http://www.everypoet.com/archive/poetry/Rudyard_Kipling/kipling_contents.htm - Rudyard Kipling
If

How I detest the fatal final curtain!
I never find life dull or wearying.
I've got no time for any time or season
When I don't have a cheerful song to sing.

I've got no time for cynicism cold, nor
Can I be fooled by hankerings for the Grail.
I hate when people peer over my shoulder
And crane their necks to try to read my mail.

I can't stand those whose actions are half-hearted,
Or who interrupt a cordial exchange;
Or shoot you in the back, an easy target,
Or pull a gun on you at point-blank range.

I can't stand idle talk in any vein,
The worms of doubt, the needles of false praise,
Or things that are meant to go against the grain
And grate your nerves like metal scraped on glass.

I don't like self-assured complacency.
You're better off being hanged and letting rip.
I don't like those who forget all decency
And give an eager ear to slanderous gossip

I don't feel sympathy for damaged limbs
Or broken wings - lame ducks I can't abide.
I don't like bullies or acquiescent victims
Yet pity moves me for Christ crucified.

I hate it when I've played the coward's part.
I hate to see the guiltless victimized.
I hate when people pry into my heart,
The more so when it's spat on and despised.

I can't abide the stadium or ring
Where all is vilely cheapened and defied.
Whatever alterations time may bring.
To these I know I wont be reconciled.

The Return (A Piper's Vaunting) by Pittendrigh Macgillivray

Och hey! for the splendour of tartans!
And hey for the dirk and the targe!
The race that was hard as the Spartans
Shall return again to the charge:

Shall come back again to the heather,
Like eagles, with beak and with claws
To take and to scatter for ever
The Sasennach thieves and their laws.

Och, then, for the bonnet and feather!
The pipe and its vaunting clear:
Och, then, for the glens and the heather!
And all that the Gael holds dear.

Along the chasm's edge, upon the precipice's brink
I urge my horses onward, I coerce them whiplash flying.
I'm somehow short of breath, I gulp the air, the wind I drink...
I'm gripped with mortal ecstasy: I'm dying, oh, I'm dying!

     Slower, slower, oh my horses, slowly run, slowly run!
     Pay no heed to the lash's taut thong.
     The horses that fell to my lot are unruly ones...
     I've not lived out my life, I can't finish my song.

     I'll water my horses,
                     I'll sing some more verses -
     Yet a moment I'll stand on the brink
                     ere I sink.

I'll perish: from its outstretched hand the frenzied wind will blow me,
At a gallop through the morning snow my sleigh's drawn helter-skelter.
Be patient, patient, wayward horses, make the journey slowly,
And delay if but a while before we reach the final shelter.

     Slower, slower, oh my horses, slowly run, slowly run!
     You don't serve the lash or the thong.
     The horses that fell to my lot are unruly ones...
     I've not lived out my life, I can't finish my song.

     I'll water my horses,
                     I'll sing some more verses -
     Yet a moment I'll stand on the brink
                     ere I sink.

It's all over: guests to God cannot delay until the morrow.
But why then should the angels' voices sound so harsh and hoarse?
Is it but the harness bell that jangles wildly out of sorrow,
Or do I harangue the horses to slow down their hectic course?

     Slower, slower, oh my horses, slowly run, slowly run!
     I implore you, don't gallop headlong!
     The horses that fell to my lot are unruly ones...
     I've not lived out my life, yet I'd finish my song.

     I'll water my horses,
                     I'll sing some more verses -
     Yet a moment I'll stand on the brink
                     ere I sink.

      Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
      In a strange city lying alone
      Far down within the dim West,
      Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
      Have gone to their eternal rest.
      There shrines and palaces and towers
      (Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
      Resemble nothing that is ours.
      Around, by lifting winds forgot,
      Resignedly beneath the sky
      The melancholy waters lie.

      No rays from the holy heaven come down
      On the long night-time of that town;
      But light from out the lurid sea
      Streams up the turrets silently-
      Gleams up the pinnacles far and free-
      Up domes- up spires- up kingly halls-
      Up fanes- up Babylon-like walls-
      Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
      Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers-
      Up many and many a marvellous shrine
      Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
      The viol, the violet, and the vine.
      Resignedly beneath the sky
      The melancholy waters lie.
      So blend the turrets and shadows there
      That all seem pendulous in air,
      While from a proud tower in the town
      Death looks gigantically down.

      There open fanes and gaping graves
      Yawn level with the luminous waves;
      But not the riches there that lie
      In each idol's diamond eye-
      Not the gaily-jewelled dead
      Tempt the waters from their bed;
      For no ripples curl, alas!
      Along that wilderness of glass-
      No swellings tell that winds may be
      Upon some far-off happier sea-
      No heavings hint that winds have been
      On seas less hideously serene.

      But lo, a stir is in the air!
      The wave- there is a movement there!
      As if the towers had thrust aside,
      In slightly sinking, the dull tide-
      As if their tops had feebly given
      A void within the filmy Heaven.
      The waves have now a redder glow-
      The hours are breathing faint and low-
      And when, amid no earthly moans,
      Down, down that town shall settle hence,
      Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
      Shall do it reverence.

The Lone Trail

Gur duilich leam mar tha mi

'S mo chridhe 'n sas aig bron

Bhon an uair a dh'fhag mi

Beanntan ard a' cheo

Gleanntannan a'mhanrain

Nan loch, nam bagh 's nan srom

'S an eala bhan tha tamh ann

Gach la air 'm bheil mi 'n toir.

A Mhagaidh na bi tursach

A ruin, ged gheibhinn bas-

Co am fear am measg an t-sluaigh

A mhaireas buan gu brath?

