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AN old house, crumbling half away, all barnacled and lichen-grown, Of saddest, mellowest, softest grey,—with a grand history of its own— Grand with the work and strife and tears of more than half a thousand years. Such delicate, tender, russet tones of colour on its gables slept, With streaks of gold betwixt the stones, where wind-sown flowers and mosses crept: Wild grasses waved in sun and shade o’er terrace slab and balustrade. Around the clustered chimneys clung the ivy’s wreathed and braided threads, And dappled lights and shadows flung across the sombre browns and reds; Where’er the graver’s hand had been, it spread its tendrils bright and green. Far-stretching branches shadowed deep the blazoned windows and broad eaves, And rocked the faithful rooks asleep, and strewed the terraces with leaves. A broken dial marked the hours amid damp lawns and garden bowers. An old house, silent, sad, forlorn, yet proud and stately to the last; Of all its power and splendour shorn, but rich with memories of the past; And pitying, from its own decay, the gilded piles of yesterday. Pitying the new race that passed by, with slighting note of its grey walls,— And entertaining tenderly the shades of dead knights in its halls, Whose blood, that soaked these hallowed sods, came down from Scandinavian gods. I saw it first in summer-time. The warm air hummed and buzzed with bees, Where now the pale green hop-vines climb about the sere trunks of the trees, And waves of roses on the ground scented the tangled glades around. Some long fern-plumes drooped there—below; the heaven above was still and blue; Just here—between the gloom and glow—a cedar and an aged yew Parted their dusky arms, to let the glory fall on Margaret. She leaned on that old balustrade, her white dress tinged with golden air, Her small hands loosely clasped, and laid amongst the moss and maidenhair: I watched her, hearing, as I stood, a turtle cooing in the wood— Hearing a mavis far away, piping his dreamy interludes, While gusts of soft wind, sweet with hay, swept through those garden solitudes,— And thinking she was lovelier e-en than my young ideal love had been. Tall, with that subtle, sensitive grace, which made so plainly manifest That she was born of noble race,—a cool, hushed presence, bringing rest, Of one who felt and understood the dignity of womanhood. Tall, with a slow, proud step and air; with skin half marble and half milk; With twisted coils of raven hair, blue-tinged, and fine and soft as silk; With haughty, clear-cut chin and cheek, and broad brows exquisitely Greek; With still, calm mouth, whose dreamy smile possessed me like a haunting pain, So rare, so sweet, so free from guile, with that slight accent of disdain; With level, liquid tones that fell like chimings of a vesper bell; With large, grave stag-eyes, soft, yet keen with slumbering passion, hazel-brown, Long-lashed and dark, whose limpid sheen my thirsty spirit swallowed down;— O poor, pale words, wherewith to paint my queen, my goddess, and my saint!
Come feel the cool and shadowed breeze, come smell your way among the trees, come touch rough bark and leathered leaves: Welcome to the night. Welcome to the night, where mice stir and furry moths flutter. Where snails spiral into shells as orb spiders circle in silk. Where the roots of oak trees recover and repair from their time in the light. Where the porcupette eats delicacies—raspberry leaves!—and coos and sings. Come out to the cool, night wood, and buzz and hoot and howl—but do beware of the great horned owl—for it’s wild and it’s windy way out in the woods!
Door into the Dark, Seamus Heaney's second collection of poems, first appeared in 1969. Already his widely celebrated gifts of precision, thoughtfulness, and musicality were everywhere apparent.
From the internationally bestselling author of Love Her Wild comes The Dark Between Stars, a new illustrated collection of heartfelt, whimsical, and romantic poems from Instagram poetry sensation, Atticus. Atticus, has captured the hearts and minds of nearly 700k followers (including stars like Karlie Kloss, Emma Roberts, and Alicia Keys). In his second collection of poetry, The Dark Between Stars, he turns his attention to the dualities of our lived experiences—the inescapable connections between our highest highs and lowest lows. He captures the infectious energy of starting a relationship, the tumultuous realities of commitment, and the agonizing nostalgia of being alone again. While grappling with the question of how to live with purpose and find meaning in the journey, these poems offer both honest explorations of loneliness and our search for connection, as well as light-hearted, humorous observations. As Atticus writes poignantly about dancing, Paris, jazz clubs, sunsets, sharing a bottle of wine on the river, rainy days, creating, and destroying, he illustrates that we need moments of both beauty and pain—the darkness and the stars—to fully appreciate all that life and love have to offer.
With the cadences of Martin Luther King Jr. and the lyricism of Langston Hughes, the great civil rights activist Pauli Murray’s sole book of poems finally returns to print. There has been explosive interest in the life of Pauli Murray, as reflected in a recent profile in The New Yorker, the publication of a definitive biography, and a new Yale University college in her name. Murray has been suddenly cited by leading historians as a woman who contributed far more to the civil rights movement than anyone knew, being arrested in 1940—fifteen years before Rosa Parks—for refusing to give up her seat on a Virginia bus. Celebrated by twenty-first-century readers as a civil rights activist on the level of King, Parks, and John Lewis, she is also being rediscovered as a gifted writer of memoir, sermons, and poems. Originally published in 1970 and long unavailable, Dark Testament and Other Poems attests to her fierce lyrical powers. At turns song, prayer, and lamentation, Murray’s poems speak to the brutal history of slavery and Jim Crow and the dream of racial justice and equality.
A collection of poems that provide a look at some of the animals, insects, and plants that are found in ponds, with accompanying information about each.
Two of America's most passionate poets work magic to unearth the true voice of Tsvetaeva, to open [her] veins.
One of the most gifted poets of our time, Adam Zagajewski is a contemporary classic. Few writers in poetry or prose have attained the lucid intelligence and limpid economy of style that are the trademarks of his work. His wry humor, gentle skepticism, and perpetual sense of history's dark possibilities have earned him a devoted international following. This collection, gracefully translated by Clare Cavanagh, finds the poet returning to the themes that have defined his career—moving meditations on place, language, and history. Unseen Hand is a luminous meeting of art and everyday life.