Poems of TamilPoonga RSSMon, 02 Jun 2025 16:51:01 GMT‘WHERE shall we go for our garlands gladAt the falling of the year,When the burnt-up banks are yellow and sad,When the boughs are yellow and sere?Where are the old ones that once we had,And when are the new ones near?What shall we do for our garlands gladAt the falling of the year?’‘Child! can I tell where the garlands go?Can I say where the lost leaves veerOn the brown-burnt banks, when the wild winds blow,When they drift through the dead-wood drear?Girl! when the garlands of next year glow,You may gather again, my dear—But I go where the last year’s lost leaves goAt the falling of the year.’

]]>Mon, 02 Jun 2025 16:51:01 GMTThe ocean heaves around us stillWith long and measured swell,The autumn gales our canvas fill,Our ship rides smooth and well.The broad Atlantic's bed of foamStill breaks against our prow;I shed no tears at quitting home,Nor will I shed them now!Against the bulwarks on the poopI lean, and watch the sunBehind the red horizon stoop —His race is nearly run.Those waves will never quench his light,O'er which they seem to close,To-morrow he will rise as brightAs he this morning rose.How brightly gleams the orb of dayAcross the trackless sea!How lightly dance the waves that playLike dolphins in our lee!The restless waters seem to say,In smothered tones to me,How many thousand miles awayMy native land must be!Speak, Ocean! is my Home the sameNow all is new to me? —The tropic sky's resplendent flame,The vast expanse of sea?Does all around her, yet unchanged,The well-known aspect wear?Oh! can the leagues that I have rangedHave made no difference there?How vivid Recollection's handRecalls the scene once more!I see the same tall poplars standBeside the garden door;I see the bird-cage hanging still;And where my sister setThe flowers in the window-sill —Can they be living yet?Let woman's nature cherish grief,I rarely heave a sighBefore emotion takes reliefIn listless apathy;While from my pipe the vapours curlTowards the evening sky,And 'neath my feet the billows whirlIn dull monotony!The sky still wears the crimson streakOf Sol's departing ray,Some briny drops are on my cheek,'Tis but the salt sea spray!Then let our barque the ocean roam,Our keel the billows plough;I shed no tears at quitting home,Nor will I shed them now!

]]>Mon, 02 Jun 2025 16:51:01 GMTI have a rendezvous with DeathAt some disputed barricade,When Spring comes back with rustling shadeAnd apple-blossoms fill the air—I have a rendezvous with DeathWhen Spring brings back blue days and fair.It may be he shall take my handAnd lead me into his dark landAnd close my eyes and quench my breath—It may be I shall pass him still.I have a rendezvous with DeathOn some scarred slope of battered hillWhen Spring comes round again this yearAnd the first meadow-flowers appear.God knows 'twere better to be deepPillowed in silk and scented down,Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep,Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,Where hushed awakenings are dear...But I've a rendezvous with DeathAt midnight in some flaming town,When Spring trips north again this year,And I to my pledged word am true,I shall not fail that rendezvous.

]]>Mon, 02 Jun 2025 16:51:01 GMTIAy, it is fitting on this holiday,Commemorative of our soldier dead,When -- with sweet flowers of our New England MayHiding the lichened stones by fifty years made gray --Their graves in every town are garlanded,That pious tribute should be given tooTo our intrepid fewObscurely fallen here beyond the seas.Those to preserve their country's greatness died;But by the death of theseSomething that we can look upon with prideHas been achieved, nor wholly unrepliedCan sneerers triumph in the charge they makeThat from a war where Freedom was at stakeAmerica withheld and, daunted, stood aside.IIBe they remembered here with each reviving spring,Not only that in May, when life is loveliest,Around Neuville-Saint-Vaast and the disputed crestOf Vimy, they, superb, unfaltering,In that fine onslaught that no fire could halt,Parted impetuous to their first assault;But that they brought fresh hearts and springlike tooTo that high mission, and 'tis meet to strewWith twigs of lilac and spring's earliest roseThe cenotaph of thoseWho in the cause that history most endearsFell in the sunny morn and flower of their young years.IIIet sought they neither recompense nor praise,Nor to be mentioned in another breathThan their blue coated comrades whose great daysIt was their pride to share -- ay, share even to the death!Nay, rather, France, to you they rendered thanks(Seeing they came for honor, not for gain),Who, opening to them your glorious ranks,Gave them that grand occasion to excel,That chance to live the life most free from stainAnd that rare privilege of dying well.IVO friends! I know not since that war beganFrom which no people nobly stands aloofIf in all moments we have given proofOf virtues that were thought American.I know not if in all things done and saidAll has been well and good,Or if each one of us can hold his headAs proudly as he should,Or, from the pattern of those mighty deadWhose shades our country venerates to-day,If we've not somewhat fallen and somewhat gone astray.But... Read more