Chan eil sinn uile ach air chuairt

Mar dhithein buaile fas

Bheir siantannan na blianna sios

'S nach tog a' ghrian an aird.

Tha 'n talamh leir mun cuairt dhiom

'Na mheallan suas 's na neoil;

Aig na 'shells a' bualadh -

Cha leir dhomh bhuam le ceo:

Gun chlaisneachd aig mo chluasan

Le fuaim a' ghunna mhoir;

Ach ged tha 'n uair seo cruaidh orm

Tha mo smuaintean air NicLeoid.

Air m' uilinn anns na truinnsichean

Tha m' inntinn ort, a ghraidh;

Nam chadal bidh mi a' bruadar ort

Cha dualach dhomh bhith slan;

Tha m' aigne air a lionadh

Le cianalas cho lan

'S a'ghruag a dh'fhas cho ruadh orm

A nis air thuar bhith ban

Oidhche mhath leat fhein, a ruin

Nad leabaidh chubhraidh bhlath;

Cadal samhach air a chul

Do dhusgadh sunndach slan

Tha mise 'n seo 's an truinnsidh fhuar

'S nam chluasan fuaim bhais

Gun duil ri faighinn as le buaidh -

Tha 'n cuan cho buan ri shnamh.

2. 1] I am come of the seed of the people, the people that sorrow,
   2] That have no treasure but hope,
   3] No riches laid up but a memory
   4] Of an Ancient glory.
   5] My mother bore me in bondage, in bondage my mother was born,
   6] I am of the blood of serfs;
   7] The children with whom I have played, the men and women with whom I have eaten,
   8] Have had masters over them, have been under the lash of masters,
   9] And, though gentle, have served churls;
   10] The hands that have touched mine, the dear hands whose touch is familiar to me,
   11] Have worn shameful manacles, have been bitten at the wrist by manacles,
   12] Have grown hard with the manacles and the task-work of strangers,
   13] I am flesh of the flesh of these lowly, I am bone of their bone,
   14] I that have never submitted;
   15] I that have a soul greater than the souls of my people's masters,

   ---

   p.338

   16] I that have vision and prophecy and the gift of fiery speech,
   17] I that have spoken with God on the top of His holy hill.
2. 18] And because I am of the people, I understand the people,
   19] I am sorrowful with their sorrow, I am hungry with their desire:
   20] My heart has been heavy with the grief of mothers,
   21] My eyes have been wet with the tears of children,
   22] I have yearned with old wistful men,
   23] And laughed or cursed with young men;
   24] Their shame is my shame, and I have reddened for it,
   25] Reddened for that they have served, they who should be free,
   26] Reddened for that they have gone in want, while others have been full,
   27] Reddened for that they have walked in fear of lawyers and of their jailors
   28] With their writs of summons and their handcuffs,
   29] Men mean and cruel!

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   p.339

   30] I could have borne stripes on my body rather than this shame of my people.
3. 31] And now I speak, being full of vision;
   32] I speak to my people, and I speak in my people's name to the masters of my people.
   33] I say to my people that they are holy, that they are august, despite their chains,
   34] That they are greater than those that hold them, and stronger and purer,
   35] That they have but need of courage, and to call on the name of their God,
   36] God the unforgetting, the dear God that loves the peoples
   37] For whom He died naked, suffering shame.
   38] And I say to my people's masters: Beware,
   39] Beware of the thing that is coming, beware of the risen people,
   40] Who shall take what ye would not give.
   41] Did ye think to conquer the people,
   42] Or that Law is stronger than life and than men's desire to be free?
   43] We will try it out with you, ye that have harried and held,
   44] Ye that have bullied and bribed, tyrants, hypocrites, liars!

A Ballad of Jakkko Hill

One moment bid the horses wait,
  Since tiffin is not laid till three,
Below the upward path and strait
  You climbed a year ago with me.
Love came upon us suddenly
  And loosed -- an idle hour to kill --
A headless, harmless armory
  That smote us both on Jakko Hill.

Ah, Heaven! we would wait and wait 
  Through Time and to Eternity!
Ah, Heaven! we could conquer Fate
  With more than Godlike constancy
I cut the date upon a tree --
  Here stand the clumsy figures still: 
"10-7-85, A.D."
  Damp in the mists on Jakko Hill.

What came of high resolve and great,
  And until Death fidelity?
Whose horse is waiting at your gate?
  Whose 'rickshaw-wheels ride over me?
No Saint's, I swear; and -- let me see
  To-night what names your programme fill --
We drift asunder merrily,
  As drifts the mist on Jakko Hill.

                L'ENVOI.
Princess, behold our ancient state
  Has clean departed; and we see
'Twas Idleness we took for Fate
  That bound light bonds on you and me.
Amen! Here ends the comedy
  Where it began in all good will,
Since Love and Leave together flee
  As driven mist on Jakko Hill!

http://www.hwlongfellow.org/poems_poem.php?pid=2095 - The Battle of Lovell's Pond

Vladimir Mayakovsky:

I will sew myself black trousers
from the velvet of my voice.
And from three yards of sunset, a yellow blouse.
Along the world's main street, along its glossy lanes,
I will saunter with the gait of Don Juan, a fop.

Let the earth, overripe and placid, cry out:
"You would rape the green Spring!"
I'll yell at the sun with an impudent grin
"I prefer to prance on smooth 
                                                  asphalt!"

Isn't it because the sky is blue,
And the earth is my lover in this spring 
                                                 cleaning,
that I give you verses fun as bi-bah-boh
and sharp and useful as toothpicks!

