like one whose tedious toil
Had watch'd for years in forlorn hermitage,
Who had not from mid-life to utmost age
Eas'd in one accent his o'er-burden'd soul,
Even to the trees. He rose: he grasp'd his stole,
With convuls'd clenches waving it abroad,
And in a voice of solemn joy, that aw'd
Echo into oblivion, he said:--

  "Thou art the man! Now shall I lay my head
In peace upon my watery pillow: now
Sleep will come smoothly to my weary brow.
O Jove! I shall be young again, be young!
O shell-borne Neptune, I am pierc'd and stung
With new-born life! What shall I do? Where go,
When I have cast this serpent-skin of woe?--
I'll swim to the syrens, and one moment listen
Their melodies, and see their long hair glisten;
Anon upon that giant's arm I'll be,
That writhes about the roots of Sicily:
To northern seas I'll in a twinkling sail,
And mount upon the snortings of a whale
To some black cloud; thence down I'll madly sweep
On forked lightning, to the deepest deep,
Where through some ******* pool I will be hurl'd
With rapture to the other side of the world!
O, I am full of gladness! Sisters three,
I bow full hearted to your old decree!
Yes, every god be thank'd, and power benign,
For I no more shall wither, droop, and pine.
Thou art the man!" Endymion started back
Dismay'd; and, like a wretch from whom the rack
Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony,
Mutter'd: "What lonely death am I to die
In this cold region? Will he let me freeze,
And float my brittle limbs o'er polar seas?
Or will he touch me with his searing hand,
And leave a black memorial on the sand?
Or tear me piece-meal with a bony saw,
And keep me as a chosen food to draw
His magian fish through hated fire and flame?
O misery of hell! resistless, tame,
Am I to be burnt up? No, I will shout,
Until the gods through heaven's blue look out!--
O Tartarus! but some few days agone
Her soft arms were entwining me, and on
Her voice I hung like fruit among green leaves:
Her lips were all my own, and--ah, ripe sheaves
Of happiness! ye on the stubble droop,
But never may be garner'd. I must stoop
My head, and kiss death's foot. Love! love, farewel!
Is there no hope from thee? This horrid spell
Would melt at thy sweet breath.--By Dian's hind
Feeding from her white fingers, on the wind
I see thy streaming hair! and now, by Pan,
I care not for this old mysterious man!"

  He spake, and walking to that aged form,
Look'd high defiance. Lo! his heart 'gan warm
With pity, for the grey-hair'd creature wept.
Had he then wrong'd a heart where sorrow kept?
Had he, though blindly contumelious, brought
Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to human thought,
Convulsion to a mouth of many years?
He had in truth; and he was ripe for tears.
The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt
Before that care-worn sage, who trembling felt
About his large dark locks, and faultering spake:

  "Arise, good youth, for sacred Phoebus' sake!
I know thine inmost *****, and I feel
A very brother's yearning for thee steal
Into mine own: for why? thou openest
The prison gates that have so long opprest
My weary watching. Though thou know'st it not,
Thou art commission'd to this fated spot
For great enfranchisement. O weep no more;
I am a friend to love, to loves of yore:
Aye, hadst thou never lov'd an unknown power
I had been grieving at this joyous hour
But even now most miserable old,
I saw thee, and my blood no longer cold
Gave mighty pulses: in this tottering case
Grew a new heart, which at this moment plays
As dancingly as thine. Be not afraid,
For thou shalt hear this secret all display'd,
Now as we speed towards our joyous task."

  So saying, this young soul in age's mask
Went forward with the Carian side by side:
Resuming quickly thus; while ocean's tide
Hung swollen at their backs, and jewel'd sands
Took silently their foot-prints. "My soul stands
Now past the midway from mortality,
And so I can prepare without a sigh
To tell thee briefly all my joy and pain.
I was a fisher once, upon this main,
And my boat danc'd in every creek and bay;
Rough billows were my home by night and day,--
The sea-gulls not more constant; for I had
No housing from the storm and tempests mad,
But hollow rocks,--and they were palaces
Of silent happiness, of slumberous ease:
Long years of misery have told me so.
Aye, thus it was one thousand years ago.
One thousand years!--Is it then possible
To look so plainly through them? to dispel
A thousand years with backward glance sublime?
To breathe away as 'twere all scummy slime
From off a crystal pool, to see its deep,
And one's own image from the bottom peep?
Yes: now I am no longer wretched thrall,
My long captivity and moanings all
Are but a slime, a thin-pervading ****,
The which I breathe away, and thronging come
Like things of yesterday my youthful pleasures.

