Wedding Poems | Beautiful Wedding Readings for Your Ceremony

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    A Lover’s Call Xxvii Poem by Kahlil Gibran

    Where are you, my beloved? Are you in that little
    Paradise, watering the flowers who look upon you
    As infants look upon the breast of their mothers?

    Or are you in your chamber where the shrine of
    Virtue has been placed in your honor, and upon
    Which you offer my heart and soul as sacrifice?

    Or amongst the books, seeking human knowledge,
    While you are replete with heavenly wisdom?

    Oh companion of my soul, where are you? Are you
    Praying in the temple? Or calling Nature in the
    Field, haven of your dreams?

    Are you in the huts of the poor, consoling the
    Broken-hearted with the sweetness of your soul, and
    Filling their hands with your bounty?

    You are God’s spirit everywhere;
    You are stronger than the ages.

    Do you have memory of the day we met, when the halo of
    You spirit surrounded us, and the Angels of Love
    Floated about, singing the praise of the soul’s deed?

    Do you recollect our sitting in the shade of the
    Branches, sheltering ourselves from Humanity, as the ribs
    Protect the divine secret of the heart from injury?

    Remember you the trails and forest we walked, with hands
    Joined, and our heads leaning against each other, as if
    We were hiding ourselves within ourselves?

    Recall you the hour I bade you farewell,
    And the Maritime kiss you placed on my lips?
    That kiss taught me that joining of lips in Love
    Reveals heavenly secrets which the tongue cannot utter!

    That kiss was introduction to a great sigh,
    Like the Almighty’s breath that turned earth into man.

    That sigh led my way into the spiritual world,
    Announcing the glory of my soul; and there
    It shall perpetuate until again we meet.

    I remember when you kissed me and kissed me,
    With tears coursing your cheeks, and you said,
    ‘Earthly bodies must often separate for earthly purpose,
    And must live apart impelled by worldly intent.

    ‘But the spirit remains joined safely in the hands of
    Love, until death arrives and takes joined souls to God.

    ‘Go, my beloved; Love has chosen you her delegate;
    Over her, for she is Beauty who offers to her follower
    The cup of the sweetness of life.
    As for my own empty arms, your love shall remain my
    Comforting groom; you memory, my Eternal wedding.’

    Where are you now, my other self? Are you awake in
    The silence of the night? Let the clean breeze convey
    To you my heart’s every beat and affection.

    Are you fondling my face in your memory? That image
    Is no longer my own, for Sorrow has dropped his
    Shadow on my happy countenance of the past.

    Sobs have withered my eyes which reflected your beauty
    And dried my lips which you sweetened with kisses.

    Where are you, my beloved? Do you hear my weeping
    From beyond the ocean? Do you understand my need?
    Do you know the greatness of my patience?

    Is there any spirit in the air capable of conveying
    To you the breath of this dying youth? Is there any
    Secret communication between angels that will carry to
    You my complaint?

    Where are you, my beautiful star? The obscurity of life
    Has cast me upon its bosom; sorrow has conquered me.

    Sail your smile into the air; it will reach and enliven me!
    Breathe your fragrance into the air; it will sustain me!

    Where are you, me beloved?
    Oh, how great is Love!
    And how little am I!

     

     

    “Star Light, Star Bright–” Poem by Dorothy Parker

    Star, that gives a gracious dole,
    What am I to choose?
    Oh, will it be a shriven soul,
    Or little buckled shoes?

    Shall I wish a wedding-ring,
    Bright and thin and round,
    Or plead you send me covering-
    A newly spaded mound?

    Gentle beam, shall I implore
    Gold, or sailing-ships,
    Or beg I hate forevermore
    A pair of lying lips?

    Swing you low or high away,
    Burn you hot or dim;
    My only wish I dare not say-
    Lest you should grant me him.

     

     

    The Bells Poem by Edgar Allan Poe

    I

    Hear the sledges with the bells-
    Silver bells!
    What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
    How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
    In the icy air of night!
    While the stars that oversprinkle
    All the heavens, seem to twinkle
    With a crystalline delight;
    Keeping time, time, time,
    In a sort of Runic rhyme,
    To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
    From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
    Bells, bells, bells-
    From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

    II

    Hear the mellow wedding bells,
    Golden bells!
    What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
    Through the balmy air of night
    How they ring out their delight!
    From the molten-golden notes,
    And an in tune,
    What a liquid ditty floats
    To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
    On the moon!
    Oh, from out the sounding cells,
    What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
    How it swells!
    How it dwells
    On the Future! how it tells
    Of the rapture that impels
    To the swinging and the ringing
    Of the bells, bells, bells,
    Of the bells, bells, bells,bells,
    Bells, bells, bells-
    To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

