Posts tagged ‘1922’

Tuesday, 19 March 2019

Change by John Raymond Knister

I shall not wonder more, then,
But I shall know.

Leaves change, and birds, flowers,
And after years are still the same.

The sea’s breast heaves in sighs to the moon,
But they are moon and sea forever.

As in other times the trees stand tense and lonely,
And spread a hollow moan of other times.

You will be you yourself,
I’ll find you more, not else,
For vintage of the woeful years.

The sea breathes, or broods, or loudens,
Is bright or is mist and the end of the world;
And the sea is constant to change.

I shall not wonder more, then,
But I shall know.


Date: 1922

By: John Raymond Knister (1899-1932)

Monday, 11 February 2019

O Day As Hot As Day of Lovers’ Parting by Abu’l Qasim Suri

O day as hot as day of lovers’ parting
I spent upon a courser lean of flank!
On him in summer’s wave like heart of lover
Burning with separation’s pain I sank.


Date: c975 (original in Arabic); 1922 (translation in English)

By: Abu’l Qasim Suri (10th century)

Translated by: David Samuel Margoliouth (1858-1940)

Monday, 15 January 2018

Love Feathereth My Wings, and Bold Desire by Luigi Tansillo

Love feathereth my wings, and bold desire
Spreadeth them for such lofty flight that I,
For ever soaring, hour by hour aspire
To assail the very portals of the sky.
When I look down afraid through boundless space,
He speaketh, proudly promising so be
I fall and perish in such noble race.
Death’s leap will be my immortality.

Whence, as of one who ardently desired,
And, dying, gave the sea his lasting name
Where the sun melted his brave wings apart,
The world might say of me: “He too aspired
Unto the stars, and if he fell the blame
Is life’s, this failed, but not his daring heart!”

From: Lucchi, Lorna de’, An Anthology of Italian Poems, 13th-19th Century, 1922, Alfred A. Knopf: New York, p. 141.

Date: c1550 (original in Italian); 1922 (translation in English)

By: Luigi Tansillo (1510-1568)

Translated by: Lorna de’Lucchi (18??-19??)

Sunday, 3 December 2017

The Parrot by Sacheverell Reresby Sitwell

The parrot’s voice snaps out–
No good to contradict–
What he says he’ll say again:
Dry facts, like biscuits,–

His voice and vivid colours
Of his breast and wings
Are immemoriably old;
Old dowagers dressed in crimpèd satin
Boxed in their rooms
Like specimens beneath a glass
Inviolate–and never changing,
Their memory of emotions dead;
The ardour of their summers
Sprayed like camphor
On their silken parasols
Entissued in a cupboard.

Reflective, but with never a new thought
The parrot sways upon his ivory perch–
Then gravely turns a somersault
Through rings nailed in the roof–
Much as the sun performs his antics
As he climbs the aerial bridge
We only see
Through crystal prisms in a falling rain.


Date:  1922

By: Sacheverell Reresby Sitwell (1897-1988)

Monday, 6 November 2017

A Mother Walks in Her Garden: 1917 by Blanche Allyn Bane Kuder

The clipped hedge and the hollyhocks,
The pungent borders of the box,
The stretch of meadow, green and wide,
Somewhere in France a boy has died.

That I may walk in my garden dim,
His clean young soul is gone from him,
That I may loiter in sun-drenched dreams,
Over his head the wild shell screams.

The apricots by the southern wall,
The purple heaps where the ripe plums fall,
The fringed grass by the sunk pool’s side,
Somewhere in France a boy has died.

That I may gather of fruit and bloom
His be the pain and rack and doom,
The ashen face and the tortured limb,
And mine own son may follow him!

From: Kuder, Blanche Bane, April Weather, 1922, The Cornhill Publishing Co: Boston & New York, p. 14.

Date: 1922

By: Blanche Allyn Bane Kuder (1882-1959)

Friday, 20 October 2017

The Last Fire by Herbert Sherman Gorman

You saw the last fires burning on the hill
In that far autumn twilight when we took
The future by the hand through woods as still
As your heart is to-day, and crossed the brook.

The brook that gurgled through the quietude
Was just a slender stream that sauntered on.
How were we to know the thing we should—
That we had crossed our narrow Rubicon?

And after, in the shadow of the leaves,
When your great eyes grew with the growing night
They left the hollows where the twilight grieves
And mirrored back the bonfire on the height.

And what quick flame was in your eyes I knew;
And how the moment caught us on our way
Is Time’s own story written for a few
In dust of ashes in your eyes to-day.

From: Gorman, Herbert S., “The Last Fire” in The Outlook, 12 July 1922, p. 449.

Date: 1922

By: Herbert Sherman Gorman (1893-1954)

Thursday, 1 June 2017

If You Could Come by Katharine Lee Bates

My love, my love, if you could come once more
From your high place,
I would not question you for heavenly lore,
But, silent, take the comfort of your face.

I would not ask you if those golden spheres
In love rejoice,
If only our stained star hath sin and tears,
But fill my famished hearing with your voice.

One touch of you were worth a thousand creeds.
My wound is numb
Through toil-pressed, but all night long it bleeds
In aching dreams, and still you cannot come.


Date: 1922

By: Katharine Lee Bates (1859-1929)

Monday, 10 October 2016

Madrigal III by Ludovico Ariosto

When a fierce wind goes raging by,
A great fire grows, it doth not die;
When a light zephyr floats about
It blows a little burning out!
Where bitterest is the battle strife
In every place, by every coast,
Within the heart great love hath life
And of the doughtiest deeds doth boast.
Madonna, poor thy love and slight
If by a breath ’tis put to flight!


