The Poetry Podcast

I saw you looking in the stone mirror before,dripping water, your idea was so close to me then.Today you tasted the winter wind, a bitter taste.The same depression, the same downcast features.Two drops of the black night, your eyes!You can’t imagine a homeland you’ve never seen.Where did you find the stone mirror? In a bygone age, or in your dream?In those times all hearts were sand, were wind,and they had a black smell that wouldn’t fade.Now, clouds crowd into the bottom of your ear, you can’t hear,you feel the mournful cold, you slowly lift your head,loneliness follows loneliness, as sunlight sinks into sunlight.Tell me, can I kiss you with frozen lips?Tell me, will the sun that lights the stone mirror swallow us?Goodbye my dearest, flee, get far from here!But a tree will not defy the land.Here it’s still winter, the trees haven’t yet grown leaves.A handful of pale gold soul in my palm, in my fingers.The spring season is my resolve.Time is still long, like time itself.Oh my dearest, tell me now: which one of us should die first?November 1995, ÜrümchiTranslated from the Uyghur by Joshua L. Freeman

This is a night made from words.This is a night poured into our spines like pig iron.This is a night that puts us up in slippers and in our bedrooms inside books.This is a night that makes our noses shed hellfruit leaves.This is a night for us to make merry with lovers in illusory castles.This is the spring night that grows soft grasses from the footprints we               trample each day into prayer rugs, and constantly weighs down our               eyes.This is the celestial night that turns advantage into likelihood.This is the mother night that suckles death verses.This is a night that no elegy, ode, rain, or beam of light shall ever reach.This is a hungry night,this an unclothed night.This is a night far from Satan and from God.This is a night that reminds usof the darkness of the wombof the vague sobs of infancyof the solo games of adolescenceof the first love of youthof the sudden futility of adulthoodof the grim dusk of old ageof the terror of the moment before death.This is the night that patiently waitsto seep from our poresand violently seize our whole bodyas we cast off from shore.This night is a sky for all buildings, shadows, traditions, betrayals,               revolutions, mattresses, bats, novels, songs, pictures, journeys,               murders, and smokable substances.This night is ink to all pens.This night is bosom to all secrets.This night is the Antichrist dragging the land of history along with his               tongue.This night is the mud that sticks to our shoes as we walk in the forest of               meaning.This is the night that splinters Noah's ship and makes traps of its decks.This is the night that takes all that we have, hands it over to the only one               that speaks, and quietly walks on.translated from the Uyghur by Joshua L. Freeman

In early youth’s unclouded scene,The brilliant morning of eighteen,With health and sprightly joy elate,We gazed on youth’s enchanting spring,Nor thought how quickly time would bringThe mournful period — thirty-eight!Then the starch maid, or matron sage,Already of the sober age,We viewed with mingled scorn and hate;In whose sharp words, or sharper face,With thoughtless mirth, we loved to traceThe sad effects of — thirty-eight!Till, saddening, sickening at the view,We learned to dread what time might do;And then preferred a prayer to FateTo end our days ere that arrived,When (power and pleasure long survived)We meet neglect, and — thirty-eight!But Time, in spite of wishes, flies;And Fate our simple prayer denies,And bids us Death’s own hour await!The auburn locks are mixed with grey,The transient roses fade away,But reason comes at — thirty-eight!Her voice the anguish contradictsThat dying vanity inflicts;Her hand new pleasures can create,For us she opens to the viewProspect less bright — but far more true,And bids us smile at — thirty-eight!No more shall Scandal’s breath destroyThe social converse we enjoyWith bard or critic, tete a tete —O’er youth’s bright blooms her blight shall pour,But spare the improving, friendly hourWhich Science gives at — thirty-eight!Stripped of their gaudy hues by Truth,We view the glittering toys of youth,And blush to think how poor the baitFor which to public scenes we ran,And scorned of sober sense the planWhich gives content at — thirty-eight!O may her blessings now arise,Like stars that mildly light the skies,When the sun’s ardent rays abate!And in the luxuries of mind —In friendship, science — may we findIncreasing joys at — thirty-eight!Though Time’s inexorable swayHas torn the myrtle bands away,For other wreaths — ’tis not too late:The amaranth’s purple glow survives,And still Minerva’s olive thrivesOn the calm brow of — thirty-eight!With eye more steady, we engageTo contemplate approaching age,And life more justly estimate;With firmer souls and stronger powers,With reason, faith, and friendship ours,We’ll not regret the stealing hoursThat lead from thirty- e’en to forty-eight!

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Psalm by John ColtraneI will do all I can to be worthy of Thee O Lord.It all has to do with it.Thank you God.Peace.There is none other.God is. It is so beautiful.Thank you God. God is all.Help us to resolve our fears and weaknesses.Thank you God.In You all things are possible.We know. God made us so.Keep your eye on God.God is. He always was. He always will be.No matter what…it is God.He is gracious and merciful.It is most important that I know Thee.Words, sounds, speech, men, memory, thoughts,fears and emotions – time – all related …all made from one … all made in one.Blessed be His name.Thought waves – heat waves-all vibrations –all paths lead to God. Thank you God.His way … it is so lovely … it is gracious.It is merciful – thank you God.One thought can produce millions of vibrationsand they all go back to God … everything does.Thank you God.Have no fear … believe … thank you God.The universe has many wonders. God is all. His way … it is so wonderful.Thoughts – deeds – vibrations, etc.They all go back to God and He cleanses all.He is gracious and merciful…thank you God.Glory to God … God is so alive.God is.God loves.May I be acceptable in Thy sight.We are all one in His grace.The fact that we do exist is acknowledgement of Thee O Lord.Thank you God.God will wash away all our tears …He always has …He always will.Seek Him everyday. In all ways seek God everyday.Let us sing all songs to GodTo whom all praise is due … praise God.No road is an easy one, but they allgo back to God.With all we share God.It is all with God.It is all with Thee.Obey the Lord.Blessed is He.We are from one thing … the will of God … thank you God.I have seen God – I have seen ungodly –none can be greater – none can compare to God.Thank you God.He will remake us … He always has and He always will.It is true – blessed be His name – thank you God.God breathes through us so completely …so gently we hardly feel it … yet,it is our everything.Thank you God.ELATION-ELEGANCE-EXALTATIONAll from God.Thank you God. Amen.