    III

    Hear the loud alarum bells-
    Brazen bells!
    What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
    In the startled ear of night
    How they scream out their affright!
    Too much horrified to speak,
    They can only shriek, shriek,
    Out of tune,
    In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
    In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
    Leaping higher, higher, higher,
    With a desperate desire,
    And a resolute endeavor,
    Now- now to sit or never,
    By the side of the pale-faced moon.
    Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
    What a tale their terror tells
    Of Despair!
    How they clang, and clash, and roar!
    What a horror they outpour
    On the bosom of the palpitating air!
    Yet the ear it fully knows,
    By the twanging,
    And the clanging,
    How the danger ebbs and flows:
    Yet the ear distinctly tells,
    In the jangling,
    And the wrangling,
    How the danger sinks and swells,
    By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-
    Of the bells-
    Of the bells, bells, bells,bells,
    Bells, bells, bells-
    In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

    IV

    Hear the tolling of the bells-
    Iron Bells!
    What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
    In the silence of the night,
    How we shiver with affright
    At the melancholy menace of their tone!
    For every sound that floats
    From the rust within their throats
    Is a groan.
    And the people- ah, the people-
    They that dwell up in the steeple,
    All Alone
    And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
    In that muffled monotone,
    Feel a glory in so rolling
    On the human heart a stone-
    They are neither man nor woman-
    They are neither brute nor human-
    They are Ghouls:
    And their king it is who tolls;
    And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
    Rolls
    A paean from the bells!
    And his merry bosom swells
    With the paean of the bells!
    And he dances, and he yells;
    Keeping time, time, time,
    In a sort of Runic rhyme,
    To the paean of the bells-
    Of the bells:
    Keeping time, time, time,
    In a sort of Runic rhyme,
    To the throbbing of the bells-
    Of the bells, bells, bells-
    To the sobbing of the bells;
    Keeping time, time, time,
    As he knells, knells, knells,
    In a happy Runic rhyme,
    To the rolling of the bells-
    Of the bells, bells, bells:
    To the tolling of the bells,
    Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-
    Bells, bells, bells-
    To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

     

     

    The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner Poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

    IN SEVEN PARTS

    Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibiles in rerum
    universitate. Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit ? et gradus et
    cognationes et discrimina et singulorum munera ? Quid agunt ? quae loca
    habitant ? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingenium humanum, nunquam
    attigit. Juvat, interea, non diffiteor, quandoque in animo, tanquam in
    tabulâ, majoris et melioris mundi imaginem contemplari : ne mens assuefacta
    hodiernae vitae minutiis se contrahat nimis, et tota subsidat in pusillas
    cogitationes. Sed veritati interea invigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut
    certa ab incertis, diem a nocte, distinguamus. – T. Burnet, Archaeol.
    Phil., p. 68 (slightly edited by Coleridge).

    Translation
    ——————-

    ARGUMENT

    How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold Country
    towards the South Pole ; and how from thence she made her course to the
    tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean ; and of the strange things
    that befell ; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to his own
    Country.

    PART I

    An ancient Mariner meeteth three Gallants bidden to a wedding-feast, and
    detaineth one.

    It is an ancient Mariner,
    And he stoppeth one of three.
    `By thy long beard and glittering eye,
    Now wherefore stopp’st thou me ?

    The Bridegroom’s doors are opened wide,
    And I am next of kin ;
    The guests are met, the feast is set :
    May’st hear the merry din.’

    He holds him with his skinny hand,
    `There was a ship,’ quoth he.
    `Hold off ! unhand me, grey-beard loon !’
    Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

    The Wedding-Guest is spell-bound by the eye of the old seafaring man, and
    constrained to hear his tale.

    He holds him with his glittering eye–
    The Wedding-Guest stood still,
    And listens like a three years’ child :
    The Mariner hath his will.

    The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone :
    He cannot choose but hear ;
    And thus spake on that ancient man,
    The bright-eyed Mariner.

    `The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
    Merrily did we drop
    Below the kirk, below the hill,
    Below the lighthouse top.

    The Mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with a good wind and fair
    weather, till it reached the Line.

    The Sun came up upon the left,
    Out of the sea came he !
    And he shone bright, and on the right
    Went down into the sea.

    Higher and higher every day,
    Till over the mast at noon–‘
    The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,
    For he heard the loud bassoon.

    The Wedding-Guest heareth the bridal music ; but the Mariner continueth his
    tale.

    The bride hath paced into the hall,
    Red as a rose is she ;
    Nodding their heads before her goes
    The merry minstrelsy.

    The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
    Yet he cannot choose but hear ;
    And thus spake on that ancient man,
    The bright-eyed Mariner.

    The ship driven by a storm toward the south pole.

    `And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he
    Was tyrannous and strong :
    He struck with his o’ertaking wings,
    And chased us south along.

    With sloping masts and dipping prow,
    As who pursued with yell and blow
    Still treads the shadow of his foe,
    And forward bends his head,
    The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
    The southward aye we fled.

    And now there came both mist and snow,
    And it grew wondrous cold :
    And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
    As green as emerald.

    The land of ice, and of fearful sounds where no living thing was to be
    seen.

    And through the drifts the snowy clifts
    Did send a dismal sheen :
    Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken–
    The ice was all between.

