The Poetry Podcast

Wand’ring o’er the dewy meadow,
Oft at ev’ning hour I go;
Fondly courting Philomela’s
Sympathetick plaints of woe.

Sometimes, hush’d in still attention,
Leaning pensive o’er a stile,
Fancy bids her sound delusive
Lull the yielding sense awhile.

Soft the visionary musick,
Rising floats upon the gale:
Now it sinks in strains more languid,
Dying o’er the distant vale.

Starting from the dream of fancy,
Nought my list’ning ear invades,
Save the hum of falling waters,
Save the rustling aspin-shade.

“Little songstress, soothe my sorrows,
“Wrap my soul in softest airs;
“Such as erst, in Lydian measures,
“Charm’d the Grecian hero’s cares.

“But, if forc’d by cruel rusticks
“To lament thy ruin’d care;
“Breathe thy saddest strains of anguish,
“Strains that melodize despair.

“Deeply vers’d in Sorrow’s lessons,
“Best my heart thy griefs can know;
“Pity dwells within the bosom
“Soften’d by an equal woe.

“While thy melancholy plainings
“All my hapless fate renew,
“Heart-felt sighs shall load the zephyrs,
“Tears increase the falling dew.

“Cease to shun me, lovely mourner;
“Sweetly breathe the melting strain:
“Oft thou deign’st to charm the rustick,
“Roving thoughtless o’er the plain.

“Yet, to him, thy softest trillings
“Can no sympathy impart;
“Wouldst thou seek for kindred feelings,
“See them trembling in my heart!”

Vain, alas! my Invocation,
Vain the pleadings of the muse!
Wrapp’d in silent shades, the charmer
Doth her tuneful lay refuse.

Clouds obscure deform the æther,
Rising damps involve the plain;
Pensively I hasten homeward,
To avoid the coming rain.

Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we not the penalty of Adam,
The seasons' difference; as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
Which when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
'This is no flattery; these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.'
Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
I would not change it.

They said, the words I lov'd to hear
Were whisper'd in another's ear,
With that sweet smile, and tender tone,
With which thou mad'st my heart thine own,
I listen'd to the torturing tale,
With brow and cheek as marble pale;
Yet nerv'd I then my woman's soul,
Its deadliest feelings to controul,
And mov'd about, as pale, and wan,
As if my very life were gone,
And I a wand'ring spirit, left
On earth, of ev'n a tomb bereft.
I would have gladly borne for thee
Pain,-scorn,-reproach,-and penury;
Or,--dear as was thine early fame,-
Have shar'd with thee a blighted name.
With fearless confidence, that ne'er
Dream'd of the wound it soon must bear,
My soul repos'd itself on thine,
And deem'd it honour's purest shrine.
With startling suddenness, I woke
To the dark truth which o'er me broke;-
Yes!-I was rous'd from dreams of bliss
To know thee false-and oh! to feel
That there was agony in this
Beyond all earthly pow'r to heal:
It mattered little how the rest
Of life pass'd by,- I knew that naught
Of fate, could make it more unblest,
Or be with bitterer anguish fraught.
And now thou com'st, thy wav'rings o'er,
To bid me be thy slave once more!
'Tis vainly ask'd!-affection's chain
Was all too rudely wrench'd in twain
And never will unite again.
That voice whose ev'ry accent fell
Like softest music on mine ear,
Hath lost its deep, its touching spell,
Of eloquence unspeakable,
Which was, in days gone by, so dear,
I see thee with unthrobbing breast;
I meet thy glance, yet still am calm;
Go, then!-nor break the tranquil rest,
Which is my spirit's needful balm.
Leave me to peace !-my heart is grown,
Since thou didst cast its love away,
As cold, and careless as thine own,
And might as soon its trust betray.-
Yet, though estrang'd,-upon the past
Ev'n now unmov'd I cannot dwell:-
My first affections, and my last,
Were thine-thine only-fare thee well!

It was many and many a year ago,
   In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
   By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
   Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
   I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
   Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
   My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
   And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
   In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
   Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
   In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
   Of those who were older than we—
   Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
   Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
   In her sepulchre there by the sea—
   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Sabrina fair
Listen where thou art sitting [ 860 ]
Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of Lillies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair,
Listen for dear honours sake,
Goddess of the silver lake, [ 865 ]
Listen and save.