Women who love my flesh, and you,
girl, looking at me like a brother,
toss your smiles to me, the poet -
and I'll sew them like flowers onto my fop's blouse!

1914

Breasts beneath kisses, as though under a tap!

Summer’s stream won’t run for ever.

We can’t pump out the accordion’s roar

night after night, in a dusty fever.

 I’ve heard of age. Terrible prophecies!

No wave will lift its hands to the stars.

They say – who believes? No face in the leaves,

no gods in the air, in the ponds: no hearts.

Rouse your soul! Make the day, foaming.

It’s noon in the world. Where are your eyes?

See there, thoughts in the whiteness seething,

fir-cones, woodpeckers, cloud, heat, pines.

Here, the city’s trolley-lines end.

Beyond there’s no rails, it’s the trees.

Beyond – it’s Sunday, breaking branches,

the glade running off, sliding on leaves.

Scattering noons: Whitsuntide: walking,

‘The world’s always like this’, says the wood.

So the copse planned it, the clearing was told,

So it pours, from the clouds, towards us.

Hardihood in time of battle

O Children of Conn, remember hardihood in time of battle,
Be strong, nursing your wrath,
Be resolute and fierce,
Be forceful, standing your ground,
Be nimble and full of valour,
Be dour, inspiring fear,
Be exceeding fierce, recklessly daring,
Be spirited, inflicting great wounds,
Be venomous, implacable,
Be glorious, nobly powerful,
Be exceedingly fierce, king-like,
Be vigorous, nimble footed
in winning the battle against your enemies.
O Children of Conn of the Hundred Battles,
Now is the time for you to win renown,
O raging whelps,
O sturdy bears,
O most sprightly lions,
O battle-loving warriors,
The Children of Conn of the Hundred Battles,
O Children of Conn, remember

hardihood in time of battle.

At birth a witch laid on me monstrous spells,
And I have trod strange highroads all my days,
Turning my feet to gray, unholy ways.
I grope for stems of broken asphodels;
HIgh on the rims of bare, fiend-haunted fells,
I follow cloven tracks that lie ablaze;
And ghosts have led me through the moonlight's haze
To talk with demons in the granite hells.

Seas crash upon dragon-guarded shores,
Bursting in crimson moons of burning spray,
And iron castles ope to me their doors,
And serpent-women lure with harp and lay.
The misty waves shake now to phantom oars—
Seek not for me; I sail to meet the day.

RE Howard

Halfway down the trail to Hell,
In a shady meadow green
Are the Souls of all dead troopers camped,
Near a good old-time canteen.
And this eternal resting place
Is known as Fiddlers' Green.

Marching past, straight through to Hell
The Infantry are seen.
Accompanied by the Engineers,
Artillery and Marines,
For none but the shades of Cavalrymen
Dismount at Fiddlers' Green.

Though some go curving down the trail
To seek a warmer scene.
No trooper ever gets to Hell
Ere he's emptied his canteen.
And so rides back to drink again
With friends at Fiddlers' Green.

And so when man and horse go down
Beneath a saber keen,
Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your scalp,
Just empty your canteen,
And put your pistol to your head
And go to Fiddlers' Green.

Wait for me, and I'll come back!
Wait with all you've got!
Wait, when dreary yellow rains
Tell you, you should not.
Wait when snow is falling fast,
Wait when summer's hot,
Wait when yesterdays are past,
Others are forgot.
Wait, when from that far-off place,
Letters don't arrive.
Wait, when those with whom you wait
Doubt if I'm alive.

Wait for me, and I'll come back!
Wait in patience yet
When they tell you off by heart
That you should forget.
Even when my dearest ones
Say that I am lost,
Even when my friends give up,
Sit and count the cost,
Drink a glass of bitter wine
To the fallen friend -
Wait! And do not drink with them!
Wait until the end!

Wait for me and I'll come back,
Dodging every fate!
"What a bit of luck!" they'll say,
Those that would not  wait.
They will never understand
How amidst the strife,
By your waiting for me, dear,
You had saved my life.
Only you and I will know
How you got me through.
Simply - you knew how to wait -
No one else but you.

I

He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men
In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
'THAT FELLOW'S GOT TO SWING.'

Dear Christ! the very prison walls
Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.

He does not die a death of shame
On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck,
Nor a cloth upon his face,
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
Into an empty space.

He does not sit with silent men
Who watch him night and day;
Who watch him when he tries to weep,
And when he tries to pray;
Who watch him lest himself should rob
The prison of its prey.

He does not wake at dawn to see
Dread figures throng his room,
The shivering Chaplain robed in white,
The Sheriff stern with gloom,
And the Governor all in shiny black,
With the yellow face of Doom.

He does not rise in piteous haste
To put on convict-clothes,
While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats,
and notes
Each new and nerve-twitched pose,
Fingering a watch whose little ticks
Are like horrible hammer-blows.

He does not know that sickening thirst
That sands one's throat, before
The hangman with his gardener's gloves
Slips through the padded door,
And binds one with three leathern thongs,
That the throat may thirst no more.

He does not bend his head to hear
The Burial Office read,
Nor, while the terror of his soul
Tells him he is not dead,
Cross his own coffin, as he moves
Into the hideous shed.

He does not stare upon the air
Through a little roof of glass:
He does not pray with lips of clay
For his agony to pass;
Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
The kiss of Caiaphas.

II

Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard,
In the suit of shabby grey:
His cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay,
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every wandering cloud that trailed
Its ravelled fleeces by.

He did not wring his hands, as do
Those witless men who dare
To try to rear the changeling Hope
In the cave of black Despair:
He only looked upon the sun,
And drank the morning air.