  "I touch'd no lute, I sang not, trod no measures:
I was a lonely youth on desert shores.
My sports were lonely, 'mid continuous roars,
And craggy isles, and sea-mew's plaintive cry
Plaining discrepant between sea and sky.
Dolphins were still my playmates; shapes unseen
Would let me feel their scales of gold and green,
Nor be my desolation; and, full oft,
When a dread waterspout had rear'd aloft
Its hungry hugeness, seeming ready ripe
To burst with hoarsest thunderings, and wipe
My life away like a vast sponge of fate,
Some friendly monster, pitying my sad state,
Has dived to its foundations, gulph'd it down,
And left me tossing safely. But the crown
Of all my life was utmost quietude:
More did I love to lie in cavern rude,
Keeping in wait whole days for Neptune's voice,
And if it came at last, hark, and rejoice!
There blush'd no summer eve but I would steer
My skiff along green shelving coasts, to hear
The shepherd's pipe come clear from aery steep,
Mingled with ceaseless bleatings of his sheep:
And never was a day of summer shine,
But I beheld its birth upon the brine:
For I would watch all night to see unfold
Heaven's gates, and Aethon snort his morning gold
Wide o'er the swelling streams: and constantly
At brim of day-tide, on some grassy lea,
My nets would be spread out, and I at rest.
The poor folk of the sea-country I blest
With daily boon of fish most delicate:
They knew not whence this bounty, and elate
Would strew sweet flowers on a sterile beach.

  "Why was I not contented? Wherefore reach
At things which, but for thee, O Latmian!
Had been my dreary death? Fool! I began
To feel distemper'd longings: to desire
The utmost priv

bitter kaffe, salte tårer, rodet værelse, rodede tanker, sprukne læber, en ufortjent karakter, nøgne træer, nøgne kroppe, ****** musik, adskillige vabler, lykkeønskninger fra nogle bekendte, manglede lykkeønskninger fra nogle venner, udspilede øjne, tunge øjenlåg, forsvundet hårnåle, krakeleret neglelak, kortvarig latter, kortvarig solskin, lektier jeg ikke fik lavet, fladt baghjul, velbehag, ubehag, løbende sminke, ukomfortable kram, ulovlig film-streaming, længsel, oprigtige smil, påtagede smil, ubesvarede e-mails, tiltrængte gensyn, sammenbrud over en matematisk ligning, sammenbrud på min fødselsdag, sammenbrud over min farmor, sammenbrud

The blessed damozel leaned out
  From the gold bar of heaven;
Her eyes were deeper than the depth
  Of waters stilled at even;
She had three lilies in her hand,
  And the stars in her hair were seven.

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,
  No wrought flowers did adorn,
But a white rose of Mary’s gift,
  For service meetly worn;
Her hair that lay along her back
  Was yellow like ripe corn.

It seemed she scarce had been a day
  One of God’s choristers;
The wonder was not yet quite gone
  From that still look of hers;
Albeit, to them she left, her day
  Had counted as ten years.

(To one it is ten years of years.
  . . . Yet now, and in this place,
Surely she leaned o’er me—her hair
  Fell all about my face . . .
Nothing: the autumn-fall of leaves.
  The whole year sets apace.)

It was the rampart of God’s house
  That she was standing on;
By God built over the sheer depth
  The which is Space begun;
So high, that looking downward thence
  She scarce could see the sun.

It lies in heaven, across the flood
  Of ether, as a bridge.
Beneath the tides of day and night
  With flame and darkness ridge
The void, as low as where this earth
  Spins like a fretful midge.

Around her, lovers, newly met
  ’Mid deathless love’s acclaims,
Spoke evermore among themselves
  Their heart-remembered names;
And the souls mounting up to God
  Went by her like thin flames.

And still she bowed herself and stooped
  Out of the circling charm;
Until her ***** must have made
  The bar she leaned on warm,
And the lilies lay as if asleep
  Along her bended arm.

From the fixed place of heaven she saw
  Time like a pulse shake fierce
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove
  Within the gulf to pierce
Its path; and now she spoke as when
  The stars sang in their spheres.

The sun was gone now; the curled moon
  Was like a little feather
Fluttering far down the gulf; and now
  She spoke through the still weather.
Her voice was like the voice the stars
  Had when they sang together.

(Ah, sweet! Even now, in that bird’s song,
  Strove not her accents there,
Fain to be harkened? When those bells
  Possessed the midday air,
Strove not her steps to reach my side
  Down all the echoing stair?)

“I wish that he were come to me,
  For he will come,” she said.
“Have I not prayed in heaven?—on earth,
  Lord, Lord, has he not prayed?
Are not two prayers a perfect strength?
  And shall I feel afraid?

“When round his head the aureole clings,
  And he is clothed in white,
I’ll take his hand and go with him
  To the deep wells of light;
As unto a stream we will step down,
  And bathe there in God’s sight.

“We two will stand beside that shrine,
  Occult, withheld, untrod,
Whose lamps are stirred continually
  With prayer sent up to God;
And see our old prayers, granted melt
  Each like a little cloud.

“We two will lie i’ the shadow of
  That living mystic tree
Within those secret growth the Dove
  Is sometimes felt to be,
While every leaf that His plumes touch
  Saith His Name audibly.

“And I myself will teach to him,
  I myself, lying so,
The songs I sing here; which his voice
  Shall pause in, hushed and slow,
And find some knowledge at each pause,
  Or some new thing to know.”

(Alas! We two, we two, thou say’st!
  Yea, one wast thou with me
That once of old.  But shall God lift
  To endless unity
The soul whose likeness with thy soul
  Was but its love for thee?)

“We two,” she said, “will seek the groves
  Where the lady Mary is,
With her five handmaidens, whose names
  Are five sweet symphonies,
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,
  Margaret, and Rosalys.

