#ernest christopher dowson
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THE MOON MAIDEN’S SONG
Sleep ! Cast thy canopy
Over this sleeper’s brain,
Dim grow his memory,
When he wake again.
Love stays a summer night,
Till lights of morning come ;
Then takes her winged flight
Back to her starry home.
Sleep ! Yet thy days are mine ;
Love’s seal is over thee :
Far though my ways from thine,
Dim though thy memory.
Love stays a summer night,
Till lights of morning come ;
Then takes her winged flight
Back to her starry home.
Ernest Christopher Dowson
#ernest dowson#ernest christopher dowson#moon maiden#vintage postcards#old postcards#early 20s#moon#maiden#lune#british literature#poetry#english poetry#victorian era#british poetry#poet#poète#poème#poem
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Amor Profanus
Beyond the pale of memory,
In some mysterious dusky grove;
A place of shadows utterly,
Where never coos the turtle-dove,
A world forgotten of the sun:
I dreamed we met when day was done,
And marvelled at our ancient love.
Met there by chance, long kept apart,
We wandered through the darkling glades;
And that old language of the heart
We sought to speak: alas! poor shades!
Over our pallid lips had run
The waters of oblivion,
Which crown all loves of men or maids.
In vain we stammered: from afar
Our old desire shone cold and dead:
That time was distant as a star,
When eyes were bright and lips were red.
And still we went with downcast eye
And no delight in being nigh,
Poor shadows most uncomforted.
Ah, Lalage! while life is ours,
Hoard not thy beauty rose and white,
But pluck the pretty, fleeting flowers
That deck our little path of light;
For all too soon we twain shall tread
The bitter pastures of the dead:
Estranged, sad spectres of the night.
- Ernest Christopher Dowson
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Six Songs
Denis ApIvor (14 aprile 1916 - 2004): Six Songs per voce e pianoforte. Moira Harris, soprano; Wills Morgan, tenore; Richard Black, pianoforte.
A hert tae break (testo: anonimo scozzese, 1946)
As the holly groweth green (Enrico VIII; 1936) [2:35]
Flos Lunae (Ernest Christopher Dowson; 1939) [4:15]
Maw Bonnie Lad (anonimo scozzese; 1974-75) [7:49]
Spleen (Dowson; 1939) [9:23]
Villanelle (Dowson;…
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#Denis ApIvor#Enrico VIII re d&039;Inghilterra#Ernest Christopher Dowson#Moira Harris#Richard Black#Wills Morgan#Youtube
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Exile
Ernest Christopher Dowson
By the sad waters of separation
Where we have wandered by divers ways,
I have but the shadow and imitation
Of the old memorial days.
In music I have no consolation,
No roses are pale enough for me;
The sound of the waters of separation
Surpasseth roses and melody.
By the sad waters of separation
Dimly I hear from an hidden place
The sigh of mine ancient adoration:
Hardly can I remember your face.
If you be dead, no proclamation
Sprang to me over the waste, grey sea:
Living, the waters of separation
Sever for ever your soul from me.
No man knoweth our desolation;
Memory pales of the old delight;
While the sad waters of separation
Bear us on to the ultimate night.
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THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE by Ernest Christopher Dowson (London: Smithers, 1897) Bound by Léon Gruel (1923). Illustrated by Aubrey Beardsley.
source
‘In his 1887 guidebook HISTORICAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL MANUAL FOR COLLECTORS OF BOOKBINDINGS, Léon Gruel described and illustrated a 1766 binding by Robert-Jean Bailly. He then produced an exact copy, see here. The leather cover has been cut away to reveal a rich underlay of rose-colored silk. The same silk is used for the endpapers inside’ source
#beautiful books#book blog#books books books#book cover#books#illustrated book#vintage books#victorian era#book binding#art binding#aubrey beardsley#pierrot
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The Three Witches Poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson All the moon-shed nights are over, And the days of gray and dun; There is neither may nor clover, And the day and night are one. Not an hamlet, not a city Meets our strained and tearless eyes; In the plain without a pity, Where the wan grass droops and dies. We shall wander through the meaning Of a day and see no light, For our lichened arms are leaning On the ends of endless night. We, the children of Astarte, Dear abortions of the moon, In a gay and silent party, We are riding to you soon. Burning ramparts, ever burning! To the flame which never dies We are yearning, yearning, yearning, With our gay and tearless eyes. In the plain without a pity, (Not an hamlet, not a city) Where the wan grass droops and dies. (2/7) #fairytaletuesday #fairytale #fairytaleflash #poems #poem #poetic #poet #poetry #poems #poetryofinstagram #classicpoetry #halloweenpoetry #halloween2022 #halloweenseason #halloween #spiritofhalloween #Spiritique #mindfulness #Spiritual #Spirituality #mystical #mystique #mystic #mysticisim #renaissance #renaissanceart #folk #folklore #folkspirits #folkmystic #fantasy https://www.instagram.com/p/CkIRRFyyL3V/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
#fairytaletuesday#fairytale#fairytaleflash#poems#poem#poetic#poet#poetry#poetryofinstagram#classicpoetry#halloweenpoetry#halloween2022#halloweenseason#halloween#spiritofhalloween#spiritique#mindfulness#spiritual#spirituality#mystical#mystique#mystic#mysticisim#renaissance#renaissanceart#folk#folklore#folkspirits#folkmystic#fantasy
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A little while to walk with thee, dear child;
To lean on thee my weak and weary head;
Then evening comes: the winter sky is wild,
The leafless trees are black, the leaves long dead.