I dreamed I stood upon a little hill,And at my feet there lay a ground, that seemedLike a waste garden, flowering at its willWith buds and blossoms. There were pools that dreamedBlack and unruffled; there were white liliesA few, and crocuses, and violetsPurple or pale, snake-like fritillariesScarce seen for the rank grass, and through green netsBlue eyes of shy peryenche winked in the sun.And there were curious flowers, before unknown,Flowers that were stained with moonlight, or with shadesOf Nature’s willful moods; and here a oneThat had drunk in the transitory toneOf one brief moment in a sunset; bladesOf grass that in an hundred springs had beenSlowly but exquisitely nurtured by the stars,And watered with the scented dew long cuppedIn lilies, that for rays of sun had seenOnly God’s glory, for never a sunrise marsThe luminous air of Heaven. Beyond, abrupt,A grey stone wall, o’ergrown with velvet mossUprose; and gazing I stood long, all mazedTo see a place so strange, so sweet, so fair.And as I stood and marvelled, lo! acrossThe garden came a youth; one hand he raisedTo shield him from the sun, his wind-tossed hairWas twined with flowers, and in his hand he boreA purple bunch of bursting grapes, his eyesWere clear as crystal, naked all was he,White as the snow on pathless mountains frore,Red were his lips as red wine-spilith that dyesA marble floor, his brow chalcedony.And he came near me, with his lips uncurledAnd kind, and caught my hand and kissed my mouth,And gave me grapes to eat, and said, ‘Sweet friend,Come I will show thee shadows of the worldAnd images of life. See from the SouthComes the pale pageant that hath never an end.’And lo! within the garden of my dreamI saw two walking on a shining plainOf golden light. The one did joyous seemAnd fair and blooming, and a sweet refrainCame from his lips; he sang of pretty maidsAnd joyous love of comely girl and boy,His eyes were bright, and ’mid the dancing bladesOf golden grass his feet did trip for joy;And in his hand he held an ivory luteWith strings of gold that were as maidens’ hair,And sang with voice as tuneful as a flute,And round his neck three chains of roses were.But he that was his comrade walked aside;He was full sad and sweet, and his large eyesWere strange with wondrous brightness, staring wideWith gazing; and he sighed with many sighsThat moved me, and his cheeks were wan and whiteLike pallid lilies, and his lips were redLike poppies, and his hands he clenched tight,And yet again unclenched, and his headWas wreathed with moon-flowers pale as lips of death.A purple robe he wore, o’erwrought in goldWith the device of a great snake, whose breathWas fiery flame: which when I did beholdI fell a-weeping, and I cried, ‘Sweet youth,Tell me why, sad and sighing, thou dost roveThese pleasent realms? I pray thee speak me soothWhat is thy name?’ He said, ‘My name is Love.’Then straight the first did turn himself to meAnd cried, ‘He lieth, for his name is Shame,But I am Love, and I was wont to beAlone in this fair garden, till he cameUnasked by night; I am true Love, I fillThe hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.’Then sighing, said the other, ‘Have thy will,I am the love that dare not speak its name.’

The human heart has hidden treasures,In secret kept, in silence sealed;—The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,Whose charms were broken if revealed.And days may pass in gay confusion,And nights in rosy riot fly,While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion,The memory of the Past may die.But there are hours of lonely musing,Such as in evening silence come,When, soft as birds their pinions closing,The heart's best feelings gather home.Then in our souls there seems to languishA tender grief that is not woe;And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguishNow cause but some mild tears to flow.And feelings, once as strong as passions,Float softly back—a faded dream;Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,The tale of others' sufferings seem.Oh! when the heart is freshly bleeding,How longs it for that time to be,When, through the mist of years receding,Its woes but live in reverie!And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,On evening shade and loneliness;And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,Feel no untold and strange distress—Only a deeper impulse givenBy lonely hour and darkened room,To solemn thoughts that soar to heavenSeeking a life and world to come.

