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Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal— Luke Havergal.. There is the western gate, Luke Havergal, There are the crimson leaves upon the wall, Go, for the winds are tearing them away,— Nor

The Lovemaker

by Robert Mezey

I see you in her bed,

Dark, rootless epicene,

Where a lone ghost is laid

And other ghosts convene;

And hear you moan at last

Your pleasure in the deep

Haven of her who kissed

Your blind mouth into sleep

But body, once enthralled,

Wakes in the chains it wore,

Dishevelled, stupid, cold,

And famished as before,

And hears its paragon

Breathe in the ghostly air,

Anonymous carrion

Ravished by despair

Lovemaker, I have felt

Desire take my part,

But lacked your constant fault

And something of your art,

And would not bend my knees

To the unmantled pride

That left you in that place,

Forever unsatisfied

Excerpts from "More Poems," XXXVI

by A E Housman

Here dead lie we because we did not choose

To live and shame the land from which we sprung

Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose;

But young men think it is, and we were young

Luke Havergal

by Edward Arlington Robinson

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,

There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,

And in the twilight wait for what will come

The leaves will whisper there of her, and some,

Like flying words, will strike you as they fall;

But go, and if you listen, she will call

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal—

Luke Havergal

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies

To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes;

But there, where western glooms are gathering

The dark will end the dark, if anything:

God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,

And hell is more than half of paradise

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies—

In eastern skies

Out of a grave I come to tell you this,

Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss

That flames upon your forehead with a glow

That blinds you to the way that you must go

Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,

Bitter, but one that faith may never miss

Out of a grave I come to tell you this—

To tell you this

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal,

There are the crimson leaves upon the wall,

Go, for the winds are tearing them away,—

Nor think to riddle the dead words they say,

Nor any more to feel them as they fall;

But go, and if you trust her she will call

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal—

Luke Havergal

from Word from the Hills by Richard Moore

You were so solid, father, cold and raw

as these north winters, where your angry will

first hardened, as the earth when the long chill

deepens—as is this country's cruel law—

yet under trackless snow, without a flaw

covering meadow, road, and stubbled hill,

the springs and muffled streams were running still,

dark until spring came, and the awful thaw

In your decay a gentleness appears

I hadn't guessed—when, gray as rotting snow,

propped in your chair, your face will run with tears,

trying to speak, and your hand, stiff and slow,

will touch my child—who, sensing the cold years

in your eyes, cries until you let her go

Du by Janet Kenny

A wisp of old woman,

curved like a scythe,

tottered to me as she

fussed her shopping,

her walking stick hooked

on her chopstick wrist

She spoke to me then

in a dried leaf voice

Inaudible there

in that busy street,

swept by rude gales

from passing trucks

I leaned closer to hear:

Mein eyes not gut.

time for bus, ven comes it?

“Which bus do you want?”

She smiled, shook her head

then sang to herself

—and somebody else,

in—not German Yiddish?

“Which bus?”

She leaned towards me,

her tiny claw reached

to stroke my face

Du she said.

Sea Fevers

by Agnes Wathall

No ancient mariner I,

Hawker of public crosses,

Snaring the passersby

With my necklace of albatrosses

I blink no glittering eye

Between tufts of gray sea mosses

Nor in the high road ply

My trade of guilts and glosses.

But a dark and inward sky

Tracks the flotsam of my losses

No more becalmed to lie,

The skeleton ship tosses

The Unreturning

by Wilfred Owen

Suddenly night crushed out the day and hurled

Her remnants over cloud-peaks, thunder-walled

Then fell a stillness such as harks appalled

When far-gone dead return upon the world

There watched I for the Dead; but no ghost woke

Each one whom Life exiled I named and called

But they were all too far, or dumbed, or thralled,

And never one fared back to me or spoke

Then peered the indefinite unshapen dawn

With vacant gloaming, sad as half-lit minds,

The weak-limned hour when sick men's sighs are drained

And while I wondered on their being withdrawn,

Gagged by the smothering Wing which none unbinds,

I dreaded even a heaven with doors so chained

The Light of Other Days

by Thomas More

Oft, in the stilly night,

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Fond Memory brings the light

Of other days around me:

The smiles, the tears

Of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone,

Now dimm'd and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me

When I remember all

The friends, so link'd together,

I've seen around me fall

Like leaves in wintry weather,

I feel like one

Who treads alone

Some banquet-hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled,

Whose garlands dead,

And all but he departed!

Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere slumber's chain has bound me

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me

Acquainted With The Night

by Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night

I have walked out in rain—and back in rain

I have outwalked the furthest city light

I have looked down the saddest city lane

I have passed by the watchman on his beat

And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet

When far away an interrupted cry

Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-by;

And further still at an unearthly height,

One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right

I have been one acquainted with the night

Song

by Christina Rossetti

When I am dead, my dearest,

Sing no sad songs for me;

Plant thou no roses at my head,

Nor shady cypress tree:

Be the green grass above me

With showers and dewdrops wet;

And if thou wilt, remember,

And if thou wilt, forget

I shall not see the shadows,

I shall not feel the rain;

I shall not hear the nightingale

Sing on, as if in pain:

And dreaming through the twilight

That doth not rise nor set,

Haply I may remember,

And haply may forget

The Listeners

by Walter De La Mare

'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,

Knocking on the moonlit door;

And his horse in the silence champed the grasses

Of the forest's ferny floor:

And a bird flew up out of the turret,

Above the Traveller's head

And he smote upon the door again a second time;

'Is there anybody there?' he said

But no one descended to the Traveller;

