Saturday, February 25, 2017

Saturday Poetry - Percy Bysshe Shelley

Amid the desolation of a city,
Which was the cradle, and is now the grave
Of an extinguished people,—so that Pity

Weeps o’er the shipwrecks of Oblivion’s wave,
There stands the Tower of Famine. It is built
Upon some prison-homes, whose dwellers rave

For bread, and gold, and blood: Pain, linked to Guilt,
Agitates the light flame of their hours,
Until its vital oil is spent or spilt.

There stands the pile, a tower amid the towers 
And sacred domes; each marble-ribbed roof,
The brazen-gated temples, and the bowers

Of solitary wealth,--the tempest-proof
Pavilions of the dark Italian air,--
Are by its presence dimmed--they stand aloof, 

And are withdrawn—so that the world is bare;
As if a spectre wrapped in shapeless terror
Amid a company of ladies fair

Should glide and glow, till it became a mirror
Of all their beauty, and their hair and hue,
The life of their sweet eyes, with all its error,
Should be absorbed, till they to marble grew. 

Saturday, February 04, 2017

Saturday Poetry - The Sweet Hussy, Thomas Hardy

In his early days he was quite surprised
 When she told him she was compromised
 By meetings and lingerings at his whim,
 And thinking not of herself but him;
 While she lifted orbs aggrieved and round
 That scandal should so soon abound,
 (As she had raised them to nine or ten
 Of antecedent nice young men):
 And in remorse he thought with a sigh,
 How good she is, and how bad am I! -
 It was years before he understood
 That she was the wicked one - he the good.