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To Marie Louise (Shew)

Of all who hail thy presence as the morning-
Of all to whom thine absence is the night-
The blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun- of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope- for life- ah! above all,
For the resurrection of deep-buried faith
In Truth- in Virtue- in Humanity-
Of all who, on Despair's unhallowed bed
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
At thy soft-murmured words, 'Let there be light!'
At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes-
Of all who owe thee most- whose gratitude
Nearest resembles worship- oh, remember
The truest- the most fervently devoted,
And think that these weak lines are written by him-
By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His spirit is communing with an angel's.

poem by Edgar Allan Poe
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I Stubbed My Toe

Within the conquest I pursue,
along the thoroughfare of Life.
At times, have arisen occasion,
against obstacles, I stubbed my toe.

These hurdles, oft' I thought,
cross my path with pupose placed.
To alert and expose these pitfalls to me.
In my Master, my faith prevailed.

When loudly, oft' I would complain.
For all, to know my pain.
Or in silent prayer petition.
From outstretched Hand, grant me strength.

The tenacity I lack...instill.
to overcome the anguish from pain,
which visits, tempting me to stray.
Heal my affliction, grant I complete my quest.

[...] Read more

poem by Kurt Hearth
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The Slave Singing At Midnight

Loud he sang the psalm of David!
He, a Negro and enslaved,
Sang of Israel's victory,
Sang of Zion, bright and free.
In that hour, when night is calmest,
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist,
In a voice so sweet and clear
That I could not choose but hear,
Songs of triumph, and ascriptions,
Such as reached the swart Egyptians,
When upon the Red Sea coast
Perished Pharaoh and his host.
And the voice of his devotion
Filled my soul with strange emotion;
For its tones by turns were glad,
Sweetly solemn, wildly sad.
Paul and Silas, in their prison,
Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen.
And an earthquake's arm of might
Broke their dungeon-gates at night.

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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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To M.L.S.

Of all who hail thy presence as the morning-
Of all to whom thine absence is the night-
The blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun- of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope- for life- ah! above all,
For the resurrection of deep-buried faith
In Truth- in Virtue- in Humanity-
Of all who, on Despair's unhallowed bed
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"
At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes-
Of all who owe thee most- whose gratitude
Nearest resembles worship- oh, remember
The truest- the most fervently devoted,
And think that these weak lines are written by him-
By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His spirit is communing with an angel's.

poem by Edgar Allan Poe
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Kingdom Of Dawn

Below a cold and paling moon I stand
Half naked, allowing twilight’s spirits to kiss my skin
Lost in the aroma of the morning
Watching shadows stretch the length and breadth of the land.
Into the arena of dawn we stride
Happy in the moment there unwinding.

Smoking black these lungs of mine
Wasted, I’m wasted all the time
Drinking Jack at noon
Running from some monsoon fear of a reality
That never meant much to me,
I find it in the corner of my mind.

In an age of outcasts and outlaws
We are as performing within a circus of shadows
Still shackled within the cave of dull horizons
Seeking to rise, seeking to kiss the sky with our eyes.

She touches herself in the heat of the night

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poem by David Lacey
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Dawn Wind

Wind, just arisen -
(Off what cool mattress of marsh-moss
In tented boughs leaf-drawn before the stars,
Or niche of cliff under the eagles?)
You of living things,
So gay and tender and full of play -
Why do you blow on my thoughts - like cut flowers
Gathered and laid to dry on this paper, rolled out of dead wood?

I see you
Shaking that flower at me with soft invitation
And frisking away,
Deliciously rumpling the grass…

So you fluttered the curtains about my cradle,
Prattling of fields
Before I had had my milk…
Did I stir on my pillow, making to follow you, Fleet One?
I - swaddled, unwinged, like a bird in the egg.

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poem by Lola Ridge
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Adieu

Adieu! I know that I no more
Shall behold you,
Your future lies beyond her door
Who consoled you;

The world has promised to redeem
Each new sorrow,
It beckons, and you lightly dream
Of a morrow.

I weep not, nor shall futile sighs
Hold you longer,
The pity in your loveless eyes
Makes me stronger,

For terrible, past loss of mine,
Hath arisen
The dread to know what was your shrine—
But your prison.

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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Blessed Are The Dead. (From The German)

O, how blest are ye whose toils are ended!
Who, through death, have unto God ascended!
Ye have arisen
From the cares which keep us still in prison.

We are still as in a dungeon living,
Still oppressed with sorrow and misgiving;
Our undertakings
Are but toils, and troubles, and heart-breakings.

Ye, meanwhile, are in your chambers sleeping,
Quiet, and set free from all our weeping;
No cross nor trial
Hinders your enjoyments with denial.

Christ has wiped away your tears for ever;
Ye have that for which we still endeavour.
To you are chanted
Songs which yet no mortal ear have haunted.

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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Maddened Souls Of Slow Decay

We maddened souls of slow decay
We that embrace the death of the day
We that are saddened with nothing to say
We that are silent in thought as we pray.

We are as gods here
Free beyond the kingdom of fear
Free beyond the rising tears.
Free to embrace the death of the year.

Illuminated eyes of ecstatic vision
Fuel the fusion of divinity within our palms.
Here we are still learning, chewing upon the fabric curtain of the night.
Here we are still gurning, turning our eyes from the light that blinds
And bends and sends our minds running into a nightmare shared
By all those that have long since torn their clothes in seeking to care
For our mother crying, sighing as they are as our mother dying.

Dawn is arisen and the gift of light is given unto the new day born.
The ashes of twilight are drifting upon the winds as slow and soulless

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poem by David Lacey
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Discordant Chord

somewhere in indelible future
undoubtedly - as arisen
various others recognition came
another broken - voice echoing
forth from indomitable past

a point of focus for heart's vibrations
in its due season due to pass
like summer's parched withered grass
known facts fanned kept alive
fanned to flame expanded upon

like fragments of bone pottery
forgotten objects sieved in light
of new age under archaeologist's glass
but culture people men women remain
unmoved by intense examination

until time - interpret - construe anew
chance upheaval sending shock waves

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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