On the wooden deck of the wooden Junk, silent, alone, we lie,
With silver foam about the bow, and a silver moon in the sky:
A glimmer of dimmer silver here, from the anklets round your feet,
Our lips may close on each other’s lips, but never our souls may meet.
For though in my arms you lie at rest, your name I have never heard,
To carry a thought between us two, we have not a single word.
And yet what matter we do not speak, when the ardent eyes have spoken,
The way of love is a sweeter way, when the silence is unbroken.
As a wayward Fancy, tired at times, of the cultured Damask Rose,
Drifts away to the tangled copse, where the wild Anemone grows;
So the ordered and licit love ashore, is hardly fresh and free
As this light love in the open wind and salt of the outer sea.
So sweet you are, with your tinted cheeks and your small caressive hands,
What if I carried you home with me, where our Golden Temple stands?
Yet, this were folly indeed; to bind, in fetters of permanence,
A passing dream whose enchantment charms because of its trancience.
Life is ever a slave to Time; we have but an hour to rest,
Her steam is up and her lighters leave, the vessel that takes me west;
And never again we two shall meet, as we chance to meet to-night,
On the Junk, whose painted eyes gaze forth, in desolate want of sight.
And what is love at its best, but this? Conceived by a passing glance,
Nursed and reared in a transient mood, on a drifting Sea of Chance.
For rudderless craft are all our loves, among the rocks and the shoals,
Well we may know one another’s speech, but never each other’s souls.
Give here your lips and kiss me again, we have but a moment more,
Before we set the sail to the mast, before we loosen the oar.
Good-bye to you, and my thanks to you, for the rest you let me share,
While this night drifted away to the Past, to join the Nights that Were.
A few random poems:
- There was a Child went Forth. by Walt Whitman
- Каждому сроку – свой путь
- Sonnet 125: Were’t aught to me I bore the canopy by William Shakespeare
- The Heart Of The Woman by William Butler Yeats
- Alba poem – Ezra Pound poems
- Pan’s Lament by Rose Mary Boehm
- I am Ireland by Patrick Pearse
- Complaint Of A Poet Manqu
- Lines For Winter by Mark Strand
- Sonnet 153: Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep by William Shakespeare
- Владимир Британишский – На полпути в Илимск
- Dirty Ol’ Me by Shel Silverstein
- Oh Stay At Home, My Lad poem – A. E. Housman
- 19-19 by Michelle Bonczek Evory
- Shattered Dreams. Broken Promises. by Russell James
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
- Valhalla
- The Masks of Love
- The Bull Moose
- The Window
- So Small, So Vital
- If Only
- haiku
- Valhalla
- The Masks of Love
- The Bull Moose
- The Window
- So Small, So Vital
- If Only
- haiku
- A Mysterious Naked Man
- A Certain Kind of Holy Men
- A Life Story
- Two Quits And Drum And Elegy Drinkers
- Two Quits And A Drum And Elegy For Drinkers
- To Sayf Al Dawla
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

Violet Nicolson ( 1865 – 1904); otherwise known as Adela Florence Nicolson (née Cory), was an English poetess who wrote under the pseudonym of Laurence Hope, however she became known as Violet Nicolson. In the early 1900s, she became a best-selling author. She committed suicide and is buried in Madras, now Chennai, India.