He did not wring his hands nor weep,
Nor did he peek or pine,
But he drank the air as though it held
Some healthful anodyne;
With open mouth he drank the sun
As though it had been wine!

And I and all the souls in pain,
Who tramped the other ring,
Forgot if we ourselves had done
A great or little thing,
And watched with gaze of dull amaze
The man who had to swing.

And strange it was to see him pass
With a step so light and gay,
And strange it was to see him look
So wistfully at the day,
And strange it was to think that he
Had such a debt to pay.

For oak and elm have pleasant leaves
That in the springtime shoot:
But grim to see is the gallows-tree,
With its adder-bitten root,
And, green or dry, a man must die
Before it bears its fruit!

The loftiest place is that seat of grace
For which all worldlings try:
But who would stand in hempen band
Upon a scaffold high,
And through a murderer's collar take
His last look at the sky?

It is sweet to dance to violins
When Love and Life are fair:
To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
Is delicate and rare:
But it is not sweet with nimble feet
To dance upon the air!

So with curious eyes and sick surmise
We watched him day by day,
And wondered if each one of us
Would end the self-same way,
For none can tell to what red Hell
His sightless soul may stray.

At last the dead man walked no more
Amongst the Trial Men,
And I knew that he was standing up
In the black dock's dreadful pen,
And that never would I see his face
In God's sweet world again.

Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
We had crossed each other's way:
But we made no sign, we said no word,
We had no word to say;
For we did not meet in the holy night,
But in the shameful day.

A prison wall was round us both,
Two outcast men we were:
The world had thrust us from its heart,
And God from out His care:
And the iron gin that waits for Sin
Had caught us in its snare.

III

In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,
And the dripping wall is high,
So it was there he took the air
Beneath the leaden sky,
And by each side a Warder walked,
For fear the man might die.

Or else he sat with those who watched
His anguish night and day;
Who watched him when he rose to weep,
And when he crouched to pray;
Who watched him lest himself should rob
Their scaffold of its prey.

The Governor was strong upon
The Regulations Act:
The Doctor said that Death was but
A scientific fact:
And twice a day the Chaplain called,
And left a little tract.

And twice a day he smoked his pipe,
And drank his quart of beer:
His soul was resolute, and held
No hiding-place for fear;
He often said that he was glad
The hangman's hands were near.

But why he said so strange a thing
No Warder dared to ask:
For he to whom a watcher's doom
Is given as his task,
Must set a lock upon his lips,
And make his face a mask.

Or else he might be moved, and try
To comfort or console:
And what should Human Pity do
Pent up in Murderers' Hole?
What word of grace in such a place
Could help a brother's soul?

With slouch and swing around the ring
We trod the Fools' Parade!
We did not care: we knew we were
The Devil's Own Brigade:
And shaven head and feet of lead
Make a merry masquerade.

We tore the tarry rope to shreds
With blunt and bleeding nails;
We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,
And cleaned the shining rails:
And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,
And clattered with the pails.

We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,
We turned the dusty drill:
We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,
And sweated on the mill:
But in the heart of every man
Terror was lying still.

So still it lay that every day
Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:
And we forgot the bitter lot
That waits for fool and knave,
Till once, as we tramped in from work,
We passed an open grave.

With yawning mouth the yellow hole
Gaped for a living thing;
The very mud cried out for blood
To the thirsty asphalte ring:
And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
Some prisoner had to swing.

Right in we went, with soul intent
On Death and Dread and Doom:
The hangman, with his little bag,
Went shuffling through the gloom:
And each man trembled as he crept
Into his numbered tomb.

That night the empty corridors
Were full of forms of Fear,
And up and down the iron town
Stole feet we could not hear,
And through the bars that hide the stars
White faces seemed to peer.

He lay as one who lies and dreams
In a pleasant meadow-land,
The watchers watched him as he slept,
And could not understand
How one could sleep so sweet a sleep
With a hangman close at hand.

But there is no sleep when men must weep
Who never yet have wept:
So we - the fool, the fraud, the knave -
That endless vigil kept,
And through each brain on hands of pain
Another's terror crept.

Alas! it is a fearful thing
To feel another's guilt!
For, right within, the sword of Sin
Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
And as molten lead were the tears we shed
For the blood we had not spilt.

The Warders with their shoes of felt
Crept by each padlocked door,
And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,
Grey figures on the floor,
And wondered why men knelt to pray
Who never prayed before.

All through the night we knelt and prayed,
Mad mourners of a corse!
The troubled plumes of midnight were
The plumes upon a hearse:
And bitter wine upon a sponge
Was the savour of Remorse.

The grey cock crew, the red cock crew,
But never came the day:
And crooked shapes of Terror crouched,
In the corners where we lay:
And each evil sprite that walks by night
Before us seemed to play.

They glided past, they glided fast,
Like travellers through a mist:
They mocked the moon in a rigadoon
Of delicate turn and twist,
And with formal pace and loathsome grace
The phantoms kept their tryst.

With mop and mow, we saw them go,
Slim shadows hand in hand:
About, about, in ghostly rout
They trod a saraband:
And the damned grotesques made arabesques,
Like the wind upon the sand!

With the pirouettes of marionettes,
They tripped on pointed tread:
But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,
As their grisly masque they led,
And loud they sang, and long they sang,
For they sang to wake the dead.

'Oho!' they cried, 'The world is wide,
But fettered limbs go lame!
And once, or twice, to throw the dice
Is a gentlemanly game,
But he does not win who plays with Sin
In the secret House of Shame.'