Listen and appear to us
In name of great Oceanus,
By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace,
And Tethys grave majestick pace, [ 870 ]
By hoary Nereus wrincled look,
And the Carpathian wisard's hook,
By scaly Tritons winding shell,
And old sooth-saying Glaucus spell,
By Leucothea's lovely hands, [ 875 ]
And her son that rules the strands,
By Thetis tinsel-slipper'd feet,
And the Songs of Sirens sweet,
By dead Parthenope's dear tomb,
And fair Ligea's golden comb, [ 880 ]
Wherwith she sits on diamond rocks
Sleeking her soft alluring locks,
By all the Nymphs that nightly dance
Upon thy streams with wily glance,
Rise, rise, and heave thy rosie head [ 885 ]
From thy coral-pav'n bed,
And bridle in thy headlong wave,
Till thou our summons answer'd have.
Listen and save.

A little while, a little while,
The weary task is put away,
And I can sing and I can smile,
Alike, while I have holiday.
Why wilt thou go, my harassed heart,
What thought, what scene invites thee now?
What spot, or near or far,
Has rest for thee, my weary brow?
There is a spot, mid barren hills,
Where winter howls, and driving rain;
But if the dreary tempest chills,
There is a light that warms again.
The house is old, the trees are bare,
Moonless above bends twilight's dome;
But what on earth is half so dear,
So longed for, as the hearth of home?
The mute bird sitting on the stone,
The dank moss dripping from the wall,
The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown,
I love them, how I love them all!
Still, as I mused, the naked room,
The alien firelight died away,
And from the midst of cheerless gloom
I passed to bright unclouded day.
A little and a lone green lane
That opened on a common wide;
A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain
Of mountains circling every side;
A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;
And, deepening still the dream-like charm,
Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.
That was the scene, I knew it well;
I knew the turfy pathway's sweep
That, winding o'er each billowy swell,
Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.
Could I have lingered but an hour,
It well had paid a week of toil;
But Truth has banished Fancy's power:
Restraint and heavy task recoil.
Even as I stood with raptured eye,
Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear,
My hour of rest had fleeted by,
And back came labour, bondage, care.

O Thou bright jewel in my aim I strive
To comprehend thee. Thine own words declare
Wisdom is higher than a fool can reach.
I cease to wonder, and no more attempt
Thine height t’explore, or fathom thy profound.
But, O my soul, sink not into despair,
Virtue is near thee, and with gentle hand
Would now embrace thee, hovers o’er thine head.
Fain would the heav’n-born soul with her converse,
Then seek, then court her for her promis’d bliss.

Auspicious queen, thine heav’nly pinions spread,
And lead celestial Chastity along;
Lo! now her sacred retinue descends,
Array’d in glory from the orbs above.
Attend me, Virtue, thro’ my youthful years!
O leave me not to the false joys of time!
But guide my steps to endless life and bliss.
Greatness, or Goodness, say what I shall call thee,
To give an higher appellation still,
Teach me a better strain, a nobler lay,
O thou, enthron’d with Cherubs in the realms of day!

Hello — I’m Jessica, and welcome. This is a short audio hello and a little launch note: I’ve opened a Patreon for The Poetry Podcast.I’ve been making this show for about five years, and as a freelance artist I’ve had to step away from it periodically when life gets busy. Patreon is my way of making the podcast more sustainable — so I can stay, keep nurturing this community, and keep making episodes with steadiness.If you’re here, thank you. If you’re supporting, thank you. Truly. 🌳

If you’d like to join this little community on Patreon, you can do that here:https://www.patreon.com/cw/welcome2thepoetrypodcast

A home and a grave are two places to dwell

One lies in shadow and one in the dark

This world and the next, each one is a story

The first one’s a lie, the second a myth

Life and death are two riverbanks

Not a drop of water left in the river

translated from the Uyghur by Joshua L. Freeman

Old wines are stronger by the day

Old books sell higher by the day

Old ideas grow holier by the day

Old stories are newer by the day

translated from the Uyghur by Joshua L. Freeman