No head from the leaf-fringed sill

Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,

Where he stood perplexed and still

But only a host of phantom listeners

That dwelt in the lone house then

Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight

To that voice from the world of men:

Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,

That goes down to the empty hall,

Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken

By the lonely Traveller's call

And he felt in his heart their strangeness,

Their stillness answering his cry,

While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,

'Neath the starred and leafy sky;

For he suddenly smote on the door, even

Louder, and lifted his head:—

'Tell them I came, and no one answered,

That I kept my word,' he said

Never the least stir made the listeners,

Though every word he spake

Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house

From the one man left awake:

Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,

And the sound of iron on stone,

And how the silence surged softly backward,

When the plunging hoofs were gone

Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae

by Ernest Dowson

"I am not as I was under the reign of the good Cynara"—Horace

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine

There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed

Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;

And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,

Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,

Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;

Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;

But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,

When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:

I have been faithful to you, Cynara! in my fashion

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,

Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,

Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;

But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,

Yea, all the time, because the dance was long;

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,

But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,

Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;

And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,

Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion

Depths

by Richard Moore

Once more home is a strange place: by the ocean a

big house now, and the small houses are memories,

once live images, vacant

thoughts here, sinking and vanishing

Rough sea now on the shore thundering brokenly

draws back stones with a roar out into quiet and

far depths, darkly to lie there

years, years—there not a sound from them

New waves out of the night's mist and obscurity

lunge up high on the beach, spending their energy,

each wave angrily dying,

all shapes endlessly altering,

yet out there in the depths nothing is modified

Earthquakes won't even move—no, nor the hurricane—

one stone there, nor a glance of

sun's light stir its identity

The Missionary's Position

by Joseph S Salemi

I maintain it all was for the

best We hacked our way through jungle and sought out

These savage children, painted and half-dressed,

To set their minds at ease, and dispel doubt

Concerning what? Why, God's immense design,

And how it governs all we do and see

Before, they had no sense of the divine

Beyond the sticks and bones of sorcery

Granted, they are more somber and subdued,

Knowing that lives are watched, and judged, and weighed

Subject to fits of melancholy mood,

They look upon the cross, and are afraid

What would you have me say? We preached the Word

Better endured in grief than left unheard

How Long the Night (anonymous Old English Lyric, circa

early 13th century AD)

loose translation by Michael R Burch

It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts

with the mild pheasants' song

but now I feel the northern wind's blast—

its severe weather strong

Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!

And I, because of my momentous wrong

now grieve, mourn and fast

Dulce Et Decorum Est

by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs

And towards our distant rest began to trudge

Men marched asleep Many had lost their boots

But limped on, blood-shod All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime

Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

The Eagle and the Mole

by Elinor Wylie

Avoid the reeking herd,

Shun the polluted flock,

Live like that stoic bird,

The eagle of the rock

The huddled warmth of crowds

Begets and fosters hate;

He keeps above the clouds

His cliff inviolate

When flocks are folded warm,

And herds to shelter run,

He sails above the storm,

He stares into the sun

If in the eagle's track

Your sinews cannot leap,

Avoid the lathered pack,

Turn from the steaming sheep

If you would keep your soul

From spotted sight or sound,

Live like the velvet mole:

Go burrow underground

And there hold intercourse

With roots of trees and stones,

With rivers at their source,

And disembodied bones

La Figlia Che Piange (The Weeping Girl)

by T S Eliot

Stand on the highest pavement of the stair —

Lean on a garden urn —

Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair —

Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise —

Fling them to the ground and turn

With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:

But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair

So I would have had him leave,

So I would have had her stand and grieve,

So he would have left

As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,

As the mind deserts the body it has used

I should find

Some way incomparably light and deft,

Some way we both should understand,

Simple and faithless as a smile and a shake of the hand

She turned away, but with the autumn weather

Compelled my imagination many days,

Many days and many hours:

Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers

And I wonder how they should have been together!

I should have lost a gesture and a pose

Sometimes these cogitations still amaze

The troubled midnight, and the noon's repose

Part 6 from The Dark Side of the Deity: Interlude

by Joe M Ruggier

When Satan hurled, before the Dawn,

defiance at the Lord of History;

and Michael stood, and Glory shone,

Whose hand controlled the timeless Mystery?

Who but the Insult was the leveler;

Deliverer and bedeviler?

When Athens, sung in verse and prose,

caught all the World's imagination;

when Ilion fell, and Rome arose,

and Time went on like pagination:

Who but the Insult was the leveler;

Deliverer and bedeviler?

When books, in numberless infinities,

cross-fertilize the teeming brain,

and warring, vex the Soul with Vanities,

and Insults hurtle, Insults rain:

Who but the Insult is the leveler;

Deliverer and bedeviler?

And when we too shall cease to be,

like all the Kingdoms of the Past,

and groaning, gasping, wrenching free,

we bite, at last, alone, the dust:

Who but the Insult is the leveler;

Deliverer and bedeviler?

When church-bells fill the wandering fields

with Love and Fear,

the Flesh and Blood of Jesus yields

deliverance dear,

to them who believe in the Compliment Sinsear

Sarabande On Attaining The Age Of Seventy-Seven

by Anthony Hecht

The harbingers are come See, see their mark;

White is their colour; and behold my head.

George Herbert

Long gone the smoke-and-pepper childhood smell

Of the smoldering immolation of the year,

Leaf-strewn in scattered grandeur where it fell,

Golden and poxed with frost, tarnished and sere

And I myself have whitened in the weathers

Of heaped-up Januaries as they bequeath

The annual rings and wrongs that wring my withers,

Sober my thoughts, and undermine my teeth