My heart aches, & a drowsy numbness pains         My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains         One minute past, & Lethe-wards had sunk:'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,         But being too happy in thine happiness,—                That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees                        In some melodious plot         Of beechen green, & shadows numberless,                Singest of summer in full-throated ease.O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been         Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,Tasting of Flora & the country green,         Dance, & Provençal song, & sunburnt mirth!O for a beaker full of the warm South,         Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,                With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,                        & purple-stained mouth;         That I might drink, & leave the world unseen,                & with thee fade away into the forest dim:Fade far away, dissolve, & quite forget         What thou among the leaves hast never known,The weariness, the fever, & the fret         Here, where men sit & hear each other groan;Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,         Where youth grows pale, & spectre-thin, & dies;                Where but to think is to be full of sorrow                        & leaden-eyed despairs,         Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,                Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.Away! away! for I will fly to thee,         Not charioted by Bacchus & his pards,But on the viewless wings of Poesy,         Though the dull brain perplexes & retards:Already with thee! tender is the night,         & haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,                Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;                        But here there is no light,         Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown                Through verdurous glooms & winding mossy ways.I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,         Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet         Wherewith the seasonable month endowsThe grass, the thicket, & the fruit-tree wild;         White hawthorn, & the pastoral eglantine;                Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;                        & mid-May's eldest child,         The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,                The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.Darkling I listen; &, for many a time         I have been half in love with easeful Death,Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,         To take into the air my quiet breath;                Now more than ever seems it rich to die,         To cease upon the midnight with no pain,                While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad                        In such an ecstasy!         Still wouldst thou sing, & I have ears in vain—                   To thy high requiem become a sod.Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!         No hungry generations tread thee down;The voice I hear this passing night was heard         In ancient days by emperor & clown:Perhaps the self-same song that found a path         Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,                She stood in tears amid the alien corn;                        The same that oft-times hath         Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam                Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.Forlorn! the very word is like a bell         To toll me back from thee to my sole self!Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well         As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades         Past the near meadows, over the still stream,                Up the hill-side; & now 'tis buried deep                        In the next valley-glades:         Was it a vision, or a waking dream?                Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

In Scarlet town, where I was born,   There was a fair maid dwellin’,Made every youth cry Well-a-way!   Her name was Barbara Allen.All in the merry month of May,   When green buds they were swellin’,Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,   For love of Barbara Allen.He sent his man in to her then,   To the town where she was dwellin’;“O haste and come to my master dear,   If your name be Barbara Allen.”So slowly, slowly rase she up,   And slowly she came nigh him,And when she drew the curtain by—   “Young man, I think you’re dyin’.”“O it’s I am sick and very very sick,   And it’s all for Barbara Allen.”—O the better for me ye’se never be,   Tho’ your heart’s blood were a-spillin’!“O dinna ye mind, young man,” says she,   “When the red wine ye were fillin’,That ye made the healths go round and round,   And slighted Barbara Allen?”He turned his face unto the wall,   And death was with him dealin’:“Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,   And be kind to Barbara Allen!”As she was walking o’er the fields,   She heard the dead-bell knellin’;And every jow the dead-bell gave   Cried “Woe to Barbara Allen.”“O mother, mother, make my bed,   O make it saft and narrow:My love has died for me today,   I’ll die for him tomorrow.”“Farewell,” she said, “ye virgins all,   And shun the fault I fell in:Henceforth take warning by the fall   Of cruel Barbara Allen.”

There's little joy in life for me,      And little terror in the grave;I 've lived the parting hour to see      Of one I would have died to save.Calmly to watch the failing breath,      Wishing each sigh might be the last;Longing to see the shade of death      O'er those belovèd features cast.The cloud, the stillness that must part      The darling of my life from me;And then to thank God from my heart,      To thank Him well and fervently;Although I knew that we had lost      The hope and glory of our life;And now, benighted, tempest-tossed,      Must bear alone the weary strife.

My dearest boy,This is to assure you of my immortal, my eternal love for you. Tomorrow all will be over. If prison and dishonour be my destiny, think that my love for you and this idea, this still more divine belief, that you love me in return will sustain me in my unhappiness and will make me capable, I hope, of bearing my grief most patiently. Since the hope, nay rather the certainty, of meeting you again in some world is the goal and the encouragement of my present life, ah! I must continue to live in this world because of that. Brought to you by: Imposter ProductionsPerformance by: Jessica MunnaResearch/Assistant Producer: Sharon Sybill GattIntro & Episode music by ELPHNT: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/youtube-audio⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ (search for ELPHNT & download for free from the Youtube Audio Library) ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/⁠⁠

I have but one thought, Susie, this afternoon of June, and that of you, and I have one prayer, only; dear Susie, that is for you. That you and I in hand as we e’en do in heart, might ramble away as children, among the woods and fields, and forget these many years, and these sorrowing cares, and each become a child again — I would it were so, Susie, and when I look around me and find myself alone, I sigh for you again; little sigh, and vain sigh, which will not bring you home.I need you more and more, and the great world grows wider, and dear ones fewer and fewer, every day that you stay away — I miss my biggest heart; my own goes wandering round, and calls for Susie — Friends are too dear to sunder, Oh they are far too few, and how soon they will go away where you and I cannot find them, don’t let us forget these things, for their remembrance now will save us many an anguish when it is too late to love them! Susie, forgive me Darling, for every word I say — my heart is full of you, none other than you is in my thoughts, yet when I seek to say to you something not for the world, words fail me. If you were here — and Oh that you were, my Susie, we need not talk at all, our eyes would whisper for us, and your hand fast in mine, we would not ask for language — I try to bring you nearer, I chase the weeks away till they are quite departed, and fancy you have come, and I am on my way through the green lane to meet you, and my heart goes scampering so, that I have much ado to bring it back again, and learn it to be patient, till that dear Susie comes. Three weeks — they can’t last always, for surely they must go with their little brothers and sisters to their long home in the west!I shall grow more and more impatient until that dear day comes, for till now, I have only mourned for you; now I begin to hope for you.Brought to you by: Imposter ProductionsPerformance by: Jessica MunnaResearch/Assistant Producer: Sharon Sybill GattIntro & Episode music by ELPHNT: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/youtube-audio⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ (search for ELPHNT & download for free from the Youtube Audio Library) ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/⁠⁠

I got your letter, my beloved; it has filled my heart with joy. I am grateful to you for the trouble you have taken to send me news; your health should be better to-day—I am sure you are cured. I urge you strongly to ride, which cannot fail to do you good.Ever since I left you, I have been sad. I am only happy when by your side. Ceaselessly I recall your kisses, your tears, 20your enchanting jealousy; and the charms of the incomparable Josephine keep constantly alight a bright and burning flame in my heart and senses. When, free from every worry, from all business, shall I spend all my moments by your side, to have nothing to do but to love you, and to prove it to you? I shall send your horse, but I am hoping that you will soon be able to rejoin me. I thought I loved you some days ago; but, since I saw you, I feel that I love you even a thousand times more. Ever since I have known you, I worship you more every day; which proves how false is the maxim of La Bruyère that "Love comes all at once." Everything in nature has a regular course, and different degrees of growth. Ah! pray let me see some of your faults; be less beautiful, less gracious, less tender, and, especially, less kind; above all never be jealous, never weep; your tears madden me, fire my blood. Be sure that it is no longer possible for me to have a thought except for you, or an idea of which you shall not be the judge.Have a good rest. Haste to get well. Come and join me, so that, at least, before dying, we could say—"We were happy for so many days!!"Millions of kisses, and even to Fortuné, in spite of his naughtiness.Brought to you by: Imposter ProductionsPerformance by: Jessica MunnaResearch/Assistant Producer: Sharon Sybill GattIntro & Episode music by ELPHNT: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/youtube-audio⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ (search for ELPHNT & download for free from the Youtube Audio Library) ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/⁠⁠

The sky is clear, the moon is shining. I hear sailors singing as they raise anchor, preparing to leave with the oncoming tide. No clouds, no wind. The river is white under the moon, black in the shadows. Moths are playing around my candles, and the scent of the night comes to me through my open windows. And you, are you asleep? Or at your window? Are you thinking of the one who think of you? Are you dreaming? What is the color of your dream? Yes, I will come back, and soon, for I think of you always; I keep dreaming of your face, of your shoulders, your white neck, your smile, of your voice that is like a love-cry, at once impassioned, violent, and sweet. I told you, I think, that it was above all your voice that I loved.Brought to you by: Imposter ProductionsPerformance by: Jessica MunnaResearch/Assistant Producer: Sharon Sybill GattIntro & Episode music by ELPHNT: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/youtube-audio⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ (search for ELPHNT & download for free from the Youtube Audio Library) ⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/⁠⁠

Making Life Worthwhile by George Eliot Every soul that touches yours – Be it the slightest contact– Get there from some good; Some little grace; one kindly thought; One aspiration yet unfelt; One bit of courage For the darkening sky; One gleam of faith To brave the thickening ills of life; One glimpse of brighter skies –To make this life worthwhile And heaven a surer heritage. Brought to you by: Imposter Productions Performance by: Jessica Munna Research/Assistant Producer: Sharon Sybill Gatt Intro & Episode music by ELPHNT: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/youtube-audio⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ (search for ELPHNT & download for free from the Youtube Audio Library) ⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/⁠⁠

Revenge by Eliza Acton I would not, in the wildness of revenge, Give poison to mine enemy, nor strike My dagger to his heart, but I would plant Love--burning--hopeless--and unquenchable-- Within the inmost foldings of his breast, And bid him die the dark, and ling'ring death, Of the pale victims, who expire beneath The pow'r of that deep passion. Earth can show No bitterness like this !--The shroud of thought Which gathers round them, gloomy as the grave;-- The wasting, but unpitied pangs, which wear The frame away, and make the tortur'd mind Almost a chaos in its agony;-- The writhings of the spirit, doom'd to see A rival bless'd;-and utter, cold, despair :- These are its torments !-Are they not enough To satisfy the most remorseless hate? Brought to you by: Imposter Productions Performance by: Jessica Munna Research/Assistant Producer: Sharon Sybill Gatt Intro & Episode music by ELPHNT: ⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/youtube-audio⁠⁠⁠⁠ (search for ELPHNT & download for free from the Youtube Audio Library) ⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/⁠⁠

When latest autumn spreads her evening veil, And the gray mists from these dim waves arise, I love to listen to the hollow sighs Through the half leafless wood that breathes the gale. For at such hours the shadowy phantom pale,         Oft seems to fleet before the poet's eyes; Strange sounds are heard, and mournful melodies As of night-wanderers who their woes bewail. Here by his native stream, at such an hour, Pity's own Otway I methinks could meet         And hear his deep sighs swell the saddened wind! O Melancholy, such thy magic power That to the soul these dreams are often sweet And soothe the pensive visionary mind. Brought to you by: Imposter Productions Performance by: Jessica Munna Research/Assistant Producer: Sharon Sybill Gatt Intro music by ELPHNT: ⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/youtube-audio⁠⁠⁠ (search for ELPHNT & download for free from the Youtube Audio Library) ⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/⁠⁠ Episode music by The Lights: ⁠⁠https://thelights.bandcamp.com/⁠⁠