“Circlewise sit they, with bound locks
  And foreheads garlanded;
Into the fine cloth white like flame
  Weaving the golden thread,
To fashion the birth-robes for them
  Who are just born, being dead.

“He shall fear, haply, and be dumb;
  Then will I lay my cheek
To his, and tell about our love,
  Not once abashed or weak;
And the dear Mother will approve
  My pride, and let me speak.

“Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,
  To Him round whom all souls
Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads
  Bowed with their aureoles;
And angels meeting us shall sing
  To their citherns and citoles.

“There will I ask of Christ the Lord
  Thus much for him and me —
Only to live as once on earth
  With Love—only to be,
As then awhile, forever now,
  Together, I and he.”

She gazed and listened and then said,
  Less sad of speech than mild —
“All this is when he comes.” She ceased.
  The light thrilled toward her, filled
With angels in strong, level flight.
  Her eyes prayed, and she smil’d.

(I saw her smile.) But soon their path
  Was vague in distant spheres;
And then she cast her arms along
  The golden barriers,
And laid her face between her hands,
  And wept. (I heard her tears.)

'The storm is in the air,' she said, and held
Her soft palm to the breeze; and looking up,
Swift sunbeams brush'd the crystal of her eyes,
As swallows leave the skies to skim the brown,
Bright woodland lakes. 'The rain is in the air.
'O Prophet Wind, what hast thou told the rose,
'That suddenly she loosens her red heart,
'And sends long, perfum'd sighs about the place?
'O Prophet Wind, what hast thou told the Swift,
'That from the airy eave, she, shadow-grey,
'Smites the blue pond, and speeds her glancing wing
'Close to the daffodils? What hast thou told small bells,
'And tender buds, that--all unlike the rose--
'They draw green leaves close, close about their *******
'And shrink to sudden slumber? The sycamores
'In ev'ry leaf are eloquent with thee;
'The poplars busy all their silver tongues
'With answ'ring thee, and the round chestnut stirs
'Vastly but softly, at thy prophecies.
'The vines grow dusky with a deeper green--
'And with their tendrils ****** thy passing harp,
'And keep it by brief seconds in their leaves.
'O Prophet Wind, thou tellest of the rain,
'While, jacinth blue, the broad sky folds calm palms,
'Unwitting of all storm, high o'er the land!
'The little grasses and the ruddy heath
'Know of the coming rain; but towards the sun
'The eagle lifts his eyes, and with his wings
'Beats on a sunlight that is never marr'd
'By cloud or mist, shrieks his fierce joy to air
'Ne'er stir'd by stormy pulse.'
'The eagle mine,' I said: 'O I would ride
'His wings like Ganymede, nor ever care
'To drop upon the stormy earth again,--
'But circle star-ward, narrowing my gyres,
'To some great planet of eternal peace.'.
'Nay,' said my wise, young love, 'the eagle falls
'Back to his cliff, swift as a thunder-bolt;
'For there his mate and naked eaglets dwell,
'And there he rends the dove, and joys in all
'The fierce delights of his tempestuous home.
'And tho' the stormy Earth throbs thro' her poles--
'With tempests rocks upon her circling path--
'And bleak, black clouds ****** at her purple hills--
'While mate and eaglets shriek upon the rock--
'The eagle leaves the hylas to its calm,
'Beats the wild storm apart that rings the earth,
'And seeks his eyrie on the wind-dash'd cliff.
'O Prophet Wind! close, close the storm and rain!'

Long sway'd the grasses like a rolling wave
Above an undertow--the mastiff cried;
Low swept the poplars, groaning in their hearts;
And iron-footed stood the gnarl'd oaks,
And brac'd their woody thews against the storm.
Lash'd from the pond, the iv'ry cygnets sought
The carven steps that plung'd into the pool;
The peacocks scream'd and dragg'd forgotten plumes.
On the sheer turf--all shadows subtly died,
In one large shadow sweeping o'er the land;
Bright windows in the ivy blush'd no more;
The ripe, red walls grew pale--the tall vane dim;
Like a swift off'ring to an angry God,
O'erweighted vines shook plum and apricot,
From trembling trellis, and the rose trees pour'd
A red libation of sweet, ripen'd leaves,
On the trim walks. To the high dove-cote set
A stream of silver wings and violet *******,
The hawk-like storm swooping on their track.
'Go,' said my love, 'the storm would whirl me off
'As thistle-down. I'll shelter here--but you--
'You love no storms!' 'Where thou art,' I said,
'Is all the calm I know--wert thou enthron'd
'On the pivot of the winds--or in the maelstrom,
'Thou holdest in thy hand my palm of peace;
'And, like the eagle, I would break the belts
'Of shouting tempests to return to thee,
'Were I above the storm on broad wings.
'Yet no she-eagle thou! a small, white, lily girl
'I clasp and lift and carry from the rain,
'Across the windy lawn.'
With this I wove
Her floating lace about her floating hair,
And crush'd her snowy raiment to my breast,
And while she thought of frowns, but smil'd instead,
And wrote her heart in crimson on her cheeks,
I bounded with her up the breezy slopes,
The storm about us with such airy din,
As of a thousand bugles, that my heart
Took courage in the clamor, and I laid
My lips upon the flow'r of her pink ear,
And said: 'I love thee; give me love again!'
And here she pal'd, love has its dread, and then
She clasp'd its joy and redden'd in its light,
Till all the daffodils I trod were pale
Beside the small flow'r red upon my breast.
And ere the dial on the ***** was pass'd,
Between the last loud bugle of the Wind
And the first silver coinage of the Rain,
Upon my flying hair, there came her kiss,
Gentle and pure upon my face--and thus
Were we betroth'd between the Wind and Rain.

