Drink Song

The crows have wakened me
By cawing at the moon.
I pray that I shall not think of him;
I pray so intently
That he begins to fill my whole mind.
This is getting on my nerves;
I wonder if there is any of that wine left.

Japanese Street Song.

Edward Powys Mathers

Edward Powys Mathers was an English translator and poet, best known for translating the French Orientalist J.C. Mardrus's translation of 'The Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night' in 1923. In addition to translations, Powys Mathers was an influential figure in the realm of cryptic crosswords, devising some of the most challenging puzzles for 'The Observer'. His translations have been lauded for their literary beauty and for introducing English-speaking audiences to classic Persian, Arabic, and Turkish poetry.

Edward Powys Mathers

Distich

Edward Powys Mathers, Simple Poetry

Ghazal Of Isa Akhun Zada

Edward Powys Mathers, Simple Poetry

Ballade Of Ajam The Washerman

Edward Powys Mathers, Simple Poetry

A Song For Two

Edward Powys Mathers, Simple Poetry

English

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Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

A Boat Comes In

Although I shall not see his face
For the low riding of the ship,
The three armorial oak-leaves on his cloak
Will be enough.
But what if I make a mistake
And call to the wrong man?
Or make no sign at all,
And it is he?

Japanese Street Song.

Edward Powys Mathers

The Wine Of Song.

Within Fancy's Halls I sit, and quaff
Rich draughts of the Wine of Song,
    And I drink, and drink,
    To the very brink
Of delirium wild and strong,
Till I lose all sense of the outer world,
And see not the human throng.

The lyral chords of each rising thought
Are swept by a hand unseen;
    And I glide, and glide,
    With my music bride,
Where few spiritless souls have been;
And I soar afar on wings of sound,
With my fair AEolian Queen.

Deep, deeper still, from the springs of Thought
I quaff, till the fount is dry;
    And I climb, and climb,
    To a height sublime,
Up the stars of some lyric sky,
Where I seem to rise upon airs that melt
Into song as they pass by.

Millennial rounds of bliss I live,
Withdraw...

Charles Sangster

Airy Tongues

I.

I hear a song the wet leaves lisp
When Morn comes down the woodland way;
And misty as a thistle-wisp
Her gown gleams windy gray;
A song, that seems to say,
"Awake! 'tis day!"

I hear a sigh, when Day sits down
Beside the sunlight-lulled lagoon;
While on her glistening hair and gown
The rose of rest is strewn;
A sigh, that seems to croon,
"Come sleep! 'tis noon!"

I hear a whisper, when the stars,
Upon some evening-purpled height,
Crown the dead Day with nenuphars
Of dreamy gold and white;
A voice, that seems t' invite,
"Come love! 'tis night!"


II.

Before the rathe song-sparrow sings
Among the hawtrees in the lane,
And to the wind the locust flings
Its early clusters fresh with rain;
B...

Madison Julius Cawein

Bird-Songs.

I will sing a song,
    Said the owl.
You sing a song, sing-song
    Ugly fowl!
What will you sing about,
Night in and day out?

All about the night,
    When the gray
With her cloak smothers bright,
    Hard, sharp day.
Oh, the moon! the cool dew!
And the shadows!--tu-whoo!

I will sing a song,
    Said the nightingale.
Sing a song, long, long,
    Little Neverfail!
What will you sing about,
Day in or day out?

All about the light
    Gone away,
Down, away, and out of sight:
    Wake up, day!
For the master is not dead,
Only gone to bed.

I will sing a song,
    Said the lark.
Sing, sing, Throat-strong,
    Little Kill-the-dark!
What will you sing about,
Day in and night out?...

George MacDonald

A Canker In The Heart

I made a bitter song
When I was a boy,
About a girl
With hot earth-coloured hair,
Who lived with me
And left me.

I made a sour song
On her marriage-day,
That ever his kisses
Would be ghosts of mine,
And ever the measure
Of his halting love
Flow to my music.

It was a silly song,
Dear wife with cool black hair,
And yet when I recall
(At night with you asleep)
That once you gave yourself
Before we met,
I do not quite well know
What song to make.

From the Burmese (nineteenth century) (¿ by Asmapur).

Edward Powys Mathers

The Sea Spirit

Ah me! I shall not waken soon
From dreams of such divinity!
A spirit singing 'neath the moon
To me.

Wild sea-spray driven of the storm
Is not so wildly white as she,
Who beckoned with a foam-white arm
To me.

With eyes dark green, and golden-green
Long locks that rippled drippingly,
Out of the green wave she did lean
To me.

And sang; till Earth and Heaven seemed
A far, forgotten memory,
And more than Heaven in her who gleamed
On me.

Sleep, sweeter than love's face or home;
And death's immutability;
And music of the plangent foam,
For me!

Sweep over her! with all thy ships,
With all thy stormy tides, O sea!
The memory of immortal lips
For me!

Madison Julius Cawein