Annabel Lee

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

~ Edgar Allan Poe

Sirens Call

The Siren by Waterhouse

Sirens Call

 

Softly

her voice rose up

across the boundless sea

bewitching be the sirens tune

she sings

 

Ships crash

against the rocks

driven by enchantment

seeking the sea maiden’s beauty

ever to be

denied

Viking Burial

I think this is a great illustration of a Viking burial by Sir John Everett Millais

The Early Morning

The moon on the one hand, the dawn on the other:
The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother.
The moon on my left and the dawn on my right.
My brother, good morning: my sister, good night.

~Hilaire Belloc

The Wine of Dionysus

Bacchus and Ariadne by Charles-Joseph Natoire

The Wine of Dionysus

 

The rhythm of the drums roll

vibrating through the bones

feel it deep within the soul.

 

There is a full moon tonight

and it is shining bright

so all ye maidens beware

for tonight is the night

that Bacchus has come to roam.

 

He will steel a kiss and perhaps a pinch

but all in the name of fun, so set your eyes

on the one for whom you have designs

and drink the wine of Dionysus.

 

Flesh against flesh there can

come to be no sweeter scent

as Pan has come to play his flute

dancing in delight for the beautiful sight

of pure naked bodies beneath the moon.

 

The women are ripe with bright

shinning eyes, while they seem to glow

touched by Aphrodite’s beauty,

ever so free and ever so bold

with quick wistful smiles, they sing

sweet melodies bewitching and betwixt.

 

While the men charged with satyr’s

charms, shall find favor with the 

supple lass of their choosing,

to slip away, down in the grass

serenaded by the lovers crescendo.

 

So beware on the night of

Bacchus’ delight, lest yet find yourself

caught quite unaware, by a flavored kiss

and a bit of a frisk, to which you just might

find to be a pleasure and a cherished treasure

for is there any more pure truth

than two bodies naked together.  

We Sing

We Sing

 

Here us

we speak

among the rustle of leaves

against grains in the wind

with shifted sands

ripples in the lake

 

Listen

we sing

low mournful to the night

quiet hushes hidden from sight

coming forth beneath the earth

 

voices without place

lost against the wake

carried across stones

touch of warm breath

wisp of chilled air

 

Chiming out

as each drop of water erupts

shattered sonatas

trill in a million figments

 

We are lost

notes fallen in spiders lace

trembling vibrations

traveling through trees

released through leaf tips

we survived

Moon Shadows

Moon Shadows

STILL as

On windless nights

The moon-cast shadows are,

So still will be my heart when I

Am dead.  

Adelaide Crapsey

Ishtar, Mistress of the Night

Ishtar, Mistress of the Night

 

we honor you; dancing in silver’s

moonlight, your beauty wrapped within

dark mysteries as you speak

 

of wisdom drawn from Earth’s

deepest secrets, gazing

down from above; upon your

star-studded throne

 

the quarters of love

reside beneath your rule

patroness of young women

protectress of the heart

 

as the moon rotates always

with two sides, one to show and

one to hide, so are you with your

double-face

 

such kindness can be found

when you kneel down to

offer gentle kisses that will

bring great fortunes never dreamed

 

but one must never forget

when not given due respect

your coldness may turn and

cruelty show, though not un-

just

 

We sing your hymns, Milady

who lives among the stars

and when again you are taken down

below; sinking with the shadow

 

so you are mourned by the

passing hours of day

until at last your guiding beauty

arise once more.

You know the place: then

You know the place: then

Leave Crete and come to us
waiting where the grove is
pleasantest, by precincts

sacred to you; incense
smokes on the altar, cold
streams murmur through
       the

apple branches, a young
rose thicket shades the
       ground
and quivering leaves pour

down deep sleep; in meadows
where horses have grown sleek
among spring flowers, dill

scents the air. Queen! Cyprian!
Fill our gold cups with love
stirred into clear nectar

~ Sappho

The World is Too Much With Us

I fell in love with Wordsworth when I first read this poem.  It truly moves me, and I think it says so much.

The World is Too Much With Us

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune,
It moves us not.–Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

~ William Wordsworth