We present this work in honor of the 175th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Anne Brontë English 1820 – 1849
Yes, thou art gone! and never more Thy sunny smile shall gladden me; But I may pass the old church door, And pace the floor that covers thee, May stand upon the cold, damp stone, And think that, frozen, lies below The lightest heart that I have known, The kindest I shall ever know. Yet, though I cannot see thee more, ‘Tis still a comfort to have seen; And though thy transient life is o’er, ‘Tis sweet to think that thou hast been; To think a soul so near divine, Within a form so angel fair, United to a heart like thine, Has gladdened once our humble sphere.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 205th birthday.
Julia Ward Howe American 1819 – 1910
I will build a house of rest, Square the corners every one: At each angle on his breast Shall a cherub take the sun; Rising, risen, sinking, down, Weaving day’s unequal crown.
In the chambers, light as air, Shall responsive footsteps fall: Brother, sister, art thou there? Hush! we need not jar nor call; Need not turn to seek the face Shut in rapture’s hiding-place.
Heavy load and mocking care Shall from back and bosom part; Thought shall reach the thrill of prayer, Patience plan the dome of art. None shall praise or merit claim, Not a joy be called by name.
With a free, unmeasured tread Shall we pace the cloisters through: Rest, enfranchised, like the Dead; Rest till Love be born anew. Weary Thought shall take his time, Free of task-work, loosed from rhyme.
No reproof shall grieve or chill; Every sin doth stand confest; None need murmur, ‘This was ill’: Therefore do they grant us rest; Contemplation making whole Every ruin of the soul.
Pictures shall as softly look As in distance shows delight; Slowly shall each saintly book Turn its pages in our sight; Not the study’s wealth confuse, Urging zeal to pale abuse.
Children through the windows peep, Not reproachful, though our own; Hushed the parent passion deep, And the household’s eager tone. One above, divine and true, Makes us children like to you.
Measured bread shall build us up At the hospitable board; In Contentment’s golden cup Is the guileless liquor poured. May the beggar pledge the king In that spirit gathering,
Oh! my house is far away; Yet it sometimes shuts me in. Imperfection mars each day While the perfect works begin. In the house of labor best Can I build the house of rest.
We present this work in honor of May Revolution Day.
José Mármol Argentine 1817 – 1871
ON MAY 25, 1850
Roses! Roses! a genius without a second He formed your strange destiny at his whim: After Satan, no one in the world, Like you, it did less good or as much damage.
Aborted from a crime, you have wanted May your works be twinned with your origin; And, never repenting of the crime, Only the hours of stillness afflict you.
With the flames of Tartarus lit A cloud of blood surrounds you; And throughout the horizon of your life Blood, barbaric! and blood, and blood smokes.
Your hand will move like lightning The foundations of a temple, and suddenly From the altar the idols of May They poured blood from his broken forehead.
Justice is approaching religious To call at the tomb of Belgrano: And that immortal dead man opens his slab, Raising his helpless hand to the sky.
Freedom escapes with glory To hide in the crevices of the Andes; Claiming memory from the ice From those times when they were great.
Idols and time disappear; The radiant lights go out, And in immaculate blood they turn red The fragments of pyres and altars.
Glory, name, virtue, Argentine homeland, Everything perishes when your foot stamps, Everything turns to dust, in your ambition of ruin, Under the helmet the foals of your pampa.
Well, Rosas, later? such is—heed— The question of God and history: That after you accuse or defend In the ruin of a town or in its glory.
That fatal afterward that challenges you Over the corpse of my country, In my inspired poet’s voice, The tremendous voice of the one who lights the day.
Speak, and, in pursuit of destruction, respond: Where are the works that thy hand sprouted? Where your creation? The bases where A great idea or a vain thought?
What mind was there in your bloody insomnia That you were so driven to so much crime? Move away, move away, abortion of the devil What are you doing wrong to enjoy crying!
The human race is horrified to see you, Indus hyena transformed into a man; But woe to you, that one day when I understood you He will not hate you, he will despise your name!
