The Giant Book of Poetry (2006)

by William H. Roetzheim

  complaining all the while

  in horrid, hooting stanza;

  then chase itself down hill

  and neigh like Boanerges;

  then, punctual as a star,

  stop—docile and omnipotent—

  at its own stable door.

  I taste a liQuor never brewed1

  I taste a liQuor never brewed—

  from Tankards scooped in Pearl—

  not all the Vats upon the Rhine

  yield such an Alcohol!

  Inebriate of Air—am I—

  and Debauchee of Dew—

  reeling—thro endless summer days—

  from inns of Molten Blue—

  When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee

  out of the Foxglove’s door—

  when Butterflies—renounce their “drams”—

  I shall but drink the more!

  Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats—

  and Saints—to windows run—

  to see the little Tippler

  leaning against the—Sun—

  I’m nobody! Who are you?1

  I’m Nobody! Who are you?

  Are you—Nobody—too?

  Then there’s a pair of us?

  Don’t tell! they’d advertise—you know!

  How dreary—to be—Somebody!

  How public—like a Frog—

  to tell one’s name—the livelong June—

  to an admiring Bog!

  I’ve Known a Heaven, Like a Tent2

  I’ve known a Heaven like a tent

  to wrap its shining yards,

  pluck up its stakes and disappear

  without the sound of boards

  or rip of nail, or carpenter,

  but just the miles of stare

  that signalize a show’s retreat

  in North America.

  No trace, no figment of the thing

  that dazzled yesterday,

  no ring, no marvel;

  men and feats

  dissolved as utterly

  as birds’ far navigation

  discloses just a hue;

  a plash of oars—a gaiety,

  then swallowed up to view.

  My life closed twice before its close1

  My life closed twice before its close—

  it yet remains to see

  if Immortality unveil

  a third event to me

  so huge, so hopeless to conceive

  as these that twice befell.

  Parting is all we know of heaven,

  and all we need of hell.

  The Last Night2

  The last night that she lived,

  it was a common night,

  except the dying; this to us

  made nature different.

  We noticed smallest things,—

  things overlooked before,

  by this great light upon our minds

  italicized, as ’t were.

  That others could exist

  while she must finish quite,

  a jealousy for her arose

  so nearly infinite.

  We waited while she passed;

  it was a narrow time,

  too jostled were our souls to speak,

  at length the notice came.

  She mentioned, and forgot;

  then lightly as a reed

  bent to the water, shivered scarce,

  consented, and was dead.

  And we, we placed the hair,

  and drew the head erect;

  and then an awful leisure was,

  our faith to regulate.

  The Props Assist the House1

  The Props assist the House

  until the House is built

  and then the Props withdraw

  and adequate, erect,

  the House support itself

  and cease to recollect

  the Auger and the Carpenter—

  Just such a retrospect

  hath the perfected Life—

  a past of Plank and Nail

  and slowness—then the Scaffolds drop

  affirming it a Soul.

  The way I read a letter’s this2

  The Way I read a Letter’s—this—

  ‘tis first—I lock the Door—

  and push it with my fingers—next—

  for transport it be sure—

  and then I go the furthest off

  to counteract a knock—

  then draw my little Letter forth

  and slowly pick the lock—

  then—glancing narrow, at the Wall—

  and narrow at the floor

  for firm Conviction of a Mouse

  not exorcised before—

  Peruse how infinite I am

  to no one that You—know—

  and sigh for lack of Heaven—but not

  the Heaven God bestow—

  There came a wind like a bugle1

  There came a Wind like a Bugle—

  it quivered through the Grass

  and a Green Chill upon the Heat

  so ominous did pass

  We barred the Windows and the Doors

  as from an Emerald Ghost—

  the Doom’s electric Moccasin

  that very instant passed—

  on a strange Mob of panting Trees

  and Fences fled away

  and Rivers where the Houses ran

  Those looked that lived—that Day—

  The Bell within the steeple wild

  the flying tidings told—

  how much can come

  and much can go,

  and yet abide the World!

  There’s a certain slant of light1

  There’s a certain Slant of light,

  winter Afternoons—

  that oppresses, like the Heft

  of Cathedral Tunes—

  Heavenly Hurt, it gives us—

  we can find no scar,

  but internal difference,

  where the Meanings, are—

  None may teach it—Any—

  ‘tis the Seal Despair—

  an imperial affliction

  sent us of the air—

  When it comes, the Landscape listens—

  shadows—hold their breath—

  when it goes, ’tis like the Distance

  on the look of Death—

  To make a prairie it takes a clover1

  To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,

  one clover, and a bee,

  and revery.

