The Stolen Child

-WB Yeats

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
there we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen cherries
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weepiing than you can understand
 
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
 
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In the pool among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
 
Anyway, with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping than he can understand

Book of Saturdays

~King Crimson

 

If I could only deceive you
Forgetting the game
Every time I try to leave you
You laugh just the same

'Cause my wheels never touch the road
And the jumble of lies we told
Just returns to my back to weigh me down. . .

We lay cards upon the table
The backs of our hands
And I swear I like your people
The boys in the band

Reminiscences gone astray
Coming back to enjoy the fray
In a tangle of night and daylight sounds. . .

All completeness in the morning
Asleep on your side
I'll be waking up the crewen
Banana-boat ride

She responds like a limousine
Brought alive on the silent screen
To the shuddering breath of yesterday. . .

There's the succor of the needy
Incredible scenes
I'll believe you in the future
Your life and death dreams

As the cavalry of despair
Takes a stand in the lady's hair
For the fervour of making sweet sixteen. . .

You make my life and time
A book of bluesy Saturdays
And I have to choose. . .

To Chris

Slumber I don't
And sleep I may not
The pain never leaves
Or had you forgot?
 
I think of you always
I can't stop my brain
Seemingly Slowly
I'm going insane
 
Black coffee and kleenex
Were my only friends
When I was hurting
The most, nobody extends
 
Their hands are all clean
Of the mess that you made
Soon they'll see past
Your masquarade.
 
Sleep I do not
And slumber I don't
I let you control me
But this time I won't.

Concept

Real eyes realize real lies

The Mad Maid's Song

-Robert Herrick

Good morrow to the day so fair
Good morrow sir to you:
Good morrow to mine own torn hair
Bedabbled with the dew.

Good morrow to this primrose too;
Good morrow to each maid;
That will with flowers the tomb bestrew,
Wherein my love is laid

Ah woe is me, woe, woe is me,
Alack and well-a-day!
For pity, Sir, find out that bee,
Which bore my love away.

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave
I'll seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now I think they've made his grave
I' th' bed of strawberries.

I'll seek him there; I know, ere this,
The cold, cold earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kiss
By you, Sir, to awake him.

Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,
He knows well who do love him,
And who with green turfs rear his head,
And who do rudely move him.

He's soft and tender, pray take heed
With bands of cowslips bind him;
And bring him home, but tis decreed,
That I shall never find him.










*I. C. : I love this poem. It reminds me of Ophelia from Shakespeare's Hamlet, or perhaps the other way around...? The two writers lived at about the same time...so could have been either way. I wonder, if it was similar to the Amedeus Complex.

Lyrics to Softly

Krystn Raedly

Softly Waking, let you out of my dreams
Feelings quaking, it's more complicated than it seems

When you wake up, let me into your mind
Let me know you, let me show you that I'm
Not as crazy as I make myself out to be
I'm feeling and falling and hoping and wondering
How you feel about me.

Happy morning, how do you feel today
Blow my cover, your smile blows me away

I'm going crazy insane spinning out of control
Because you know that it wasn't the bases, it was my heart that you stole

Softly praying, thank God you were shown to me
What I'm saying is that you set me free
I have a confidence I never had before
And now all I want is to get to know you some more.

Softly sleeping, let you back into my dreams
Darkness creeping, goodbye is closer than it seems...

Lenore

Edgar Allen Poe

Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll!- a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?- weep now or nevermore!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read- the funeral song be sung!-
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young-
A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

"Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her- that she died!
How shall the ritual, then, be read?- the requiem how be sung
By you- by yours, the evil eye,- by yours, the slanderous tongue
That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"

Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong.
The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy
bride.
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes
The life still there, upon her hair- the death upon her eyes.

"Avaunt! avaunt! from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven-
From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven-
From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of
Heaven!
Let no bell toll, then,- lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damned Earth!
And I!- to-night my heart is light!- no dirge will I upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days!"

The Raven

-Edgar Allen Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"Tis some visitor," I muttered, "Tapping at my chamber door-
Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor
Eagerly I wished the morrow;-vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radient maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door;-
That it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is that I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door.
That I scarce was sure I heard you"-here I opened wide the door;-
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals even dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore"-
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul with in me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; no a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mein of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-
Perched and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum ofthe countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human beiing
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such a name as "Nevermore"

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
that one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered-not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before,
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore"

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is only stoke and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never-nevermore'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled I cushioned seat in front of bird,and bust, and door;
then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footballs tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite-respite and nepenth, from the memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore"

"Prophet!" Said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!-
Whether Tempter sent or whether tempest tossed the here ashore
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by horror haunted-tell me truly, I implore-
Is there- is there balm in Gilead?-tell me - tell me I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore"

"Prophet!" Said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us-by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within a distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or feind," I shrieked, upstarting-
"Get thee back into the tempeest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! Quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor.
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted-nevermore!