    The ice was here, the ice was there,
    The ice was all around :
    It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
    Like noises in a swound !

    Till a great sea-bird, called the Albatross, came through the snow-fog, and
    was received with great joy and hospitality.

    At length did cross an Albatross,
    Thorough the fog it came ;
    As if it had been a Christian soul,
    We hailed it in God’s name.

    It ate the food it ne’er had eat,
    And round and round it flew.
    The ice did split with a thunder-fit ;
    The helmsman steered us through !

    And lo ! the Albatross proveth a bird of good omen, and followeth the ship
    as it returned northward through fog and floating ice.

    And a good south wind sprung up behind ;
    The Albatross did follow,
    And every day, for food or play,
    Came to the mariner’s hollo !

    In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
    It perched for vespers nine ;
    Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
    Glimmered the white Moon-shine.’

    The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of good omen.

    `God save thee, ancient Mariner !
    From the fiends, that plague thee thus !–
    Why look’st thou so ?’–With my cross-bow
    I shot the ALBATROSS.

    PART II

    The Sun now rose upon the right :
    Out of the sea came he,
    Still hid in mist, and on the left
    Went down into the sea.

    And the good south wind still blew behind,
    But no sweet bird did follow,
    Nor any day for food or play
    Came to the mariners’ hollo !

    His shipmates cry out against the ancient Mariner, for killing the bird of
    good luck.

    And I had done an hellish thing,
    And it would work ’em woe :
    For all averred, I had killed the bird
    That made the breeze to blow.
    Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay,
    That made the breeze to blow !

    But when the fog cleared off, they justify the same, and thus make
    themselves accomplices in the crime.

    Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head,
    The glorious Sun uprist :
    Then all averred, I had killed the bird
    That brought the fog and mist.
    ‘Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
    That bring the fog and mist.

    The fair breeze continues ; the ship enters the Pacific Ocean, and sails
    northward, even till it reaches the Line.

    The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
    The furrow followed free ;
    We were the first that ever burst
    Into that silent sea.

    The ship hath been suddenly becalmed.

    Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
    ‘Twas sad as sad could be ;
    And we did speak only to break
    The silence of the sea !

    All in a hot and copper sky,
    The bloody Sun, at noon,
    Right up above the mast did stand,
    No bigger than the Moon.

    Day after day, day after day,
    We stuck, nor breath nor motion ;
    As idle as a painted ship
    Upon a painted ocean.

    And the Albatross begins to be avenged.

    Water, water, every where,
    And all the boards did shrink ;
    Water, water, every where,
    Nor any drop to drink.

    The very deep did rot : O Christ !
    That ever this should be !
    Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
    Upon the slimy sea.

    About, about, in reel and rout
    The death-fires danced at night ;
    The water, like a witch’s oils,
    Burnt green, and blue and white.

    A Spirit had followed them ; one of the invisible inhabitants of this
    planet, neither departed souls nor angels ; concerning whom the learned
    Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be
    consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element
    without one or more.

    And some in dreams assuréd were
    Of the Spirit that plagued us so ;
    Nine fathom deep he had followed us
    From the land of mist and snow.

    And every tongue, through utter drought,
    Was withered at the root ;
    We could not speak, no more than if
    We had been choked with soot.

    The shipmates, in their sore distress, would fain throw the whole guilt on
    the ancient Mariner : in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his
    neck.

    Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looks
    Had I from old and young !
    Instead of the cross, the Albatross
    About my neck was hung.

    PART III

    There passed a weary time. Each throat
    Was parched, and glazed each eye.
    A weary time ! a weary time !
    How glazed each weary eye,
    When looking westward, I beheld
    A something in the sky.

    The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar off.

    At first it seemed a little speck,
    And then it seemed a mist ;
    It moved and moved, and took at last
    A certain shape, I wist.

    A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist !
    And still it neared and neared :
    As if it dodged a water-sprite,
    It plunged and tacked and veered.

    At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship ; and at a dear ransom
    he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst.

    With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
    We could nor laugh nor wail ;
    Through utter drought all dumb we stood !
    I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,
    And cried, A sail ! a sail !

    A flash of joy ;

    With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
    Agape they heard me call :
    Gramercy ! they for joy did grin,
    And all at once their breath drew in,
    As they were drinking all.

    And horror follows. For can it be a ship that comes onward without wind or
    tide ?

    See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more !
    Hither to work us weal ;
    Without a breeze, without a tide,
    She steadies with upright keel !

    The western wave was all a-flame.
    The day was well nigh done !
    Almost upon the western wave
    Rested the broad bright Sun ;
    When that strange shape drove suddenly
    Betwixt us and the Sun.

    It seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship.

    And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,
    (Heaven’s Mother send us grace !)
    As if through a dungeon-grate he peered
    With broad and burning face.

    And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting Sun.

    Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
    How fast she nears and nears !
    Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,
    Like restless gossameres ?

