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Because my love is quick to come and go- A little here, and then a little there- What use are any words of mine to swear My heart is stubborn, and my spirit slow Of weathering the drip and drive of woe? What is my oath, when you have but to bare My little, easy loves; and I can dare Only to shrug, and answer, "They are so"? You do not know how heavy a heart it is That hangs about my neck- a clumsy stone Cut with a birth, a death, a bridal-day. Each time I love, I find it still my own, Who take it, now to that lad, now to this, Seeking to give the wretched thing away. Dorothy Parker
1 Ay, gaze upon her rose-wreath'd hair,
2 And gaze upon her smile; 3 Seem as you drank the very air 4 Her breath perfumed the while; 5 And wake for her the gifted line, 6 That wild and witching lay, 7 And swear your heart is as a shrine, 8 That only holds her sway. 9 'Tis well: I am revenged at last;-- 10 Mark you that scornful cheek,-- 11 The eye averted as you pass'd, 12 Spoke more than words could speak. 13 Ay, now by all the bitter tears 14 That I have shed for thee,-- 15 The racking doubts, the burning fears,-- 16 Avenged they well may be-- 17 By the nights pass'd in sleepless care, 18 The days of endless woe; 19 All that you taught my heart to bear, 20 All that yourself will know. 21 I would not wish to see you laid 22 Within an early tomb; 23 I should forget how you betray'd, 24 And only weep your doom: 25 But this is fitting punishment, 26 To live and love in vain,-- 27 O my wrung heart, be thou content, 28 And feed upon his pain. 29 Go thou and watch her lightest sigh,-- 30 Thine own it will not be; 31 And bask beneath her sunny eye,-- 32 It will not turn on thee. 33 'Tis well: the rack, the chain, the wheel, 34 Far better hadst thou proved; 35 Ev'n I could almost pity feel, 36 For thou art nor beloved. Letitia Elizabeth Landon
Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow- You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand- How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep- while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream? Edgar Allan Poe
Like a joy on the heart of a sorrow, The sunset hangs on a cloud; A golden storm of glittering sheaves, Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves, The wild wind blows in a cloud. Hark to a voice that is calling To my heart in the voice of the wind: My heart is weary and sad and alone, For its dreams like the fluttering leaves have gone, And why should I stay behind? Sarojini Naidu
The night is only a sort of carbon paper, Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars Letting in the light, peephole after peephole . . . A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things. Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions. Over and over the old, granular movie Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams, Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful, A garden of buggy rose that made him cry. His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks. Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars. He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue . . . How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening! Those sugary planets whose influence won for him A life baptized in no-life for a while, And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby. Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods. Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good. His head is a little interior of grey mirrors. Each gesture flees immediately down an alley Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance Drains like water out the hole at the far end. He lives without privacy in a lidless room, The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations. Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments. Already he can feel daylight, his white disease, Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions. The city is a map of cheerful twitters now, And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank, Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed. Sylvia Plath
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