Full Online Books
Authors Authors Short Stories Short Stories Long Stories Long Stories Funny Stories Funny Stories Love Stories Love Stories Stories For Kids Stories For Kids Poems Poems Essays Essays Nonfictions Nonfictions Plays Plays Folktales Folktales Fairy Tales Fairy Tales Fables Fables Learning Kitchen Learning Kitchen
Valid XHTML 1.0 Transitional Free Classified Website Without Registration Free Classified Website Daniel Company
Twitter Twitter Add book
Full Online Book HomePoemsA Singer Asleep
Famous Authors (View All Authors)
A Singer Asleep Post by :blinky Category :Poems Author :Thomas Hardy Date :December 2010 Read :684

Click below to download : A Singer Asleep (Format : PDF)

A Singer Asleep

(Algernon Charles Swinburne, 1837-1909)



In this fair niche above the unslumbering sea,
That sentrys up and down all night, all day,
From cove to promontory, from ness to bay,
The Fates have fitly bidden that he should be Pillowed eternally.


- It was as though a garland of red roses
Had fallen about the hood of some smug nun
When irresponsibly dropped as from the sun,
In fulth of numbers freaked with musical closes,
Upon Victoria's formal middle time
His leaves of rhythm and rhyme.


O that far morning of a summer day
When, down a terraced street whose pavements lay
Glassing the sunshine into my bent eyes,
I walked and read with a quick glad surprise
New words, in classic guise, -


The passionate pages of his earlier years,
Fraught with hot sighs, sad laughters, kisses, tears;
Fresh-fluted notes, yet from a minstrel who
Blew them not naively, but as one who knew
Full well why thus he blew.


I still can hear the brabble and the roar
At those thy tunes, O still one, now passed through
That fitful fire of tongues then entered new!
Their power is spent like spindrift on this shore;
Thine swells yet more and more.


- His singing-mistress verily was no other
Than she the Lesbian, she the music-mother
Of all the tribe that feel in melodies;
Who leapt, love-anguished, from the Leucadian steep
Into the rambling world-encircling deep
Which hides her where none sees.


And one can hold in thought that nightly here
His phantom may draw down to the water's brim,
And hers come up to meet it, as a dim
Lone shine upon the heaving hydrosphere,
And mariners wonder as they traverse near,
Unknowing of her and him.


One dreams him sighing to her spectral form:
"O teacher, where lies hid thy burning line;
Where are those songs, O poetess divine
Whose very arts are love incarnadine?"
And her smile back: "Disciple true and warm,
Sufficient now are thine." . . .


So here, beneath the waking constellations,
Where the waves peal their everlasting strains,
And their dull subterrene reverberations
Shake him when storms make mountains of their plains -
Him once their peer in sad improvisations,
And deft as wind to cleave their frothy manes -
I leave him, while the daylight gleam declines
Upon the capes and chines.


(The end)
Thomas Hardy's poem: Singer Asleep

If you like this book please share to your friends :

A Plaint To Man A Plaint To Man

A Plaint To Man
When you slowly emerged from the den of Time,And gained percipience as you grew,And fleshed you fair out of shapeless slime,Wherefore, O Man, did there come to youThe unhappy need of creating me -A form like your own--for praying to?My virtue, power, utility,Within my maker must all abide,Since none in myself can ever be,One thin as a shape on a lantern-slideShown forth in the dark upon some dim sheet,And by none but its showman vivified."Such a forced device," you may say, "is meetFor easing a loaded heart at whiles:Man needs to conceive of a mercy-seatSomewhere above the gloomy aislesOf this wailful

The Schreckhorn The Schreckhorn

The Schreckhorn
(With thoughts of Leslie Stephen)(June 1897) Aloof, as if a thing of mood and whim;Now that its spare and desolate figure gleamsUpon my nearing vision, less it seemsA looming Alp-height than a guise of himWho scaled its horn with ventured life and limb,Drawn on by vague imaginings, maybe,Of semblance to his personalityIn its quaint glooms, keen lights, and rugged trim.At his last change, when Life's dull coils unwind,Will he, in old love, hitherward escape,And the eternal essence of his mindEnter this silent adamantine shape,And his low voicing haunt its slipping snowsWhen dawn that calls the climber dyes them rose?(The end)Thomas Hardy's poem: