Loading ...
Sorry, an error occurred while loading the content.

Here Was A Man

Expand Messages
  • louise
    You need to read some of the prose, fully to appreciate how far English virility has waned, since the days of Algernon Charles Swinburne. There is no
    Message 1 of 1 , Dec 1, 2005
    • 0 Attachment
      You need to read some of the prose, fully to appreciate how far
      English virility has waned, since the days of Algernon Charles
      Swinburne. There is no concealing a man's character, when once he
      writes narrative on some matter important, to society, to himself.
      The verse is more secretive, and pure pleasure at that. These are
      the closing lines of 'Hymn to Proserpine'.


      Ye are fallen, our lords, by what token? we wist that ye should not
      fall.
      Ye were all so fair that are broken; and one more fair than ye all.
      But I turn to her still, having seen she shall surely abide in the
      end;
      Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me now and befriend.
      O daughter of earth, of my mother, her crown and blossom of birth,
      I am also, I also, thy brother; I go as I came unto earth.
      In the night where thine eyes are as moons are in heaven, the night
      where thou art,
      Where the silence is more than all tunes, where sleep overflows from
      the heart,
      Where the poppies are sweet as the rose in our world, and the red rose
      is white,
      And the wind falls faint as it blows with the fume of the flowers of
      the night,
      And the murmur of spirits that sleep in the shadow of Gods from afar
      Grows dim in thine ears and deep as the deep dim soul of a star,
      In the sweet low light of thy face, under heavens untrod by the sun,
      Let my soul with their souls find place, and forget what is done and
      undone.
      Thou art more than the Gods who number the days of our temporal
      breath;
      For these give labour and slumber; but thou, Proserpina, death.
      Therefore now at thy feet I abide for a season in silence. I know
      I shall die as my fathers died, and sleep as they sleep; even so.
      For the glass of the years is brittle wherein we gaze for a span;
      A little soul for a little bears up this corpse which is man.
      So long I endure, no longer; and laugh not again, neither weep.
      For there is no God found stronger than death; and death is a sleep.


      --------------------------

      Poems and Ballads, fifth edition,
      London: John Camden Hotton, Piccadilly. 1873
    Your message has been successfully submitted and would be delivered to recipients shortly.