Alfred Tennyson -- Ulysses

It little profits that an idle king,

By this still hearth, among these barren crags,

Matched with an agèd wife, I mete and dole

Unequal laws unto a savage race,

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink

Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed

Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those

That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when

Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;

For always roaming with a hungry heart

Much have I seen and known; cities of men

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

Myself not least, but honoured of them all;

And drunk delight of battle with my peers,

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough

Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades

For ever and for ever when I move.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!

As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life

Were all too little, and of one to me

Little remains: but every hour is saved

From that eternal silence, something more,

A bringer of new things; and vile it were

For some three suns to store and hoard myself,

And this grey spirit yearning in desire

To follow knowledge like a sinking star,

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This my son, mine own Telemachus,

To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle—

Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil

This labour, by slow prudence to make mild

A rugged people, and through soft degrees

Subdue them to the useful and the good.

Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere

Of common duties, decent not to fail

In offices of tenderness, and pay

Meet adoration to my household gods,

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:

There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,

Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought

with me—

That ever with a frolic welcome took

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed

Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;

Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,

'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew

Though much is taken, much abides; and though

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

W. H. Auden -- In Memory of W. B. Yeats

I

He disappeared in the dead of winter:

The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,

And snow disfigured the public statues;

The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.

What instruments we have agree

The day of his death was a dark cold day.

Far from his illness

The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,

The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;

By mourning tongues

The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,

An afternoon of nurses and rumours;

The provinces of his body revolted,

The squares of his mind were empty,

Silence invaded the suburbs,

The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.

Now he is scattered among a hundred cities

And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,

To find his happiness in another kind of wood

And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.

The words of a dead man

Are modified in the guts of the living.

But in the importance and noise of to-morrow

When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,

And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,

And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,

A few thousand will think of this day

As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.

What instruments we have agree

The day of his death was a dark cold day.

II

You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:

The parish of rich women, physical decay,

Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.

Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,

For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives

In the valley of its making where executives

Would never want to tamper, flows on south

From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,

Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,

A way of happening, a mouth.

III

Earth, receive an honoured guest:

William Yeats is laid to rest.

Let the Irish vessel lie

Emptied of its poetry.

In the nightmare of the dark

All the dogs of Europe bark,

And the living nations wait,

Each sequestered in its hate;

Intellectual disgrace

Stares from every human face,

And the seas of pity lie

Locked and frozen in each eye.

Follow, poet, follow right

To the bottom of the night,

With your unconstraining voice

Still persuade us to rejoice;

With the farming of a verse

Make a vineyard of the curse,

Sing of human unsuccess

In a rapture of distress;

In the deserts of the heart

Let the healing fountain start,

In the prison of his days

Teach the free man how to praise.

Alfred Tennyson -- Crossing the Bar

Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crost the bar.

Rainer Maria Rilke - The First Elegy, Duino Elegies

The First Elegy, tr. Stephen Mitchell

Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels' hierarchies?

and even if one of them pressed me suddenly against his heart:

I would be consumed in that overwhelming existence.

For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we are still just able to endure,

and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.

Every angel is terrifying.

And so I hold myself back and swallow the call-note of my dark sobbing.

Ah, whom can we ever turn to in our need?

Not angels, not humans, and already the knowing animals are aware

that we are not really at home in our interpreted world.

Perhaps there remains for us some tree on a hillside, which every day we can take into our vision;

there remains for us yesterday's street and the loyalty of a habit so much at ease

when it stayed with us that it moved in and never left.

Oh and night: there is night, when a wind full of infinite space gnaws at our faces.

Whom would it not remain for--that longed-after, mildly disillusioning presence,

which the solitary heart so painfully meets.

Is it any less difficult for lovers?

But they keep on using each other to hide their own fate.

Don't you know yet?

Fling the emptiness out of your arms into the spaces we breathe;

perhaps the birds will feel the expanded air with more passionate flying.

Yes--the springtimes needed you. Often a star was waiting for you to notice it.

A wave rolled toward you out of the distant past,

or as you walked under an open window, a violin yielded itself to your hearing.

All this was mission. But could you accomplish it?

Weren't you always distracted by expectation, as if every event announced a beloved?

(Where can you find a place to keep her, with all the huge strange thoughts inside you

going and coming and often staying all night.)

But when you feel longing, sing of women in love; for their famous passion is still not immortal.

Sing of women abandoned and desolate (you envy them, almost)

who could love so much more purely than those who were gratified.

Begin again and again the never-attainable praising; remember: the hero lives on;

even his downfall was merely a pretext for achieving his final birth.