LETTER VI (excerpt) from Letters written during a short residence in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark by Mary Wollstonecraft Nature is the nurse of sentiment, the true source of taste; yet what misery, as well as rapture, is produced by a quick perception of the beautiful and sublime when it is exercised in observing animated nature, when every beauteous feeling and emotion excites responsive sympathy, and the harmonised soul sinks into melancholy or rises to ecstasy, just as the chords are touched, like the Æolian harp agitated by the changing wind. But how dangerous is it to foster these sentiments in such an imperfect state of existence, and how difficult to eradicate them when an affection for mankind, a passion for an individual, is but the unfolding of that love which embraces all that is great and beautiful! When a warm heart has received strong impressions, they are not to be effaced. Emotions become sentiments, and the imagination renders even transient sensations permanent by fondly retracing them. I cannot, without a thrill of delight, recollect views I have seen, which are not to be forgotten, nor looks I have felt in every nerve, which I shall never more meet. The grave has closed over a dear friend, the friend of my youth. Still she is present with me, and I hear her soft voice warbling as I stray over the heath. Fate has separated me from another, the fire of whose eyes, tempered by infantine tenderness, still warms my breast; even when gazing on these tremendous cliffs sublime emotions absorb my soul. And, smile not, if I add that the rosy tint of morning reminds me of a suffusion which will never more charm my senses, unless it reappears on the cheeks of my child. Her sweet blushes I may yet hide in my bosom, and she is still too young to ask why starts the tear so near akin to pleasure and pain. Brought to you by: Imposter Productions Performance by: Jessica Munna Researcher /Assistant Producer: Sharon Sybill Gatt Intro music by ELPHNT: ⁠https://elphnt.io/youtube-audio⁠ (search for ELPHNT) https://elphnt.io/ Episode music by The Lights: https://thelights.bandcamp.com/

Good morning, Even in bed my ideas yearn towards you, my Immortal Beloved, here and there joyfully, then again sadly, awaiting from Fate, whether it will listen to us. I can only live, either altogether with you or not at all. Yes, I have determined to wander about for so long far away, until I can fly into your arms and call myself quite at home with you, can send my soul enveloped by yours into the realm of spirits — yes, I regret, it must be. You will get over it all the more as you know my faithfulness to you; never another one can own my heart, never — never! O God, why must one go away from what one loves so, and yet my life in W. as it is now is a miserable life. Your love made me the happiest and unhappiest at the same time. At my actual age I should need some continuity, sameness of life — can that exist under our circumstances? Angel, I just hear that the post goes out every day — and must close therefore, so that you get the L. at once. Be calm — love me — today — yesterday. What longing in tears for you — You — my Life — my All — farewell. Oh, go on loving me — never doubt the faithfullest heart Of your beloved L Ever thine. Ever mine. Ever ours.

A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words. This may sound easy. It isn’t. A lot of people think or believe or know they feel — but that’s thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling — not knowing or believing or thinking. Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you’re a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you’re nobody-but-yourself. To be nobody-but-yourself — in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else — means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting. As for expressing nobody-but-yourself in words, that means working just a little harder than anybody who isn’t a poet can possibly imagine. Why? Because nothing is quite as easy as using words like somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the time-and whenever we do it, we’re not poets. If, at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you’ve written one line of one poem, you’ll be very lucky indeed. And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do something easy, like learning how to blow up the world – unless you’re not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die. Does this sound dismal? It isn’t. It’s the most wonderful life on earth. Or so I feel.

Winter Stars BY SARA TEASDALE I went out at night alone; The young blood flowing beyond the sea Seemed to have drenched my spirit’s wings— I bore my sorrow heavily. But when I lifted up my head From shadows shaken on the snow, I saw Orion in the east Burn steadily as long ago. From windows in my father’s house, Dreaming my dreams on winter nights, I watched Orion as a girl Above another city’s lights. Years go, dreams go, and youth goes too, The world’s heart breaks beneath its wars, All things are changed, save in the east The faithful beauty of the stars.

To the Moon BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY I Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a different birth, — And ever changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy? II Thou chosen sister of the Spirit, That gazes on thee till in thee it pities ...

HOME:  "The place where you are treated best and grumble most. Here’s a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate; And whatever sky’s above me, Here’s a heart for every fate. Were’t the last drop in the well, As I gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell, ’Tis to thee that I would drink." -Byron https://archive.org/details/toastsforallocca00bost/page/18/mode/2up

The Ballad of Reading Gaol BY OSCAR WILDE I He did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red, And blood and wine were on his hands When they found him with the dead, The poor dead woman whom he loved, And murdered in her bed. He walked amongst the Trial Men In a suit of shabby gray; A cricket cap was on his head, And his step seemed light and gay; But I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day. I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky, And at every drifting cloud that went With sails of silver by. I walked, with other souls in pain, Within another ring, And was wondering if the man had done A great or little thing, When a voice behind me whispered low, "That fellow's got to swing." Dear Christ! the very prison walls Suddenly seemed to reel, And the sky above my head became Like a casque of scorching steel; And, though I was a soul in pain, My pain I could not feel. I only knew what hunted thought Quickened his step, and why He looked upon the garish day With such a wistful eye; The man had killed the thing he loved, And so he had to die. Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword! Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Lust, Some with the hands of Gold: The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold. Some love too little, some too long, Some sell, and others buy; Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh: For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die. He does not die a death of shame On a day of dark disgrace, Nor have a noose about his neck, Nor a cloth upon his face, Nor drop feet foremost through the floor Into an empty space. He does not sit with silent men Who watch him night and day; Who watch him when he tries to weep, And when he tries to pray; Who watch him lest himself should rob The prison of its prey. He does not wake at dawn to see Dread figures throng his room, The shivering Chaplain robed in white, The Sheriff stern with gloom, And the Governor all in shiny black, With the yellow face of Doom. He does not rise in piteous haste To put on convict-clothes, While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes Each new and nerve-twitched pose, Fingering a watch whose little ticks Are like horrible hammer-blows. He does not know that sickening thirst That sands one's throat, before The hangman with his gardener's gloves Slips through the padded door, And binds one with three leathern thongs, That the throat may thirst no more. He does not bend his head to hear The Burial Office read, Nor while the terror of his soul Tells him he is not dead, Cross his own coffin, as he moves Into the hideous shed. He does not stare upon the air Through a little roof of glass: He does not pray with lips of clay For his agony to pass; Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek The kiss of Caiaphas.