  The revery alone will do,

  if bees are few.

  We Grow Accustomed to the Dark2

  We grow accustomed to the Dark—

  when light is put away—

  as when the Neighbor holds the Lamp

  to witness her Goodbye—

  A Moment—We uncertain step

  for newness of the night—

  then—fit our Vision to the Dark—

  and meet the Road—erect—

  And so of larger—Darkness—

  those Evenings of the Brain—

  when not a Moon disclose a sign—

  or Star—come out—within—

  The Bravest—grope a little—

  and sometimes hit a Tree

  directly in the Forehead—

  but as they learn to see—

  Either the Darkness alters—

  or something in the sight

  adjusts itself to Midnight—

  and Life steps almost straight.

  Wild nights! Wild nights!1

  Wild Nights—Wild Nights!

  Were I with thee

  wild Nights should be

  our luxury!

  Futile—the Winds—

  to a Heart in port—

  done with the Compass—

  done with the Chart!

  Rowing in Eden—

  ah, the Sea!

  Might I but moor—Tonight—

  in Thee!

  Christina
Georgina Rossetti (1830 – 1894)

  Goblin Market2

  Morning and evening

  maids heard the goblins cry:

  “Come buy our orchard fruits,

  come buy, come buy:

  apples and quinces,

  lemons and oranges,

  plump unpecked cherries—

  melons and raspberries,

  bloom-down-cheeked peaches,

  swart-headed mulberries,

  wild free-born cranberries,

  crab-apples, dewberries,

  pine-apples, blackberries,

  apricots, strawberries—

  all ripe together

  in summer weather—

  morns that pass by,

  fair eves that fly;

  come buy, come buy;

  our grapes fresh from the vine,

  pomegranates full and fine,

  dates and sharp bullaces,

  rare pears and greengages,

  damsons and bilberries,

  taste them and try:

  currants and gooseberries,

  bright-fire-like barberries,

  figs to fill your mouth,

  citrons from the South,

  sweet to tongue and sound to eye,

  come buy, come buy.”

  Evening by evening

  among the brookside rushes,

  Laura bowed her head to hear,

  Lizzie veiled her blushes:

  crouching close together

  in the cooling weather,

  with clasping arms and cautioning lips,

  with tingling cheeks and finger-tips.

  “Lie close,” Laura said,

  pricking up her golden head:

  we must not look at goblin men,

  we must not buy their fruits:

  who knows upon what soil they fed

  their hungry thirsty roots?”

  “Come buy,” call the goblins

  hobbling down the glen.

  “O! cried Lizzie, Laura, Laura,

  you should not peep at goblin men.”

  Lizzie covered up her eyes

  covered close lest they should look;

  Laura reared her glossy head,

  and whispered like the restless brook:

  “Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,

  down the glen tramp little men.

  One hauls a basket,

  one bears a plate,

  one lugs a golden dish

  of many pounds’ weight.

  How fair the vine must grow

  whose grapes are so luscious;

  how warm the wind must blow

  through those fruit bushes.”

  “No,” said Lizzie, “no, no, no;

  their offers should not charm us,

  their evil gifts would harm us.”

  She thrust a dimpled finger

  in each ear, shut eyes and ran:

  curious Laura chose to linger

  wondering at each merchant man.

  One had a cat’s face,

  one whisked a tail,

  one tramped at a rat’s pace,

  one crawled like a snail,

  one like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry,

  one like a rattle tumbled hurry-scurry.

  Lizzie heard a voice like voice of doves

  cooing all together:

  they sounded kind and full of loves

  in the pleasant weather.

  Laura stretched her gleaming neck

  like a rush-imbedded swan,

  like a lily from the beck,

  like a moonlit poplar branch,

  like a vessel at the launch

  when its last restraint is gone.

  Backwards up the mossy glen

  turned and trooped the goblin men,

  with their shrill repeated cry,

  “Come buy, come buy.”

  when they reached where Laura was

  they stood stock still upon the moss,

  leering at each other,

  brother with queer brother;

  signaling each other,

  brother with sly brother.

  One set his basket down,

  one reared his plate;

  one began to weave a crown

  of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown

  (men sell not such in any town);

  one heaved the golden weight

  of dish and fruit to offer her:

  “Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry.

