Constantinople - Yanghin Var*

    As the baying of wolves from afar,
    Borne on the wind from the Golden Horn
    A cry in the distance, long-drawn,
    "Yanghin var! yanghin var!"

    Suddenly waking the silent night,
    Suddenly breaking the sleeping calm,
    The long, far, wailing alarm,
    And the watch-tower startles a warning light.

    As a torch passed from hand to hand,
    As a beacon springing from hill to hill,
    The cry draws nearer though distant still,
    And the watch throws it on from stand to stand,

    And the voices rise as a tempest far,
    As the swell of waves on a rocky shore,
    Each rumbles louder than before,
    "Yanghin var! yanghin var!"

    And as the angel's unpausing feet,
    The angel bearing the wrath of the Lord,
    The angel bearing the flaming sword,
    The voice passes onward below in the street.

    Faintly it travels again from afar,
    And as an echo of terror past
    The wind from the Bosphorus bears the last
    Yanghin var. ...

* Fire!

Victoria Mary Sackville-West

Victoria Mary Sackville-West, commonly known as Vita Sackville-West, was an English author and poet, renowned for her prolific writing and her association with the Bloomsbury Group. She achieved great success with her novels and significant acclaim for her poetry, particularly in the early 20th century. In addition to her literary pursuits, Sackville-West was also known for her creation of the gardens at Sissinghurst Castle, which remain celebrated to this day.

Victoria Mary Sackville-West

Disillusion

Victoria Mary Sackville-West, Simple Poetry

To A Poet Whose Verses I Had Read

Victoria Mary Sackville-West, Simple Poetry

Constantinople - Leblebidji*

Victoria Mary Sackville-West, Simple Poetry

Constantinople - Retour En Songe

Victoria Mary Sackville-West, Simple Poetry

English

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Constantinople - Dhji-Han-Ghir. For H.N.

    For years it had been neglected,
    This wilderness garden of ours,
    And its ruin had shone reflected
    In its pools through abandoned hours.
    For none had cared for its beauty
    Till we came, the strangers, the Giaours,
    And none had thought of a duty
    Towards its squandering flowers.

    Of broken wells and fountains
    There were half a dozen or more,
    And, beyond the sea, the mountains
    Of that far Bithynian shore
    Were blue in the purple distance
    And white was the cap they wore,
    And never in our existence
    Had life seemed brighter before!

    And the fruit-trees grew in profusion,
    Quince and pomegranate and wine,
    And the roses in rich confusion
    With the lilac intertwine,

Victoria Mary Sackville-West

Constantinople - Retour En Songe

    After a dream-dim voyage
    We came with sails all set
    Towards the city of the sea,
    And it was wonderful to me
    To find her reigning yet.

    Oh beauty that my eyes and heart
    Had feasted on before!
    The evening mosques were brushed with gold,
    The water lapped a lazy fold
    Upon that lovely shore;

    The gardens of her terraced hills
    Rose up above the port,
    And little houses half concealed
    The presence of a light revealed,
    And here my journey's end was sealed,
    And I reached the home I sought.

    Those windows I had opened wide
    To welcome in the sun!
    Those stairs that only happy feet
    Had measured with their running beat!
    That well-remembered winding street!

Victoria Mary Sackville-West

Constantinople, March MCMXV

    I
    Queen of a double empire still she stands,
    And watches with superb indifferent eyes
    The eager wooing of Imperial hands
    Towards so fair and coveted a prize.

    Royal and imperial suitors has she known
    Pass one by one across her dreaming years,
    And some a while have climbed the golden throne,
    And some have passed away in blood and tears;

    For many emperors have sought her grace
    Since the first Constantine in sweeping cloak
    Her seven hills with broad unhurrying pace
    Measured, and rested not till Heaven spoke.

    A haughty fatalist Byzantium waits
    What chance the storing centuries bring forth:
    Another lover almost at the gates,
    Heralded by the cannon of the North,

    A Nor...

Victoria Mary Sackville-West

The Occultation Of Orion

I saw, as in a dream sublime,
The balance in the hand of Time.
O'er East and West its beam impended;
And day, with all its hours of light,
Was slowly sinking out of sight,
While, opposite, the scale of night
Silently with the stars ascended.

Like the astrologers of eld,
In that bright vision I beheld
Greater and deeper mysteries.
I saw, with its celestial keys,
Its chords of air, its frets of fire,
The Samian's great Aeolian lyre,
Rising through all its sevenfold bars,
From earth unto the fixed stars.
And through the dewy atmosphere,
Not only could I see, but hear,
Its wondrous and harmonious strings,
In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere,
From Dian's circle light and near,
Onward to vaster and wider rings.
Where, chanting through...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Constantinople - Leblebidji*

    I know so well the busy cries
    That echo through the quarter
    Till daylight into evening dies
    And stars shine in the water,
    So dear they have become to me,
    Leblebidji! leblebidji!

    On peaceful English country nights
    Their rapid gay succession
    And all the sea-reflected lights
    Will pass from my possession,
    But never from my memory,
    Leblebidji! leblebidji!

    Past English evening scents and sounds,
    Past English church-bells ringing,
    The Turkish watchman on his rounds,
    The Turkish pedlar singing
    Through narrow streets above the sea
    "Leblebidji! leblebidji,"

    Will surely pierce a ghostly way,
    The music underlying,
    And in the shades of falling day
...

Victoria Mary Sackville-West

The Beleaguered City.

I have read, in some old, marvellous tale,
    Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
    Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
    With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
    The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
    The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
    The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
    No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
    As clouds with clouds embrace.

But when the old cathedral bell
    Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
    On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow