A poem by Alan Seeger (1888-1916)
Their strength had fed on this when Death’s white arms
Came sleeved in vapors and miasmal dew,
Curling across the jungle’s ferny floor,
Becking each fevered brain. On bleak divides,
Where Sleep grew niggardly for nipping cold
That twinged blue lips into a mouthed curse,
Not back to Seville and its sunny plains
Winged their brief-biding dreams, but once again,
Lords of a palace in Tenochtitlan,
They guarded Montezuma’s treasure-hoard.
Gold, like some finny harvest of the sea,
Poured out knee deep around the rifted floors,
Shiny and sparkling, — arms and crowns and rings:
Gold, sweet to toy with as beloved hair, —
To plunge the lustful, crawling fingers down,
Arms elbow deep, and draw them out again,
And watch the glinting metal trickle off,
Even as at night some fisherman, home bound
With speckled cargo in his hollow keel
Caught off Campeche or the Isle of Pines,
Dips in his paddle, lifts it forth again,
And laughs to see the luminous white drops
Fall back in flakes of fire. . . . Gold was the dream
That cheered that desperate enterprise. And now? . . .
Victory waited on the arms of Spain,
Fallen was the lovely city by the lake,
The sunny Venice of the western world;
There many corpses, rotting in the wind,
Poked up stiff limbs, but in the leprous rags
No jewel caught the sun, no tawny chain
Gleamed, as the prying halberds raked them o’er.
Pillage that ran red-handed through the streets
Came railing home at evening empty-palmed;
And they, on that sad night a twelvemonth gone,
Who, ounce by ounce, dear as their own life’s blood
Retreating, cast the cumbrous load away:
They, when brown foemen lopped the bridges down,
Who tipped thonged chests into the stream below
And over wealth that might have ransomed kings
Passed on to safety; — cheated, guerdonless —
Found (through their fingers the bright booty slipped)
A city naked, of that golden dream
Shorn in one moment like a sunset sky.
Deep in a chamber that no cheerful ray
Purged of damp air, where in unbroken night
Black scorpions nested in the sooty beams,
Helpless and manacled they led him down —
Cuauhtemotzin — and other lords beside —
All chieftains of the people, heroes all —
And stripped their feathered robes and bound them there
On short stone settles sloping to the head,
But where the feet projected, underneath
Heaped the red coals. Their swarthy fronts illumed,
The bearded Spaniards, helmed and haubergeoned,
Paced up and down beneath the lurid vault.
Some kneeling fanned the glowing braziers; some
Stood at the sufferers’ heads and all the while
Hissed in their ears: “The gold . . . the gold . . . the gold.
Where have ye hidden it — the chested gold?
Speak — and the torments cease!”
They answered not.
Past those proud lips whose key their sovereign claimed
No accent fell to chide or to betray,
Only it chanced that bound beside the king
Lay one whom Nature, more than other men
Framing for delicate and perfumed ease,
Not yet, along the happy ways of Youth,
Had weaned from gentle usages so far
To teach that fortitude that warriors feel
And glory in the proof. He answered not,
But writhing with intolerable pain,
Convulsed in every limb, and all his face
Wrought to distortion with the agony,
Turned on his lord a look of wild appeal,
The secret half atremble on his lips,
Livid and quivering, that waited yet
For leave — for leave to utter it — one sign —
One word — one little word — to ease his pain.
As one reclining in the banquet hall,
Propped on an elbow, garlanded with flowers,
Saw lust and greed and boisterous revelry
Surge round him on the tides of wine, but he,
Staunch in the ethic of an antique school —
Stoic or Cynic or of Pyrrho’s mind —
With steady eyes surveyed the unbridled scene,
Himself impassive, silent, self-contained:
So sat the Indian prince, with brow unblanched,
Amid the tortured and the torturers.
He who had seen his hopes made desolate,
His realm despoiled, his early crown deprived him,
And watched while Pestilence and Famine piled
His stricken people in their reeking doors,
Whence glassy eyes looked out and lean brown arms
Stretched up to greet him in one last farewell
As back and forth he paced along the streets
With words of hopeless comfort — what was this
That one should weaken now? He weakened not.
Whate’er was in his heart, he neither dealt
In pity nor in scorn, but, turning round,
Met that racked visage with his own unmoved,
Bent on the sufferer his mild calm eyes,
And while the pangs smote sharper, in a voice,
As who would speak not all in gentleness
Nor all disdain, said: “Yes! And am -I- then
Upon a bed of roses?”
Stung with shame —
Shame bitterer than his anguish — to betray
Such cowardice before the man he loved,
And merit such rebuke, the boy grew calm;
And stilled his struggling limbs and moaning cries,
And shook away his tears, and strove to smile,
And turned his face against the wall — and died.
A few random poems:
- It was a Lover and his Lass by William Shakespeare
- Song—O let me in this ae night by Robert Burns
- Николай Языков – Родина
- Free Fantasia On Japanese Themes poem – Amy Lowell poems | Poems and Poetry
- The Death of Lincoln by William Cullen Bryant
- My Daughter by Preeth Nambiar
- The Wreck Of The Deutschland poem – Gerard Manley Hopkins poems
- The Old House poem – Amy Levy poems | Poems and Poetry
- Epitaph On Mr. Chester Of Chicheley by William Cowper
- Sonnet 138: When my love swears that she is made of truth by William Shakespeare
- Perseus by Robert Hayden
- Say, What Is Honour?–‘Tis The Finest Sense by William Wordsworth
- Henry Clay’s Mouth by Thomas Lux
- Cascade by Robert Desnos
- The Broomfield Hill poem – Andrew Lang poems
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
- Михаил Кузмин – Живется нам не плохо
- Михаил Кузмин – Зеленая птичка
- Михаил Кузмин – Запел петух, таинственный предвестник
- Михаил Кузмин – Заключение (Водительница Одигитрия)
- Михаил Кузмин – Зачем в тот вечер роковой
- Михаил Кузмин – Зачем копье Архистратига
- Михаил Кузмин – Я знаю вас не понаслышке
- Михаил Кузмин – Выздоравливающей
- Михаил Кузмин – Вы молчаливо-нежное дитя
- Михаил Кузмин – Вы белое бургундское вино
- Михаил Кузмин – Второй свидетель
- Михаил Кузмин – Все дни у Бога хороши
- Михаил Кузмин – Врезанные в песок заливы
- Михаил Кузмин – Врач мудрый нам открыл секрет природы
- Михаил Кузмин – Возвращение
- Михаил Кузмин – Возможно ль: скоро четверть века
- Михаил Кузмин – Вот после ржавых львов и рева
- Михаил Кузмин – В саду
- Михаил Кузмин – В раскосый блеск зеркал забросив сети
- Михаил Кузмин – В ранний утра час покидал Милет я
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
Alan Seeger (1888-1916) was an American war poet who fought and died in World War I during the Battle of the Somme, serving in the French Foreign Legion. Seeger was the brother of Charles Seeger, a noted American pacifist and musicologist and the uncle of folk musician, Pete Seeger.