People at Night By Rainer Maria Rilke (1875–1926)  The Nights were not made for crowds, and they sever You from your neighbour, and you shall never Seek him, defiantly, at night. But if you make your dark house light, To look on strangers in your room, You must reflect—on whom. False lights that on men’s faces playDistort them gruesomely. You look upon a disarray, A world that seems to reel and sway, A waving, glittering sea. On foreheads gleams a yellow shine, Where thoughts are chased away, Their glances flicker mad from wine, And to the words they say Strange heavy gestures make reply That struggle in the buzzing room; And they say always “I” and “I,” And mean—they know not whom. This episode was directed by Caitlyn Oenbrink

Endymion BY JOHN KEATS (1795–1821) A Poetic Romance (excerpt) BOOK  A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep; and such are daffodils With the green world they live in; and clear rills That for themselves a cooling covert make 'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake, Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: And such too is the grandeur of the dooms We have imagined for the mighty dead; All lovely tales that we have heard or read: An endless fountain of immortal drink, Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. Nor do we merely feel these essences For one short hour; no, even as the trees That whisper round a temple become soon Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, The passion poesy, glories infinite, Haunt us till they become a cheering light Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast; They always must be with us, or we die. Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I Will trace the story of Endymion. The very music of the name has gone Into my being, and each pleasant scene Is growing fresh before me as the green Of our own valleys: so I will begin Now while I cannot hear the city's din; Now while the early budders are just new, And run in mazes of the youngest hue About old forests; while the willow trails Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer My little boat, for many quiet hours, With streams that deepen freshly into bowers. Many and many a verse I hope to write, Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white, Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas, I must be near the middle of my story. O may no wintry season, bare and hoary, See it half finish'd: but let Autumn bold, With universal tinge of sober gold, Be all about me when I make an end. And now, at once adventuresome, I send My herald thought into a wilderness: There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress My uncertain path with green, that I may speed Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.  This episode was directed by Caitlyn Oenbrink

Song of Myself, 4 by Walt Whitman (1819-1892) Trippers and askers surround me,  People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and city I live in, or the nation,  The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies,  authors old and new,  My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,  The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,  The sickness of one of my folks or of myself or ill-doing or loss or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations, Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news, the fitful events;  These come to me days and nights and go from me again, But they are not the Me myself. Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,  Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,  Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,  Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,  Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it. Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders,  I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait. This episode was directed by Caitlyn Oenbrink

Ashes of Life BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY (1892–1950) Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike; Eat I must, and sleep I will, — and would that night were here! But ah! — to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike! Would that it were day again! — with twilight near! Love has gone and left me and I don't know what to do; This or that or what you will is all the same to me; But all the things that I begin I leave before I'm through, — There's little use in anything as far as I can see. Love has gone and left me, — and the neighbors knock and borrow, And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse, — And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow There's this little street and this little house. This episode was directed by Caitlyn Oenbrink

The Walrus and the CarpenterBY LEWIS CARROLL (1832–1898)'The sun was shining on the sea,Shining with all his might:He did his very best to makeThe billows smooth and bright —And this was odd, because it wasThe middle of the night.The moon was shining sulkily,Because she thought the sunHad got no business to be thereAfter the day was done —"It's very rude of him," she said,"To come and spoil the fun."The sea was wet as wet could be,The sands were dry as dry.You could not see a cloud, becauseNo cloud was in the sky:No birds were flying overhead —There were no birds to fly.The Walrus and the CarpenterWere walking close at hand;They wept like anything to seeSuch quantities of sand:If this were only cleared away,'They said, it would be grand!'If seven maids with seven mopsSwept it for half a year,Do you suppose,' the Walrus said,That they could get it clear?'I doubt it,' said the Carpenter,And shed a bitter tear.O Oysters, come and walk with us!'The Walrus did beseech.A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,Along the briny beach:We cannot do with more than four,To give a hand to each.'The eldest Oyster looked at him,But never a word he said:The eldest Oyster winked his eye,And shook his heavy head —Meaning to say he did not chooseTo leave the oyster-bed.But four young Oysters hurried up,All eager for the treat:Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,Their shoes were clean and neat —And this was odd, because, you know,They hadn't any feet.Four other Oysters followed them,And yet another four;And thick and fast they came at last,And more, and more, and more —All hopping through the frothy waves,And scrambling to the shore.The Walrus and the CarpenterWalked on a mile or so,And then they rested on a rockConveniently low:And all the little Oysters stoodAnd waited in a row.The time has come,' the Walrus said,To talk of many things:Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax —Of cabbages — and kings —And why the sea is boiling hot —And whether pigs have wings.'But wait a bit,' the Oysters cried,Before we have our chat;For some of us are out of breath,And all of us are fat!'No hurry!' said the Carpenter.They thanked him much for that.A loaf of bread,' the Walrus said,Is what we chiefly need:Pepper and vinegar besidesAre very good indeed —Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,We can begin to feed.'Read the rest of the poem here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43914/the-walrus-and-the-carpenter-56d222cbc80a9This episode was directed by Caitlyn Oenbrink

The New Colossus BY EMMA LAZARUS (1849–1887) Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. “Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!” This episode was directed by Caitlyn Oenbrink

Grief BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING (1806–1861)  I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless; That only men incredulous of despair, Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness, In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express Grief for thy dead in silence like to death— Most like a monumental statue set In everlasting watch and moveless woe Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet: If it could weep, it could arise and go. This episode was directed by Caitlyn Oenbrink.