    The Spectre-Woman and her Death-mate, and no other on board the skeleton
    ship.

    And those her ribs through which the Sun
    Did peer, as through a grate ?
    And is that Woman all her crew ?
    Is that a DEATH ? and are there two ?
    Is DEATH that woman’s mate ?

    [first version of this stanza through the end of Part III]

    Like vessel, like crew !

    Her lips were red, her looks were free,
    Her locks were yellow as gold :
    Her skin was as white as leprosy,
    The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,
    Who thicks man’s blood with cold.

    Death and Life-in-Death have diced for the ship’s crew, and she (the
    latter) winneth the ancient Mariner.

    The naked hulk alongside came,
    And the twain were casting dice ;
    `The game is done ! I’ve won ! I’ve won !’
    Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

    No twilight within the courts of the Sun.

    The Sun’s rim dips ; the stars rush out :
    At one stride comes the dark ;
    With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea,
    Off shot the spectre-bark.

    At the rising of the Moon,

    We listened and looked sideways up !
    Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
    My life-blood seemed to sip !
    The stars were dim, and thick the night,
    The steerman’s face by his lamp gleamed white ;
    From the sails the dew did drip–
    Till clomb above the eastern bar
    The hornéd Moon, with one bright star
    Within the nether tip.

    One after another,

    One after one, by the star-dogged Moon,
    Too quick for groan or sigh,
    Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,
    And cursed me with his eye.

    His shipmates drop down dead.

    Four times fifty living men,
    (And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
    With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
    They dropped down one by one.

    But Life-in-Death begins her work on the ancient Mariner.

    The souls did from their bodies fly,–
    They fled to bliss or woe !
    And every soul, it passed me by,
    Like the whizz of my cross-bow !

    PART IV

    The Wedding-Guest feareth that a Spirit is talking to him ;

    `I fear thee, ancient Mariner !
    I fear thy skinny hand !
    And thou art long, and lank, and brown,
    As is the ribbed sea-sand.

    (Coleridge’s note on above stanza)

    I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
    And thy skinny hand, so brown.’–
    Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest !
    This body dropt not down.

    But the ancient Mariner assureth him of his bodily life, and proceedeth to
    relate his horrible penance.

    Alone, alone, all, all alone,
    Alone on a wide wide sea !
    And never a saint took pity on
    My soul in agony.

    He despiseth the creatures of the calm,

    The many men, so beautiful !
    And they all dead did lie :
    And a thousand thousand slimy things
    Lived on ; and so did I.

    And envieth that they should live, and so many lie dead.

    I looked upon the rotting sea,
    And drew my eyes away ;
    I looked upon the rotting deck,
    And there the dead men lay.

    I looked to heaven, and tried to pray ;
    But or ever a prayer had gusht,
    A wicked whisper came, and made
    My heart as dry as dust.

    I closed my lids, and kept them close,
    And the balls like pulses beat ;
    For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky
    Lay like a load on my weary eye,
    And the dead were at my feet.

    But the curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men.

    The cold sweat melted from their limbs,
    Nor rot nor reek did they :
    The look with which they looked on me
    Had never passed away.

    An orphan’s curse would drag to hell
    A spirit from on high ;
    But oh ! more horrible than that
    Is the curse in a dead man’s eye !
    Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,
    And yet I could not die.

    In his loneliness and fixedness he yearneth towards the journeying Moon,
    and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward ; and every where
    the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest, and their native
    country and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords
    that are certainly expected and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival.

    The moving Moon went up the sky,
    And no where did abide :
    Softly she was going up,
    And a star or two beside–

    Her beams bemocked the sultry main,
    Like April hoar-frost spread ;
    But where the ship’s huge shadow lay,
    The charméd water burnt alway
    A still and awful red.

    By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God’s creatures of the great calm.

    Beyond the shadow of the ship,
    I watched the water-snakes :
    They moved in tracks of shining white,
    And when they reared, the elfish light
    Fell off in hoary flakes.

    Within the shadow of the ship
    I watched their rich attire :
    Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
    They coiled and swam ; and every track
    Was a flash of golden fire.

    Their beauty and their happiness.

    He blesseth them in his heart.

    O happy living things ! no tongue
    Their beauty might declare :
    A spring of love gushed from my heart,
    And I blessed them unaware :
    Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
    And I blessed them unaware.

    The spell begins to break.

    The self-same moment I could pray ;
    And from my neck so free
    The Albatross fell off, and sank
    Like lead into the sea.

    PART V

    Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing,
    Beloved from pole to pole !
    To Mary Queen the praise be given !
    She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,
    That slid into my soul.

    By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient Mariner is refreshed with rain.

    The silly buckets on the deck,
    That had so long remained,
    I dreamt that they were filled with dew ;
    And when I awoke, it rained.

    My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
    My garments all were dank ;
    Sure I had drunken in my dreams,
    And still my body drank.

    I moved, and could not feel my limbs :
    I was so light–almost
    I thought that I had died in sleep,
    And was a blesséd ghost.

