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by Charles Baudelaire
From heaven or hell, O Beauty, come you hence ?
Out from your gaze, infernal and divine,
Pours blended evil and beneficence,
And therefore men have likened you to wine.
Sunset and dawn within your eyes are fair;
Stormlike you scatter ferfume into space;
Your kiss, a philtre from an amphora rare,
Charms boys to courage andmakes heroes base.
Whence come you, from what spheres, or inky deeps,
With careless hand joy and distress to strew?
Fate, like a dog at heel, behind you creeps;
You govern all things here, and naught you rue.
You wald upon the dead with scornful glances,
Among your gems Horror is not least fair;
Murder, the dearest of your baubles, dances
Upon your haughty breast with amorous air.
Mothlike around your flame the transient, turning,
Crackles and flames and cries, "Ah, heavenly doom !"
The quivering lover o'er his mistress yearning
Is but a dying man who woos his tomb.
From heaven or the abyss? Let questioning be,
O artlesss monster wreaking endless pain,
So that your smile and glance throw wide to me
An infinite that I have loved in vain.
From Satan or from God ? Holy or vile ?
Let questioning rest. O soft-eyed sprite, my queen,
O rhythm, perfume, light -- so you bequile
Time from his slothfulness, the world from spleen.
by Charles Baudelaire
From heaven or hell, O Beauty, come you hence ?
Out from your gaze, infernal and divine,
Pours blended evil and beneficence,
And therefore men have likened you to wine.
Sunset and dawn within your eyes are fair;
Stormlike you scatter ferfume into space;
Your kiss, a philtre from an amphora rare,
Charms boys to courage andmakes heroes base.
Whence come you, from what spheres, or inky deeps,
With careless hand joy and distress to strew?
Fate, like a dog at heel, behind you creeps;
You govern all things here, and naught you rue.
You wald upon the dead with scornful glances,
Among your gems Horror is not least fair;
Murder, the dearest of your baubles, dances
Upon your haughty breast with amorous air.
Mothlike around your flame the transient, turning,
Crackles and flames and cries, "Ah, heavenly doom !"
The quivering lover o'er his mistress yearning
Is but a dying man who woos his tomb.
From heaven or the abyss? Let questioning be,
O artlesss monster wreaking endless pain,
So that your smile and glance throw wide to me
An infinite that I have loved in vain.
From Satan or from God ? Holy or vile ?
Let questioning rest. O soft-eyed sprite, my queen,
O rhythm, perfume, light -- so you bequile
Time from his slothfulness, the world from spleen.
VIEW 8 of 8 COMMENTS
Allen Ginsberg
The weight of the world
is love.
Under the burden
of solitude,
under the burden
of dissatisfaction
the weight,
the weight we carry
is love.
Who can deny?
In dreams
it touches
the body,
in thought
constructs
a miracle,
in imagination
anguishes
till born
in human--
looks out of the heart
burning with purity--
for the burden of life
is love,
but we carry the weight
wearily,
and so must rest
in the arms of love
at last,
must rest in the arms
of love.
No rest
without love,
no sleep
without dreams
of love--
be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
or machines,
the final wish
is love
--cannot be bitter,
cannot deny,
cannot withhold
if denied:
the weight is too heavy
--must give
for no return
as thought
is given
in solitude
in all the excellence
of its excess.
The warm bodies
shine together
in the darkness,
the hand moves
to the center
of the flesh,
the skin trembles
in happiness
and the soul comes
joyful to the eye--
yes, yes,
that's what
I wanted,
I always wanted,
I always wanted,
to return
to the body
where I was born.
walt whitman
o captain! my captain! our fearful trip is done,
the ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
the port is near, the bells i hear, the people all exulting,
while follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
but o heart! heart! heart!
o the bleeding drops of red,
where on the deck my captain lies,
fallen cold and dead.
o captain! my captain! rise up and hear the bells;
rise up - for you the flag is flung - for you the bugle trills,
for you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths - for you the shores a-crowding,
for you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
here captain! dear father!
the arm beneath your head!
it is some dream that on the deck,
you've fallen cold and dead.
my captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
my father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
the ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
from fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won:
exult o shores, and ring o bells!
but i with mournful tread,
walk the deck my captain lies,
fallen cold and dead.