No things of air these antics were,
That frolicked with such glee:
To men whose lives were held in gyves,
And whose feet might not go free,
Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,
Most terrible to see.

Around, around, they waltzed and wound;
Some wheeled in smirking pairs;
With the mincing step of a demirep
Some sidled up the stairs:
And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,
Each helped us at our prayers.

The morning wind began to moan,
But still the night went on:
Through its giant loom the web of gloom
Crept till each thread was spun:
And, as we prayed, we grew afraid
Of the Justice of the Sun.

The moaning wind went wandering round
The weeping prison-wall:
Till like a wheel of turning steel
We felt the minutes crawl:
O moaning wind! what had we done
To have such a seneschal?

At last I saw the shadowed bars,
Like a lattice wrought in lead,
Move right across the whitewashed wall
That faced my three-plank bed,
And I knew that somewhere in the world
God's dreadful dawn was red.

At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,
At seven all was still,
But the sough and swing of a mighty wing
The prison seemed to fill,
For the Lord of Death with icy breath
Had entered in to kill.

He did not pass in purple pomp,
Nor ride a moon-white steed.
Three yards of cord and a sliding board
Are all the gallows' need:
So with rope of shame the Herald came
To do the secret deed.

We were as men who through a fen
Of filthy darkness grope:
We did not dare to breathe a prayer,
Or to give our anguish scope:
Something was dead in each of us,
And what was dead was Hope.

For Man's grim Justice goes its way,
And will not swerve aside:
It slays the weak, it slays the strong,
It has a deadly stride:
With iron heel it slays the strong,
The monstrous parricide!

We waited for the stroke of eight:
Each tongue was thick with thirst:
For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
That makes a man accursed,
And Fate will use a running noose
For the best man and the worst.

We had no other thing to do,
Save to wait for the sign to come:
So, like things of stone in a valley lone,
Quiet we sat and dumb:
But each man's heart beat thick and quick,
Like a madman on a drum!

With sudden shock the prison-clock
Smote on the shivering air,
And from all the gaol rose up a wail
Of impotent despair,
Like the sound that frightened marshes hear
From some leper in his lair.

And as one sees most fearful things
In the crystal of a dream,
We saw the greasy hempen rope
Hooked to the blackened beam,
And heard the prayer the hangman's snare
Strangled into a scream.

And all the woe that moved him so
That he gave that bitter cry,
And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
None knew so well as I:
For he who lives more lives than one
More deaths than one must die.

IV

There is no chapel on the day
On which they hang a man:
The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,
Or his face is far too wan,
Or there is that written in his eyes
Which none should look upon.

So they kept us close till nigh on noon,
And then they rang the bell,
And the Warders with their jingling keys
Opened each listening cell,
And down the iron stair we tramped,
Each from his separate Hell.

Out into God's sweet air we went,
But not in wonted way,
For this man's face was white with fear,
And that man's face was grey,
And I never saw sad men who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw sad men who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
We prisoners called the sky,
And at every careless cloud that passed
In happy freedom by.

But there were those amongst us all
Who walked with downcast head,
And knew that, had each got his due,
They should have died instead:
He had but killed a thing that lived,
Whilst they had killed the dead.

For he who sins a second time
Wakes a dead soul to pain,
And draws it from its spotted shroud,
And makes it bleed again,
And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,
And makes it bleed in vain!

Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb
With crooked arrows starred,
Silently we went round and round
The slippery asphalte yard;
Silently we went round and round,
And no man spoke a word.

Silently we went round and round,
And through each hollow mind
The Memory of dreadful things
Rushed like a dreadful wind,
And Horror stalked before each man,
And Terror crept behind.

The Warders strutted up and down,
And kept their herd of brutes,
Their uniforms were spick and span,
And they wore their Sunday suits,
But we knew the work they had been at,
By the quicklime on their boots.

For where a grave had opened wide,
There was no grave at all:
Only a stretch of mud and sand
By the hideous prison-wall,
And a little heap of burning lime,
That the man should have his pall.

For he has a pall, this wretched man,
Such as few men can claim:
Deep down below a prison-yard,
Naked for greater shame,
He lies, with fetters on each foot,
Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

And all the while the burning lime
Eats flesh and bone away,
It eats the brittle bone by night,
And the soft flesh by day,
It eats the flesh and bone by turns,
But it eats the heart alway.

For three long years they will not sow
Or root or seedling there:
For three long years the unblessed spot
Will sterile be and bare,
And look upon the wondering sky
With unreproachful stare.

They think a murderer's heart would taint
Each simple seed they sow.
It is not true! God's kindly earth
Is kindlier than men know,
And the red rose would but blow more red,
The white rose whiter blow.

Out of his mouth a red, red rose!
Out of his heart a white!
For who can say by what strange way,
Christ brings His will to light,
Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore
Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?

But neither milk-white rose nor red
May bloom in prison-air;
The shard, the pebble, and the flint,
Are what they give us there:
For flowers have been known to heal
A common man's despair.

So never will wine-red rose or white,
Petal by petal, fall
On that stretch of mud and sand that lies
By the hideous prison-wall,
To tell the men who tramp the yard
That God's Son died for all.

Yet though the hideous prison-wall
Still hems him round and round,
And a spirit may not walk by night
That is with fetters bound,
And a spirit may but weep that lies
In such unholy ground,

He is at peace - this wretched man -
At peace, or will be soon:
There is no thing to make him mad,
Nor does Terror walk at noon,
For the lampless Earth in which he lies
Has neither Sun nor Moon.