    He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights and commotions in the sky and
    the element.

    And soon I heard a roaring wind :
    It did not come anear ;
    But with its sound it shook the sails,
    That were so thin and sere.

    The upper air burst into life !
    And a hundred fire-flags sheen,
    To and fro they were hurried about !
    And to and fro, and in and out,
    The wan stars danced between.

    And the coming wind did roar more loud,
    And the sails did sigh like sedge ;
    And the rain poured down from one black cloud ;
    The Moon was at its edge.

    The thick black cloud was cleft, and still
    The Moon was at its side :
    Like waters shot from some high crag,
    The lightning fell with never a jag,
    A river steep and wide.

    The bodies of the ship’s crew are inspired, and the ship moves on ;

    The loud wind never reached the ship,
    Yet now the ship moved on !
    Beneath the lightning and the Moon
    The dead men gave a groan.

    They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
    Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ;
    It had been strange, even in a dream,
    To have seen those dead men rise.

    The helmsman steered, the ship moved on ;
    Yet never a breeze up-blew ;
    The mariners all ‘gan work the ropes,
    Where they were wont to do ;
    They raised their limbs like lifeless tools–
    We were a ghastly crew.

    The body of my brother’s son
    Stood by me, knee to knee :
    The body and I pulled at one rope,
    But he said nought to me.

    But not by the souls of the men, nor by dæmons of earth or middle air, but
    by a blessed troop of angelic spirits, sent down by the invocation of the
    guardian saint.

    `I fear thee, ancient Mariner !’
    Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest !
    ‘Twas not those souls that fled in pain,
    Which to their corses came again,
    But a troop of spirits blest :

    For when it dawned–they dropped their arms,
    And clustered round the mast ;
    Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,
    And from their bodies passed.

    Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
    Then darted to the Sun ;
    Slowly the sounds came back again,
    Now mixed, now one by one.

    Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
    I heard the sky-lark sing ;
    Sometimes all little birds that are,
    How they seemed to fill the sea and air
    With their sweet jargoning !

    And now ’twas like all instruments,
    Now like a lonely flute ;
    And now it is an angel’s song,
    That makes the heavens be mute.

    It ceased ; yet still the sails made on
    A pleasant noise till noon,
    A noise like of a hidden brook
    In the leafy month of June,
    That to the sleeping woods all night
    Singeth a quiet tune.

    [Additional stanzas, dropped after the first edition.]

    Till noon we quietly sailed on,
    Yet never a breeze did breathe :
    Slowly and smoothly went the ship,
    Moved onward from beneath.

    The lonesome Spirit from the south-pole carries on the ship as far as the
    Line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance.

    Under the keel nine fathom deep,
    From the land of mist and snow,
    The spirit slid : and it was he
    That made the ship to go.
    The sails at noon left off their tune,
    And the ship stood still also.

    The Sun, right up above the mast,
    Had fixed her to the ocean :
    But in a minute she ‘gan stir,
    With a short uneasy motion–
    Backwards and forwards half her length
    With a short uneasy motion.

    Then like a pawing horse let go,
    She made a sudden bound :
    It flung the blood into my head,
    And I fell down in a swound.

    The Polar Spirit’s fellow-dæmons, the invisible inhabitants of the element,
    take part in his wrong ; and two of them relate, one to the other, that
    penance long and heavy for the ancient Mariner hath been accorded to the
    Polar Spirit, who returneth southward.

    How long in that same fit I lay,
    I have not to declare ;
    But ere my living life returned,
    I heard and in my soul discerned
    Two voices in the air.

    `Is it he ?’ quoth one, `Is this the man ?
    By him who died on cross,
    With his cruel bow he laid full low
    The harmless Albatross.

    The spirit who bideth by himself
    In the land of mist and snow,
    He loved the bird that loved the man
    Who shot him with his bow.’

    The other was a softer voice,
    As soft as honey-dew :
    Quoth he, `The man hath penance done,
    And penance more will do.’

    PART VI

    FIRST VOICE

    `But tell me, tell me ! speak again,
    Thy soft response renewing–
    What makes that ship drive on so fast ?
    What is the ocean doing ?’

    SECOND VOICE

    `Still as a slave before his lord,
    The ocean hath no blast ;
    His great bright eye most silently
    Up to the Moon is cast–

    If he may know which way to go ;
    For she guides him smooth or grim.
    See, brother, see ! how graciously
    She looketh down on him.’

    The Mariner hath been cast into a trance ; for the angelic power causeth
    the vessel to drive northward faster than human life could endure.

    FIRST VOICE

    `But why drives on that ship so fast,
    Without or wave or wind ?’

    SECOND VOICE

    `The air is cut away before,
    And closes from behind.

    Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high !
    Or we shall be belated :
    For slow and slow that ship will go,
    When the Mariner’s trance is abated.’

    The supernatural motion is retarded ; the Mariner awakes, and his penance
    begins anew.