Time has offered you its moments; Fortune has touched your head; And, barbarian and nothing more, you have not known Neither gain time, nor gain greatness.
You overthrew a republic, and your forehead With an imperial diadem you do not elevate ledo; Freedom died, and, omnipotent, Slave you live by your own fear.
You want to be king, and you fear it will become In the crown of Milan yours; You want to be great, and your soul is not right How to rise from his sphere.
Your kingdom is the empire of death; Your greatness, the terror of your crimes; And your ambition, your freedom, your luck Open graves and form outcasts.
Wild gaucho of the rough pampas, That is not glory, nor value, nor life; That’s only killing because it strips They gave you a fratricidal sword.
And, great criminal in memory Of the whole world, of your full crime, You will be a reptile that will step on history Disgusted by your form and your poison!
Nero sets fire to Rome, and contemplates it, And there is I don’t know what is heroic in such a crime; But you, with a soul that the devil tempers, How much do you do has your misery written on it.
No Atreus when in danger hesitates, And you, more than them for evil, trembled; And bloodier than bloody Attila, You never looked at the blood of the fight.
In all those eagles that grabbed Humanity and, in carnage fever, With their metal claws they wounded her, There is some virtue: even courage.
But your heart only overflows Of miseries and crimes and vices, With a stupid and rabid thirst Of doing evil and inventing torture.
You don’t even owe yourself fate With which you have quenched your thirst for blood; Tiger you met on the way A wounded lion that you have devoured.
Spirit of evil born to the world, You have not been good even to yourself; And you will only leave an unclean name When descending into your first abyss.
Mothers will name you for their children When you want to scare them in the crib; And they, trembling and fixed on your image, They will fall asleep dreaming that they saw you.
The troubadours will pay tribute To the stories that your memory invents; And execrating your fruitless crimes, Rude and vulgar History will call you.
Ah, that I bless almost your crimes, Faced with the anger of my country, Why do you suffer such a barbaric punishment? As long as the light of day shines!
Because as long as the sun shines in El Plata You will suffer that punishment eternally; Never to your name the thankless memory: Never curse your tender breast;
And finally scourge of your luck, You will see when you breathe out that it rises Beautiful and triumphant and powerful and strong The town that you outraged with your plant.
For there will not be in it, from your delicate hands, More than just a stain on the neck; That you don’t know, vulgar tyrant, Nor leave the mark of your chains.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 225th birthday.
Thomas Hood English 1799 – 1845
One more Unfortunate Weary of breath Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly; Lift her with care; Fashion’d so slenderly, Young, and so fair!
Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her — All that remains of her Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonour, Death has left on her Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve’s family— Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home?
Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the Sun! O! it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed: Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God’s providence Seemed estranged.
Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river: Mad from life’s history, Glad to death’s mystery Swift to be hurl’d— Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly The rough river ran, Over the brink of it,— Picture it, think of it, Dissolute Man! Lave in it, drink in it, Then, if you can!
Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, kindly, Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring Thro’ muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fix’d on futurity.
Perishing gloomily, Spurr’d by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest. —Cross her hands humbly As if praying dumbly, Over her breast!
Owning her weakness, Her evil behaviour, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour!
When the first time, from my land I left the nights of loving charm, My sweet lover sighing My eyes damp with tears.
A romance sang goodbye, But longing dulled the song! Tears wiped her beautiful eyes… And she gave me the handkerchief that dipped her tears.
How many years have passed yet! Do not forget but love so holy! I still keep it in a perfumed safe Her handkerchief that wet the tears…
I never met her again in my life. I, however, my God, loved her so much! Oh! when I die spread on my face The handkerchief that I also bathed in tears!
We present this work in honor of the 185th anniversary of the poet’s death.
José María Heredia y Heredia Cuban 1803 – 1839
Lord of the winds! I feel thee nigh; I know thy breath in the burning sky! And I wait with a thrill in every vein, For the coming of the hurricane! And lo! On the wings of the heavy gales, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails; Silent and slow and terribly strong, The mighty shadow is borne along, Like the dark eternity to come; While the world below, dismayed and dumb, Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear.
