Livia Ellis's Blog, page 3

Sunday Poem: William Morris – Love is enough

William Morris. 1834–1896


  


Love is enough


  






LOVE is enough: though the World be a-waning,
 


And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining,
 


  Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover
 


The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder,
 


Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder,



  And this day draw a veil over all deeds pass’d over,
 


Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter;
 


The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter
 


  These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.

Sunday Poem: Henry Austin Dobson – A Garden Song

Henry Austin Dobson. b. 1840


  


A Garden Song


  






HERE in this sequester’d close
 


Bloom the hyacinth and rose,
 


Here beside the modest stock
 


Flaunts the flaring hollyhock;
 


Here, without a pang, one sees



Ranks, conditions, and degrees.
 


 


All the seasons run their race
 


In this quiet resting-place;
 


Peach and apricot and fig
 


Here will ripen and grow big;



Here is store and overplus,—
 


More had not Alcinoüs!
 


 


Here, in alleys cool and green,
 


Far ahead the thrush is seen;
 


Here along the southern wall



Keeps the bee his festival;
 


All is quiet else—afar
 


Sounds of toil and turmoil are.
 


 


Here be shadows large and long;
 


Here be spaces meet for song;



Grant, O garden-god, that I,
 


Now that none profane is nigh,—
 


Now that mood and moment please,—
 


Find the fair Pierides!

Sunday Poem: Henry Austin Dobson - A Garden Song

Henry Austin Dobson. b. 1840  A Garden Song  HERE in this sequester'd close Bloom the hyacinth and rose, Here beside the modest stock Flaunts the flaring hollyhock; Here, without a pang, one sees

Sunday Poem: Wilfrid Scawen Blunt – St. Valentine’s Day

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840


  


St. Valentine’s Day


  






TO-DAY, all day, I rode upon the down,



With hounds and horsemen, a brave company



On this side in its glory lay the sea,



On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown.



The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone,



And still we gallop’d on from gorse to gorse:



And once, when check’d, a thrush sang, and my horse



Prick’d his quick ears as to a sound unknown.



  I knew the Spring was come. I knew it even



Better than all by this, that through my chase



In bush and stone and hill and sea and heaven



I seem’d to see and follow still your face.



Your face my quarry was. For it I rode,



My horse a thing of wings, myself a god.

Sunday Poem: Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - St. Valentine's Day

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840  St. Valentine's Day  TO-DAY, all day, I rode upon the down,With hounds and horsemen, a brave companyOn this side in its glory lay the sea,On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown.The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone,

Sunday Poem: John Boyle O’Reilly – A White Rose

John Boyle O’Reilly. 1844–1890


  


A White Rose


  






THE red rose whispers of passion,



  And the white rose breathes of love;



O the red rose is a falcon,



  And the white rose is a dove.






But I send you a cream-white rosebud



  With a flush on its petal tips;



For the love that is purest and sweetest



  Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

Sunday Poem: John Boyle O'Reilly - A White Rose

John Boyle O'Reilly. 1844–1890  A White Rose  THE red rose whispers of passion,  And the white rose breathes of love;O the red rose is a falcon,  And the white rose is a dove.But I send you a cream-white rosebud

Sunday Poem: Robert Bridges – Nightingales

Robert Bridges. b. 1844


  


Nightingales


  






  BEAUTIFUL must be the mountains whence ye come,



  And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom



            Ye learn your song:



Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,



  Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air



            Bloom the year long!






  Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:



  Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,



            A throe of the heart,



Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,



  No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,



            For all our art.






  Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men



  We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,



            As night is withdrawn



From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,



  Dream, while the innumerable choir of day



            Welcome the dawn.

Sunday Poem: Robert Bridges - Nightingales

Robert Bridges. b. 1844  Nightingales    BEAUTIFUL must be the mountains whence ye come,  And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom            Ye learn your song:Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,  Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air

Sunday Poem: Laurence Binyon – O World, be Nobler

Laurence Binyon. b. 1869


  


O World, be Nobler


  






O WORLD, be nobler, for her sake!



  If she but knew thee what thou art,



What wrongs are borne, what deeds are done



In thee, beneath thy daily sun,



  Know’st thou not that her tender heart



For pain and very shame would break?



O World, be nobler, for her sake!