Sweet dreams form a shade,
O’er my lovely infants head.
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams,
By happy silent moony beams

Sweet sleep with soft down.
Weave thy brows an infant crown.
Sweet sleep Angel mild,
Hover o’er my happy child.

Sweet smiles in the night,
Hover over my delight.
Sweet smiles Mothers smiles,
All the livelong night beguiles.

Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy eyes,
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
All the dovelike moans beguiles.

Sleep sleep happy child,
All creation slept and smil’d.
Sleep sleep, happy sleep.
While o’er thee thy mother weep

Sweet babe in thy face,
Holy image I can trace.
Sweet babe once like thee.
Thy maker lay and wept for me

Wept for me for thee for all,
When he was an infant small.
Thou his image ever see.
Heavenly face that smiles on thee,

Smiles on thee on me on all,
Who became an infant small,
Infant smiles are His own smiles,
Heaven & earth to peace beguiles.

First born of Chaos, who so fair didst come
        From the old *****’s darksome womb!
        Which when it saw the lovely Child,
The melancholly Mass put on kind looks and smil’d.

Thou Tide of Glory which no Rest dost know,
        But ever Ebb, and ever Flow!
        Thou ******* of a true Jove!
Who does in thee descend, and Heav’n to Earth make Love!

Hail active Natures watchful Life and Health!
        Her Joy, her Ornament, and Wealth!
        Hail to thy Husband Heat, and Thee!
Thou the worlds beauteous Bride, the ***** Bridegroom He!

Say from what Golden Quivers of the Sky,
        Do all thy winged Arrows fly?
        Swiftness and Power by Birth are thine:
From thy Great Sire they came, thy Sire the word Divine.

’Tis, I believe, this Archery to show,
        That so much cost in Colours thou,
        And skill in Painting dost bestow,
Upon thy ancient Arms, the Gawdy Heav’nly Bow.

Swift as light Thoughts their empty Carriere run,
        Thy Race is finisht, when begun,
        Let a Post-Angel start with Thee,
And Thou the Goal of Earth shalt reach as soon as He:

Thou in the Moons bright Chariot proud and gay,
        Dost thy bright wood of Stars survay;
        And all the year dost with thee bring
Of thousand flowry Lights thine own Nocturnal Spring.

Thou Scythian-like dost round thy Lands above
        The Suns gilt Tent for ever move,
        And still as thou in pomp dost go
The shining Pageants of the World attend thy show.

Nor amidst all these Triumphs dost thou scorn
        The humble Glow-worms to adorn,
        And with those living spangles gild,
(O Greatness without Pride!) the Bushes of the Field.

Night, and her ugly Subjects thou dost fright,
        And sleep, the lazy Owl of Night;
        Asham’d and fearful to appear
They skreen their horrid shapes with the black Hemisphere.

With ’em there hasts, and wildly takes the Alarm,
        Of painted Dreams, a busie swarm,
        At the first opening of thine eye,
The various Clusters break, the antick Atomes fly.

The guilty Serpents, and obscener Beasts
        Creep conscious to their secret rests:
        Nature to thee does reverence pay,
Ill Omens, and ill Sights removes out of thy way.

At thy appearance, Grief it self is said,
        To shake his Wings, and rowse his Head.
        And cloudy care has often took
A gentle beamy Smile reflected from thy Look.

At thy appearance, Fear it self grows bold;
        Thy Sun-shine melts away his Cold.
        Encourag’d at the sight of Thee,
To the cheek Colour comes, and firmness to the knee.

Even Lust the Master of a hardned Face,
        Blushes if thou beest in the place,
        To darkness’ Curtains he retires,
In Sympathizing Night he rowls his smoaky Fires.

When, Goddess, thou liftst up thy wakened Head,
        Out of the Mornings purple bed,
        Thy Quire of Birds about thee play,
And all the joyful world salutes the rising day.

The Ghosts, and Monster Spirits, that did presume
        A Bodies Priv’lege to assume,
        Vanish again invisibly,
And Bodies gain agen their visibility.

All the Worlds bravery that delights our Eyes
        Is but thy sev’ral Liveries,
        Thou the Rich Dy on them bestowest,
Thy nimble Pencil Paints this Landskape as thou go’st.

A Crimson Garment in the Rose thou wear’st;
        A Crown of studded Gold thou bear’st,
        The ****** Lillies in their White,
Are clad but with the Lawn of almost Naked Light.

The Violet, springs little Infant, stands,
        Girt in thy purple Swadling-bands:
        On the fair Tulip thou dost dote;
Thou cloath’st it in a gay and party-colour’d Coat.

With Flame condenst thou dost the Jewels fix,
        And solid Colours in it mix:
        Flora her self envyes to see
Flowers fairer then her own, and durable as she.

Ah, Goddess! would thou could’st thy hand withhold,
        And be less Liberall to Gold;
        Didst thou less value to it give,
Of how much care (alas) might’st thou poor Man relieve!

