Clough: "In the Depths"

IN THE DEPTHS

It is not sweet content, be sure,
That moves the nobler Muse to song,
Yet when could truth come whole and pure
From hearts that inly writhe with wrong?

’Tis not the calm and peaceful breast
That sees or reads the problem true;
They only know on whom it has prest
Too hard to hope to solve it too.

Our ills are worse than at their ease
These blameless happy souls suspect,
They only study the disease,
Alas, who live not to detect.

--Arthur Hugh Clough

Neptune: A Close-Up

A comment elsewhere: "I court watery luck with all the ardor I can muster."

I need to make those pool workouts happen again; I need to make that ocean time--free diving or kayaking--happen again.  I need . . . .

Poetry in Motion: McKay, Teasdale, and Wroth

THE TROPICS IN NEW YORK

 Bananas ripe and green, and ginger root
     Cocoa in pods and alligator pears,
And tangerines and mangoes and grape fruit,
     Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs,

Sat in the window, bringing memories
     of fruit-trees laden by low-singing rills,
And dewy dawns, and mystical skies
     In benediction over nun-like hills.

My eyes grow dim, and I could no more gaze;
     A wave of longing through my body swept,
And, hungry for the old, familiar ways
     I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.

--Claude McKay



NIGHT SONG AT AMALFI

I asked the heaven of stars
     What I should give my love --
It answered me with silence,
     Silence above.

I asked the darkened sea
     Down where the fishers go --
It answered me with silence,
     Silence below.

Oh, I could give him weeping,
     Or I could give him song --
But how can I give silence,
     My whole life long? 

--Sara Teasdale



From PAMPHILIA TO AMPHILANTHUS


When night's black mantle could most darkness prove, 
     And sleep, death's image, did my senses hire 
     From knowledge of myself, then thoughts did move 
     Swifter than those most swiftness need require.
In sleep, a chariot drawn by wing'd desire, 
     I saw, where sate bright Venus, Queen of love, 
     And at her feet her son, still adding fire 
     To burning hearts, which she did hold above.
But one heart flaming more than all the rest, 
     The goddess held, and put it to my breast. 
     "Dear Son, now shoot," she said, "thus must we win."
He her obeyed, and martyr'd my poor heart. 
     I, waking, hoped as dreams it would depart; 
     Yet since, O me, a lover have I been.


--Mary Wroth