Ask Me No More (by Alfred, Lord Tennyson)

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;
     The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, 
     With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
But O too fond, when have I answer’d thee? 
                              Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give? 
     I love not hollow cheek or faded eye: 
     Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live; 
                              Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal’d; 
     I strove against the stream and all in vain; 
     Let the great river take me to the main:
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield; 
                              Ask me no more.


[1850]



   

Ghost House (by Robert Frost)

Ghost House
by Robert Frost
[from A Boy’s Will (1913)]

I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
     And left no trace but the cellar walls, 
     And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field; 
     The orchard tree has grown one copse 
     Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart 
     On that disused and forgotten road 
     That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about: 
     I hear him begin far enough away 
     Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are 
     Who share the unlit place with me– 
     Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad– 
     With none among them that ever sings, 
     And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.

– * –

   

I had a golden guinea (by Emily Dickinson)

Emily Dickinson

[1858]

I had a guinea golden—
I lost it in the sand—
And tho’ the sum was simple
And pounds were in the land—
Still, had it such a value
Unto my frugal eye—
That when I could not find it—
I sat me down to sigh.

I had a crimson Robin—
Who sang full many a day
But when the woods were painted,
He, too, did fly away—
Time brought me other Robins—
Their ballads were the same—
Still, for my missing Troubadour
I kept the “house at hame.”

I had a star in heaven—
One “Pleiad” was its name—
And when I was not heeding,
It wandered from the same—
And tho’ the skies are crowded—
And all the night ashine—
I do not care about it—
Since none of them are mine.

My story has a moral—
I have a missing friend—
“Pleiad” its name, and Robin,
And guinea in the sand—
And when this mournful ditty
Accompanied with tear—
Shall meet the eye of traitor
In country far from here—
Grant that repentance solemn
May seize upon his mind—
And he no consolation
Beneath the sun may find. 

Christmastime in America (by Donal Mahoney)

  

Christmastime in America
by Donal Mahoney

You see the oddest things
at Christmastime in America.
The bigger the city,
the stranger the sights.
I was driving downtown
to buy gifts for the family
and enjoying bouquets
of beautiful people
bundled in big coats
and colorful scarves
clustered on corners,
shopping in good cheer
amid petals of snow
dancing in the sun.

One of them, however,
a beautiful young lady,
had stopped to take issue
with an old woman in a shawl
picketing Planned Parenthood.
The old woman was riding
on a motor scooter
designed for the elderly.
She held a sign bigger
than she was and kept
motoring back and forth
as resolute as my aunt
who had been renowned
for protesting any injustice.
Saving seals in the Antarctic
had been very important to her.

On this day, however,
the beautiful young lady
who had taken issue
with the old woman
was livid and screaming.
She marched behind
the motor scooter and
yelled at the old woman
who appeared oblivious
to all the commotion.
Maybe she was deaf,
I thought, like my aunt.
That can be an advantage
at a time like this.

The letters on the sign were huge
but I couldn’t read them
so I drove around the block
and found a spot at the curb.

It turned out the sign said,
“What might have happened
if Mary of Nazareth
had been pro-choice?”
Now I understood
why the young lady
was ranting and raving
and why the old woman
kept motoring to and fro.
At Christmastime in America
people get excited,
more so than usual.

When I got home
I hid my packages
and told my wife at supper
what I had seen.
I also told her that if Mary
had chosen otherwise,
I wouldn’t have had
to go shopping today.
That’s obvious, she said.

* * *

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri. His poetry and fiction have appeared in a variety of publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/.

Fire and Ice (by Robert Frost)

Fire and Ice
by Robert Frost
[This poem originally appeared in the Dec. 1920 issue of Harper’s Magazine & was later collected in New Hampshire (1923)]

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

– * –

   

Full of Life Now (by Walt Whitman)

Full of Life Now
by Walt Whitman
from “Calamus” in Leaves of Grass, 1871

Full of life now, compact, visible,
I, forty years old the eighty-third year of the States,
To one a century hence or any number of centuries hence,
To you yet unborn these, seeking you.
When you read these I that was visible am become invisible,
Now it is you, compact, visible, realizing my poems, seeking me,
Fancying how happy you were if I could be with you and become your comrade;
Be it as if I were with you. (Be not too certain but I am now with you.)

To read other Whitman selections in the Crisis Chronicles Online Library, click here.

That Shadow My Likeness (by Walt Whitman)

That Shadow My Likeness
by Walt Whitman
from “Calamus” in Leaves of Grass, 1881

That shadow my likeness that goes to and fro seeking a livelihood, chattering, chaffering,
How often I find myself standing and looking at it where it flits,
How often I question and doubt whether that is really me;
But among my lovers and caroling these songs,
O I never doubt whether that is really me.

To read other Whitman selections in the Crisis Chronicles Online Library, click here.

Among the Multitude (by Walt Whitman)

Among the Multitude
by Walt Whitman
from “Calamus” in Leaves of Grass, 1881

Among the men and women the multitude,
I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs,
Acknowledging none else, not parent, wife, husband, brother, child, any nearer than I am,
Some are baffled, but that one is not–that one knows me.

Ah lover and perfect equal,
I meant that you should discover me so by faint indirections,
And I when I meet you mean to discover you by the like in you.


To read other Whitman selections in the Crisis Chronicles Online Library, click here.

Fast-Anchor’d Eternal O Love! (by Walt Whitman)

Fast-Anchor’d Eternal O Love!
by Walt Whitman
from “Calamus” in Leaves of Grass, 1867

Fast-anchor’d eternal O love! O woman I love!
O bride! O wife! more resistless than I can tell, the thought of you!
Then separate, as disembodied or another born,
Ethereal, the last athletic reality, my consolation,
I ascend, I float in the regions of your love O man,
O sharer of my roving life.



To read other Whitman selections in the Crisis Chronicles Online Library, click here.

To a Western Boy (by Walt Whitman)

To a Western Boy
by Walt Whitman
from “Calamus” in Leaves of Grass, 1881

Many things to absorb I teach to help you become eleve of mine;
Yet if blood like mine circle not in your veins,
If you be not silently selected by lovers and do not silently select lovers,
Of what use is it that you seek to become eleve of mine? 



To read other Whitman selections in the Crisis Chronicles Online Library, click here.