    I woke, and we were sailing on
    As in a gentle weather :
    ‘Twas night, calm night, the moon was high ;
    The dead men stood together.

    All stood together on the deck,
    For a charnel-dungeon fitter :
    All fixed on me their stony eyes,
    That in the Moon did glitter.

    The pang, the curse, with which they died,
    Had never passed away :
    I could not draw my eyes from theirs,
    Nor turn them up to pray.

    The curse is finally expiated.

    And now this spell was snapt : once more
    I viewed the ocean green,
    And looked far forth, yet little saw
    Of what had else been seen–

    Like one, that on a lonesome road
    Doth walk in fear and dread,
    And having once turned round walks on,
    And turns no more his head ;
    Because he knows, a frightful fiend
    Doth close behind him tread.

    But soon there breathed a wind on me,
    Nor sound nor motion made :
    Its path was not upon the sea,
    In ripple or in shade.

    It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek
    Like a meadow-gale of spring–
    It mingled strangely with my fears,
    Yet it felt like a welcoming.

    Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
    Yet she sailed softly too :
    Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze–
    On me alone it blew.

    And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native country.

    Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed
    The light-house top I see ?
    Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ?
    Is this mine own countree ?

    We drifted o’er the harbour-bar,
    And I with sobs did pray–
    O let me be awake, my God !
    Or let me sleep alway.

    The harbour-bay was clear as glass,
    So smoothly it was strewn !
    And on the bay the moonlight lay,
    And the shadow of the Moon.

    [Additional stanzas, dropped after the first edition.]

    The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,
    That stands above the rock :
    The moonlight steeped in silentness
    The steady weathercock.

    The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies,

    And the bay was white with silent light,
    Till rising from the same,
    Full many shapes, that shadows were,
    In crimson colours came.

    And appear in their own forms of light.

    A little distance from the prow
    Those crimson shadows were :
    I turned my eyes upon the deck–
    Oh, Christ ! what saw I there !

    Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,
    And, by the holy rood !
    A man all light, a seraph-man,
    On every corse there stood.

    This seraph-band, each waved his hand :
    It was a heavenly sight !
    They stood as signals to the land,
    Each one a lovely light ;

    This seraph-band, each waved his hand,
    No voice did they impart–
    No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank
    Like music on my heart.

    But soon I heard the dash of oars,
    I heard the Pilot’s cheer ;
    My head was turned perforce away
    And I saw a boat appear.

    [Additional stanza, dropped after the first edition.]

    The Pilot and the Pilot’s boy,
    I heard them coming fast :
    Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy
    The dead men could not blast.

    I saw a third–I heard his voice :
    It is the Hermit good !
    He singeth loud his godly hymns
    That he makes in the wood.
    He’ll shrieve my soul, he’ll wash away
    The Albatross’s blood.

    PART VII

    The Hermit of the Wood,

    This Hermit good lives in that wood
    Which slopes down to the sea.
    How loudly his sweet voice he rears !
    He loves to talk with marineres
    That come from a far countree.

    He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve–
    He hath a cushion plump :
    It is the moss that wholly hides
    The rotted old oak-stump.

    The skiff-boat neared : I heard them talk,
    `Why, this is strange, I trow !
    Where are those lights so many and fair,
    That signal made but now ?’

    Approacheth the ship with wonder.

    `Strange, by my faith !’ the Hermit said–
    `And they answered not our cheer !
    The planks looked warped ! and see those sails,
    How thin they are and sere !
    I never saw aught like to them,
    Unless perchance it were

    Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
    My forest-brook along ;
    When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,
    And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,
    That eats the she-wolf’s young.’

    `Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look–
    (The Pilot made reply)
    I am a-feared’–`Push on, push on !’
    Said the Hermit cheerily.

    The boat came closer to the ship,
    But I nor spake nor stirred ;
    The boat came close beneath the ship,
    And straight a sound was heard.

    The ship suddenly sinketh.

    Under the water it rumbled on,
    Still louder and more dread :
    It reached the ship, it split the bay ;
    The ship went down like lead.

    The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot’s boat.

    Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,
    Which sky and ocean smote,
    Like one that hath been seven days drowned
    My body lay afloat ;
    But swift as dreams, myself I found
    Within the Pilot’s boat.

    Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,
    The boat spun round and round ;
    And all was still, save that the hill
    Was telling of the sound.

    I moved my lips–the Pilot shrieked
    And fell down in a fit ;
    The holy Hermit raised his eyes,
    And prayed where he did sit.

    I took the oars : the Pilot’s boy,
    Who now doth crazy go,
    Laughed loud and long, and all the while
    His eyes went to and fro.
    `Ha ! ha !’ quoth he, `full plain I see,
    The Devil knows how to row.’

    And now, all in my own countree,
    I stood on the firm land !
    The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,
    And scarcely he could stand.

    The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him ; and
    the penance of life falls on him.

    `O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man !’
    The Hermit crossed his brow.
    `Say quick,’ quoth he, `I bid thee say–
    What manner of man art thou ?’

    Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
    With a woful agony,
    Which forced me to begin my tale ;
    And then it left me free.

    And ever and anon through out his future life an agony constraineth him to
    travel from land to land ;

    Since then, at an uncertain hour,
    That agony returns :
    And till my ghastly tale is told,
    This heart within me burns.

    I pass, like night, from land to land ;
    I have strange power of speech ;
    That moment that his face I see,
    I know the man that must hear me :
    To him my tale I teach.

    What loud uproar bursts from that door !
    The wedding-guests are there :
    But in the garden-bower the bride
    And bride-maids singing are :
    And hark the little vesper bell,
    Which biddeth me to prayer !

    O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been
    Alone on a wide wide sea :
    So lonely ’twas, that God himself
    Scarce seeméd there to be.

    O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
    ‘Tis sweeter far to me,
    To walk together to the kirk
    With a goodly company !–

    To walk together to the kirk,
    And all together pray,
    While each to his great Father bends,
    Old men, and babes, and loving friends
    And youths and maidens gay !

    And to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God
    made and loveth.

    Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell
    To thee, thou Wedding-Guest !
    He prayeth well, who loveth well
    Both man and bird and beast.

    He prayeth best, who loveth best
    All things both great and small ;
    For the dear God who loveth us,
    He made and loveth all.

    The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
    Whose beard with age is hoar,
    Is gone : and now the Wedding-Guest
    Turned from the bridegroom’s door.

    He went like one that hath been stunned,
    And is of sense forlorn :
    A sadder and a wiser man,
    He rose the morrow morn.

     

     

    A Brown Girl Dead Poem by Countee Cullen

    With two white roses on her breasts,
    White candles at head and feet,
    Dark Madonna of the grave she rests;
    Lord Death has found her sweet.

    Her mother pawned her wedding ring
    To lay her out in white;
    She’d be so proud she’d dance and sing
    to see herself tonight.

     

     

    The Cherry Trees Poem by Edward Thomas

    The cherry trees bend over and are shedding,
    On the old road where all that passed are dead,
    Their petals, strewing the grass as for a wedding
    This early May morn when there is none to wed.

     

     

    Cinderella Poem by Anne Sexton

    You always read about it:
    the plumber with the twelve children
    who wins the Irish Sweepstakes.
    From toilets to riches.
    That story.

    Or the nursemaid,
    some luscious sweet from Denmark
    who captures the oldest son’s heart.
    from diapers to Dior.
    That story.

    Or a milkman who serves the wealthy,
    eggs, cream, butter, yogurt, milk,
    the white truck like an ambulance
    who goes into real estate
    and makes a pile.
    From homogenized to martinis at lunch.

    Or the charwoman
    who is on the bus when it cracks up
    and collects enough from the insurance.
    From mops to Bonwit Teller.
    That story.

    Once
    the wife of a rich man was on her deathbed
    and she said to her daughter Cinderella:
    Be devout. Be good. Then I will smile
    down from heaven in the seam of a cloud.
    The man took another wife who had
    two daughters, pretty enough
    but with hearts like blackjacks.
    Cinderella was their maid.
    She slept on the sooty hearth each night
    and walked around looking like Al Jolson.
    Her father brought presents home from town,
    jewels and gowns for the other women
    but the twig of a tree for Cinderella.
    She planted that twig on her mother’s grave
    and it grew to a tree where a white dove sat.
    Whenever she wished for anything the dove
    would dropp it like an egg upon the ground.
    The bird is important, my dears, so heed him.

    Next came the ball, as you all know.
    It was a marriage market.
    The prince was looking for a wife.
    All but Cinderella were preparing
    and gussying up for the event.
    Cinderella begged to go too.
    Her stepmother threw a dish of lentils
    into the cinders and said: Pick them
    up in an hour and you shall go.
    The white dove brought all his friends;
    all the warm wings of the fatherland came,
    and picked up the lentils in a jiffy.
    No, Cinderella, said the stepmother,
    you have no clothes and cannot dance.
    That’s the way with stepmothers.

    Cinderella went to the tree at the grave
    and cried forth like a gospel singer:
    Mama! Mama! My turtledove,
    send me to the prince’s ball!
    The bird dropped down a golden dress
    and delicate little slippers.
    Rather a large package for a simple bird.
    So she went. Which is no surprise.
    Her stepmother and sisters didn’t
    recognize her without her cinder face
    and the prince took her hand on the spot
    and danced with no other the whole day.

    As nightfall came she thought she’d better
    get home. The prince walked her home
    and she disappeared into the pigeon house
    and although the prince took an axe and broke
    it open she was gone. Back to her cinders.
    These events repeated themselves for three days.
    However on the third day the prince
    covered the palace steps with cobbler’s wax
    and Cinderella’s gold shoe stuck upon it.
    Now he would find whom the shoe fit
    and find his strange dancing girl for keeps.
    He went to their house and the two sisters
    were delighted because they had lovely feet.
    The eldest went into a room to try the slipper on
    but her big toe got in the way so she simply
    sliced it off and put on the slipper.
    The prince rode away with her until the white dove
    told him to look at the blood pouring forth.
    That is the way with amputations.
    They just don’t heal up like a wish.
    The other sister cut off her heel
    but the blood told as blood will.
    The prince was getting tired.
    He began to feel like a shoe salesman.
    But he gave it one last try.
    This time Cinderella fit into the shoe
    like a love letter into its envelope.