They hanged him as a beast is hanged:
They did not even toll
A requiem that might have brought
Rest to his startled soul,
But hurriedly they took him out,
And hid him in a hole.

They stripped him of his canvas clothes,
And gave him to the flies:
They mocked the swollen purple throat,
And the stark and staring eyes:
And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud
In which their convict lies.

The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
By his dishonoured grave:
Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
That Christ for sinners gave,
Because the man was one of those
Whom Christ came down to save.

Yet all is well; he has but passed
To Life's appointed bourne:
And alien tears will fill for him
Pity's long-broken urn,
For his mourners will be outcast men,
And outcasts always mourn

V

I know not whether Laws be right,
Or whether Laws be wrong;
All that we know who lie in gaol
Is that the wall is strong;
And that each day is like a year,
A year whose days are long.

But this I know, that every Law
That men have made for Man,
Since first Man took his brother's life,
And the sad world began,
But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
With a most evil fan.

This too I know - and wise it were
If each could know the same -
That every prison that men build
Is built with bricks of shame,
And bound with bars lest Christ should see
How men their brothers maim.

With bars they blur the gracious moon,
And blind the goodly sun:
And they do well to hide their Hell,
For in it things are done
That Son of God nor son of Man
Ever should look upon!

The vilest deeds like poison weeds,
Bloom well in prison-air;
It is only what is good in Man
That wastes and withers there:
Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
And the Warder is Despair.

For they starve the little frightened child
Till it weeps both night and day:
And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,
And gibe the old and grey,
And some grow mad, and all grow bad,
And none a word may say.

Each narrow cell in which we dwell
Is a foul and dark latrine,
And the fetid breath of living Death
Chokes up each grated screen,
And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
In Humanity's machine.

The brackish water that we drink
Creeps with a loathsome slime,
And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
Is full of chalk and lime,
And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
Wild-eyed, and cries to Time.

But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
Like asp with adder fight,
We have little care of prison fare,
For what chills and kills outright
Is that every stone one lifts by day
Becomes one's heart by night.

With midnight always in one's heart,
And twilight in one's cell,
We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
Each in his separate Hell,
And the silence is more awful far
Than the sound of a brazen bell.

And never a human voice comes near
To speak a gentle word:
And the eye that watches through the door
Is pitiless and hard:
And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
With soul and body marred.

And thus we rust Life's iron chain
Degraded and alone:
And some men curse, and some men weep,
And some men make no moan:
But God's eternal Laws are kind
And break the heart of stone.

And every human heart that breaks,
In prison-cell or yard,
Is as that broken box that gave
Its treasure to the Lord,
And filled the unclean leper's house
With the scent of costliest nard.

Ah! happy they whose hearts can break
And peace of pardon win!
How else may man make straight his plan
And cleanse his soul from Sin?
How else but through a broken heart
May Lord Christ enter in?

And he of the swollen purple throat,
And the stark and staring eyes,
Waits for the holy hands that took
The Thief to Paradise;
And a broken and a contrite heart
The Lord will not despise.

The man in red who reads the Law
Gave him three weeks of life,
Three little weeks in which to heal
His soul of his soul's strife,
And cleanse from every blot of blood
The hand that held the knife.

And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
The hand that held the steel:
For only blood can wipe out blood,
And only tears can heal:
And the crimson stain that was of Cain
Became Christ's snow-white seal.

VI

In Reading gaol by Reading town
There is a pit of shame,
And in it lies a wretched man
Eaten by teeth of flame,
In a burning winding-sheet he lies,
And his grave has got no name.

And there, till Christ call forth the dead,
In silence let him lie:
No need to waste the foolish tear,
Or heave the windy sigh:
The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.

And all men kill the thing they love,
By all let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

Violet de Vere (Robert W Service)

You've heard of Violet de Vere, strip-teaser of renown,

So there she stood before the court of ruddy Judge McGraw,

Old Judge McGraw looked dourly down an' stroked his silver beard.
Said he: “Although the Sheriff's bruised, the lady should be heared.

I always want to kick the gong when I am feelin' gay;
It's most unfortunate, I guess, his face was in the way.”
Then scratchin' of his snowy pow the Judge looked down severe,

Says he: “I'm going to impose a twenty dollar fine.”
Says Violet: “Your Honour, to your judgement I resign.
I realise I should not my agility reveal:
Next time I'll kick the Sheriff with my toe and not my heel.

I'm grateful to the Court because I'm not in put in the clink;
There's twenty plunks to pay my fine, - but now I come to think:
Judge, darlin' you've been owin, me five bucks for near a year:

Gather ye roses while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying;
A world where beauty fleets away
Is no world for denying.
Come lads and lasses, fall to play
Lose no more time in sighing

The very flowers you pluck to-day
To-morrow will be dying;
And all the flowers are crying,
And all the leaves have tongues to say,-
Gather ye roses while ye may. 

RL Stevenson

My life closed twice before its close;
   It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
   A third event to me,

So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
   As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
   And all we need of hell.

Listen not

Listen not with your ears

       Near this spot
Are deposited the Remains
               Of one
Who possessed Beauty
        Without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
  Courage without Ferocity,
And all the Virtues of Man
        Without his Vices.

The Price, which would be unmeaning flattery
          If inscribed over Human Ashes,
Is but a just tribute to the Memory of 
          “Boatswain,” a Dog
Who was born at Newfoundland,
          May, 1803,
And died in Newstead Abbey,
          Nov. 18, 1808.
 
When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown by glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And stories urns record that rests below.
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been.
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master’s own,
Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth –
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.

Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power –
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennoble but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye, who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on – it honors none you wish to mourn.
To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one – and here he lies.