The Second Coming By William Butler Yeats (1865–1939) Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? This episode was directed by Caitlyn Oenbrink

A Thousand Martyrs by Aphra Behn  (1640–1689) A thousand martyrs I have made, All sacrificed to my desire; A thousand beauties have betrayed, That languish in resistless fire. The untamed heart to hand I brought, And fixed the wild and wandering thought. I never vowed nor sighed in vain But both, though false, were well received. The fair are pleased to give us pain, And what they wish is soon believed. And though I talked of wounds and smart, Love’s pleasures only touched my heart. Alone the glory and the spoil I always laughing bore away; The triumphs, without pain or toil, Without the hell, the heav’n of joy. And while I thus at random rove Despise the fools that whine for love. This episode was directed by Caitlyn Oenbrink.

On Death by John Keats 1795-1821 Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? The transient pleasures as a vision seem, And yet we think the greatest pain's to die. How strange it is that man on earth should roam, And lead a life of woe, but not forsake His rugged path; nor dare he view alone His future doom which is but to awake.

*This poem was read at 2 am in my new kitchen after moving house. Please enjoy with the characterful refrigerator sound in the background.*  ARMISTICE By Sophie Jewett (1861-1909) The water sings along our keel, The wind falls to a whispering breath; I look into your eyes and feel No fear of life or death; So near is love, so far away The losing strife of yesterday. We watch the swallow skim and dip; Some magic bids the world be still; Life stands with finger upon lip; Love hath his gentle will; Though hearts have bled, and tears have burned, The river floweth unconcerned. We pray the fickle flag of truce Still float deceitfully and fair; Our eyes must love its sweet abuse; This hour we will not care, Though just beyond to-morrow's gate, Arrayed and strong, the battle wait.

Composed upon Westminster Bridge September 3, 1802, by William Wordsworth Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

Wealth by Langston Hughes (1902-1967) From Christ to Ghandi Appears this truth- St. Francis of Assisi Proves it, too: Goodness becomes grandeur Surpassing might of kings. Halos of kindness Brighter shine Than crowns of gold, And brighter Than rich diamonds Sparkles The simple dew Of love.

Rose Schneiderman (1882-1972) was a Jewish immigrant from Poland and a labor union leader of the early women’s movement. Schneiderman fought to improve women’s working conditions and gain universal suffrage. In the early 1900s, many NYC factories operated without fire escapes or locked exit doors to prevent workers from stealing goods. In the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire in 1911, 146 garment workers burned alive or died jumping from the 9th floor of the building. At the memorial, Schneiderman spoke of the community's responsibility to support the working class. She originated the phrase “bread and roses” in a speech advocating for women to receive the right to vote. “What the woman who labors wants is the right to live, not simply exist—the right to life as the rich woman has the right to life, and the sun and music and art. You have nothing that the humblest worker has not a right to have also. The worker must have bread, but she must have roses, too.” The phrase would go on to inspire a poem by James Oppenheim and one of the most famous songs in American history. Bread and Roses by James Oppenheim As we go marching, marching, in the beauty of the day, A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts gray, Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses, For the people hear us singing: Bread and Roses! Bread and Roses! As we go marching, marching, we battle too for men, For they are women's children, and we mother them again. Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes; Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses. As we go marching, marching, unnumbered women dead Go crying through our singing their ancient call for bread. Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew. Yes, it is bread we fight for, but we fight for roses too. As we go marching, marching, we bring the greater days, The rising of the women means the rising of the race. No more the drudge and idler, ten that toil where one reposes, But a sharing of life's glories: Bread and roses, bread and roses. Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes; Hearts starve as well as bodies; bread and roses, bread and roses. James Oppenheim, "Bread and Roses," The American Magazine, December, 1911.

Muriel Strode (b 1875) was an American poet about whom I have been able to only find bits and pieces about her life. She was born in Illinois, and from what I gather, she was a self-made woman both in business and as a writer. She is the originator of a quote often misattributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson: “I will not follow where the path may lead, but I will go where there is no path, and I will leave a trail.” A great sentiment to start the year. Songs of Life-Freedom I play with elementals as with a toy. Lightning is but a circlet of light about my throat. Suns run in strands of gold about my white forehead. Earths are a flower-cliff of wild nasturtium. Stars are but fireflies— I catch them in my playful hands.

Charles Dickens, 1812-1870 Charles Dickens was a famous and successful writer in the 19th-century, England. He was a novelist, a reporter, an essayist, a correspondent, and an editor. His work examines the reality of Victorian life as he knew it. He is famous for novels that include “A Christmas Carol,” and “Oliver Twist,” and “Great Expectations, and my personal favorite, “A Tale of Two Cities.” Charles Dickens was a famous and successful writer in the 19th-century, England. He was a novelist, a reporter, an essayist, a correspondent, and an editor. His work examines the reality of Victorian life as he knew it. He is famous for novels that include “A Christmas Carol,” and “Oliver Twist,” and “Great Expectations, and my personal favorite, “A Tale of Two Cities.” He read the essays of Joseph Addison, Oliver Goldsmith, and Samuel Johnson, as well as the major 19th-century essayists: Leigh Hunt, William Hazlitt, Charles Lamb, Walter Savage Landor, and Thomas DeQuincey. “The Ivy Green” Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green, That creepeth o’er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim: And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he. How closely he twineth, how tight he clings, To his friend the huge Oak Tree! And slily he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, As he joyously hugs and crawleth round The rich mould of dead men’s graves. Creeping where grim death has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Whole ages have fled and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade, From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant, in its lonely days, Shall fatten upon the past: For the stateliest building man can raise, Is the Ivy’s food at last. Creeping on, where time has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

