justinehrlich
Justin Ehrlich was born in Essex in 1985 and has a degree in Philosophy. He writes poetry and short fiction dealing with themes of death, insanity and the supernatural.
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Emily Dickinson 1830 - 1886
Remorse
Remorse -- is Memory -- awake --
Her Parties all astir --
A Presence of Departed Acts --
At window -- and at Door --
And lighted with a Match --
Perusal -- to facilitate --
And help Belief to stretch --Remorse is cureless -- the Disease
Not even God -- can heal --
For 'tis His institution -- and
The Adequate of Hell --
John William Waterhouse - The Remorse of the Emperor Nero after the Murder of his Mother
John Milton 1608 - 1674
On the Morning of Christ's Nativity
| THIS is the month, and this the happy morn | |
| Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King | |
| Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, | |
| Our great redemption from above did bring; | |
| For so the holy sages once did sing | 5 |
| That He our deadly forfeit should release, | |
| And with His Father work us a perpetual peace. | |
| That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable, | |
| And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty | |
| Wherewith He wont at Heaven's high council-table | 10 |
| To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, | |
| He laid aside; and, here with us to be, | |
| Forsook the courts of everlasting day, | |
| And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. | |
| Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein | 15 |
| Afford a present to the Infant God? | |
| Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain | |
| To welcome Him to this His new abode, | |
| Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, | |
| Hath took no print of the approaching light, | 20 |
| And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright? | |
| See how from far, upon the eastern road, | |
| The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet: | |
| O run, prevent them with thy humble ode | |
| And lay it lowly at His blessed feet; | 25 |
| Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet, | |
| And join thy voice unto the Angel quire | |
| From out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire. | |
| THE HYMN It was the winter wild |
|
| While the heaven-born Child | 30 |
| All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; | |
| Nature in awe to Him | |
| Had doff'd her gaudy trim, | |
| With her great Master so to sympathize: | |
| It was no season then for her | 35 |
| To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. | |
| Only with speeches fair | |
| She woos the gentle air | |
| To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; | |
| And on her naked shame, | 40 |
| Pollute with sinful blame, | |
| The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; | |
| Confounded, that her Maker's eyes | |
| Should look so near upon her foul deformities. | |
| But He, her fears to cease, | 45 |
| Sent down the meek-eyed Peace; | |
| She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding | |
| Down through the turning sphere, | |
| His ready harbinger, | |
| With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; | 50 |
| And waving wide her myrtle wand, | |
| She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. | |
| No war, or battle's sound | |
| Was heard the world around: | |
| The idle spear and shield were high uphung; | 55 |
| The hookèd chariot stood | |
| Unstain'd with hostile blood; | |
| The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng; | |
| And kings sat still with awful eye, | |
| As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. | 60 |
| But peaceful was the night | |
| Wherein the Prince of Light | |
| His reign of peace upon the earth began: | |
| The winds, with wonder whist, | |
| Smoothly the waters kist | 65 |
| Whispering new joys to the mild oceàn— | |
| Who now hath quite forgot to rave, | |
| While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave. | |
| The stars, with deep amaze, | |
| Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze, | 70 |
| Bending one way their precious influence; | |
| And will not take their flight | |
| For all the morning light, | |
| Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence; | |
| But in their glimmering orbs did glow | 75 |
| Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go. | |
| And though the shady gloom | |
| Had given day her room, | |
| The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, | |
| And hid his head for shame, | 80 |
| As his inferior flame | |
| The new-enlighten'd world no more should need; | |
| He saw a greater Sun appear | |
| Than his bright throne, or burning axle-tree could bear. | |
| The shepherds on the lawn | 85 |
| Or ere the point of dawn | |
| Sate simply chatting in a rustic row; | |
| Full little thought they than | |
| That the mighty Pan | |
| Was kindly come to live with them below; | 90 |
| Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep | |
| Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep:— | |
| When such music sweet | |
| Their hearts and ears did greet | |
| As never was by mortal finger strook— | 95 |
| Divinely-warbled voice | |
| Answering the stringèd noise, | |
| As all their souls in blissful rapture took: | |
| The air, such pleasure loth to lose, | |
| With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. | 100 |
| Nature, that heard such sound | |
| Beneath the hollow round | |
| Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling, | |
| Now was almost won | |
| To think her part was done, | 105 |
| And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; | |
| She knew such harmony alone | |
| Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union. | |
| At last surrounds their sight | |
| A globe of circular light | 110 |
| That with long beams the shamefaced night array'd; | |
| The helmèd Cherubim | |
| And sworded Seraphim | |
| Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd, | |
| Harping in loud and solemn quire | 115 |
| With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir. | |
| Such music (as 'tis said) | |
| Before was never made | |
| But when of old the Sons of Morning sung, | |
| While the Creator great | 120 |
| His constellations set | |
| And the well-balanced world on hinges hung; | |
| And cast the dark foundations deep, | |
| And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. | |
| Ring out, ye crystal spheres! | 125 |
| Once bless our human ears, | |
| If ye have power to touch our senses so; | |
| And let your silver chime | |
| Move in melodious time; | |
| And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow; | 130 |
| And with your ninefold harmony | |
| Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. | |
| For if such holy song | |
| Enwrap our fancy long, | |
| Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; | 135 |
| And speckled Vanity | |
| Will sicken soon and die, | |
| And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould; | |
| And Hell itself will pass away, | |
| And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. | 140 |
| Yea, Truth and Justice then | |
| Will down return to men, | |
| Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, | |
| Mercy will sit between | |
| Throned in celestial sheen, | 145 |
| With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; | |
| And Heaven, as at some festival, | |
| Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall. | |
| But wisest Fate says No; | |
| This must not yet be so; | 150 |
| The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy | |
| That on the bitter cross | |
| Must redeem our loss; | |
| So both Himself and us to glorify: | |
| Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep | 155 |
| The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep; | |
| With such a horrid clang | |
| As on Mount Sinai rang | |
| While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake: | |
| The aged Earth aghast | 160 |
| With terror of that blast | |
| Shall from the surface to the centre shake, | |
| When, at the world's last sessiòn, | |
| The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne. | |
| And then at last our bliss | 165 |
| Full and perfect is, | |
| But now begins; for from this happy day | |
| The old Dragon under ground, | |
| In straiter limits bound, | |
| Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway; | 170 |
| And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, | |
| Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. | |
| The Oracles are dumb; | |
| No voice or hideous hum | |
| Runs through the archèd roof in words deceiving. | 175 |
| Apollo from his shrine | |
| Can no more divine, | |
| With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving: | |
| No nightly trance or breathèd spell | |
| Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. | 180 |
| The lonely mountains o'er | |
| And the resounding shore | |
| A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; | |
| From haunted spring and dale | |
| Edged with poplar pale | 185 |
| The parting Genius is with sighing sent; | |
| With flower-inwoven tresses torn | |
| The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. | |
| In consecrated earth | |
| And on the holy hearth | 190 |
| The Lars and Lemurès moan with midnight plaint; | |
| In urns, and altars round | |
| A drear and dying sound | |
| Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; | |
| And the chill marble seems to sweat, | 195 |
| While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat. | |
| Peor and Baalim | |
| Forsake their temples dim, | |
| With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine; | |
| And moonèd Ashtaroth | 200 |
| Heaven's queen and mother both, | |
| Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; | |
| The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn: | |
| In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. | |
| And sullen Moloch, fled, | 205 |
| Hath left in shadows dread | |
| His burning idol all of blackest hue; | |
| In vain with cymbals' ring | |
| They call the grisly king, | |
| In dismal dance about the furnace blue; | 210 |
| The brutish gods of Nile as fast, | |
| Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. | |
| Nor is Osiris seen | |
| In Memphian grove, or green, | |
| Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud: | 215 |
| Nor can he be at rest | |
| Within his sacred chest; | |
| Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud; | |
| In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark | |
| The sable-stolèd sorcerers bear his worshipt ark. | 220 |
| He feels from Juda's land | |
| The dreaded Infant's hand; | |
| The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; | |
| Nor all the gods beside | |
| Longer dare abide, | 225 |
| Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: | |
| Our Babe, to show His Godhead true, | |
| Can in His swaddling bands control the damnèd crew. | |
| So, when the sun in bed | |
| Curtain'd with cloudy red | 230 |
| Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, | |
| The flocking shadows pale | |
| Troop to the infernal jail, | |
| Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave; | |
| And the yellow-skirted fays | 235 |
| Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. | |
| But see! the Virgin blest | |
| Hath laid her Babe to rest; | |
| Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: | |
| Heaven's youngest-teemèd star | 240 |
| Hath fix'd her polish'd car, | |
| Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending: | |
| And all about the courtly stable | |
|
Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable. 
|
Heinrich Heine 1797 - 1856
THE SPHINX
This is the old enchanted wood,
Sweet lime trees scent the wind;
The glamor of the moon has cast
A spell upon my mind.
Onward I walk, and as I walk--
Hark to that high, soft strain!
That is the nightingale, she sings,
Of love and of love's pain.
She sings of love and of love's pain,
Of laughter and of tears.
So plaintive her carol, so joyous her sobs,
I dream of forgotten years.
Onward I walk, and as I walk,
There stands before mine eyes
A castle proud on an open lawn,
Whose gables high uprise.
With casements closed, and everywhere
Sad silence in court and halls,
It seemed as though mute death abode
Within those barren walls.
Before the doorway crouched a sphinx,
Half horror and half grace;
With a lion's body, a lion's claws,
And a woman's breast and face.
A woman fair! The marble glance
Spake wild desire and guile.
The silent lips were proudly curled
In a confident, glad smile.
The nightingale, she sang so sweet,
I yielded to her tone.
I touched, I kissed the lovely face,
And lo, I was undone!
The marble image stirred with life,
The stone began to move;
She drank my fiery kisses' glow
With panting thirsty love.
She well nigh drank my breath away;
And, lustful still for more,
Embraced me, and my shrinking flesh
With lion claws she tore.
Oh, rapturous martyrdom! ravishing pain!
Oh, infinite anguish and bliss!
With her horrible talons she wounded me,
While she thrilled my soul with a kiss.
The nightingale sang: "Oh beautiful sphinx.
Oh love! what meaneth this?
That thou minglest still the pangs of death
With thy most peculiar bliss?
Thou beautiful Sphinx, oh solve for me
This riddle of joy and tears!
I have pondered it over again and again,
How many thousand years!"
Translated by Emma Lazarus
Franz von Stuck - Oedipus Solves the Riddle of the Sphinx
