Edward Dowden (1843-1913)
Thanks to Nelson Miller and Poets' Corner for some of the texts beneath. Others are from Sonnets of This Century.
"Professor Dowden, widely known as an able critic and Shakespearian student, has not perhaps a very wide audition for his poesy. It is at any charge per unit select. . . " (Sonnets of This Century)
- The Singer (audio)
- Sonnet
- Brother Death
- A Peach
- In the Cathedral
- Durer's "Melencholia"
- Leonardo's "Monna Lisa"
- Darwinism in Morals
- In July (at Poets' Corner)
- In September (at Poets' Corner)
- An Interior
- Evening, About the Body of water
- Awakening
- Ii Infinities
The Vocalist "That was the thrush's last practiced-night," I thought, And heard the soft descent of summer rain In the drooped garden leaves; just hush! over again The perfect iterence,--freer than unsought Odours of violets dim in woodland means, Deeper than coiled waters laid a-dream Beneath mossed ledges of a shadowy stream, And faultless as blown roses in June days. Total-throated vocalist! art k thus anew Voiceful to hear how round thyself alone The enriched silence drops for thy please More than soft than snowfall, more sweetness than honey-dew? Now stop: the last faint western streak is gone, Stir not the blissful quiet of the nighttime. | (sound) |
Sonnet
I have wept tears, and learnt, I fearfulness, distressing ways Of searching for a smiling, and I can guess The secret of a wan mouth's droopingness, And know which optics are they that waste their gaze On the hid grave of hop--yet ne'er the less My eye leaps up to utter thanks, and bless Our earth which bears sugariness flowers, and the glad face Of these unwearied waters--cheers to them For cursory, intense, bright moments when we see Our life stand articulate in joy, nosotros kiss the hem Of God's robe in a rapture, and are whole-- On current of air-swept loma-tops, by the mystery Of body of water on yet morns, or when the soul Springs to the lark in a fine ecstasy. Brother Death
When thou would'st have me go with thee, O Death, Over the utmost verge, to the dim place, Exercise upon me with no amorous grace Of fawning lips, and words of delicate breath, And curious music thy lute uttereth; Nor recollect for me there must be sought-out ways Of cloud and terror; take we many days Sojourned together, and is this thy organized religion? Nay, be there plainness 'twixt u.s.; come to me Even as thou fine art, O brother of my soul; Hold thy hand out and I will identify mine there; I trust thy oral fissure's inscrutable irony, And dare to lay my brow where the whole Shadow lies deep of thy purpureal hair. A Peach
If any sense in mortal dust remains When mine has been refined from flower to flower, Won from the dominicus all colours, drunk the shower And fragile winy dews, and gained the gains Which elves who sleep in airy bells, a-swing Through half a summer day, for love bestow, Then in some warm one-time garden let me grow To such a perfect, lush, ambrosian thing Every bit this. Upon a southward-facing wall I bask, and feel my juices dimly fed And mellowing, while my bloom comes golden grey: Keep the wasps from me! only before I autumn Pluck me, white fingers, and o'er 2 ripe-red Girl lips O allow me richly swoon away! In the Cathedral
The altar-lights burn low, the incense-smoke Sickens: O listen, how the priestly prayer Runs as a fenland stream; a dim despair Hails through their chaunt of praise, who hither inhume A dirt-cold Faith within its carven tomb. Just come up thou along into the vital air Bully, dark, and pure! grave Night is no betrayer, And if perchance some faint cold star illume Her brow of mystery, shall we walk forlorn? An altar of the natural rock may rise Somewhere for men who seek; there may be borne On the night-wind authentic prophecies: If not, let this--to exhale sane breath--suffice, Till in yon East, mayhap, the dark be worn. Durer's "Melencholia"
The bow of hope, this final flaring star, Terror and hope are in mid-heaven; but She, The mighty-wing'd crown'd Lady Melancholy, Heeds not. O to what vision'd goal distant Does her thought bear those steadfast optics which are A torch in darkness? At that place nor shore nor sea, Nor ebbing Time vexes Eternity, Where that lone thought outsoars the mortal bar. Tools of the brain--the earth, the cube--no more She deals with; in her hand the compass stays; Nor those, industrious genius, of her lore Student and scribe, thou gravest of the fays, Await this secret to enlarge thy store; She moves through impossible ways. Leonardo's "Monna Lisa"
