With a Copy of My Poems
#Gays #Irish #Victorians #1897 #TheBalladOfReadingGaol
Against these turbid turquoise ski… The light and luminous balloons Dip and drift like satin moons Drift like silken butterflies; Reel with every windy gust,
This English Thames is holier far… Those harebells like a sudden flus… Breaking across the woodland, with… Of meadow—sweet and white anemone To fleck their blue waves,—God is…
The corn has turned from grey to r… Since first my spirit wandered for… From the drear cities of the north… And to Italia’s mountains fled. And here I set my face towards ho…
See, I have climbed the mountain… Up to this holy house of God, Where once that Angel—Painter tro… Who saw the heavens opened wide, And throned upon the crescent moon
Is it thy will that I should wax… Barter my cloth of gold for hodden… And at thy pleasure weave that web… Whose brightest threads are each a… Is it thy will—Love that I love s…
The sea was sapphire coloured, and… Burned like a heated opal through… We hoisted sail; the wind was blow… For the blue lands that to the eas… From the steep prow I marked with…
Christ, dost thou live indeed? or… Still straightened in their rock—h… And was thy Rising only dreamed b… Whose love of thee for all her sin… For here the air is horrid with me…
Rid of the world’s injustice, and… He rests at last beneath God’s ve… Taken from life when life and love… The youngest of the martyrs here i… Fair as Sebastian, and as early s…
I wandered through Scoglietto’s f… The oranges on each o’erhanging sp… Burned as bright lamps of gold to… Some startled bird with fluttering… Made snow of all the blossoms; at…
How vain and dull this common worl… To such a One as thou, who should… At Florence with Mirandola, or wa… Through the cool olives of the Ac… Thou should’st have gathered reeds…
To stab my youth with desperate kn… This paltry age’s gaudy livery, To let each base hand filch my tre… To mesh my soul within a woman’s h… And be mere Fortune’s lackeyed gr…
The Gods are dead: no longer do w… To grey—eyed Pallas crowns of oli… Demeter’s child no more hath tithe… And in the noon the careless sheph… For Pan is dead, and all the want…
The seasons send their ruin as the… For in the spring the narciss show… Nor withers till the rose has flam… And in the autumn purple violets b… And the slim crocus stirs the wint…
Dear Heart I think the young impa… When first he takes from out the h… His God imprisoned in the Euchari… And eats the bread, and drinks the… Feels not such awful wonder as I…
I marvel not Bassanio was so bold To peril all he had upon the lead, Or that proud Aragon bent low his… Or that Morocco’s fiery heart gre… For in that gorgeous dress of beat…