FEATURES

HIGH GEAR/JUNE 1977

PAGE 12

ALFRED LORD TENNYSON

OSCAR WILDE

Dark House

Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand,

A hand that can be clasp'd no moreBehold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door.

He is not here; but far away

The noise of life begins again,

And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day.

I Cannot See the Features Right

I cannot see the features right

When on the gloom I strive to paint The face I know; the hues are faint And mix with hollow masks of night;

Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought, A gulf that ever shuts and gapes,

A hand that points, and palled shapes In shadowy thoroughfares of thought;

And crowds that stream from yawning doors, And shoals of pucker'd faces drive; Dark bulks that tumble half alive, And lazy lengths on boundless shores;

Till all at once beyond the will

I hear a wizard music roll, And thro's a lattice on the soul Looks thy fair face and makes it still.

Ask Me No More

-TENNYSON

-TENNYSON

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and take shape, With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee? Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give? I love not hollow cheek or faded eye: Yet O my friend, I will not have thee die! Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live; Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd: I strove against the stream and all in vain: Let the great river take me to the main: No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield; Ask me no more.

-TENNYSON

I Envy Not In Any Moods

I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods:

I envy not the beast that takes His license in the field of time, Unfetter'd by the sense of crime, To whom a conscience never wakes;

Nor, what may count itself as blest, The heart that never plighted troth But stagnates in the weeds of sloth, Nor any want-begotten rest.

I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; 'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.

-TENNYSON

As Sometines in a Dead Man's Face

As sometimes in a dead man's face, To those that watch it more and more, A likeness, hardly seen before, Comes out to someone of his race;

So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, I see thee what thou art, and know Thy likeness to the wise below, Thy kindred with the great of old.

But there is more than I can see, And what I see I leave unsaid, Nor speak it, knowing Death has made His darkness beautiful with thee.

THE GRAVE OF KEATS

Rid of the world's injustice, and his pain,

He rests at last beneath God's veil of blue:

Taken from life when life and love

were new

The youngest of the martyrs here is lain,

Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain.

No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew, But gentle violets weeping with the dew Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain. O proudest heart that broke for misery!

O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene! O poet-painter of our English Land! Thy name was writ in water--it shall stand: And tears like mine will keep thy

memory green,

As Isabella did her Basil-Tree.

-TENNYSON-

AMOR INTELLECTUALIS.

Oft have we trod the vales of Castaly And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown From antique reeds to common folk unknown: And often launched our bark upon that sea Which the nine Muses hold in empery, And ploughed free furrows through the wave and foam,

Nor spread reluctant sail for

more safe home

Till we had freighted well our argosy.. Of which despoiled treasures these remain, Sordello's passion, and the honied line Of young Endymion, lordly Tamburlaine Driving his pampered jades, and more than these,

The seven-fold vision of the Florentine, And grave-browed Milton's solemn harmonies.

ON NG-WILDE

THEORETIKOS.

This mighty empire hath but feet of clay: Of all its ancient chivalry and might Our little island is forsaken quite: Some enemy hath stolen its crown of bay, And from its hills that voice hath passed away Which spake of Freedom: O come out of it, Come out of it, my Soul, thou art not fit For this vile traffic-house, where day by day Wisdom and reverence are sold at mart, And the rude people rage with ignorant cries Against an heritage of centuries.

It mars my calm: wherefore in dreams of Art And loftiest culture I would stand apart, Neither for God, nor for his enemies.

-WILDE

-WILDE