Lord Byron’s tribute to “Boatswain,” on a monument in the garden of Newstead Abbey.

We just remember facts and actions,
To which our life presented us,
There are, amidst them, and inventions,
That kindly visit us sometimes. 

But once we see a day, the April’s,
We hear laughter, catch a sight….
Reminiscences of our senses! – 
They’re the inciters of our heart 

That force it to palpate for hours,
Or promptly fly up to the skies,
And they’re saved not by thoughts of ours,
But by our hands and lips and eyes.

Konstanin Vanshenkin

Brothers to the Sun
Sisters to the Moon

The sons of the Prophet were hardy and bold
And quite unaccustom'd to fear.
But the bravest of all, at least so I am told—
Was Abdul the Bulbul Amir.

If you wanted a man to encourage the van
Or to harass the foe from the rear
Or to storm a redoubt, you had but to shout
For Abdul the Bulbul Amir.

There were heroes in plenty, good men known to fame
In the army then led by the Czar.
But none of more fame than a man by the name
Of Ivan Petrovski Skivar.

He could imitate Irving, tell fortunes with cards
He could play on the Spanish guitar
In fact quite the cream of the Muscovite team
Was Ivan Petrovski Skivar.

One day this bold Russian had shouldered his gun,
And with his most cynical sneer,
Was looking for fun when he happened to run
Upon Abdul the Bulbul Amir.

"Young man," said Bul Bul,"is existence so dull
That you're anxious to end your career?
For, infidel, know you have trod on the toe
Of Abdul the Bulbul Amir.

"So take your last look upon sunshine and brook.
Send your regrets to the Czar.
By which I imply you are going to die
Mr. Ivan Petrovski Skavar."

Then the brave Mameluke drew his trusty skibouk.
Crying, "Allah, il Allah! Allah!"
And on slaughter intent, he ferociously went
For Ivan Petrovski Skavar.

On a stone by the banks where the Danube doth roll,
Inscribed in characters clear,
Is "Stranger, remember to pray for the soul
Of Abdul the Bulbul Amir."

A Muscovite maiden her sad vigil keeps
In her home by the cold Northern Star
And the name that she murmurs in vain as she weeps,
Is Ivan Petrovski Skavar.

Who stands for the dead

We stand for the dead

THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE

By William Butler Yeats

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

The Ballad of the Inchcape Rock (Robert Southey)

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was still as she could be,

Without either sign or sound of their shock
The waves flow’d over the Inchcape Rock;

The Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;

The Sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day;

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen
A darker speck on the ocean green;

He felt the cheering power of spring,
It made him whistle, it made him sing;

His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, “My men, put out the boat,

The boat is lower’d, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;

Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound,
The bubbles rose and burst around;

Sir Ralph the Rover sail’d away,

So thick a haze o’erspreads the sky

On the deck the Rover takes his stand,

“Canst hear,” said one, “the breakers roar?
For methinks we should be near the shore.”

They hear no sound, the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, —

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair;

But even in his dying fear

The Blessing Tree 

The blessing tree speaks loud to me,
The older gods are there today,
For never have they gone away,
The blessing trees, the sacred wells,
The cloth, the coin, the broken sword,
With wine and bread, the holy word,
The blessing tree, which is no tree,
The sacred wells which cure all ills,
The coin is given in thanks to god,
The cloth to honour the bounteous earth,
The sword to calm the fiery heart,
The wine and bread, for ancient worth,
And offered all to the sacred earth.

(Chookie)

Do not lift him from the bracken,
Leave him lying where he fell—
Better bier ye cannot fashion:
None beseems him half so well
As the bare and broken heather,
And the hard and trampled sod,
Whence his angry soul ascended
To the judgment-seat of God!
Winding-sheet we cannot give him—
Seek no mantle for the dead,
Save the cold and spotless covering
Showered from heaven upon his head.
Leave his broadsword, as we found it,
Bent and broken with the blow,
That, before he died, avenged him
On the foremost of the foe.
Leave the blood upon his bosom—
Wash not off that sacred stain:
Let it stiffen on the tartan,
Let his wounds unclosed remain,
Till the day when he shall show them
At the throne of God on high,
When the murderer and the murdered

Meet before their Judge's eye!
Nay—ye should not weep, my children!
Leave it to the faint and weak;
Sobs are but a woman's weapon—
Tears befit a maiden's cheek.
Weep not, children of Macdonald!
Weep not thou, his orphan heir—
Not in shame, but stainless honour,
Lies thy slaughtered father there.
Weep not—but when years are over,
And thine arm is strong and sure,
And thy foot is swift and steady
On the mountain and the muir—
Let thy heart be hard as iron,
And thy wrath as fierce as fire,
Till the hour when vengeance cometh
For the race that slew thy sire;
Till in deep and dark Glenlyon
Rise a louder shriek of woe
Than at midnight, from their eyrie,
Scared the eagles of Glencoe;
Louder than the screams that mingled
With the howling of the blast,
When the murderer's steel was clashing,
And the fires were rising fast;
When thy noble father bounded
To the rescue of his men,
And the slogan of our kindred
Pealed throughout the startled glen;
When the herd of frantic women
Stumbled through the midnight snow,
With their fathers' houses blazing
And their dearest dead below.
Oh, the horror of the tempest,
As the flashing drift was blown,
Crimsoned with the conflagration,
And the roofs went thundering down!
Oh, the prayers—the prayers and curses
That together winged their flight
From the maddened hearts of many
Through that long and woeful night!
Till the fires began to dwindle,
And the shots grew faint and few,
And we heard the foeman's challenge
Only in a far halloo;
Till the silence once more settled
O'er the gorges of the glen,
Broken only by the Cona
Plunging through its naked den.
Slowly from the mountain-summit
Was the drifting veil withdrawn,
And the ghastly valley glimmered
In the gray December dawn.
Better had the morning never
Dawned upon our dark despair!
Black amidst the common whiteness
Rose the spectral ruins there:
But the sight of these was nothing
More than wrings the wild dove's breast,
When she searches for her offspring
Round the relics of her nest.
For in many a spot the tartan
Peered above the wintry heap,
Marking where a dead Macdonald
Lay within his frozen sleep.
Tremblingly we scooped the covering
From each kindred victim's head,
And the living lips were burning
On the cold ones of the dead.
And I left them with their dearest—
Dearest charge had everyone—
Left the maiden with her lover,
Left the mother with her son.
I alone of all was mateless—
Far more wretched I than they,
For the snow would not discover
Where my lord and husband lay.
But I wandered up the valley
Till I found him lying low,
With the gash upon his bosom,
And the frown upon his brow—
Till I found him lying murdered
Where he wooed me long ago.

Woman's weakness shall not shame me;
Why should I have tears to shed?
Could I rain them down like water,
O my hero, on thy head,
Could the cry of lamentation
Wake thee from thy silent sleep,
Could it set thy heart a-throbbing,
It were mine to wail and weep.
But I will not waste my sorrow,
Lest the Campbell women say
That the daughters of Clanranald
Are as weak and frail as they.
I had wept thee hadst thou fallen,
Like our fathers, on thy shield,
When a host of English foemen
Camped upon a Scottish field;
I had mourned thee hadst thou perished
With the foremost of his name,
When the valiant and the noble
Died around the dauntless Græme.
But I will not wrong thee, husband!
With my unavailing cries,
Whilst thy cold and mangled body,
Stricken by the traitor, lies;
Whilst he counts the gold and glory
That this hideous night has won,
And his heart is big with triumph
At the murder he has done.
Other eyes than mine shall glisten,
Other hearts be rent in twain,
Ere the heathbells on thy hillock
Wither in the autumn rain.
Then I'll seek thee where thou sleepest,
And I'll veil my weary head,
Praying for a place beside thee,
Dearer than my bridal-bed:
And I'll give thee tears, my husband,
If the tears remain to me,
When the widows of the foemen
Cry the coronach for thee.

rose.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel’s granary is full,

And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,

With anguish moist and fever-dew,

And on thy cheeks a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful—a faery’s child,

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She looked at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long,

For sidelong would she bend, and sing

A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna-dew,

And sure in language strange she said—

‘I love thee true’.

She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she wept and sighed full sore,

And there I shut her wild wild eyes

With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,

And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—

The latest dream I ever dreamt

On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci

Thee hath in thrall!’

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

With horrid warning gapèd wide,

And I awoke and found me here,

On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

(John Keats)

Roch the wind in the clear days dawin'
Blaws the cloods heelster gowdy ow'r the bay
But there's mair nor a roch wind blawin'
Through the great glen o' the warld the day.
It's a thocht that will gar oor rottans
A' they rogues that gang gallus fresh and gay
Tak the road an' seek ither loanins
For their ill ploys tae sport an' play

Nae mair will the bonnie callants
Mairch tae war when oor braggarts crousely craw,
Nor wee weans frae pit-heid an' clachan
Mourn the ships sailing doon the Broomielaw.
Broken families in lands we've herriet
Will curse Scotland the Brave nae mair, nae mair.
Black and white, ane til ither mairriet
Mak' the vile barracks o' their masters bare.

So come all ye at hame wi' freedom
Never heed whit the hoodies croak for doom
In your hoose a' the bairns o' Adam
Can find breid, barley bree an' painted room.
When MacLean meets wi's freens in Springburn
A' the roses an' geans will turn tae bloom
And a black boy frae yont Nyanga
Dings the fell gallows o' the burghers doon.

Here is US President Abraham Lincoln's favorite poem, "Mortality" by William Knox.

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

 Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud

 A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave

 He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

 The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,

 Be scattered around, and together be laid;

 And the young and the old, and the low and the high,

 Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie...

It is a long poem, so I"ll just post a link to the entire piece here:

http://showcase.netins.net/web/creative/lincoln/education/knox.htm - http://showcase.netins.net/web/creative/lincoln/education/knox.htm

She was o’er us like a star o’er an ocean, 
Seeking the last, decuman wave with beams,
You gave her name of woe and commotion,
And ne’er – of gladness of our sacred dreams.

At day, she circled over us – a swallow;
A smile – she blossomed on our scarlet lips…
At night, she choked both us, the hollow,
With her cold hand – in different cities’ deeps.

Not touched by single of all glorifications,
Forgetful of the sins’ existing host,
Bend o’er our sleepless bed-heads, with dark passion,
She murmurs verses, desperate and cursed.

Where am I from?
That my dress smells
Like the tarragon from my
Father's garden,
And my cheeks are as red
As the flower of a
Pomegranate tree.

Where am I from?
That my hands are the
Stem of a delicate tomato plant,
And the taste in my mouth
Is the taste of pussywillows
In my mother's tea.

Where am I from?
That all my dreams
Are blue, the same
Color as the Caspian Sea.

Where am I from?
That in spring, the
Apple tree buds
In me.

You know, you know
I am from that proud
River,
Zayandeh Rud,
From the tall mountain,
Alborz.
From the land that
Reaches to Zoroaster:
The first poet on earth.

Originally published by http://www.mahmag.org/ - www.mahmag.org