Passages from Poetry

The moment a parent's love turns into fear of the world.

Wind whines and whines the shingle,The crazy pierstakes groan;A senile sea numbers each singleSlimesilvered stone.From whining wind and colderGrey sea I wrap him warmAnd touch his trembling fineboned shoulderAnd boyish arm.Around us fear, descendingDarkness of fear aboveAnd in my heart how deep unendingAche of love!

A cathedral made of darkness, with the stars serving as candles.

Gaunt in gloom,The pale stars their torches,Enshrouded, wave.Ghostfires from heaven’s far verges faint illume,Arches on soaring arches,Night’s sindark nave.Seraphim,The lost hosts awakenTo service tillIn moonless gloom each lapses muted, dim,Raised when she has and shakenHer thurible.

The friend you lost without ever deciding to lose him.

Because your voice was at my sideI gave him pain,Because within my hand I heldYour hand again.There is no word nor any signCan make amend—He is a stranger to me nowWho was my friend.

The voice at the door that the lullaby is trying to drown out.

Sleep now, O sleep now,O you unquiet heart!A voice crying “Sleep now”Is heard in my heart.The voice of the winterIs heard at the door.O sleep, for the winterIs crying “Sleep no more.”My kiss will give peace nowAnd quiet to your heart—Sleep on in peace now,O you unquiet heart!

What it takes to make a reader close the book and leave the room.

Lean out of the window,Goldenhair,I hear you singingA merry air.My book was closed,I read no more,Watching the fire danceOn the floor.I have left my book,I have left my room,For I heard you singingThrough the gloom.

An ending so gentle it takes a moment to notice it is one.

Now, O now, in this brown landWhere Love did so sweet music makeWe two shall wander, hand in hand,Forbearing for old friendship’ sake,Nor grieve because our love was gayWhich now is ended in this way.A rogue in red and yellow dressIs knocking, knocking at the tree;And all around our lonelinessThe wind is whistling merrily.The leaves—they do not sigh at allWhen the year takes them in the fall.

The way someone moves when they don't know they're being watched.

My love is in a light attireAmong the apple-trees,Where the gay winds do most desireTo run in companies.There, where the gay winds stay to wooThe young leaves as they pass,My love goes slowly, bending toHer shadow on the grass;And where the sky’s a pale blue cupOver the laughing land,My love goes lightly, holding upHer dress with dainty hand.

The person who drives the herd home seldom gets the warm fire.

He travels after a winter sun,Urging the cattle along a cold red road,Calling to them, a voice they know,He drives his beasts above Cabra.The voice tells them home is warm.They moo and make brute music with their hoofs.He drives them with a flowering branch before him,Smoke pluming their foreheads.Boor, bond of the herd,Tonight stretch full by the fire!I bleed by the black streamFor my torn bough!

There is a kind of beauty that makes the watcher nervous.

The sun is in the willow leavesAnd on the dappled grass,And still she’s combing her long hairBefore the looking-glass.I pray you, cease to comb out,Comb out your long hair,For I have heard of witcheryUnder a pretty air,That makes as one thing to the loverStaying and going hence,All fair, with many a pretty airAnd many a negligence.