But Nature, spent and exhausted, takes lovers back into herself,

as if there were not enough strength to create them a second time.

Have you imagined Gaspara Stampa intensely enough

so that any girl deserted by her beloved might be inspired by that fierce example of soaring,

objectless love and might say to herself, "Perhaps I can be like her?"

Shouldn't this most ancient of sufferings finally grow more fruitful for us?

Isn't it time that we lovingly freed ourselves from the beloved and,

quivering, endured: as the arrow endures the bowstring's tension,

so that gathered in the snap of release it can be more than itself.

For there is no place where we can remain.

Voices. Voices. Listen, my heart, as only saints have listened:

until the gigantic call lifted them off the ground;

yet they kept on, impossibly, kneeling and didn't notice at all: so complete was their listening.

Not that you could endure God's voice--far from it.

But listen to the voice of the wind and the ceaseless message that forms itself out of silence.

It is murmuring toward you now from those who died young.

Didn't their fate, whenever you stepped into a church in Naples or Rome,

quietly come to address you?

Or high up, some eulogy entrusted you with a mission,

as, last year, on the plaque in Santa Maria Formosa.

What they want of me is that I gently remove the appearance of injustice about their death--

which at times slightly hinders their souls from proceeding onward.

Of course, it is strange to inhabit the earth no longer,

to give up customs one barely had time to learn,

not to see roses and other promising Things in terms of a human future;

no longer to be what one was in infinitely anxious hands;

to leave even one's own first name behind,

forgetting it as easily as a child abandons a broken toy.

Strange to no longer desire one's desires.

Strange to see meanings that clung together once, floating away in every direction.

And being dead is hard work and full of retrieval before one can gradually feel a trace of eternity.

Though the living are wrong to believe in the too-sharp distinctions which

they themselves have created.

Angels (they say) don't know whether it is the living they are moving among, or the dead.

The eternal torrent whirls all ages along in it, through both realms forever,

and their voices are drowned out in its thunderous roar.

In the end, those who were carried off early no longer need us:

they are weaned from earth's sorrows and joys,

as gently as children outgrow the soft breasts of their mothers.

But we, who do need such great mysteries,

we for whom grief is so often the source of our spirit's growth--:

could we exist without them?

Is the legend meaningless that tells how, in the lament for Linus,

the daring first notes of song pierced through the barren numbness;

and then in the startled space which a youth as lovely as a god has suddenly left forever,

the Void felt for the first time that harmony which now enraptures and comforts and helps us.

Ted Hughes -- Lovesong

He loved her and she loved him

His kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to

He had no other appetite

She bit him she gnawed him she sucked

She wanted him complete inside her

Safe and sure forever and ever

Their little cries fluttered into the curtains

Her eyes wanted nothing to get away

Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows

He gripped her hard so that life

Should not drag her from that moment

He wanted all future to cease

He wanted to topple with his arms round her

Off that moment's brink and into nothing

Or everlasting or whatever there was

Her embrace was an immense press

To print him into her bones

His smiles were the garrets of a fairy palace

Where the real world would never come

Her smiles were spider bites

So he would lie still till she felt hungry

His words were occupying armies

Her laughs were an assassin's attempts

His looks were bullets daggers of revenge

His glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets

His whispers were whips and jackboots

Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing

His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway

Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks

And their deep cries crawled over the floors

Like an animal dragging a great trap

His promises were the surgeon's gag

Her promises took the top off his skull

She would get a brooch made of it

His vows pulled out all her sinews

He showed her how to make a love-knot

Her vows put his eyes in formalin

At the back of her secret drawer

Their screams stuck in the wall

Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves

Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop

In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs

In their dreams their brains took each other hostage

In the morning they wore each other's face

Roger McGough -- Vinegar

sometimes

i feel like a priest

in a fish & chips queue

quietly thinking

as the vinegar runs through

how nice it would be

to buy supper for two

Roger McGough -- You and I

I explain quietly. You

hear me shouting. You

try a new tack. I

feel old wounds reopen.

You see both sides. I

see your blinkers. I

am placatory. You

sense a new selfishness.

I am a dove. You

recognize the hawk. You

offer an olive branch. I

feel the thorns.

You bleed. I

see crocodile tears. I

withdraw. You

reel from the impact.