Brand thyself known, Sibyl, or let despair Of knowing thee exist absolute; I wait Hour-long and waste a soul. What give-and-take of fate Hides 'twixt the lips which grinning and still forbear? Underground perfection! Mystery too fair! Tangle the sense no more lest I should hate Thy delicate tyranny, the inviolate Poise of thy folded hands, thy fallen hair. Nay, nay,--I wrong thee with crude words; still be Serene, victorious, inaccessible; However smile just speak not; lightest irony Lurk always 'neath thine eyelids' shadow; still O'ertop our knowledge; Sphinx of Italian republic Allure us and turn down united states at thy volition! Darwinism in Morals
High instincts, dim perversions, sacred fears, --Whence issuing? Are they but the brain'south amassed Tradition, shapings of a brutal by, Remoulded ever past the younger years, Mixed with fresh clay, and kneaded with new tears? No more? The dead chief's ghost a shadow bandage Across the roving association, and thence at terminal Comes God, who in the soul His law uprears? Is this the whole? Has not the Hereafter powers To lucifer the By,--attractions, pulsings, tides, And voices for purged ears? Is all our light The glow of aboriginal sunsets and lost hours? Advance no banners up heaven'south eastern sides? Trembles the margin with no portent brilliant? An Interior
The grass effectually my limbs is deep and sweet; Yonder the house has lost its shadow wholly, The blinds are dropped, and softly now and slowly The day flows in and floats; a at-home retreat Of tempered lite where off-white things fair things meet; White busts and marble Dian make it holy, Inside a niche hangs Durer'due south Melancholy Brooding; and, should you enter, in that location volition greet Your sense with vague allurement effluence faint Of one magnolia blossom; off-white fingers describe From the piano Chopin'southward middle-complaint; Alone, white-robed she sits; a vehement macaw On the verandah, proud of feather and paint, Screams, insolent despot, showing beak and claw. Evening, Near the Ocean
Calorie-free ebbs from off the Earth; the fields are strange, Dark, trackless, tenantless; now the mute sky Resigns itself to Dark and Memory, And no air current will yon sunken clouds confound, No glory enrapture them; from cot or grange The rare phonation ceases; one long-breathed sigh, And steeped in summertime slumber the world must lie; All things are acquiescing in the change. Hush! while the vaulted hollow of the night Deepens, what vocalism is this the sea sends along, Disconsolate iterance, a passionless moan? Ah! now the Day is gone, and tyrannous Light And the at-home presence of fruit-begetting Earth: Weep, Sea! it is thy hour; thou art alone. Awakening
With brain o'erworn, with heart a summertime clod, With eye so practised in each form around,-- And all forms mean,--to glance to a higher place the ground Irks it, each day of many days we plod, Tongue-tied and deafened, along life's mutual road; Merely suddenly, nosotros know not how, a sound Of living streams, an odour, a blossom crowned With dew, a lark upspringing from the sod, And nosotros awake. O joy of deep amaze! Below the everlasting hills we stand, We hear the voices of the morning time seas, And earnest prophesyings in the land, While from the open heaven leans along at gaze The encompassing great cloud of witnesses. Two Infinities
A lonely way, and as I went my eyes Could non unfasten from the Spring's sugariness things, Lush-sprouted grass, and all that climbs and clings In loose, deep hedges, where the primrose lies In her own fairness, buried blooms surprise The plunderer bee and stop his murmurings, And the glad flutter of a finch'south wings Outstartle small blueish-speckled butterflies. Blissfully did ane speedwell plot betray My whole heart long; I loved each separate flower, Kneeling. I looked upward all of a sudden--Dearest God! There stretched the shining plain for many a mile, The mountains rose with what invincible power! And how the sky was fathomless and broad!
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