]]>Mon, 02 Jun 2025 16:51:01 GMTIn that fair capital where Pleasure, crownedAmidst her myriad courtiers, riots and rules,I too have been a suitor. Radiant eyesWere my life's warmth and sunshine, outspread armsMy gilded deep horizons. I rejoicedIn yielding to all amorous influenceAnd multiple impulsion of the flesh,To feel within my being surge and swayThe force that all the stars acknowledge too.Amid the nebulous humanityWhere I an atom crawled and cleaved and sundered,I saw a million motions, but one law;And from the city's splendor to my eyesThe vapors passed and there was nought but Love,A ferment turbulent, intensely fair,Where Beauty beckoned and where Strength pursued.IIThere was a time when I thought much of Fame,And laid the golden edifice to beThat in the clear light of eternityShould fitly house the glory of my name.But swifter than my fingers pushed their plan,Over the fair foundation scarce begun,While I with lovers dallied in the sun,The ivy clambered and the rose-vine ran.And now, too late to see my vision, rise,In place of golden pinnacles and towers,Only some sunny mounds of leaves and flowers,Only beloved of birds and butterflies.My friends were duped, my favorers deceived;But sometimes, musing sorrowfully there,That flowered wreck has seemed to me so fairI scarce regret the temple unachieved.IIIFor there were nights . . . my love to him whose browHas glistened with the spoils of nights like those,Home turning as a conqueror turns home,What time green dawn down every street uprearsArches of triumph! He has drained as wellJoy's perfumed bowl and cried as I have cried:Be Fame their mistress whom Love passes by.This only matters: from some flowery bed,Laden with sweetness like a homing bee,If one have known what bliss it is to come,Bearing on hands and breast and laughing lipsThe fragrance of his youth's dear rose. To himThe hills have bared their treasure, the far cloudsUnveiled the vision that o'er summer seasDrew on his thirsting arms. This last thing known,He can court danger, la... Read more

]]>Mon, 02 Jun 2025 16:51:01 GMTFirst, London, for its myriads; for its height,Manhattan heaped in towering stalagmite;But Paris for the smoothness of the pathsThat lead the heart unto the heart's delight. . . .Fair loiterer on the threshold of those daysWhen there's no lovelier prize the world displaysThan, having beauty and your twenty years,You have the means to conquer and the ways,And coming where the crossroads separateAnd down each vista glories and wonders wait,Crowning each path with pinnacles so fairYou know not which to choose, and hesitate --Oh, go to Paris. . . . In the midday gloomOf some old quarter take a little roomThat looks off over Paris and its towersFrom Saint Gervais round to the Emperor's Tomb, --So high that you can hear a mating doveCroon down the chimney from the roof above,See Notre Dame and know how sweet it isTo wake between Our Lady and our love.And have a little balcony to bringFair plants to fill with verdure and blossoming,That sparrows seek, to feed from pretty hands,And swallows circle over in the Spring.There of an evening you shall sit at easeIn the sweet month of flowering chestnut-trees,There with your little darling in your arms,Your pretty dark-eyed Manon or Louise.And looking out over the domes and towersThat chime the fleeting quarters and the hours,While the bright clouds banked eastward back of themBlush in the sunset, pink as hawthorn flowers,You cannot fail to think, as I have done,Some of life's ends attained, so you be oneWho measures life's attainment by the hoursThat Joy has rescued from oblivion.IICome out into the evening streets. The green light lessens in the west.The city laughs and liveliest her fervid pulse of pleasure beats.The belfry on Saint Severin strikes eight across the smoking eaves:Come out under the lights and leavesto the Reine Blanche on Saint Germain. . . .Now crowded diners fill the floor of brasserie and restaurant.Shrill voices cry "L'Intransigeant," and corners echo "Paris-Sport."Where rows of tables from the street are sc... Read more

