Home arrow Blog
Main Menu
Poets and Poems
Gravestone Inscriptions
A blog of all sections with no images
Wylie, Elinor - Valentine Print E-mail

Elinor Wylie (1885-1928)


Too high, too high to pluck
My heart shall swing.
A fruit no bee shall suck,
No wasp shall sting.

If on some night of cold
It falls to ground
In apple-leaves of gold
I'll wrap it round.

And I shall seal it up
With spice and salt,
In a carven silver cup,
In a deep vault.

Before my eyes are blind
And my lips mute,
I must eat core and rind
Of that same fruit.

Before my heart is dust
At the end of all,
Eat it I must, I must
Were it bitter gall.

But I shall keep it sweet
By some strange  art;
Wild honey I shall eat
When I eat my heart.

O honey cool and chaste
As clover's breath!
Sweet Heaven I shall taste
Before my death.

Wratislaw, Theodore - White Lilies Print E-mail

Theodore Wratislaw (1871-1933) (who was he)?

White Lilies

Flowers rare and sweet I sent, whose delicate white
Should, grouping at her corsage, interlace
Their purity with her corrupted grace,
With the full throat and mouth of my delight.

Evil design! To see the pale flowers slight
The beauty of the worn and powdered face,
Mingling their costly virtue with the trace
Of ancient loves that live in time's despite.

How soon they died, poor blossoms! at her throat
Ere of the last valse died the last sad note
No more than love of her meant to endure,

For all the savour of her lips, the spice
Of her frail spirit steeped in cultured vice,
Gracefully bad and delicately impure!

Wratislaw, Theodore - Sonnet Macabre Print E-mail

Theodore Wratislaw (1871-1933) (who was he)?

Sonnet Macabre

I love you for the grief that lurks within
Your languid spirit, and because you wear
Corruption with a vague and childish air,
And with your beauty know the depths of sin;

Because shame cuts and holds you like a gin,
And virtue dies in you slain by despair,
Since evil has you tangled in its snare
And triumphs on the soul good cannot win.

I love you since you know remorse and tears,
And in your troubled loveliness appears
The spot of ancient crimes that writhe and hiss:

I love you for your hands that calm and bless,
The perfume of your sad and slow caress,
The avid poison of your subtle kiss.

Wratislaw, Theodore - Plein Air Print E-mail

Theodore Wratislaw (1871-1933) (who was he)?

Plein Air

Purple and white the pansies shone.
Tall stocks that stained the garden walk
With crimson, heard our amorous talk
And blushed to know that she was won.

The golden mirth of sunflowers eyed
Her bosom and mauve heliotrope
Shed balmy breaths of scent in hope
Of her virginity untied.

So when the moon rose in the south
And trailed about the shadowy vine
I felt her breasts pant under mine
And her breath sobbing in my mouth.

Plein Air =  ‘in the open air’

Wratislaw, Theodore - Orchids Print E-mail

Theodore Wratislaw (who was he)?

Orchids (1896)

Orange and purple, shot with white and mauve,
Such in a greenhouse wet with tropic heat
One sees these delicate flowers whose parents throve
In some Pacific island's hot retreat.

Their ardent colours that betray the rank
Fierce hotbed of corruption whence they rose
Please eyes that long for stranger sweets than prank
Wild meadow-blooms and what the garden shows.

Exotic flowers! How great is my delight
To watch your petals curiously wrought,
To lie among your splendours day and night
Lost in a subtle dream of subtler thought.

Bathed in your clamorous orchestra of hues,
The palette of your perfumes, let me sleep
While your mesmeric presences diffuse
Weird dreams: and then bizarre sweet rhymes shall creep

Forth from my brain and slowly form and make
Sweet poems as a weaving spider spins,
A shrine of loves that laugh and swoon and ache,
A temple of coloured sorrows and perfumed sins.

Wratislaw, Theodore - In the Ball-room Print E-mail

Theodore Wratislaw (1871-1933) (who was he)?

In the Ball-room

Here where the swaying dancers float,
The heady perfume swimming round
Your slender arms and virginal throat
Thrills me though riper loves abound.

The passionate eyes and lids of her
Whose face gleams white in many a fold
Of coiling wondrous sombre hair,
The blue eyes in the wreath of gold,

These turn to me in vain, who prize
You more than all the loves and lyres,
For from your unfilled corsage rise
The perfumes that my soul desires.

Ah might I dance for ever, bent
Toward your bosom's clouded gleam,
And let the lilies' acrid scent
Withhold me in the world of dream!

<< Start < Prev 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 Next > End >>

Results 71 - 80 of 179