To me the Sun is more delighful farr,
        And all fair Dayes much fairer are.
        But few, ah wondrous few there be,
Who do not Gold preferr, O Goddess, ev’n to Thee.

Through the soft wayes of Heaven, and Air, and Sea,
        Which open all their Pores to Thee;
        Like a cleer River thou dost glide,
And with thy Living Stream through the close Channels slide.

But where firm Bodies thy free course oppose,
        Gently thy source the Land oreflowes;
        Takes there possession, and does make,
Of Colours mingled, Light, a thick and standing Lake.

But the vast Ocean of unbounded Day
        In th’ EmpyrÆan Heaven does stay.
        Thy Rivers, Lakes, and Springs below
From thence took first their Rise, thither at last must Flow.

A little black thing among the snow:
Crying weep, weep, in notes of woe!
Where are thy father & mother? say?
They are both gone up to the church to pray.

Because I was happy upon the heath.
And smil’d among the winters snow:
They clothed me in the clothes of death.
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.

And because I am happy. & dance & sing.
They think they have done me no injury:
And are gone to praise God & his Priest & King,
Who made up a heaven of our misery.

Hendes negle er perfekt formede og lakerede sorte
(hendes fingre knækker, når *** bladrer i bogen)
Hendes hår falder naturligt ned ad ryggen med de små tjavser
der former hendes ansigt
(hendes hoved føles tungt men tomt)
Hendes stemme er let og lyder af klokkeklang
(hendes indre stemme skriger evigt)
Hendes smil kan smelte enhver, og tænderne er en perlerække
(hendes spejlbillede har ikke set et smil længe)
Hendes ben er kilometerlange og giver hende en svævende gang
(hendes ben er blå af selvskyldige ****)
Hendes latter klinger gennem lokalet
(hendes tanker griner ad hende selv)

Jeg kigger på dit flotte mørke hår. Dine mystiske krøller betager mig mere end noget andet. Jeg kigger på dine øjne. Dine mørke øjne, de øjne som jeg længtes efter kigger på mig, men som altid er helt kolde når de kigger i min retning.  Dit smil, ja det gør mig glad.
Jeg sidder på en bænk i skolegårde. Jeg ser på dig ud af øjenkrogen, du står der, høj og markeret. Jeg falder helt i staver, jeg kan ikke lade være med at kigge på dig, på dine krøller og dine smukke øjne, de skæve tænder som smiler. Glæden i din stemme, for mig til at føle mig lykkelig, men ligeså snart du ser på mig, er glæden i dine øjne og dit smukke smil erstattet af afsky.
jeg drømmer mig helt væk. Drømmen om din opmærksomhed fylder hele mit sind, jeg vågner igen. Jeg har det forfærdeligt. For jeg ved at jeg igenting betyder for dig. Du er ligeglad, prøver at kigge væk, vil ikke se mig i øjnene. Gør det ondt på dig? Har du det også dårligt? eller fryder det dig at trampe på mig. Hvorfor er du overalt? hvorfor er der ikke en eneste dag jeg ikke ser dig.
Jeg mindes om dit smukke ydre og forfærdelige indre hverdag, det piner mig. Det piner mig mere end du aner, jeg er forelsket, for første gang i mit liv, og jeg er forelsket, i en der aldrig vil elske mig.
Jeg er ulykkelig.

Du ser på den fineste, fine pige
med naturlige bølger i håret
som dem af saltvand
der kysser stranden
ved hendes fødder.

Det kilder i din mave,
og den sitrende fornemmelse
kører til brystkassen,
som nu føles
tung
og fyldt.
Du smiler til hende
og dit smil bliver dobbelt så bredt,
da du ser
at *** smiler
tilbage.
Monets have blomstrer
og Noahs ark danser
i din mave,
ved synet
af hendes fine ansigt,
der lyser op
i solens stråler.

Du har givet hende
det smil,
som nu står malet
mellem hendes kinder.

Du er kunstneren
og *** er kunsten.

løb gennem en dugvåd forstadshave ved daggry
   smag sommerens frugter i et smil fra en fremmed

rør ved blonderne på en sårbar samtale, frynserne
       luk øjnene; se verden
  se den!
    duft hyacinten i dine drømme og vågn med nye holdninger
             læs en andens tanke, anerkendende
jeg er blevet gennemsigtig!
jeg er blevet nyttig

jeg tror snart verden bliver for meget
   jeg støtter op om forår
jeg bliver trist om vinteren

     jeg har lånt en bog på biblioteket med min mors lånerkort

jeg tænker selvstændigt (af og til)
    tænd et stearinlys og se din egen negativitet brænde ned
tænd et håb, flamme i natten

       smil med et melankolsk tilbageblik på dine mælketænder
lån en bog på biblioteket uden at læse den. uden dårlig samvittighed
   livet går stærkt

Det skal være dig og mig. Og, hvor skal vi gøre op med systemet. Vi skal gøre hele verden til vores. Efteråret/Efter året kommer næste sæson. Det bliver med solskin, det bliver med måneskin, og det bliver med dig, og det bliver med mig. Du er min blændende stjerneregn, du er mit lykkeland. Her vil jeg leve, her skal jeg opleve og udforske, undersøge det hele med dig. Kysse dig på hver en trappesten, røre ved dig på alle gadehjørner og kramme dig på hver eneste plet af grønt græs med solskin. Jeg vil nyde dit smil og fortabe mig i dine lysende øjne. Du skal se mine fregner blomstre, og jeg skal se dig gro. Følg med mig, inden det er for sent, og vi glemmer hinanden i hinanden, så det ikke er spændende mere. Spring nu ud min blomst, min kærlighed. For jeg er træt af vinterens 202 dage, som har forfulgt mig. Let's get lost. Tø vores frosne hjerter op, mærke varmen i lyset, men det er mørkest inden solopgang så skynd dig. Find mig. Fang mig.