]]>Mon, 02 Jun 2025 16:51:01 GMTThere is a power whose inspiration fillsNature's fair fabric, sun- and star-inwrought,Like airy dew ere any drop distils,Like perfume in the laden flower, like aughtUnseen which interfused throughout the wholeBecomes its quickening pulse and principle and soul.Now when, the drift of old desire renewing,Warm tides flow northward over valley and field,When half-forgotten sound and scent are wooingFrom their deep-chambered recesses long sealedSuch memories as breathe once moreOf childhood and the happy hues it wore,Now, with a fervor that has never beenIn years gone by, it stirs me to respond, --Not as a force whose fountains are withinThe faculties of the percipient mind,Subject with them to darkness and decay,But something absolute, something beyond,Oft met like tender orbs that seem to peerFrom pale horizons, luminous behindSome fringe of tinted cloud at close of day;And in this flood of the reviving year,When to the loiterer by sylvan streams,Deep in those cares that make Youth loveliest,Nature in every common aspect seemsTo comment on the burden in his breast --The joys he covets and the dreams he dreams --One then with all beneath the radiant skiesThat laughs with him or sighs,It courses through the lilac-scented air,A blessing on the fields, a wonder everywhere.Spirit of Beauty, whose sweet impulses,Flung like the rose of dawn across the sea,Alone can flush the exalted consciousnessWith shafts of sensible divinity --Light of the World, essential loveliness:Him whom the Muse hath made thy votaryNot from her paths and gentle preceptureShall vulgar ends engage, nor break the spellThat taught him first to feel thy secret charmsAnd o'er the earth, obedient to their lure,Their sweet surprise and endless miracle,To follow ever with insatiate arms.On summer afternoons,When from the blue horizon to the shore,Casting faint silver pathways like the moon'sAcross the Ocean's glassy, mottled floor,Far clouds uprear their gleaming battlementsDrawn to the crest of some bleak em... Read more

]]>Mon, 02 Jun 2025 16:51:01 GMTI know a village in a far-off landWhere from a sunny, mountain-girdled plainWith tinted walls a space on either handAnd fed by many an olive-darkened laneThe high-road mounts, and thence a silver bandThrough vineyard slopes above and rolling grain,Winds off to that dim corner of the skiesWhere behind sunset hills a stately city lies.Here, among trees whose overhanging shadeStrews petals on the little droves below,Pattering townward in the morning weighedWith greens from many an upland garden-row,Runs an old wall; long centuries have frayedIts scalloped edge, and passers to and froHeard never from beyond its crumbling heightSweet laughter ring at noon or plaintive song at night.But here where little lizards bask and blinkThe tendrils of the trumpet-vine have run,At whose red bells the humming bird to drinkStops oft before his garden feast is done;And rose-geraniums, with that tender pinkThat cloud-banks borrow from the setting sun,Have covered part of this old wall, entwinedWith fair plumbago, blue as evening heavens behind.And crowning other parts the wild white roseRivals the honey-suckle with the bees.Above the old abandoned orchard showsAnd all within beneath the dense-set trees,Tall and luxuriant the rank grass grows,That settled in its wavy depth one seesGrass melt in leaves, the mossy trunks between,Down fading avenues of implicated green;Wherein no lack of flowers the verdurous nightWith stars and pearly nebula o'erlay;Azalea-boughs half rosy and half whiteShine through the green and clustering apple-spray,Such as the fairy-queen before her knightWaved in old story, luring him awayWhere round lost isles Hesperian billows breakOr towers loom up beneath the clear, translucent lake;And under the deep grass blue hare-bells hide,And myrtle plots with dew-fall ever wet,Gay tiger-lilies flammulate and pied,Sometime on pathway borders neatly set,Now blossom through the brake on either side,Where heliotrope and weedy mignonette,With vines in bloom and flower-bearing t... Read more

]]>Mon, 02 Jun 2025 16:51:01 GMT ISAACUS NEWTONUS: QUEM IMMORTALEMTESTANTUR TEMPUS, NATURA, COELUM: MORTALEM HOC MARMOR FATETUR.Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in nightGod said, Let Newton be! and all was light.

]]>Mon, 02 Jun 2025 16:51:01 GMT Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing; The breathing instruments inspire, Wake into voice each silent string, And sweep the sounding lyre; In a sadly-pleasing strain Let the warbling lute complain: Let the loud trumpet sound, Till the roofs all around The shrill echoes rebound: While in more lengthen'd notes and slow, The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow. Hark! the numbers soft and clear, Gently steal upon the ear; Now louder, and yet louder rise, And fill with spreading sounds the skies; Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats; Till, by degrees, remote and small, The strains decay, And melt away, In a dying, dying fall. By Music, minds an equal temper know, Nor swell too high, nor sink too low. If in the breast tumultuous joys arise, Music her soft, assuasive voice applies; Or, when the soul is press'd with cares, Exalts her in enlivening airs. Warriors she fires with animated sounds; Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds; Melancholy lifts her head, Morpheus rouses from his bed, Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes, Listening Envy drops her snakes; Intestine war no more our passions wage, And giddy factions hear away their rage. But when our country's cause provokes to arms, How martial music every bosom warms! So when the first bold vessel dared the seas, High on the stern the Thracian raised his strain, While Argo saw her kindred trees Descend from Pelion to the main. Transported demigods stood round, And men grew heroes at the sound, Inflamed with glory's charms: Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd, And half unsheath'd the shining blade: And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound, 'To arms, to arms, to arms!' But when through all the infernal bounds, Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds, Love, strong as death, the poet led To the pale nations of the dead, W... Read more

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