William Shakespeare,1564–1616 William Shakespeare is a writer that needs no introduction. He is famous for his plays such as Romeo & Juliet, Hamlet, and Macbeth (and many more). He is also famous for writing in the style of Iambic Pentameter. It was his poetry, his 154 sonnets, that gave me the idea for The Poetry Podcast. In this episode, I will read the first Shakespearean sonnet that I ever learned (Sonnet 75), a famous sonnet (Sonnet 18), and a personal favorite (Sonnet 25). Sonnet 75 So are you to my thoughts as food to life Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground, And for the peace of you I hold such strife As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found: Now proud as an enjoyer and anon Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure, Now counting best to be with you alone, Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure, Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, And by and by clean starved for a look, Possessing or pursuing no delight, Save what is had or must from you be took. Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, Or gluttoning on all, or all away. Sonnet 18 Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm’d, And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d: But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st, Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st. So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. Sonnet 25 Let those who are in favour with their stars Of public honour and proud titles boast, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread But as the marigold at the sun's eye, And in themselves their pride lies buried, For at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior famoused for might, After a thousand victories once foiled, Is from the book of honour razed quite And all the rest forgot for which he toil’d. Then happy I, that love and am beloved Where I may not remove nor be removed.

Edgar Allan Poe, 1809–1849 Both of Edgar Allan Poe’s parents died when he was just shy of 3 years old and much of his work seems to revolve around mourning and death, a keystone of Gothic literature and a fitting theme for autumn. Although he is most remembered for his short fiction, his first love was poetry; he took much of his influence from Lord Byron, John Keats, and Percy Bysshe Shelley. “Alone” From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw—I could not bring My passions from a common spring— From the same source I have not taken My sorrow—I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone— And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone— Then—in my childhood—in the dawn Of a most stormy life—was drawn From ev’ry depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still— From the torrent, or the fountain— From the red cliff of the mountain— From the sun that ’round me roll’d In its autumn tint of gold— From the lightning in the sky As it pass’d me flying by— From the thunder, and the storm— And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view—

My Last Farewell ("Mi Ultimo Adiós”) by Jose Rizal Farewell, dear Fatherland, clime of the sun caress'd Pearl of the Orient seas, our Eden lost! Gladly now I go to give thee this faded life's best, And were it brighter, fresher, or more blest Still would I give it thee, nor count the cost. On the field of battle, 'mid the frenzy of fight,  Others have given their lives, without doubt or heed;  The place matters not-cypress or laurel or lily white, Scaffold or open plain, combat or martyrdom's plight, T is ever the same, to serve our home and country's need. I die just when I see the dawn break,  Through the gloom of night, to herald the day;  And if color is lacking my blood thou shalt take, Pour'd out at need for thy dear sake  To dye with its crimson the waking ray. My dreams, when life first opened to me,  My dreams, when the hopes of youth beat high,  Were to see thy lov'd face, O gem of the Orient sea  From gloom and grief, from care and sorrow free;  No blush on thy brow, no tear in thine eye. Dream of my life, my living and burning desire,  All hail! cries the soul that is now to take flight;  All hail! And sweet it is for thee to expire ;  To die for thy sake, that thou mayst aspire; And sleep in thy bosom eternity's long night. If over my grave some day thou seest grow,  In the grassy sod, a humble flower,  Draw it to thy lips and kiss my soul so, While I may feel on my brow in the cold tomb below  The touch of thy tenderness, thy breath's warm power. Let the moon beam over me soft and serene,  Let the dawn shed over me its radiant flashes,  Let the wind with sad lament over me keen ;  And if on my cross a bird should be seen,  Let it trill there its hymn of peace to my ashes. Let the sun draw the vapors up to the sky, And heavenward in purity bear my tardy protest Let some kind soul o 'er my untimely fate sigh, And in the still evening a prayer be lifted on high From thee, 0 my country, that in God I may rest. Pray for all those that hapless have died, For all who have suffered the unmeasur'd pain; For our mothers that bitterly their woes have cried, For widows and orphans, for captives by torture tried And then for thyself that redemption thou mayst gain. And when the dark night wraps the graveyard around With only the dead in their vigil to see Break not my repose or the mystery profound And perchance thou mayst hear a sad hymn resound 'T is I, O my country, raising a song unto thee. And even my grave is remembered no more Unmark'd by never a cross nor a stone Let the plow sweep through it, the spade turn it o'er That my ashes may carpet earthly floor, Before into nothingness at last they are blown. Then will oblivion bring to me no care  As over thy vales and plains I sweep; Throbbing and cleansed in thy space and air  With color and light, with song and lament I fare,  Ever repeating the faith that I keep. My Fatherland ador'd, that sadness to my sorrow lends Beloved Filipinas, hear now my last good-by!  I give thee all: parents and kindred and friends For I go where no slave before the oppressor bends, Where faith can never kill, and God reigns e'er on high! Farewell to you all, from my soul torn away, Friends of my childhood in the home dispossessed! Give thanks that I rest from the wearisome day! Farewell to thee, too, sweet friend that lightened my way; Beloved creatures all, farewell! In death there is rest! Translated from Spanish by Charles Derbyshire