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  • mirakee_writer 160w

    Dreamland

    By a route obscure and lonely,
    Haunted by ill angels only,
    Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
    On a black throne reigns upright,
    I have reached these lands but newly
    From an ultimate dim Thule-
    From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,
    Out of SPACE- out of TIME.

    Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
    And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
    With forms that no man can discover
    For the tears that drip all over;
    Mountains toppling evermore
    Into seas without a shore;
    Seas that restlessly aspire,
    Surging, unto skies of fire;
    Lakes that endlessly outspread
    Their lone waters- lone and dead,-
    Their still waters- still and chilly
    With the snows of the lolling lily.

    By the lakes that thus outspread
    Their lone waters, lone and dead,-
    Their sad waters, sad and chilly
    With the snows of the lolling lily,-
    By the mountains- near the river
    Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-
    By the grey woods,- by the swamp.

    Where the toad and the newt encamp-
    By the dismal tarns and pools
    Where dwell the Ghouls,-
    By each spot the most unholy-
    In each nook most melancholy-
    There the traveller meets aghast
    Sheeted Memories of the Past-

    Shrouded forms that start and sigh
    As they pass the wanderer by-
    White-robed forms of friends long given,
    In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.

    For the heart whose woes are legion
    'Tis a peaceful, soothing region-
    For the spirit that walks in shadow
    'Tis- oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
    But the traveller, travelling through it,
    May not- dare not openly view it!
    Never its mysteries are exposed
    To the weak human eye unclosed;
    So wills its King, who hath forbid
    The uplifting of the fringed lid;
    And thus the sad Soul that here passes
    Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

    By a route obscure and lonely,
    Haunted by ill angels only,
    Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
    On a black throne reigns upright,
    I have wandered home but newly
    From this ultimate dim Thule.
    ©mirakee_writer

  • mirakee_writer 160w

    Dreams

    Oh, that my young life were a lasting dream!
    My spirit not awakening, till the beam.
    Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
    Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
    There better than the cold reality.

    Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
    And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
    A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
    But should it be- that dream eternally.
    Continuing- as dreams have been to me.

    In my young boyhood- should it thus be given,
    'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
    For I have revelled when the sun was bright.
    I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light.

    And loveliness,- have left my very heart
    In climes of my imagining, apart
    From mine own home, with beings that have been
    Of mine own thought- what more could I have seen?
    Twas once- and only once- and the wild hour.

    From my remembrance shall not pass- some power
    Or spell had bound me- 'twas the chilly wind
    Came over me in the night, and left behind
    Its image on my spirit- or the moon

  • mirakee_writer 160w

    At a window

    Give me hunger,
    Oh you gods that sit and give
    The world its orders.
    Give me hunger, pain and want,

    Shut me out with shame and failure
    From your doors of gold and fame,
    Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger!

    But leave me a little love,
    A voice to speak to me in the day end,
    A hand to touch me in the dark room
    Breaking the long loneliness.
    In the dusk of day-shapes

    Blurring the sunset,
    One little wandering, western star
    Thrust out from the changing shores of shadow.
    Let me go to the window,

    Watch there the day-shapes of dusk
    And wait and know the coming
    Of a little love.
    ©mirakee_writer

  • mirakee_writer 160w

    Forgetfulness

    The name of the author is the first to go
    followed obediently by the title, the plot,
    the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
    which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
    never even heard of.

    As if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
    decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
    to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

    Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
    and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
    and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

    something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
    the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

    Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
    it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
    not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

    It has floated away down a dark mythological river
    whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
    well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
    who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

    No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
    to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
    No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
    out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
    ©mirakee_writer

  • mirakee_writer 160w

    A dream

    I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night;
    I went to the window to see the sight;
    All the Dead that ever I knew
    Going one by one and two by two.

    On they passed, and on they passed;
    Towns fellows all, from first to last;
    Born in the moonlight of the lane,
    Quench'd in the heavy shadow again.

    Schoolmates, marching as when they played
    At soldiers once, but now more staid;
    Those were the strangest sight to me
    Who were drowned, I knew, in the awful sea.

    Straight and handsome folk, bent and weak, too;
    Some that I loved, and gasped to speak to;
    Some but a day in their churchyard bed;
    Some that I had not known were dead.

    A long, long crowd, where each seem'd lonely,
    Yet of them all there was one, one only,
    Raised a head or look'd my way;
    She linger'd a moment, she might not stay.

    How long since I saw that fair pale face!
    Ah! Mother dear! might I only place
    My head on thy breast, a moment to rest,
    While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest!

    On, on, a moving bridge they made
    Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade,
    Young and old, women and men;
    Many long-forgot, but remembered then,

    And first there came a bitter laughter;
    A sound of tears a moment after;
    And then a music so lofty and gay,
    That eve morning, day by day,
    I strive to recall it if I may.
    ©mirakee_writer

  • mirakee_writer 160w

    The lost heart

    One golden summer day,
    Along the forest-way,
    Young Colin passed with blithesome steps alert.

    His locks with careless grace
    Rimmed round his handsome face
    And drifted outward on the airy surge.

    So blithe of heart was he,
    He hummed a melody,
    And all the birds were hushed to hear him sing.

