Penguin's Poems for Life

by Laura Barber

  CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

  from Hero and Leander, Sestiad II

  By this, sad Hero, with love unacquainted,

  Viewing Leander’s face, fell down and fainted.

  He kissed her, and breathed life into her lips,

  Wherewith, as one displeased, away she trips.

  Yet as she went, full often looked behind,

  And many poor excuses did she find

  To linger by the way, and once she stayed,

  And would have turned again, but was afraid,

  In offering parley, to be counted light.

  So on she goes, and in her idle flight,

  Her painted fan of curlèd plumes let fall,

  Thinking to train Leander therewithal.

  He being a novice, knew not what she meant,

  But stayed, and after her a letter sent,

  Which joyful Hero answered in such sort,

  As he had hope to scale the beauteous fort

  Wherein the liberal Graces locked their wealth,

  And therefore to her tower he got by stealth.

  Wide open stood the door, he need not climb,

  And she herself before the pointed time

  Had spread the board, with roses strewed the room,

  And oft looked out, and mused he did not come.

  At last he came; O who can tell the greeting

  These greedy lovers had at their first meeting?

  He asked, she gave, and nothing was denied;

  Both to each other quickly were affied.

  Look how their hands, so were their hearts united,

  And what he did she willingly requited.

  (Sweet are the kisses, the embracements sweet,

  When like desires and affections meet,

  For from the earth to heaven is Cupid raised,

  Where fancy is in equal balance peised.)

  Yet she this rashness suddenly repented,

  And turned aside, and to herself lamented,

  As if her name and honour had been wronged

  By being possessed of him for whom she longed;

  Ay, and she wished, albeit not from her heart,

  That he would leave her turret and depart.

  The mirthful god of amorous pleasure smiled

  To see how he this captive nymph beguiled;

  For hitherto he did but fan the fire,

  And kept it down that it might mount the higher.

  Now waxed she jealous, lest his love abated,

  Fearing her own thoughts made her to be hated.

  Therefore unto him hastily she goes,

  And, like light Salmacis, her body throws

  Upon his bosom, where with yielding eyes

  She offers up herself a sacrifice,

  To slake his anger, if he were displeased.

  O what god would not therewith be appeased?

  Like Aesop’s cock, this jewel he enjoyèd,

  And as a brother with his sister toyèd,

  Supposing nothing else was to be done,

  Now he her favour and good will had won.

  But know you not that creatures wanting sense

  By nature have a mutual appetence,

  And wanting organs to advance a step,

  Moved by love’s force, unto each other leap?

  Much more in subjects having intellect

  Some hidden influence breeds like effect.

  Albeit Leander, rude in love, and raw,

  Long dallying with Hero, nothing saw

  That might delight him more, yet he suspected

  Some amorous rites or other were neglected.

  Therefore unto his body hers he clung;

  She, fearing on the rushes to be flung,

  Strived with redoubled strength; the more she strive’d

  The more a gentle pleasing heat revivèd,

  Which taught him all that elder lovers know.

  And now the same ’gan so to scorch and glow,

  As in plain terms (yet cunningly) he craved it;

  Love always makes those eloquent that have it.

  She, with a kind of granting, put him by it,

  And ever as he thought himself most nigh it,

  Like to the tree of Tantalus she fled,

  And, seeming lavish, saved her maidenhead.

  Ne’er king more sought to keep his diadem,

  Than Hero this inestimable gem.

  Above our life we love a steadfast friend,

  Yet when a token of great worth we send,

  We often kiss it, often look thereon,

  And stay the messenger that would be gone:

  No marvel, then, though Hero would not yield

  So soon to part from that she dearly held.

  Jewels being lost are found again, this never;

  ’Tis lost but once, and once lost, lost for ever.

  ANDREW MARVELL

  To His Coy Mistress

  Had we but world enough, and time,

  This coyness, Lady, were no crime.

