“Oh! I am sick of what I am. Of all
Which I in life can ever hope to be.
Angels of light be pitiful to me.”
The cold chain of life presseth heavily on me tonight.
The thundering pace of thought is curbed, and, like a fiery steed, dasheth against the gloomy walls of my prisoned soul.
Oh! how long will my poor thoughts lament their narrow faculty? When will the rein be loosed from my impatient soul?
Ah! then I will climb the blue clouds and dash down to dust those jeweled stars, whose silent light wafts a mocking laugh to the poor musician who sitteth before the muffled organ of my great hopes. With a hand of fire he toucheth the golden keys. All breathless and rapt I list for an answer to his sweet meaning, but the glittering keys give back only a faint hollow sound-the echo of a sigh!
Cruel stars to mock me with your laughing light!
Oh! see ye not the purple life-blood ebbing from my side?
But ye heed it not-and I scorn ye all.
Foolish stars! Ye forget that this strong soul will one day be loosed.
I will have ye in my power yet, I’ll meet ye on the grand door of old eternity.
Ah! then ye will not laugh, but shrink before me like very beggars of light that ye are, and I will grasp from your gleaming brows the jeweled crown, rend away your glistening garments, and hold ye up blackened skeletons for the laugh and scorn of all angels, and then drive ye out to fill this horrid space of darkness that I now grovel in.
But, alas! I am weary, sick, and faint.
The chains do bind the shrinking flesh too close.
“Angels of light, be pitiful to me.”
Oh! this life, after all, is but a promise-a poor promise, that is too heavy to bear-heavy with blood, reeking human blood. The atmosphere is laden with it. When I shut my eyes it presses so close to their lids that I must gasp and struggle to open them.
I know that the sins of untrue hearts are clogging up the air-passages of the world, and that we, who love and suffer, will soon be smothered, and in this terrible darkness too.
For me-my poor lone, deserted body-I care not. I am not in favor of men’s eyes.
“Nor am I skilled immortal stuff to weave.
No rose of honor wear I on my sleeve.”
But the soft silver hand of death will unbind the galling bands that clasp the fretting soul in her narrow prisonhouse, and she may then escape the iron hands that would crush the delicate fibres to dust.
O soul, where are thy wings? Have they with their rude hands torn them from thy mutilated form? We must creep slowly and silently away through the midnight darkness. But we are strong yet, and can battle with the fiends who seek to drive us back to the river of blood.
But, alas! it is so late, and I am alone-alone listening to the gasps and sighs of a weary soul beating her broken wing against the darkened walls of her lonely cell.
“My labor is a vain and empty strife,
A useless tugging at the wheels of life.”
Shall I still live-filling no heart, working no good, and the cries of my holy down-trodden race haunting me? Beseeching me-me, with these frail arms and this poor chained soul, to lift them back to their birthright of glory.
“Angels of light, be pitiful to me.”
I have wearied Heaven with my tears and prayers till I have grown pale and old, but a shadow of my former self, and all for power, blessed power! Not for myself-but for those dearer and worthier than I-those from out whose hearts my memory has died for ever.
But, alas! it is vain.
Prayers and tears will not bring back sweet hope and love.
I may still sigh and weep for these soft winged nestling angels of my lost dreams till I am free to seek them in the grand homes where I have housed them with the golden-haired son of the sky.
It is midnight, and the world is still battling-the weak are falling, the strong and the wrong are exulting.
And I, like the dying stag, am hunted down to the ocean border, still asking for peace and rest of the great gleaming eyes that pierce the atmosphere of blood and haunt me with their pleading looks. Whispers are there -low, wailing whispers from white-browed children as though I could bear their chained souls o’er Charon’s mystic river of their purple blood.
Alas! star after star has gone down till not one is in sight. How dark and cold it is growing!
Oh, light! why have you fled to a fairer land and left “An unrigged hulk, to rot upon life’s ford- The crew of mutinous senses overboard?”
It is too late. I faint with fear of these atom-fiends that do cling to my garments in this darkness.
Oh! rest for thee, my weary soul,
The coil is round thee all too fast.
Too close to earth thy pinions clasp:
A trance-like death hath o’er thee past.
Oh, soul! oh, broken soul, arise,
And plume thee for a prouder flight.
In vain, in vain-’tis sinking now
And dying in eternal night.
“Suffer and be still.”
Death will bind up thy powerful wings, and to the organ music of my great hopes thou shalt beat sublimer airs.
Wait until eternity.
A few random poems:
- Владимир Бенедиктов – Потоки
- Валерий Брюсов – Инкогнито
- Broken Love by William Blake
- On Being Brought from Africa to America by Phillis Wheatley
- Зинаида Александрова – Котята
- a_city_one_wish.html
- Power Of Music by William Wordsworth
- Flowers by Thomas Hood
- Subtlety
- To Haydon poem – John Keats poems
- Wold Friends A-Met by William Barnes
- A Parænesis To Prince Henry by William Alexander
- An October Nocturne by Yvor Winters
- love_is_just_like_the_rain.html
- Written With A Slate Pencil On A Stone, On The Side Of The Mountain Of Black Comb by William Wordsworth
External links
Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus
Talking Writing Monster’s Page –
Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh
Poems in English
- Robert Burns: My Lord A-Hunting:
- Robert Burns: The Bonie Moor-Hen:
- Robert Burns: Prologue: Spoken by Mr. Woods on his benefit-night, Monday, 16th April, 1787
- Robert Burns: Verses Intended To Be Written Below A Noble Earl’s Picture:
- Robert Burns: Epistle To Mrs. Scott: Gudewife of Wauchope-House, Roxburghshire.
- Robert Burns: Inscription For The Headstone Of Fergusson The Poet:
- Robert Burns: Extempore In The Court Of Session:
- Robert Burns: Bonie Dundee:
- Robert Burns: Rattlin’, Roarin’ Willie:
- Robert Burns: Mr. William Smellie -A Sketch:
- Robert Burns: To Miss Logan, With Beattie’s Poems, For A New-Year’s Gift, Jan. 1, 1787:
- Robert Burns: Address To A Haggis:
- Robert Burns: Address To Edinburgh:
- Robert Burns: Yon Wild Mossy Mountains:
- Robert Burns: A Winter Night :
- Robert Burns: On Sensibility: Fragment
- Robert Burns: Epistle To Major Logan:
- Robert Burns: Tam Samson’s Elegy: When this worthy old sportman went out, last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian’s phrase, “the last of his fields,” and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph.-R.B., 1787.
- Robert Burns: Composed In Spring:
- Robert Burns: Inscribed On A Work Of Hannah More’s: Presented to the Author by a Lady.
More external links (open in a new tab):
Doska or the Board – write anything
Search engines:
Yandex – the best search engine for searches in Russian (and the best overall image search engine, in any language, anywhere)
Qwant – the best search engine for searches in French, German as well as Romance and Germanic languages.
Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees
Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.
Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.
Parallel Translations of Poetry
The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works
Adah Isaacs Menken (1835 – 1868) was an American actress and a performer, who painted painter and wrote a number of poems (31 published so far). She was supposedly the highest earning actress of her time. She was best known for her performance in the hippodrama Mazeppa (with libretto based on Pushkin’s work), it is said that the climax of the spectacle featured her apparently nude and riding a horse on stage. After great success for a few years with the play in New York and San Francisco, she appeared in a production in London and Paris, from 1864 to 1866. She was a friend of Alexander Dumas. Adah Menken died in Paris at the age of 33