They darken fast—, and the golden blaze Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, And he sends through the shade a funeral ray, A glare that is neither night nor day, A beam that touches, with hues of death, The clouds above and the earth beneath. To its covert glides the silent bird, While the hurricane’s distant voice is heard Uplifted among the mountains round, And the forests hear and answer the sound.
He is come! he is come! do ye not behold His ample robes on the wind unrolled? Giant of air! We bid thee hail. How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale; How his huge and writhing arms are bent To clasp the zone of firmament, And fold, at length, in their dark embrace From mountain to mountain the visible space.
Darker—still darker! The whirlwinds bear The dust of the plains to the middle air; And hark to the crashing, long and loud, Of the chariot of God in the thunder cloud! You may trace its path by the flashes that start From the rapid wheels where’er they dart. And the fire-bolts leap to the world below, And flood the skies with a lurid glow.
What roar is that? ’tis the rain that breaks In torrents away from the airy lakes, Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, And shedding a nameless horror around. Ah! Well known woods and mountains and skies, With the very clouds! Ye are lost to my eyes. I seek you vainly and see in your place The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space, A whirling ocean that fills the wall Of the crystal heavens, and buries all. And I, cut off from the world, remain Alone with the terrible hurricane.
We present this work in honor of National Nurses’ Day.
Sydney Dobell English 1824 – 1874
How must the soldier’s tearful heart expand, Who from a long and obscure dream of pain,— His foemen’s frown imprinted in his brain,— Wakes to thy healing face and dewy hand! When this great noise has rolled from off the land, When all those fallen Englishmen of ours Have bloomed and faded in Crimean flowers, Thy perfect charity unsoiled shall stand. Some pitying student of a nobler age, Lingering o’er this year’s half-forgotten page, Shall see its beauty smiling ever there! Surprised to tears his beating heart he stills, Like one who finds among Athenian hills A temple like a lily white and fair.
In honor of El Cinco de Mayo, we present this work by a master Mexican poet and statesman.
Juan de Dios Peza Mexican 1852 – 1910
I have a sovereign at home, the only one whom my soul venerates; His gray hair is his crown, honor is his law and virtue is his guide.
In slow hours of misery and mourning, full of firm and manly constancy, keep the faith with which he spoke to me about heaven in the first hours of my childhood.
The bitter ban and sadness They opened an incurable wound in his soul; He is an old man, and he carries in his head the dust of the path of life.
See the fierce storms of the world, of luck the unfortunate hours, and passes, like Christ the Tiberias, standing on the curled waves.
Dry their tears, silence their pains, and only on duty his eyes fixed, collects thorns and spreads flowers on the path he laid out for his children.
He told me: “To him who is good, bitterness He never wets his cheeks with tears: in the world the flower of fortune At the slightest breath it falls off.
“Do good without fear of sacrifice, The man must fight serene and strong, and find who hates evil and vice a bed of roses in death.
“If you are poor, be content and be good; If you are rich, protect the unfortunate, and the same in your home as in someone else’s Save your honor to live honestly.
“Love freedom, free is man and its most severe judge is conscience; as much as your honor guards your name, for my name and my honor form your inheritance.”
This august code, in my soul could Since I heard it, it has been recorded; In all the storms he was my shield, He has saved me from all the storms.
My father has in his serene gaze faithful reflection of your honest conscience; so much loving and good advice I surprise you in the brilliance of your gaze!
The nobility of the soul is its nobility; the glory of duty forms his glory; He is poor, but he contains his poverty the biggest page in its history.
Being the worship of my soul your affection, As luck would have it, by honoring his name, was the love that inspired me as a child the most sacred inspiration of man.
May heaven grant that the song that inspires me His eyes always see him with love, and of all the verses of my lyre These are the ones worthy of his name.
Poets Corner 