নীরেন্দ্রনাথ চক্রবর্তী -- অমলকান্তি

অমলকান্তি আমার বন্ধু,
ইস্কুলে আমরা একসঙ্গে পড়তাম।
রোজ দেরি করে ক্লাসে আসত, পড়া পারত না,
শব্দরূপ জিজ্ঞেস করলে
এমন অবাক হয়ে জানলার দিকে তাকিয়ে থাকতো যে,
দেখে ভারী কষ্ট হত আমাদের।
আমরা কেউ মাষ্টার হতে চেয়েছিলাম, কেউ ডাক্তার, কেউ উকিল।
অমলকান্তি সে সব কিছু হতে চায়নি।
সে রোদ্দুর হতে চেয়েছিল !
ক্ষান্তবর্ষণ কাক-ডাকা বিকেলের সেই লাজুক রোদ্দুর,
জাম আর জামরূলের পাতায়
যা নাকি অল্প-একটু হাসির মতন লেগে থাকে।

আমরা কেউ মাষ্টার হয়েছি, কেউ ডাক্তার, কেউ উকিল।
অমলকান্তি রোদ্দুর হতে পারেনি।
সে এখন অন্ধকার একটা ছাপাখানায় কাজ করে।
মাঝে মধ্যে আমার সঙ্গে দেখা করতে আসে,
চা খায়, এটা ওটা গল্প করে, তারপর বলে, উঠি তা হলে'।
আমি ওকে দরজা পর্যন্ত এগিয়ে দিয়ে আসি।

আমাদের মধ্যে যে এখন মাষ্টারি করে,
অনায়াসে সে ডাক্তার হতে পারত,
যে ডাক্তার হতে চেয়েছিল,
উকিল হলে তার এমন কিছু ক্ষতি হত না।
অথচ, সকলেরই ইচ্ছাপূরণ হল, এক অমলকান্তি ছাড়া।
অমলকান্তি রোদ্দুর হতে পারেনি।
সেই অমলকান্তি - রোদ্দুরের কথা ভাবতে-ভাবতে
ভাবতে-ভাবতে
যে একদিন রোদ্দুর হতে চেয়েছিল।

ee cummings -- somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility: whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens; only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain,has such small hands

ee cummins -- in a middle of a room

in a middle of a room

stands a suicide

sniffing a Paper rose

smiling to a self

"somewhere it is Spring and sometimes

people are in real:imagine

somewhere real flowers,but

I can't imagine real flowers for if I

could,they would somehow

not Be real"

(so he smiles

smiling)"but I will not

everywhere be real to

you in a moment"

The is blond

with small hands

"& everything is easier

than I had guessed everything would

be;even remembering the way who

looked at whom first,anyhow dancing"

(a moon swims out of a cloud

a clock strikes midnight

a finger pulls a trigger

a bird flies into a mirror)

Agha Shahid Ali -- Farewell

Farewell

At a certain point I lost track of you.

They make a desolation and call it peace.

when you left even the stones were buried:

the defenceless would have no weapons.

When the ibex rubs itself against the rocks,

who collects its fallen fleece from the slopes?

O Weaver whose seams perfectly vanished,

who weighs the hairs on the jeweller's balance?

They make a desolation and call it peace.

Who is the guardian tonight of the Gates of Paradise?

My memory is again in the way of your history.

Army convoys all night like desert caravans:

In the smoking oil of dimmed headlights, time dissolved- all

winter- its crushed fennel.

We can't ask them: Are you done with the world?

In the lake the arms of temples and mosques are locked in each other's

reflections.

Have you soaked saffron to pour on them when they are found like this

centuries later in this country

I have stitched to your shadow?

In this country we step out with doors in our arms

Children run out with windows in their arms.

You drag it behind you in lit corridors.

if the switch is pulled you will be torn from everything.

At a certain point I lost track of you.

You needed me. You needed to perfect me.

In your absence you polished me into the Enemy.

Your history gets in the way of my memory.

I am everything you lost. You can't forgive me.

I am everything you lost. Your perfect Enemy.

Your memory gets in the way of my memory:

I am being rowed through Paradise in a river of Hell:

Exquisite ghost, it is night.

The paddle is a heart; it breaks the porcelain waves.

It is still night. The paddle is a lotus.

I am rowed- as it withers-toward the breeze which is soft as

if it had pity on me.

If only somehow you could have been mine, what wouldn't

have happened in the world?

I'm everything you lost. You won't forgive me.

My memory keeps getting in the way of your history.

There is nothing to forgive.You can't forgive me.

I hid my pain even from myself; I revealed my pain only to myself.

There is everything to forgive. You can't forgive me.

If only somehow you could have been mine,

what would not have been possible in the world?

-- Agha Shahid Ali

Carol Ann Duffy -- Words, Wide Night

Carol Ann Duffy -- Words, Wide Night

Somewhere on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.

This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I am singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.

La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you. For I am in love with you

and this is what it is like or what it is like in words.