The people change their thinking
when the poem smiles

Grålige toner turnerer rundt, isnende.
Smaragder, forklædt som mine bankede, tunge og paniske hjerteslag.
Febrilsk narrer vi hinanden til at være glade
Følelses-dækkende smil og hjerter, I dette
mørke, som har sænket sig ned over os.
Alle går vi rundt med minder, miner, sorte og triste.
Trængede efter lyst og lys kaster vi os over hinanden.
Skyder med en stjerneregn af følelser mod personlige parader.
Når solen kaster sig over mig og jeg stiger til vejrs.
Vi skal forenes og forsones, vi vil kende til hiannden.
Så husker du mig, så vil du kendes ved mig.

Well! thou art happy, and I feel
  That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
  Warmly, as it was wont to do.

Thy husband’s blest—and ’twill impart
  Some pangs to view his happier lot:
But let them pass—Oh! how my heart
  Would hate him if he loved thee not!

When late I saw thy favourite child,
  I thought my jealous heart would break;
But when the unconscious infant smil’d,
  I kiss’d it for its mother’s sake.

I kiss’d it,—and repress’d my sighs
  Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother’s eyes,
  And they were all to love and me.

Mary, adieu! I must away:
  While thou art blest I’ll not repine;
But near thee I can never stay;
  My heart would soon again be thine.

I deem’d that Time, I deem’d that Pride,
  Had quench’d at length my boyish flame;
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
  My heart in all,—save hope,—the same.

Yet was I calm: I knew the time
  My breast would thrill before thy look;
But now to tremble were a crime—
  We met,—and not a nerve was shook.

I saw thee gaze upon my face,
  Yet meet with no confusion there:
One only feeling couldst thou trace;
  The sullen calmness of despair.

Away! away! my early dream
  Remembrance never must awake:
Oh! where is Lethe’s fabled stream?
  My foolish heart be still, or break.

spildt smil
trængende fingre, sitrende usikkerhed
bizar normalitet
omvendt kærlighedssang,
nemesis er min bedste ven. metamorfose
en ærlighed kan være sjælden
udtryk for respekt, omtanke
et smil, et spild
ildebrænd som destruktivt potentiale
alt står stille, men det ryster
glem alt om myter
glem alt om kvantefysikken
glem alt om dig selv
der er så meget mere sandhed at stille sole sig i
respekter dig selv
vær ærlig

eksistenser der efterlader ar i huden, trukket over ryggen, over leggene, over identiteten
mulden i hjertet, hjertet i halsen
gravsten i ribbenene og knive i albuerne
asfalt under neglene, asfaltsmanicure
river huden op river en i stykker
vi vil underholde vi nedbrydder os selv smil for smil
tænder et lys i mit hjerte for dig jeg vil stråle men
først skal tågen af melankoli fordampe mit
lys ligger bag et gardin af tristhed
sådan en rodløs forvirring en rodløs ligegyldighed
med murbroksruiner i lungerne får jeg vejrtrækningsproblemer
og skårrene i din latter stikker
ingen er ødelagte, men alle er flitrende
vi vil underholdes

hvorfor kan jeg ikke få dig ud af hovedet
du ramte de rigtige tangenter
eller nærmere strenge
med de fingre du sagde du ikke kunne mærke
men jeg kan ikke helt læse noder endnu
"hvad er rusmidler"
"hvad er kærlighed"
jeg tror jeg kender dig
og gennemskuer din halvarrogante side
som jeg slet ikke finder arrogant
men blot kær
som dit smil
dit forbandede smil
og dine øjne
der i går var lidt røde
nu husker jeg blot en nirvanasang
og da du spurgte om du måtte få et kram

I mit livs sommer er jeg
Midnatsdans på køkkengulvet med fars dyre hvidvin. Anonyme beskeder til smukke ansigter. Stress med aflevering; mandag, tirsdag, onsdag, torsdag, fredag. Smuglede smil til usunde sataner med lidt for rodet hår og hoved. Sparring på cigaretter. Færdigbag da alt andet er for ekstravagant. Iskold øl på brandvarm asfalt, og brandvarme blik til iskolde drenge. Meterlange køer, men hver en krone værd. Togkonsulent med en gave til dig på 750 kr. , og derefter en halv time for sent på arbejdet. Uventede komplimenter fra uventede mennesker, og uventede oplevelser på uventede tider.

