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Read Ebook: Divine Adventures: A Book of Verse by Niendorff John
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Ebook has 252 lines and 20894 words, and 6 pages
TIME AND RHIME
Ah Ha! A lack-wit is the Time-- A foolish piece and niddy-noddy, To teach her gentle daughter, Rhime, To flirt and dance with everybody.
Her cheek was fresh, and passing fair When very few did come to court her, And king or swain must worship there, That dared, or fancied to transport her.
And often there a sceptered king, And often there a wit or jester, Have fondly kneel'd her praise to sing, And learned how sore it is to pester.
But now alas! 'Tis come to pass, She loves the addlest headed dandy. A bon-bon lyric suits the lass, Her Epic is a piece of candy.
THE POET AND THE WORLD
A poet came in a golden noon, His eyes were bright and his soul in tune, And he sang a song of a nameless bird. And never a song of songs was sung, As sweet and as rich as the lay that sprung, From the forest-wild muse in the lyrical verd.
An old man dozing and dying alone, Hath startled enrapt at the wondrous tone, And thinks on his own youth's minstrelsy. And his fingers tremble and itch again And his tongue is lashed in its bed of pain, To know at last such music may be.
A youth starts up, with his soul on fire, And shatters his harp for something higher, And sings of a glory he has not known, Till his mad soul sinks on the raging sea, As sad and as weary as spent wings be, In the guideless paths where his hopes have flown.
And a maiden adream in her virgin bower, Of her love's bright star and its rising hour, Hath heard the song, and her being is folden To the starry breast of a winged god, In the golden paths of a garden untrod, Which her soul in the lyric depths beholden.
But the world hath roused on its listless bed And calls to the ass for his bray instead, And lo! he hath named the song and the bird! And the young man lives, and the old man dies, And the god hath flown from the maiden's eyes, And the singer is gone, and the song is a word.
THE GUERDON
Sculptors have carved for us stories in stone,-- Spirits of gods from the chrysalis freeing; Toiled for us, starved for us, dying unknown, Still have they sought for the infinite being, Calling it Beauty,--upbuilding its throne. And this is the guerdon each bears to his tomb: "Fortune is fickle, the saddest and gladdest "Slumber as long as the meanest and maddest-- "Naught hast thou wraught so enduring as doom."
Painters have drawn for us marvellous lines, Hues of the rainbow, and sunset, and morning-- Pigments an innermost glory divines, Laurelled, or stultified canvas adorning; Toiled for us, drunk for us bitterest wines, And this is the guerdon each bears to his tomb: "Fortune is fickle--the saddest and gladdest "Slumber as long as the meanest and maddest "Naught hast thou drawn so enduring as doom."
Poets have sung for us sweetest of song, Aye, they have sung for us, limn'd for us, carved for us. Laurell'd our fortune, and lightened our wrong-- Still have they dreamed for us, toiled for us, starved for us-- We are their passion's most fanciful throng-- And this is the guerdon each bears to his tomb: "Fortune is fickle--the saddest, and gladdest, "Slumber as long as the meanest and maddest, "Naught hast thou sung so enduring as doom."
A SONG
What is so rare as a pearly cloud, With a burning sun behind it? And this is the jewel I wear on my heart, With a dream to bind it-- This is the treasure you sought from the start, Forgetting to find it.
What is so sweet as the song of a bird, That wakens the fancy that hears it? And this is the music I hear in my heart Whose heaven enspheres it-- This is the heaven you sought from the start Forgetting to pierce it.
What is so glad as the heart of a child, That gambols as careless as Maytime? And this is the pleasure I hold to my heart, Acalling it daytime-- This is the pleasure you sought from the start, Forgetting the playtime.
TO X
ON A FESTAL NIGHT
Above the city hangs a limpid glare, From hollow laughter's laden festal board: Thou seest the lover fondling his adored-- Thou hearest music singing of her hair. Thou seest the tryst that's neither here nor there. Thou seest the gallant with his mocking sword, And honor at his feet;--the miser's hoard, And Lo! the music, sword, and tryst are there. Say when has music breathed a song, Encored so long as yonder jingling gold? Say when do lover's wand'ring from the throng, Turn wholly from the mart where love is sold? Ah man! were gold where erst it did belong Then love were winged music as of old.
TO X
WANDERING WILLIE
Willie, Willie, merry piper, Wand'rer too from clime to clime, Tell me if thy fruit is riper, Sweeter than my rhime.
Hast thou pluckt a golden apple, I have never tasted yet? Hast thou seen a pearly dapple, Finer skies than mine have set?
Hast thou heard a music sweeter, Than my wildest dreams intone? Hast thou found a joy completer, Than a pleasure I have known?
Willie, Willie, wand'ring ever, Whither wend thy wayward feet? Farther still must we dissever, Only thus again to meet?
Wander on I would not stay thee-- Fain were I a wand'rer too. Drinking where the founts delay thee, Thirsting all thy deserts through.
What! though little thou hast gathered, Golden wealth is that I ween. What! though nothing thou hast fathered, Careless fancies are thy yean.
All thy trees mayhap are fruitless; All thy hopes be ships afar, All thy plans mayhap are bootless,-- Still thou hast the eastern star.
I, in peace and plenty, yearning, Yearning for thy wand'rer's crust Weary, aching, burning, burning, Fevered failure of the wander-lust.
Wander on, mayhap I'll meet thee, Wand'ring in the waning glow Rhiming still for joy to greet thee, Piping on thy piccolo.
MY LADY OF DREAMS
'Tis the maiden April calling,-- Calling to the languid South,-- Where she lounges in the sunshine With a secret at her mouth.
Where she lounges with the sunshine Closely fondled to her breast. Calling for that fickle lover, Wanders with his old unrest.
And her lips are full and luscious, Where a thousand joys have kissed-- Ah! I must unto her garden, Lo! I tremble for the tryst.
For her couch it is a languor Cushioned for a passion rest, Woven out of dreams and sunshine, Pillowed with her pulsing breast.
And I clasp her warm embraces, Kissing deep her dewy lips, Like a bee upon a blossom, Where the honey breathes and drips;
Lie within her warm embraces Till the wildest passions wane-- Fall to dreaming of Nirvana Pictured through a golden rain.
There adream with dreaming April In the gentle southern land, Hearing footsteps onward pressing, Only she might understand.
Feel the cool wind fan the forehead, Drink the mellow wine he brings, Till the spirit drunk to fervor Sweeps its own AEolean strings.
Hear the music of the vanished, Join the far and lyric throng Of the rare and radiant singers In the starry skies of song.
Hear with soul all hushed and quickened, Wrapt in fine unconscious ears, Music singing unto music, In the bright AEolean spheres.
Till the Past is wed to Present In the golden hall of Time, And the Future brings a garland From his pure and crystal clime.
Seeing then that life is rainfall, Falling on a dreaming sea, With a touch of speeding rainbows, Hinting all eternity.
Seeing then, that dreaming ocean, Drinking all the golden rain-- Call it death or dark oblivion, Drinks and yields it back again.
Seeing past is not the total, Seeing present not the last-- Is the future uncreated? Nay 'tis older than the past.
Is today a mighty time-wall Beaten outward by the waves? Nay, it is the crystal mirror Where an image still enslaves.
Seeing space is only measured With an atom of the soul; Seeing Space and Time are brothers Racing from what goal to goal?
Seeing systems all unnumbered, Numbered by their vanished race; Seeing Time among his diamonds, Launching systems unto Space.
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