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Absent from thee, I languish still;
Then ask me not, When I return?
The straying fool 'twill plainly kill
To wish all day, all night to mourn.
Dear, from thine arms then let me fly,
That my fantastic mind may prove
The torments it deserves to try,
That tears my fix'd heart from my love.
When, wearied with a world of woe,
To thy safe bosom I retire,
Where love, and peace, and truth does flow,
May I contented there expire!
Lest, once more wandering from that heaven,
I fall on some base heart unblest;
Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven--
And lose my everlasting rest.
--John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester
Home they brought her worior dead:
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry;
All her maidens, watching, said,
"She must weep or she will die!"
Then they praised him, soft and low,
Called him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Stole the maiden from her place,
Lightly to the worior stept,
Took the face cloth from the face,
Yet she neither moved nor wept.
Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee,
Like summer tempest came her tears,
"Sweet child, I live for thee!"
~Alfred Tennyson
Originally posted by QueenofnightGo post to General Forum. 😠😠😠😠😠😠😠😠😠😠😠😠😠😠ðŸ˜
Home they brought her worior dead:
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry;
All her maidens, watching, said,
"She must weep or she will die!"
Then they praised him, soft and low,
Called him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Stole the maiden from her place,
Lightly to the worior stept,
Took the fac ...[text shortened]... e,
Like summer tempest came her tears,
"Sweet child, I live for thee!"
~Alfred Tennyson
Originally posted by QueenofnightTHE HARLOT'S HOUSE
Home they brought her worior dead:
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry;
All her maidens, watching, said,
"She must weep or she will die!"
Then they praised him, soft and low,
Called him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Stole the maiden from her place,
Lightly to the worior stept,
Took the fac ...[text shortened]... e,
Like summer tempest came her tears,
"Sweet child, I live for thee!"
~Alfred Tennyson
We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot's house.
Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The "Treues Liebes Herz" of Strauss.
Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.
We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.
Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille.
The took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.
Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.
Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.
Then, turning to my love, I said,
"The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust."
But she--she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.
Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.
And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.
Oscar Wilde
I am starting to feel there are not many supporters for this cause. . . . .
Alone
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
EAPOE
Autopsychography
The poet is a faker
Who’s so good at his act
He even fakes the pain
Of pain he feels in fact.
And those who read his words
Will feel in his writing
Neither of the pains he has
But just the one they’re missing.
And so around its track
This thing called the heart winds,
A little clockwork train
To entertain our minds.
Fernando Pessoa