I mit livs vinter lever jeg
ånder lidt for ivrigt efter pauser. Neglelak som krakelerer i kanterne efter blot en dag. Dage uden at se solen selvom solen er evigt eksisterende på himlen. Køber ikke koncertbilletten, fordi muligheden jo nok opstår en anden gang. Støv som har permanent bopæl i hjørnet, og ridsen tværs over computeren som er kommet for at blive. Lampen uden pæren og pæren med blåt skær. Mangel på sokker. Sætninger man fortryder, ligesåvel som sætninger man ønsker man havde indført. Mangel på søvn, tid og mad i køleskabet. Kendskab til hemmeligheder, som er hemmeligt at man har kendskab til. Og alt-alt-alt for mange valg at træffe og truffe.

Mine drukne indvolde afskyr deres beholder.
Gennem nervebanen sendes stødende gnister af had.
Hvor vil de overbevise og kalder på den sødmede gift
hvor vil de have dens spreden af koma lignende afkom.

Først ubehagen,
så oppustet smerte der brister som en ballon
og brændsel med selvantændelige kræfter.
Den springer og opkast omsluger horisonten
af mennesker,
klipper,
udviskede farver.

Ujævne striber af rød er udfyldte billeder
der drypper en anelse ro på mine øjne,
det leder
det fører
ind gennem nervebanens flod.

To mørke eller fire
i hvert fald én
gør døsig
gør modig
gør opgivenhed
udholdenhed.

De dage der kommer er vel taget imod
i skrigen og styrke og tomhedens sod.

Selskrevne ord fordamper salt.
Efterladt,
afsluttet,
genfortalt
i latterlige evig kedsomhed
der udfylder fyldte *** af bevidsthed
hvor pladsmanglens rod eliminerer sig selv.
Usammenhængende lort skaber lyrik
gør intet som helst
og findes for ingenting.

Jeg læner tilbage og betragter et snitteværk
en udhugget skulptur.
Stærke farver vender tilbage i kindrødt
gennem abstrakt maleri
og så rammer svien af blomster og fryd
på eksperimenter af målrettet kunst.

Skammende lys i hvid og i sort.
Nøgterne syner synes skarpe for blikket
og lukker en port.
Brosten for brosten lægges på ny
og en fejl af en vej af smil og meditativ.

Jeg ser din lyse silhuet i mørket. Den høje figur, med en smøg i hånden og et smil på læben. Du står bare der og kigger. Hvad mon du kigger på? det som om månen oplyser dig, dig og dine smukke træk. Mit hjerte går i stå da vores øjne mødes. Det var virkelig dig. dine øjne er varme og blide, men de kigger lige igennem mig. Skipper dit hjerte også et **** når du ser mig?

TÅRER PÅ KINDEN
SPRUKNE LÆBER
HYSTERI OG FACEBOOK
PLACEBO VARME FRA HJERTELØSE RADIATORER
KRAKKELERET NEGLELAK OG KNUSTE HJERTER
SØVNLØSE NÆTTER OG (UTOPISK) REALITY
KOLLEKTIV ANGST OG SOCIALE SELVMORD
STRÆBEN FOR PERFEKTION
MANGEL PÅ PRÆCISION
INTET ER GODT NOK.
KROPS IDEALER.
AR PÅ HÅNDLEDENE
AR PÅ SJÆLEN.
HYSTERISKE RÅB OM HJÆLP
SKYLLES UD I TOILETTET.
FACADE-SMIL OG MAKE-UP
DIANOGSER OG ENSOMHED
TOMME LØFTER OG REFLEKTION
FORVENTNINGENS GLÆDE
OG HAD
KOLDE NEGLE; SJÆLE AF IS OG *****.
der gør det svært at være til.

.. varme, hvide dyner med pletter fra weekendens lyster
ophidsende støn fra markerede læber
kolde fingre mod min gennemsigtige hud
ulidelig smerte kombineret med kys og smil
smagen af lyserød kærlighed og nybrygget kaffe

jeg savner ham
og jeg savner mig
med ham

de er hårdt at sige farvel
til en du elsker
eller har elsket
lige meget hvad der bliver sagt
eller hvordan det bliver gjort
fordi ordet farvel er symbolet
på en afsked og ikke løsrivelse
i den forstand at man sagtens
kan sige farvel uden at give slip
og jeg tror aldrig helt at jeg har
sluppet dig
eller at du har sluppet mig
selvom vi sagde farvel for
længe længe siden
og jeg savner dig stadig
nogle gange når tiden går baglæns
og jeg mindes alle de gange du
rørte mig med dine lange fingre
og dit skæve smil der afslørede
skæve tænder
og jeg elskede hvert sekund med
dig
selv de sekunder hvor jeg havde
lyst til at rive dit hovede af
fordi du frustrede mig så meget
da du var inkompetent i forhold
til at være ærlig overfor dig selv
og mig
nu ville jeg bare ønske at jeg havde
holdt fast på dig og sørget for at
du følte dig tryg så du kunne være
ærlig
men nu ligger vi i to forskellige ender
af landet og savner hinanden
for vi ved ikke hvordan vi skal være
venner for det var vi vel egentlig aldrig
men jeg har ikke sluppet dig fri endnu
du vil stadig altid være min store kærlighed
og hvem ved om du finder din vej
ind i min radius igen
så vi kan smelte sammen
og ligge i din seng på en gade i København
og drømme om et mere spændene liv
men lige nu har du en anden
som ikke er mig
og selvom jeg godt ved at du ikke
elsker hende som du elsker mig
er det stadig kærlighed
og jeg elsker at du endelig har turde
at satse lidt på dig selv
for du ved jeg syntes du var det hele
værd, selvom du ikke selv kunne se
at du var andet end ét stort rod
du ved jeg ønsker dig alt det bedste
så indtil vi mødes igen
skal du vide at det altid er hårdt at
sige farvel
og da jeg fortalte dig at det var for sent
nu
var dét det sværeste jeg nogensinde har
gjort
fordi jeg ikke har givet slip endnu