  Laura stared but did not stir,

  longed but had no money:

  the whisk-tailed merchant bade her taste

  in tones as smooth as honey,

  the cat-faced purr’d,

  the rat-paced spoke a word

  of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;

  one parrot-voiced and jolly

  cried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly”;

  one whistled like a bird.

  But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:

  “Good folk, I have no coin;

  to take were to purloin:

  I have no copper in my purse,

  I have no silver either,

  and all my gold is on the furze

  that shakes in windy weather

  above the rusty heather.”

  “You have much gold upon your head,”

  they answered altogether:

  “buy from us with a golden curl.”

  She clipped a precious golden lock,

  she dropped a tear more rare than pearl,

  then sucked their fruit globes fair or red:

  sweeter than honey from the rock,

  stronger than man-rejoicing wine,

  clearer than water flowed that juice;

  she never tasted such before,

  how should it cloy with length of use?

  She sucked and sucked and sucked the more

  fruits which that unknown orchard bore,

  she sucked until her lips were sore;

  then flung the emptied rinds away,

  but gathered up one kernel stone,

  and knew not was it night or day

  as she turned home alone.

  Lizzie met her at the gate

  full of wise upbraidings:

  “Dear, you should not stay so late,

  twilight is not good for maidens;

  should not loiter in the glen

  in the haunts of goblin men.

  Do you not remember Jeanie,

  how she met them in the moonlight,

  took their gifts both choice and many,

  ate their fruits and wore their flowers

  plucked from bowers

  where summer ripens at all hours?

  But ever in the moonlight

  she pined and pined away;

  sought them by night and day,

  found them no more, but dwindled and grew gray;

  then fell with the first snow,

  while to this day no grass will grow

  where she lies low:

  I planted daisies there a year ago

  that never blow.

  You should not loiter so.”

  “Nay hush,” said Laura.

  “Nay hush, my sister:

  I ate and ate my fill,

  yet my mouth waters still;

  to-morrow night I will

  buy more,” and kissed her.

  “Have done with sorrow;

  I’ll bring you plums to-morrow

  fresh on their mother twigs,

  cherries worth getting;

  you cannot think what figs

  my teeth have met in,

  what melons, icy-cold

  piled on a dish of gold

  too huge for me to hold,

  what peaches with a velvet nap,

  pellucid grapes without one seed:

  odorous indeed must be the mead

  whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink,

  with lilies at the brink,

  and sugar-sweet t
heir sap.”

  Golden head by golden head,

  like two pigeons in one nest

  folded in each other’s wings,

  they lay down, in their curtained bed:

  like two blossoms on one stem,

  like two flakes of new-fallen snow,

  like two wands of ivory

  tipped with gold for awful kings.

  Moon and stars beamed in at them,

  wind sang to them lullaby,

  lumbering owls forbore to fly,

  not a bat flapped to and fro

  round their rest:

  cheek to cheek and breast to breast

  locked together in one nest.

  Early in the morning

  when the first cock crowed his warning,

  neat like bees, as sweet and busy,

  Laura rose with Lizzie:

  fetched in honey, milked the cows,

  aired and set to rights the house,

  kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,

  cakes for dainty mouths to eat,

  next churned butter, whipped up cream,

  fed their poultry, sat and sewed;

  talked as modest maidens should

  Lizzie with an open heart,

  Laura in an absent dream,

  one content, one sick in part;

  one warbling for the mere bright day’s delight,

  one longing for the night.

  At length slow evening came—

  they went with pitchers to the reedy brook;

  Lizzie most placid in her look,

  Laura most like a leaping flame.

  They drew the gurgling water from its deep

  Lizzie plucked purple and rich golden flags,

  then turning homeward said: “The sunset flushes

  those furthest loftiest crags;

  come, Laura, not another maiden lags,

  no willful squirrel wags,

  the beasts and birds are fast asleep.”

  But Laura loitered still among the rushes

  and said the bank was steep.

  And said the hour was early still,

  the dew not fallen, the wind not chill:

  listening ever, but not catching

  the customary cry,

  “Come buy, come buy,”

  with its iterated jingle

  of sugar-baited words:

  not for all her watching

  once discerning even one goblin

  racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling;

  let alone the herds

  that used to tramp along the glen,

  in groups or single,

  of brisk fruit-merchant men.

  Till Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come,

  I hear the fruit-call, but I dare not look:

  you should not loiter longer at this brook:

  come with me home.