Date: 1518 (original in Italian); 1922 (translation in English)

By: Ludovico Ariosto (1474-1533)

Translated by: Lorna de’Lucchi (?-?)

Wednesday, 31 August 2016

Sonnet by Pietro Bembo

Thou too then, Brother, in the tide of spring
Dying, hast left me solitary here,
Whence life, before so bright and glad a thing,
Is shadowed over with dismay and fear;
Justice it would have been and passionate
Desire of mine that hitherwards the dart
Firstly had sped, that as I was not late
In coming, so I might betimes depart.
Then I would not have known such deep despair,
Nor seen myself’s best portion borne away,
Nor been subjected to such misery;
But now, since I before thee might not fare,
God grant, Who loveth equity, I may
Be liberated soon and follow thee.


Date: 1530 (original in Italian), 1922 (translation in English)

By: Pietro Bembo (1470-1547)

Translated by: Lorna de’Lucchi (?-?)

Tuesday, 8 September 2015

The Rhymed Poem by Anonymous

He granted me life, who revealed this sun
and graciously revealed that radiant engine.
I was glad with glee, adorned with hues,
with the colours of joy, with the hues of blossoms.
Men gazed upon me — banquets were not lacking —,
rejoiced in the gift of life. Caparisoned horses
carried me joyfully in journeys over the plains,
delightfully with long strides of the limbs.
Then was the world quickened and kindled with growth,
expanded under the skies, covered with a troop of advisers.
Guests came and went, mingled chatter,
lingered over delight, joyfully embellished it.
The appointed ship glided through the distance into the broad sea;
there was a path upon the ocean stream, where I was not without guidance.
I had high rank; I lacked nothing in the hall,
so a brave company rode there. There it often befel the warrior
that he saw in the hall weighty treasure,
serviceable to thanes. I was puffed up with power;
wise men praised me, saved me in battle,
conducted me well, protected me from foes.
So joy dwelt within me, a family troop encompassed me,
I possessed estates, where I stepped I had command over
whatever the earth brought forth, I had a princely throne,
I sang with charmed words, old friendship did not grow less.
Moreover, there was a year rich in gifts, a resounding harp-string,
lasting peace cut short the river of sorrow.
The servants were active, the harp was resonant,
loudly rang; sound pealed,
music made melody, did not greatly abate;
the castle hall trembled, it towered bright.
Courage increased, wealth attracted;
I gave wise counsel to the lords, enriched the valiant.
Mind became mighty, heart rejoiced,
good faith flourished, glory abounded,
abundance smiled.
I furnished gold, the gem passed round,
treasure did treachery, the bond of friendship narrowed.
Bold I was in my array, noble in my equipment,
my joy was lordly, my way of life happy.
I protected the land, I was leader to the folk;
for a long time my life among the people was
familiar with glory, well devoted to it.

Now my heart is troubled, fearful owing to various disasters,
nigh to unavoidable distresses. There departs into flight by night
he who in the day had been bold. There wanders now deep and far
a burning secret disease in full growth, developed within the breast,
spread in different directions. Evil has blossomed
greatly in the mind. The mind’s nature
bottomless grief, too much penned in, attacks,
burns eager for calamity, runs fiercely to and fro.
The weary man suffers, begins a far journey,
his pain is pitiless, he adds to his sorrows,
his glory ceases, he loses his happiness,
he loses his skill, he does not burn with desires.

In the same way here joys perish, lordships fall;
here men lose life, often choose sins;
too evil is the time of good faith that feebly declined;
it went badly with the high seat and every hour went to the worse.
So now the world changes, brings death,
and pursues hate, brings men to shame.
The race of men perishes, the slaughtering spear rends,
the deceitful evildoer brawls, wickedness polishes the arrow,
debt-anxiety bites, old age cuts short courage,
the time of misery binds, anger desecrates the oath,
constant grief spreads widely, the indirect path is treacherous.
Fierce anger digs wrinkles, …………………. engraves,
artificial beauty grows foul, summer heat becomes cool,
the wealth of the earth perishes, enmity rages,
the might of the world ages, courage grows cold.

Fate wove it me and my deserts brought it upon me
that I should dig a grave, and that grim cavern
I cannot avoid with my flesh, when death, arrow-swift,
seizes my life in his inevitable grasp, when the night comes,
that dispossesses me of my home and deprives me of my abode here.
Then the body lies low, the worm devours the limbs,
nay, has delight and takes sustenance,
until the bones are …………………. one,
and finally there is nothing, except that the lot of necessity
is here appointed for evil deeds. Good fame will not be destroyed;
all the sooner the good man thinks of that, he chastens himself the more often,
avoids the bitter sins, has hope of the better joy,
remembers the delight of the heavenly rewards. Here are the blisses of the mercies of God
joyous in the kingdom of heaven. Let us now, like the saints,
freed from sins, hasten saved,
defended from vices, gloriously saved,
where mankind, happy before the Judge, may
see the true God and for ever rejoice in peace.

From: Mackie, W. S., “The Old English “Rhymed Poem”” in The Journal of English and Germanic Philogy, Volume 21, 1922, pp. 507-519.

Date: 10th Century (original in Old English); 1922 (translation in English)

By: Anonymous

Translated by: William Souter Mackie (1884-19??)

Alternative Titles: The Rhyming Poem, The Riming Poem