for blot få timer
siden dansede vi rundt
på bare fødder i vores
egen glædesrus
og følte os
hjemme hos
hinanden
alle sammen
alle 8 og
alt hvad der
hed kaotisk travlhed
og stress symptomer var
druknet
i afslappethed og glæden
ved at være
en smule rødvins-hovedpine
men hvad var det
når livet var så godt
og nu sidder jeg her og kan ikke
længere tælle til 8
men kun til 1 og det hele
er så tomt og stille
og spredt for alle
vinde
og selvom jeg har prøvet
det 10 gange
de sidste 7 år
så vænner jeg mig aldrig
til det med at sige
farvel og slippe det
så jeg lukker
øjnene
og tænker at hvis jeg bare presser
øjnene sammen længe nok
og tror nok på det så
er jeg ikke alene når
jeg åbner øjnene igen
men som så mange
gange før
bliver jeg skuffet
og så er det
at det går op for mig at
sommeren kommer
hurtigt
og den tager minderne
og nye oplevelser med
og vi vil skabe
ligeså værdifulde minder
om kaffe i solskin og cigaretter
på terassen i morgendis
så mens
jeg venter vil jeg lukke
øjnene og smile ved hvert et ord
og hvert et minde
se hver en bevægelse og høre
hver en stemme for mig og drikke
min mandags kaffe og
smile et smil der
oplyses af pulverstjerner
på himlen
og vide
at næste gang jeg lukker mine øjne
på en stille søndag nat
er jeg ikke alene når jeg åbner dem igen

Løftede fingre, sænkede bryn, små suk og lange sug af sju i smug og altid brug af dug på bordet og bordkort til kernefamilien, og kerner i brødet til børnene og bøn ved bordet af brødrene, og smil til hinanden og for andre og ikke for sjov, aldrig for sjov. Samtaler om skole og skolehjemsamtaler for hjemmets ejere, høje forventniger i fryseren og mælk i køleskabet, og smørret står ude så et barn går i seng med en varm kind og får kold aftensmad af kolde ansigter. Skråt op med hjertet er i hjemmet for hjemmet er hos hjertet, men nogle gange sidder hjertet bare fast i fryseren, så det er svært at komme væk derfra med hjertet i takt.

Men hvis man en dag får løsrevet hjertet fra fryseren
så selvom det højst sandsynligvis er iskoldt
så kan det heldigvis i rette temperatur
tø op, varmes og banke igen

Nået til et punkt hvor glæden ved
venners tvunget smil og gnisten i deres døende øjne
afspejler sjælen
som nu i takt med at alderen forfalder
17 år og fanget
fanget i en tilstand mellem fantasi og virkelighed
for virkeligheden er at
alle vil såre en
drømme vil forblive drømme
dog holder fantasien en i gang
fantasien om livet som følger
livet efter gymnasiet når drenge bliver til mænd
deltidsjobs bliver til en fuldtidskarrierer
og bekendte forsvinder med den bidende vind hvor kun de få forbliver tilbage
og det triste, men dog smukke er
at de få som forbliver tilbage
er de som delte al smerten
al forvirringen og håbløsheden
17 år og fanget
fanget i virkeligheden
med ****** up venner, med fælles drømme
de holder virkeligheden for nar
med lange nætter fyldt med tung røg og dulmende vin
hvad skulle man gøre uden dem

aldrig før har den euforiske følelse
af kærlighed føltes så dejlig
som den nu gør med dig
hele min krop er fyldt til randen
med bobler i tusind farver
og jeg kan ikke holde dem inde
de bruser ud af mig og farver
himlen og skyerne i regnbuens farver
i stedet for mit melankolske blik
render jeg nu rundt med det
dummeste smil og ligner en
der rent faktisk for en stund
er lykkelig

aldrig før har den euforiske følelse
af kærlighed føltes så ægte
som den nu gør med dig
jeg var engang så naiv at jeg troede
jeg havde mødt den eneste ene
men nu er det som om han blot
var et langt mareridt
for du gør mig slet ikke bange som han
for du svarer altid og skriver søde ord
jeg ved at du ikke forlader mig
så nu ligger jeg her for en stund og
er tryg

aldrig før har den euforiske følelse
af kærlighed føltes så rigtig
som den nu gør med dig
for mit sind har altid været et puslespil
men det var som om at da du kiggede på mig
faldt alle brikkerne bare på plads
og du så mig klarer for den jeg er
end nogen anden nogensinde har gjort
så for første gang nogensinde skriver
jeg digte om at være glad og jeg ved ikke helt
men for en kort stund når du kigger på mig
er jeg forelsket?