A Prayer For Light.

I.

    Oh, give me light, to-day, or let me die, -
    The light of love, the love-light of the sky, -
    That I, at length, may see my darling's face
                            One minute's space.


II.

    Have I not wept to know myself so weak
    That I can feel, not see, the dimpled cheek,
    The lips, the eyes, the sunbeams that enfold
                            Her locks of gold?


III.

    Have I not sworn that I will not be wed,
    But mate my soul with hers on my death-bed?
    The soul can see, - for souls are seraphim, -
                            When eyes are dim.


IV.

    Oh, hush! she comes. I know her. She is nigh.
    She brings me death, true heart, and I will die.
    She brings me love, for love and life are one
                            Beyond the sun.


V.

    This is the measure, this, of all my joys:
    Life is a curse and Death's a counterpoise.
    Give me thy hand, O sweet one, let me know
                            Which path I go.


VI.

    I cannot die if thou be not a-near,
    To lead me on to Life's appointed sphere.
    O spirit-face, O angel, with thy breath
                            Kiss me to death!

Eric Mackay

Eric Mackay, born on June 1, 1851, was a noted English poet whose work gained recognition in the late 19th century. He is best known for his sonnets and lyrical poetry, which were celebrated for their emotional depth and technical mastery. His most famous work, 'Love Letters of a Violinist,' was well-received during his lifetime. Mackay's contributions to English literature have been acknowledged for their artistic merit. He passed away on June 8, 1898.

Eric Mackay

Byron.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

Love Letters of a Violinist. Letter V. Confessions.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

Pablo De Sarasate.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

Love Letters of a Violinist. Letter VIII. A Vision.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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Love Letters of a Violinist. Letter III. Regrets.



Letter III. Regrets.


I.

    When I did wake, to-day, a bird of Heaven,
    A wanton, woeless thing, a wandering sprite,
    Did seem to sing a song for my delight;
    And, far away, did make its holy steven
    Sweeter to hear than lute-strings that are seven;
    And I did weep thereat in my despite.


II.

    O glorious sun! I thought, O gracious king,
    Of all this splendour that we call the earth!
    For thee the lark distils his morning mirth,
    But who will hear the matins that I sing?
    Who will be glad to greet ...

Eric Mackay

Let The Light Enter.

The dying words of Goethe.

"Light! more light! the shadows deepen,
    And my life is ebbing low,
Throw the windows widely open:
    Light! more light! before I go.

"Softly let the balmy sunshine
    Play around my dying bed,
E'er the dimly lighted valley
    I with lonely feet must tread.

"Light! more light! for Death is weaving
    Shadows 'round my waning sight,
And I fain would gaze upon him
    Through a stream of earthly light."

Not for greater gifts of genius;
    Not for thoughts more grandly bright,
All the dying poet whispers
    Is a prayer for light, more light.

Heeds he not the gathered laurels,
    Fading slowly from his sight;
All the poet's aspirations
    Centre in that prayer for light.
<...

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Beatrice

Send out the singers,let the room be still;
They have not eased my pain nor brought me sleep.
Close out the sun, for I would have it dark
That I may feel how black the grave will be.
The sun is setting, for the light is red,
And you are outlined in a golden fire,
Like Ursula upon an altar-screen.
Come, leave the light and sit beside my bed,
For I have had enough of saints and prayers.
Strange broken thoughts are beating in my brain,
They come and vanish and again they come.
It is the fever driving out my soul,
And Death stands waiting by the arras there.

Ornella, I will speak, for soon my lips
Shall keep a silence till the end of time.
You have a mouth for loving,listen then:
Keep tryst with Love before Death comes to tryst;
For I, who die, could wi...

Sara Teasdale

A Lover's Litanies - Tenth Litany. Gloria in Excelsis.

i.

O Love! O Lustre of the sunlit earth
    That knows thy step and revels in the worth
Of thy much beauty! Is't thy will anew,
Famed as thou art, to marvel that I sue
With such persistence, and in such unrest
Amid the frenzies of my passion-quest?
    Wilt look ungently, and without a tear,
On all the pangs I bear at thy behest?


ii.

Morning and eve I cease not, when I kneel
    To my Redeemer for my spirit's weal
And for my body's,--as becomes a man,--
Morning and eve I cease not in the span
Of all my days, O thou Unconquer'd One!
To pray for thee, and do what may be done
    To re-acquire the friendship I have lost,
Which is the holiest thing beneath the sun.


iii.

For what is fame that with so loud a v...

Eric Mackay

Sylvia In The West.

I.

    What shall be done? I cannot pray;
    And none shall know the pangs I feel.
    If prayers could alter night to day, -
    Or black to white, - I might appeal;
    I might attempt to sway thy heart,
    And prove it mine, or claim a part.


II.

    I might attempt to urge on thee
    At least the chance of some redress: -
    An hour's revoke, - a moment's plea, -
    A smile to make my sorrows less.
    I might indeed be taught in time
    To blush for hope, as for a crime!


III.

    But thou art stone, though soft and fleet, -
    A statue, not a maiden, thou!
    A man may hear thy bosom beat
    When thou hast sworn some idle vow.
    But not for love, no! not for this;
    For thou wilt se...

Eric Mackay

The Diary Of An Old Soul. - January.

        1.

        LORD, what I once had done with youthful might,
        Had I been from the first true to the truth,
        Grant me, now old, to do--with better sight,
        And humbler heart, if not the brain of youth;
        So wilt thou, in thy gentleness and ruth,
        Lead back thy old soul, by the path of pain,
        Round to his best--young eyes and heart and brain.

        2.

        A dim aurora rises in my east,
        Beyond the line of jagged questions hoar,
        As if the head of our intombed High Priest
        Began to glow behind the unopened door:
        Sure the gold wings will soon rise from the gray!--
        They rise not. Up I rise, press on the more,
        To meet the slow coming of the Master's day.

George MacDonald