Love, let me thank you for this!
Now we have drifted apart,
Wandered away from the sea,–
For the fresh touch of your kiss,
For the young warmth of your heart,
For your youth given to me.
Thanks: for the curls of your hair,
Softer than silk to the hand,
For the clear gaze of your eyes.
For yourself: delicate, fair,
Seen as you lay on the sand,
Under the violet skies.
Thanks: for the words that you said,–
Secretly, tenderly sweet,
All through the tropical day,
Till, when the sunset was red,
I, who lay still at your feet,
Felt my life ebbing away,
Weary and worn with desire,
Only yourself could console.
Love let me thank you for this!
For that fierce fervour and fire
Burnt through my lips to my soul
From the white heat of your kiss!
You were the essence of Spring,
Wayward and bright as a flame:
Though we have drifted apart,
Still how the syllables sing
Mixed in your musical name,
Deep in the well of my heart!
Once in the lingering light,
Thrown from the west on the Sea,
Laid you your garments aside,
Slender and goldenly bright,
Glimmered your beauty, set free,
Bright as a pearl in the tide.
Once, ere the thrill of the dawn
Silvered the edge of the sea,
I, who lay watching you rest,–
Pale in the chill of the morn
Found you still dreaming of me
Stilled by love’s fancies possessed.
Fallen on sorrowful days,
Love, let me thank you for this,
You were so happy with me!
Wrapped in Youth’s roseate haze,
Wanting no more than my kiss
By the blue edge of the sea!
Ah, for those nights on the sand
Under the palms by the sea,
For the strange dream of those days
Spent in the passionate land,
For your youth given to me,
I am your debtor always!
A few random poems:
- Владимир Маяковский – Смотри, чтоб праздник перешел и в будни
- 1914 I: Peace by Rupert Brooke
- Practising The Anthem
- Юргис Балтрушайтис – Отчаяние
- Anacreontics The Epicure
- A Charm by Rudyard Kipling
- Ultima Thule by William Ellery Leonard
- Владимир Маяковский – Радоваться рано
- Владимир Британишский – Лето 1845 года в Соколове
- Владимир Маяковский – Наше воскресенье
- Song III: It Grew Up Without Heeding by William Morris
- Юрий Левитанский – Мое поколение
- Complimentary versicles to Jessie Lewars by Robert Burns
- Виктор Гончаров – Больной, как будто бы гранату
- Владимир Высоцкий – Величальная отцу
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
- The Giver by Sara Teasdale
- The Gift by Sara Teasdale
- The Flight by Sara Teasdale
- The Faery Forest by Sara Teasdale
- The Dreams Of My Heart by Sara Teasdale
- The Crystal Gazer by Sara Teasdale
- The Coin by Sara Teasdale
- The Cloud by Sara Teasdale
- The Carpenter’s Son by Sara Teasdale
- The Broken Field by Sara Teasdale
- The Blind by Sara Teasdale
- The Answer by Sara Teasdale
- Spring In War Time by Sara Teasdale
- Soul’s Birth by Sara Teasdale
- A Song To Eleonora Duse In “Francesca da Rimini ” by Sara Teasdale
- Song At Capri by Sara Teasdale
- Since There Is No Escape by Sara Teasdale
- The Return by Sara Teasdale
- Pity by Sara Teasdale
- Pierrot’s Song by Sara Teasdale
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.