    At the wedding ceremony
    the two sisters came to curry favor
    and the white dove pecked their eyes out.
    Two hollow spots were left
    like soup spoons.

    Cinderella and the prince
    lived, they say, happily ever after,
    like two dolls in a museum case
    never bothered by diapers or dust,
    never arguing over the timing of an egg,
    never telling the same story twice,
    never getting a middle-aged spread,
    their darling smiles pasted on for eternity.
    Regular Bobbsey Twins.
    That story.

     

     

    What Are Big Girls Made Of? Poem by Marge Piercy

    The construction of a woman:
    a woman is not made of flesh
    of bone and sinew
    belly and breasts, elbows and liver and toe.
    She is manufactured like a sports sedan.
    She is retooled, refitted and redesigned
    every decade.
    Cecile had been seduction itself in college.
    She wriggled through bars like a satin eel,
    her hips and ass promising, her mouth pursed
    in the dark red lipstick of desire.

    She visited in ’68 still wearing skirts
    tight to the knees, dark red lipstick,
    while I danced through Manhattan in mini skirt,
    lipstick pale as apricot milk,
    hair loose as a horse’s mane. Oh dear,
    I thought in my superiority of the moment,
    whatever has happened to poor Cecile?
    She was out of fashion, out of the game,
    disqualified, disdained, dis-
    membered from the club of desire.

    Look at pictures in French fashion
    magazines of the 18th century:
    century of the ultimate lady
    fantasy wrought of silk and corseting.
    Paniers bring her hips out three feet
    each way, while the waist is pinched
    and the belly flattened under wood.
    The breasts are stuffed up and out
    offered like apples in a bowl.
    The tiny foot is encased in a slipper
    never meant for walking.
    On top is a grandiose headache:
    hair like a museum piece, daily
    ornamented with ribbons, vases,
    grottoes, mountains, frigates in full
    sail, balloons, baboons, the fancy
    of a hairdresser turned loose.
    The hats were rococo wedding cakes
    that would dim the Las Vegas strip.
    Here is a woman forced into shape
    rigid exoskeleton torturing flesh:
    a woman made of pain.

    How superior we are now: see the modern woman
    thin as a blade of scissors.
    She runs on a treadmill every morning,
    fits herself into machines of weights
    and pulleys to heave and grunt,
    an image in her mind she can never
    approximate, a body of rosy
    glass that never wrinkles,
    never grows, never fades. She
    sits at the table closing her eyes to food
    hungry, always hungry:
    a woman made of pain.

    A cat or dog approaches another,
    they sniff noses. They sniff asses.
    They bristle or lick. They fall
    in love as often as we do,
    as passionately. But they fall
    in love or lust with furry flesh,
    not hoop skirts or push up bras
    rib removal or liposuction.
    It is not for male or female dogs
    that poodles are clipped
    to topiary hedges.

    If only we could like each other raw.
    If only we could love ourselves
    like healthy babies burbling in our arms.
    If only we were not programmed and reprogrammed
    to need what is sold us.
    Why should we want to live inside ads?
    Why should we want to scourge our softness
    to straight lines like a Mondrian painting?
    Why should we punish each other with scorn
    as if to have a large ass
    were worse than being greedy or mean?

    When will women not be compelled
    to view their bodies as science projects,
    gardens to be weeded,
    dogs to be trained?
    When will a woman cease
    to be made of pain?

     

     

    The Wedding Poem by Sidney Lanier

    O marriage-bells, your clamor tells
    Two weddings in one breath.
    SHE marries whom her love compels:
    – And I wed Goodman Death!
    My brain is blank, my tears are red;
    Listen, O God: – ‘I will,’ he said: –
    And I would that I were dead.
    Come groomsman Grief and bridesmaid Pain
    Come and stand with a ghastly twain.
    My Bridegroom Death is come o’er the meres
    To wed a bride with bloody tears.
    Ring, ring, O bells, full merrily:
    Life-bells to her, death-bells to me:
    O Death, I am true wife to thee!

     

     

    Death Poem by Rabindranath Tagore

    O thou the last fulfilment of life,
    Death, my death, come and whisper to me!

    Day after day I have kept watch for thee;
    for thee have I borne the joys and pangs of life.

    All that I am, that I have, that I hope and all my love
    have ever flowed towards thee in depth of secrecy.

    One final glance from thine eyes
    and my life will be ever thine own.

    The flowers have been woven
    and the garland is ready for the bridegroom.

    After the wedding the bride shall leave her home
    and meet her lord alone in the solitude of night.