Delphi Poetry Anthology: The World's Greatest Poems (Delphi Poets Series Book 50)

by Homer

  Let me know all! Prate not of most or least,

  Painful or easy!

  Even to the crumbs I’d fain eat up the feast,

  Ay, nor feel queasy.”

  Oh, such a life as he resolved to live, 65

  When he had learned it,

  When he had gathered all books had to give!

  Sooner, he spurned it.

  Image the whole, then execute the parts —

  Fancy the fabric 70

  Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz,

  Ere mortar dab brick!

  (Here’s the town-gate reached: there’s the market-place

  Gaping before us.)

  Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace 75

  (Hearten our chorus!)

  That before living he’d learn how to live —

  No end to learning:

  Earn the means first — God surely will contrive

  Use for our earning. 80

  Others mistrust and say, “But time escapes:

  Live now or never!”

  He said, “What’s time? Leave Now for dogs and apes!

  Man has Forever.”

  Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head: 85

  Calculus racked him:

  Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead:

  Tussis attacked him.

  “Now, master, take a little rest!” — not he!

  (Caution redoubled, 90

  Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!)

  Not a whit troubled,

  Back to his studies, fresher than at first,

  Fierce as a dragon

  He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) 95

  Sucked at the flagon.

  Oh, if we draw a circle premature,

  Heedless of far gain,

  Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure

  Bad is our bargain! 100

  Was it not great? did not he throw on God,

  (He loves the burthen) —

  God’s task to make the heavenly period

  Perfect the earthen?

  Did not he magnify the mind, show clear 105

  Just what it all meant?

  He would not discount life, as fools do here,

  Paid by instalment.

  He ventured neck or nothing — heaven’s success

  Found, or earth’s failure: 110

  “Wilt thou trust death or not?” He answered “Yes!

  Hence with life’s pale lure!”

  That low man seeks a little thing to do,

  Sees it and does it:

  This high man, with a great thing to pursue, 115

  Dies ere he knows it.

  That low man goes on adding one to one,

  His hundred’s soon hit:

  This high man, aiming at a million,

  Misses an unit. 120

  That, has the world here — should he need the next,

  Let the world mind him!

  This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed

  Seeking shall find him.

  So, with the throttling hands of death at strife, 125

  Ground he at grammar;

  Still, through the rattle, parts of speech were rife:

  While he could stammer

  He settled Hoti’s business — let it be! —

  Properly based Oun — 130

  Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De,

  Dead from the waist down.

  Well, here’s the platform, here’s the proper place:

  Hail to your purlieus,

  All ye highfliers of the feathered race, 135

  Swallows and curlews!

  Here’s the top-peak; the multitude below

  Live, for they can, there:

  This man decided not to Live but Know —

  Bury this man there? 140

  Here — here’s his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form,

  Lightnings are loosened,

  Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm,

  Peace let the dew send!

  Lofty designs must close in like effects: 145

  Loftily lying,

  Leave him — still loftier than the world suspects,

  Living and dying.

  List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

  List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

  Andrea Del Sarto

  Called “The Faultless Painter”

  Robert Browning (1812–1889)

  BUT do not let us quarrel any more,

  No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once:

  Sit down and all shall happen as you wish.

  You turn your face, but does it bring your heart?

  I’ll work then for your friend’s friend, never fear, 5

  Treat his own subject after his own way,

  Fix his own time, accept too his own price,

  And shut the money into this small hand

  When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly?

  Oh, I’ll content him, — but to-morrow, Love! 10

  I often am much wearier than you think,

  This evening more than usual, and it seems

  As if — forgive now — should you let me sit

  Here by the window with your hand in mine

  And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole, 15

  Both of one mind, as married people use,

  Quietly, quietly the evening through,

  I might get up to-morrow to my work

  Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try.

  To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this! 20

  Your soft hand is a woman of itself,

  And mine the man’s bared breast she curls inside.

  Don’t count the time lost, neither; you must serve

  For each of the five pictures we require:

  It saves a model. So! keep looking so — 25

  My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds!

  — How could you ever prick those perfect ears,

  Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet —

  My face, my moon, my everybody’s moon,

  Which everybody looks on and calls his, 30

  And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn,

  While she looks — no one’s: very dear, no less.

  You smile? why, there’s my picture ready made,

  There’s what we painters call our harmony!

  A common grayness silvers everything, — 35

  All in a twilight, you and I alike

  — You, at the point of your first pride in me

  (That’s gone you know), — but I, at every point;

  My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down

  To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. 40

  There’s the bell clinking from the chapel-top;

  That length of convent-wall across the way

  Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside;

  The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease,

  And autumn grows, autumn in everything. 45

  Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape

  As if I saw alike my work and self

  And all that I was born to be and do,

  A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God’s hand.

  How strange now looks the life he makes us lead; 50

  So free we seem, so fettered fast we are!

  I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie!

  This chamber for example — turn your head —

  All that’s behind us! You don’t understand

  Nor care to understand about my art, 55

  But you can hear at least when people speak:

  And that cartoon, the second from the door

  — It is the thing, Love! so such things should be —

  Behold Madonna! — I am bold to say.

  I can do with my pencil what I know, 60

  What I see, what at bottom of my heart

  I wish for, if I ever wish so deep —

  Do easily, too — when I say, perfectly,

  I do not boast,
perhaps: yourself are judge,

  Who listened to the Legate’s talk last week, 65

  And just as much they used to say in France.

  At any rate ’tis easy, all of it!

  No sketches first, no studies, that’s long past:

  I do what many dream of all their lives,

  — Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do, 70

  And fail in doing. I could count twenty such

  On twice your fingers, and not leave this town,

  Who strive — you don’t know how the others strive

  To paint a little thing like that you smeared

  Carelessly passing with your robes afloat, — 75

  Yet do much less, so much less, Someone says,

  (I know his name, no matter) — so much less!

  Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged.

  There burns a truer light of God in them,

  In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, 80

  Heart, or whate’er else, than goes on to prompt

  This low-pulsed forthright craftsman’s hand of mine.

  Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know,

  Reach many a time a heaven that’s shut to me,

  Enter and take their place there sure enough, 85

  Though they come back and cannot tell the world.

  My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here.

  The sudden blood of these men! at a word —

  Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too.

  I, painting from myself and to myself, 90

  Know what I do, am unmoved by men’s blame

  Or their praise either. Somebody remarks

  Morello’s outline there is wrongly traced,

  His hue mistaken; what of that? or else,

  Rightly traced and well ordered; what of that? 95

  Speak as they please, what does the mountain care?

  Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,

  Or what’s a heaven for? All is silver-gray

  Placid and perfect with my art: the worse!

  I know both what I want and what might gain, 100

  And yet how profitless to know, to sigh

  “Had I been two, another and myself,

  Our head would have o’erlooked the world!” No doubt.

  Yonder’s a work now, of that famous youth

  The Urbinate who died five years ago. 105

  (’Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.)

  Well, I can fancy how he did it all,

  Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see,

  Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him,

  Above and through his art — for it gives way; 110

  That arm is wrongly put — and there again —

  A fault to pardon in the drawing’s lines,

  Its body, so to speak: its soul is right,

  He means right — that, a child may understand.

  Still, what an arm! and I could alter it: 115

  But all the play, the insight and the stretch —

  Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out?

  Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul,

  We might have risen to Rafael, I and you!

  Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think — 120

  More than I merit, yes, by many times.

  But had you — oh, with the same perfect brow,

  And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth,

  And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird

  The fowler’s pipe, and follows to the snare — 125

  Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind!

  Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged

  “God and the glory! never care for gain,

  The present by the future, what is that?

  Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! 130

  Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!”

  I might have done it for you. So it seems:

  Perhaps not. All is as God overrules.

  Beside, incentives come from the soul’s self;

  The rest avail not. Why do I need you? 135

  What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo?

  In this world, who can do a thing, will not;

  And who would do it, cannot, I perceive:

  Yet the will’s somewhat — somewhat, too, the power —

  And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, 140

  God, I conclude, compensates, punishes.

