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6 matching pages
Page 1 of 11910 · PDF PAGE 4
…tle tears. My brain is hard and cold ; there is no beat Of its blood ; there is no heat Of sacred fire upon my lips to sing. My heart is dead ; I say that name thrice over ; Rose !—Rose !—Rose !— Even as lover should call to lover ; There is no quickening, No flood, no fount that flows ; No water wells from the dead spring. My thoughts come singly, dry, contemptuous, Too cold for hate : all I can say is that they come From some dead sphere without me ; Singly they come, beats of a senseless drum Jarred by a fool, harsh, unharmonious. There is n…
1910 · PDF PAGE 11
… even on the mire of her decay. They spring from other roots. Now I am cleansed of her, I am so to say A man part paralysed. One limb is dead In feeling as in motion. This remains To ask : Will all catch death—how soon ? This head Excites its miserable brains To think the word it knows by intellect To be the right word—pity ! Then reflect : “ Pitiful ! Pitiful ! most pitiful ! The pity of it ! Think of the love past, Blossoms too beautiful ! Think of the hardships conquered comrade-wise ! Think of the babe and its most piteous end ! ” —All thes…
1910 · PDF PAGE 6
…aded Glasgow’s grimiest stews, With all the knowledge of despair Striking me cunningly, striking everywhere, Mutilating the corpse of my dead love With such a savagery, Intensity above
1910 · PDF PAGE 7
…g pain, Turning all life to a thing fouler than Aught yet imaginable to man ! Who asks me for my tears ? She flings the body of my sweet dead child Into my face with hell’s own epitaph, Profanes that shrine Of infinite love and infinite loss, My empty shrine, the one shrine undefiled, My one close-claspèd cross— And hers as much as mine ! Profanes it with a hideous laugh And a lie flung with a curse ; and I must hear, And must not stamp on the snake, because, forsooth This was my love, my peace, my faith, my truth, The rosebud of my youth ! It …
1910 · PDF PAGE 10
…e here, corruptest of earth’s whores To scrape my sores ! Cry like a dog and run about the city ! There is no word left, now the deed is dead ! No thought of her is in me ; I am a stranger To all that dream of danger And bliss that Rose was. The green shoots
1910 · PDF PAGE 12
… burnt right through to ash. Bray it in a mortar, mix with gall and ink, And give it to the children for a drink ! I’ll wait till she is dead, to bring those tears. I doubt not in the garden of my heart Whence she is torn that flowers will bloom again. May those be flowers of weeping, flowers of art. Flowers of great tenderness and pain, Broad lilied meers Lying in a lonely leafless forest Silent and motionless beneath the moon. I feel my weakness, O thou soul that soarest Into a heaven beyond imagining On the unfaltering wing. Of the magic swa…