  We would sit down, and think which way

  To walk, and pass our long love’s day.

  Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side

  Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide

  Of Humber would complain. I would

  Love you ten years before the flood:

  And you should, if you please, refuse

  Till the conversion of the Jews.

  My vegetable love should grow

  Vaster than empires, and more slow.

  An hundred years should go to praise

  Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze.

  Two hundred to adore each breast:

  But thirty thousand to the rest.

  An age at least to every part,

  And the last age should show your heart:

  For, Lady, you deserve this state;

  Nor would I love at lower rate.

  But at my back I always hear

  Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near:

  And yonder all before us lie

  Deserts of vast eternity.

  Thy beauty shall no more be found;

  Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

  My echoing song: then worms shall try

  That long-preserved virginity:

  And your quaint honour turn to dust;

  And into ashes all my lust.

  The grave’s a fine and private place,

  But none, I think, do there embrace.

  Now, therefore, while the youthful hue

  Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

  And while thy willing soul transpires

  At every pore with instant fires,

  Now let us sport us while we may;

  And now, like amorous birds of prey,

  Rather at once our time devour,

  Than languish in his slow-chapped power.

  Let us roll all our strength, and all

  Our sweetness, up into one ball:

  And tear our pleasures with rough strife,

  Thorough the iron gates of life.

  Thus, though we cannot make our sun

  Stand still, yet we will make him run.

  JOHN KEATS

  from The Eve of St Agnes

  VI

  They told her how, upon St Agnes’ Eve,

  Young virgins might have visions of delight,

  And soft adorings from their loves receive

  Upon the honey’d middle of the night,

  If ceremonies due they did aright;

  As, supperless to bed they must retire,

  And couch supine their beauties, lily white;

  Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require

  Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.

  VII

  Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:

  The music, yearning like a God in pain,

  She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,

  Fix’d on the floor, saw many a sweeping train

  Pass by – she heeded not at all
: in vain

  Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,

  And back retir’d; not cool’d by high disdain,

  But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere:

  She sigh’d for Agnes’ dreams, the sweetest of the year.

  VIII

  She danc’d along with vague, regardless eyes,

  Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:

  The hallow’d hour was near at hand: she sighs

  Amid the timbrels, and the throng’d resort

  Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;

  ’Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,

  Hoodwink’d with faery fancy; all amort,

  Save to St Agnes and her lambs unshorn,

  And all the bliss to be before tomorrow morn.

  IX

  So, purposing each moment to retire,

  She linger’d still. Meantime, across the moors,

  Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire

  For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,

  Buttress’d from moonlight, stands he, and implores

  All saints to give him sight of Madeline,

  But for one moment in the tedious hours,

  That he might gaze and worship all unseen;

  Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss – in sooth such

  things have been.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  XXII

  Her falt’ring hand upon the balustrade,

  Old Angela was feeling for the stair,

  When Madeline, St Agnes’ charmed maid,

  Rose, like a mission’d spirit, unaware:

  With silver taper’s light, and pious care,

  She turn’d, and down the aged gossip led

  To a safe level matting. Now prepare,

  Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed;

  She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray’d

  and fled.

  XXIII

  Out went the taper as she hurried in;

  Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:

  She clos’d the door, she panted, all akin

  To spirits of the air, and visions wide:

  No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!

  But to her heart, her heart was voluble,

  Paining with eloquence her balmy side;

  As though a tongueless nightingale should swell

  Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.

  XXIV

  A casement high and triple-arch’d there was,

  All garlanded with carven imag’ries

  Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,

  And diamonded with panes of quaint device,

  Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,

  As are the tiger-moth’s deep-damask’d wings;

  And in the midst, ’mong thousand heraldries,

  And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,

  A shielded scutcheon blush’d with blood of queens

  and kings.

  XXV

  Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,

  And threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair breast,

  As down she knelt for heaven’s grace and boon;

  Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,

  And on her silver cross soft amethyst,

  And on her hair a glory, like a saint:

  She seem’d a splendid angel, newly drest,

  Save wings, for heaven – Porphyro grew faint:

  She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.