  ’Tis safer for me, if the award be strict,

  That I am something underrated here,

  Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth.

  I dared not, do you know, leave home all day, 145

  For fear of chancing on the Paris lords.

  The best is when they pass and look aside;

  But they speak sometimes; I must bear it all.

  Well may they speak! That Francis, that first time,

  And that long festal year at Fontainebleau! 150

  I surely then could sometimes leave the ground,

  Put on the glory, Rafael’s daily wear,

  In that humane great monarch’s golden look, —

  One finger in his beard or twisted curl

  Over his mouth’s good mark that made the smile, 155

  One arm about my shoulder, round my neck,

  The jingle of his gold chain in my ear,

  I painting proudly with his breath on me,

  All his court round him, seeing with his eyes,

  Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls 160

  Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts, —

  And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond,

  This in the background, waiting on my work,

  To crown the issue with a last reward!

  A good time, was it not, my kingly days? 165

  And had you not grown restless… but I know —

  ’Tis done and past; ’twas right, my instinct said;

  Too live the life grew, golden and not gray,

  And I’m the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt

  Out of the grange whose four walls make his world. 170

  How could it end in any other way?

  You called me, and I came home to your heart.

  The triumph was — to reach and stay there; since

  I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost?

  Let my hands frame your face in your hair’s gold, 175

  You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine!

  “Rafael did this, Andrea painted that;

  The Roman’s is the better when you pray,

  But still the other’s Virgin was his wife” —

  Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge 180

  Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows

  My better fortune, I resolve to think.

  For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives,

  Said one day Agnolo, his very self,

  To Rafael … I have known it all these years… 185

  (When the young man was flaming out his thoughts

  Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see,

  Too lifted up in heart because of it)

  “Friend, there’s a certain sorry little scrub

  Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how, 190

  Who, were he set to plan and execute

  As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings,

  Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!”

  To Rafael’s! — And indeed the arm is wrong.

  I hardly dare… yet, only you to see, 195

  Give the chalk here — quick, thus the line should go!

  Ay, but the soul! he’s Rafael! rub it out!

  Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth,

  (What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo?

  Do you forget already words like those?) 200

  If really there was such a chance, so lost, —

  Is, whether you’re — not grateful — but more pleased.

>   Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed!

  This hour has been an hour! Another smile?

  If you would sit thus by me every night 205

  I should work better, do you comprehend?

  I mean that I should earn more, give you more.

  See, it is settled dusk now; there’s a star;

  Morello’s gone, the watch-lights show the wall,

  The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. 210

  Come from the window, love, — come in, at last,

  Inside the melancholy little house

  We built to be so gay with. God is just.

  King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights

  When I look up from painting, eyes tired out, 215

  The walls become illumined, brick from brick

  Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold,

  That gold of his I did cement them with!

  Let us but love each other. Must you go?

  That Cousin here again? he waits outside? 220

  Must see you — you, and not with me? Those loans?

  More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that?

  Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend?

  While hand and eye and something of a heart

  Are left me, work’s my ware, and what’s it worth? 225

  I’ll pay my fancy. Only let me sit

  The gray remainder of the evening out,

  Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly

  How I could paint, were I but back in France,

  One picture, just one more — the Virgin’s face. 230

  Not yours this time! I want you at my side

  To hear them — that is, Michel Agnolo —

  Judge all I do and tell you of its worth.

  Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend.

  I take the subjects for his corridor, 235

  Finish the portrait out of hand — there, there,

  And throw him in another thing or two

  If he demurs; the whole should prove enough

  To pay for this same Cousin’s freak. Beside,

  What’s better and what’s all I care about, 240

  Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff!

  Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he,

  The Cousin, what does he to please you more?

  I am grown peaceful as old age to-night.

  I regret little, I would change still less. 245

  Since there my past life lies, why alter it?

  The very wrong to Francis! — it is true

  I took his coin, was tempted and complied,

  And built this house and sinned, and all is said.

  My father and my mother died of want. 250

  Well, had I riches of my own? you see

  How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot.

  They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died;