    Across his shoulders flung
    His bow and baldric hung:
    So, in true huntsman's guise, he threads the wood.

    The sun mounts up the sky,
    The air moves sluggishly,
    And reeks with summer heat in every pore.

    His limbs begin to tire,
    Slumbers his youthful fire;
    He sinks upon a violet-bed to rest.

    The soft winds go and come
    With low and drowsy hum,
    And ope for him the ivory gate of dreams.

    Beneath the forest-shade
    There trips a woodland maid,
    And marks with startled eye the sleeping youth.

    At first she thought to fly,
    Then, timid, drawing nigh,
    She gazed in wonder on his fair young face.

    When swiftly stooping down
    Upon his locks so brown
    She lightly pressed her lips, and blushing fled.

    When Colin woke from sleep,
    From slumbers calm and deep,
    He felt- he knew not how- his heart had flown.

    And so, with anxious care,
    He wandered here and there,
    But could not find his lost heart anywhere.

    Then he, with air distraught,
    And brow of anxious thought,
    Went out into the world beyond the wood.

    Of each that passed him by,
    He queried anxiously,
    "I prithee, hast thou seen a heart astray?"

    Some stared and hurried on,
    While others said in scorn.
    Your heart has gone in search of your lost wits"

    The day is wearing fast,
    Young Colin comes at last
    To where a cottage stood embowered in trees.

    He looks within, and there
    He sees a maiden fair,
    Who sings low songs the while she plies her wheel.

    "I prithee, maiden bright,"--
    She turns as quick as light,
    And straight a warm flush crimsons all her face.

    She, much abashed, looks down,
    For on his locks so brown
    She seems to see the marks her lips have made.


    Whereby she stands confest;
    What need to tell the rest?
    He said, "I think, fair maid, you have my heart.

    "Nay, do not give it back,
    I shall not feel the lack,
    If thou wilt give to me thine own therefore.
    ©mirakee_writer

  • mirakee_writer 160w

    The letter

    I held his letter in my hand,
    And even while I read
    The lightning flashed across the land
    The word that he was dead.

    How strange it seemed! His living voice
    Was speaking from the page
    Those courteous phrases, tersely choice,
    Light-hearted, witty, sage.

    I wondered what it was that died!
    The man himself was here,
    His modesty, his scholar's pride,
    His soul serene and clear.

    These neither death nor time shall dim,
    Still this sad thing must be --
    Henceforth I may not speak to him,
    Though he can speak to me!
    ©mirakee_writer

  • mirakee_writer 160w

    Loving and Beloved

    There never yet was honest man
    That ever drove the trade of love;
    It is impossible, nor can
    Integrity our ends promove:

    For Kings and Lovers are alike in this
    That their chief art in reigne dissembling is.
    Here we are lov'd, and there we love,
    Good nature now and passion strive

    Which of the two should be above,
    And laws unto the other give.
    So we false fire with art sometimes discover,
    And the true fire with the same art do cover.
    What Rack can Fancy find so high?

    Here we must Court, and here ingage,
    Though in the other place we die.
    Oh! ‘tis torture all, and cozenage;
    And which the harder is I cannot tell,

    To hide true love, or make false love look well.
    Since it is thus, God of desire,
    Give me my honesty again,
    And take thy brands back, and thy fire;
    I'me weary of the State I'me in:
    ©mirakee_writer

  • mirakee_writer 160w

    The last judgement

    With beating heart and lagging feet,
    Lord, I approach the Judgment-seat.
    All bring hither the fruits of toil,
    Measures of wheat and measures of oil;

    Gold and jewels and precious wine;
    No hands bare like these hands of mine.
    The treasure I have nor weighs nor gleams:
    Lord, I can bring you only dreams.

    In days of spring, when my blood ran high,
    I lay in the grass and looked at the sky,
    And dreamed that my love lay by my side--
    My love was false, and then she died.

    All the heat of the summer through,
    I dreamed she lived, that her heart was true
    Throughout the hours of the day I slept,
    But woke in the night, at times, and wept.

    The nights and days, they went and came,
    I lay in shadow and dreamed of fame;
    And heard men passing the lonely place,
    Who marked me not and my hidden face.

    My strength waxed faint, my hair grew grey;
    Nothing but dreams by night and day.
    Some men sicken, with wine and food; 
    I starved on dreams, and found them good.
    ©mirakee_writer

  • mirakee_writer 160w

    Autumn and Winter

    Three months bade wane and wax the wintering moon
    Between two dates of death, while men were fain
    Yet of the living light that all too soon
    Three months bade wane.

    Cold autumn, wan with wrath of wind and rain,
    Saw pass a soul sweet as the sovereign tune
    That death smote silent when he smote again.

    First went my friend, in life's mid light of noon,
    Who loved the lord of music: then the strain
    Whence earth was kindled like as heaven in June
    Three months bade wane.



    A herald soul before its master's flying
    Touched by some few moons first the darkling goal
    Where shades rose up to greet the shade, espying
    A herald soul;

    Shades of dead lords of music, who control
    Men living by the might of men undying,
    With strength of strains that make delight of dole.

    The deep dense dust on death's dim threshold lying
    Trembled with sense of kindling sound that stole