  XXVI

  Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,

  Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;

  Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;

  Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees

  Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:

  Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,

  Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,

  In fancy, fair St Agnes in her bed,

  But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.

  XXVII

  Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,

  In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex’d she lay,

  Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress’d

  Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;

  Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;

  Blissfully haven’d both from joy and pain;

  Clasp’d like a missal where swart Paynims pray;

  Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,

  As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.

  XXVIII

  Stol’n to this paradise, and so entranced,

  Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,

  And listen’d to her breathing, if it chanced

  To wake into a slumberous tenderness;

  Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,

  And breath’d himself: then from the closet crept,

  Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,

  And over the hush’d carpet, silent, stept,

  And ’tween the curtains peep’d, where, lo! – how fast she slept.

  XXIX

  Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon

  Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set

  A table, and, half anguish’d, threw thereon

  A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet –

  O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!

  The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,

  The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet,

  Affray his ears, though but in dying tone –

  The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.

  XXX

  And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,

  In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender’d,

  While he from forth the closet brought a heap

  Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;

  With jellies soother than the creamy curd,

  And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;

  Manna and dates, in argosy transferr’d

  From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,

  From silken Samarcand to cedar’d Lebanon.

  XXXI

  These delicates he heap’d with glowing hand

  On golden dishes and in baskets bright

  Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand

  In the retired quiet of the night,

  Filling the chilly room with perfume light –

  ‘And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!

  Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite:

  Open thine eyes, for meek St Agnes’ sake,

  Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache.’

  XXXII

  Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm

  Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream

  By the dusk curtains –’twas a midnight charm

  Impossible to melt as iced stream:

  The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;

  Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:

  It seem’d he never, never could redeem

  From such a stedfast spell his lady’s eyes;

  So mus’d awhile, entoil’d in woofed phantasies.

  XXXIII

  Awakening up, he took her hollow lute –

  Tumultuous – and, in chords that tenderest be,

  He play’d an ancient ditty, long since mute,

  In Provence call’d, ‘La belle dame sans mercy’,

  Close to her ear touching the melody –

  Wherewith disturb’d, she utter’d a soft moan:

  He ceased – she panted quick – and suddenly

  Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:

  Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.

  XXXIV

  Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,

  Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:

  There was a painful change, that nigh expell’d

  The b
lisses of her dream so pure and deep

  At which fair Madeline began to weep,

  And moan forth witless words with many a sigh;

  While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;

  Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,

  Fearing to move or speak, she look’d so dreamingly.

  XXXV

  ‘Ah, Porphyro!’ said she, ‘but even now

  Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,

  Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;

  And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:

  How chang’d thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!

  Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,

  Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!

  Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,

  For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go.’

  XXXVI

  Beyond a mortal man impassion’d far

  At these voluptuous accents, he arose,

  Ethereal, flush’d, and like a throbbing star

  Seen mid the sapphire heaven’s deep repose;

  Into her dream he melted, as the rose

  Blendeth its odour with the violet –

  Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows

  Like Love’s alarum pattering the sharp sleet

  Against the window-panes; St Agnes’ moon hath set.

  D. H. LAWRENCE

  Green

  The dawn was apple-green,

  The sky was green wine held up in the sun,

  The moon was a golden petal between.

  She opened her eyes, and green

  They shone, clear like flowers undone

  For the first time, now for the first time seen.

  E. E. CUMMINGS

  i like my body when it is with your

  body. It is so quite new a thing.

  Muscles better and nerves more.

  i like your body. i like what it does,

  i like its hows. i like to feel the spine

  of your body and its bones, and the trembling

  -firm-smooth ness and which i will

  again and again and again

  kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,

  i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz

  of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes

  over parting flesh… And eyes big love-crumbs,

  and possibly i like the thrill

  of under me you so quite new

  CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI