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MURMUR FROM THE EAST & Other Poems ———————————————— JAN OSKAR HANSEN Lapwing Belfast MURMUR FROM THE EAST & OTHER.
Table of contents

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• Numéros en texte intégral
• Easter, by William Butler Yeats | Poetry Foundation
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The Lover's Errand. John Alden. Courtship of Miles Standish, The V. The Sailing of the Mayflower.

The March of Miles Standish. The Spinning-Wheel. The Wedding-Day. Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie Prologue. Masque of Pandora, The I. The Workshop of Hephaestus. Masque of Pandora, The II. Tower of Prometheus on Mount Caucasus. Masque of Pandora, The IV. The Air. Masque of Pandora, The V. The House of Epimetheus.

Masque of Pandora, The VI. In the Garden. Masque of Pandora and other poems Flight the Fourth. The Challenge of Thor.

King Olaf's Return. Thora of Rimol. Queen Sigrid the Haughty. The Skerry of Shrieks. The Wraith of Odin. Thangbrand the Priest. Raud the Strong.

• Easter, by William Butler Yeats | Poetry Foundation.
• Love poems: writers choose their favourites for Valentine's Day?
• The Beginning of The Sea Story of Australia.

Bishop Sigurd at Salten Fiord. King Olaf's Christmas. The Building of the Long Serpent. The Crew of the Long Serpent.

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Almost as patient as a sundial, I understand what love can't, and forgive as love never would. Trips with them always go smoothly, concerts are heard, cathedrals visited, scenery is seen. And when seven hills and rivers come between us, the hills and rivers can be found on any map.

They deserve the credit if I live in three dimensions, in nonlyrical and nonrhetorical space with a genuine, shifting horizon. To be in love and to say nothing about it — this seems to me the most elegant and perhaps the only sensible form of romantic attachment. Passions are likened best to floods and streams: The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb; So, when affections yield discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they come. They that are rich in words, in words discover That they are poor in that which makes a lover.

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart, The merit of true passion, With thinking that he feels no smart, That sues for no compassion;. Since, if my plaints serve not to approve The conquest of thy beauty, It comes not from defect of love, But from excess of duty. For, knowing that I sue to serve A saint of such perfection, As all desire, but none deserve, A place in her affection,. I rather choose to want relief Than venture the revealing; Where glory recommends the grief, Despair distrusts the healing.

Thus those desires that aim too high For any mortal lover, When reason cannot make them die, Discretion doth them cover. Yet, when discretion doth bereave The plaints that they should utter, Then thy discretion may perceive That silence is a suitor. Silence in love bewrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty: A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity.

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, My true, though secret, passion: He smarteth most that hides his smart, And sues for no compassion. I found it hard to choose between "Pure Death" and "O love, be fed with apples while you may". Twice or thrice had I lov'd thee, Before I knew thy face or name; So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame Angels affect us oft, and worshipp'd be; Still when, to where thou wert, I came, Some lovely glorious nothing I did see. But since my soul, whose child love is, Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do, More subtle than the parent is Love must not be, but take a body too; And therefore what thou wert, and who, I bid Love ask, and now That it assume thy body, I allow, And fix itself in thy lip, eye, and brow.

Whilst thus to ballast love I thought, And so more steadily to have gone, With wares which would sink admiration, I saw I had love's pinnace overfraught; Ev'ry thy hair for love to work upon Is much too much, some fitter must be sought; For, nor in nothing, nor in things Extreme, and scatt'ring bright, can love inhere; Then, as an angel, face, and wings Of air, not pure as it, yet pure, doth wear, So thy love may be my love's sphere; Just such disparity As is 'twixt air and angels' purity, 'Twixt women's love, and men's, will ever be. The best love poems are written by the most faithless lovers, Burns and Byron.

There are so many great Burns and Byron love poems, but my favourite is Byron's poem to a young man at Missolonghi who looked after him in his last illness. It begins "I watched thee when the foe was at our side" and the last stanza has the greatest split infinitive in literature.

Poems of unrequited love are very powerful, and this is one of the best. I also admire "When we two parted in silence and tears" but I guess these aren't very good for St Valentine. I watched thee when the foe was at our side, Ready to strike at him — or thee and me, Were safety hopeless — rather than divide Aught with one loved save love and liberty. I watched thee on the breakers, when the rock, Received our prow, and all was storm and fear, And bade thee cling to me through every shock; This arm would be thy bark, or breast thy bier.

I watched thee when the fever glazed thine eyes, Yielding my couch and stretched me on the ground When overworn with watching, ne'er to rise From thence if thou an early grave hadst found. The earthquake came, and rocked the quivering wall, And men and nature reeled as if with wine. Whom did I seek around the tottering hall? For thee.

Whose safety first provide for? And when convulsive throes denied my breath The faintest utterance to my fading thought, To thee — to thee — e'en in the gasp of death My spirit turned, oh! Thus much and more; and yet thou lov'st me not, And never wilt! Love dwells not in our will. Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot To strongly, wrongly, vainly love thee still. I love the intensity of feeling and the subtle eroticism of this poem.

The story of love's betrayal is obliquely told, charged with pain, yet it speaks straight to us across years. There is a mystery here too. Is Anne Boleyn the woman in the loose gown, who catches the poet in her arms "long and small"? Thomas Wyatt was imprisoned in the Tower for alleged adultery with her, and it is thought that from his window he witnessed her execution. The poem is written in rhyme royal, which may be a clue in itself ….

They flee from me that sometime did me seek With naked foot, stalking in my chamber. I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek, That now are wild and do not remember That sometime they put themself in danger To take bread at my hand; and now they range, Busily seeking with a continual change. Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise Twenty times better; but once in special, In thin array after a pleasant guise, When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall, And she me caught in her arms long and small; Therewithall sweetly did me kiss And softly said, "Dear heart, how like you this?

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It was no dream: I lay broad waking. But all is turned thorough my gentleness Into a strange fashion of forsaking; And I have leave to go of her goodness, And she also, to use newfangleness. But since that I so kindly am served I would fain know what she hath deserved. When I was eight, I was romantically in love with Jean, my beautiful young nanny. Let me count the ways" was my favourite. I used to croon it to myself in her honour. Much later, Harold's love poems became the delight of my life — best of all "It is Here" — and similarly provide comfort now he is no longer around to recite them to me.

What was that sound that came in on the dark? What is this maze of light it leaves us in? What is this stance we take, To turn away and then turn back?