A little while to hold thee and to stand,
By harvest-fields of bending golden corn;
Then the predestined silence, and thine hand,
Lost in the night, long and weary and forlorn.
A little while to love thee, scarcely time
To love thee well enough; then time to part,
To fare through wintry fields alone and climb
The frozen hills, not knowing where thou art.
Short summer-time and then, my heart's desire,
The winter and the darkness: one by one
The roses fall, the pale roses expire
Beneath the slow decadence of the sun.
Transition by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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Let us go hence: the night is now at hand;
The day is overworn, the birds all flown;
And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown;
Despair and death; deep darkness o'er the land,
Broods like an owl; we cannot understand
Laughter or tears, for we have only known
Surpassing vanity: vain things alone
Have driven our perverse and aimless band.
-
Let us go hence, somewhither strange and cold,
To Hollow Lands where just men and unjust
Find end of labour, where's rest for the old,
Freedom to all from love and fear and lust.
Twine our torn hands! O pray the earth enfold
Our life-sick hearts and turn them into dust.
A Last Word - Poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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Show off your BOLAS MC!
Here's mine, Cynara, named for this poem:
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine... [Ernest Christopher Dowson]
#bolas#bolas mc#blades of light and shadow#playchoices#choices the syp#choices bolas#choices the stories you play
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Più folli musiche cercai
E vino più robusto,
ma muore ormai il festino e si spengon le faci.
L’ombra tua cade, Cynara!
La notte si fa tua;
desolato e languente d’una passione antica
le labbra cerco della mia follia.
Ti fui fedele Cynara!
A mio modo.
Ernest Christopher Dowson
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Report from Calabria: A Season with the Carthusian Monks
http://www.newoxfordreview.org/reviews.jsp?did=0518-lusch
Singleness of purpose and dedication to the order’s customs explains why Carthusians can say with confidence, Cartusia nunquam reformata quia nunquam deformata (Never reformed because never deformed). It is also why the Church needs the silent simplicity of the Carthusians. As Pope Benedict XVI said, “From the contemplative community the ministry of pastors draws a spiritual sap that comes from God.” Some contemplative monastic branches, such as the hermits of Grandmont, have withered and died. Others, even after reforms, are not what they once were. So we must give fervent thanks to God for the Carthusians, who remain “hidden with Christ in God,” and thanks to A Priest and Ignatius Press for giving us a magnificent glimpse into their hiddenness.
A cloistered company, they are companionless,
None knoweth here the secret of his brother’s heart:
They are but come together for more loneliness,
Whose bond is solitude and silence all their part.
— from “Carthusians” by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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Ernest Christopher Dowson (2 August 1867 – 23 February 1900).
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Ad Manus Puellae
I was always a lover of ladies’ hands!
Or ever mine heart came here to tryst,
For the sake of your carved white hands’ commands;
The tapering fingers, the dainty wrist;
The hands of a girl were what I kissed.
I remember an hand like a fleur-de-lys
When it slid from its silken sheath, her glove;
With its odours passing ambergris:
And that was the empty husk of a love.
Oh, how shall I kiss your hands enough?
They are pale with the pallor of ivories;
But they blush to the tips like a curled sea-shell:
What treasure, in kingly treasuries,
Of gold, and spice for the thurible,
Is sweet as her hands to hoard and tell?
I know not the way from your finger-tips,
Nor how I shall gain the higher lands,
The citadel of your sacred lips:
I am captive still of my pleasant bands,
The hands of a girl, and most your hands!
– Ernest Christopher Dowson
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Mas alla de la pálida memoria, en algun misterioso bosque oscuro; existe un lugar hecho de sombras silencioso bajo la bóveda de arboles. Un lugar olvidado por el sol, he soñado que ahi nos reunimos para maravillarnos de nuestro antiguo amor.
Ernest Christopher Dowson, Amor profano.
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Exile , A poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson. For more audio poems, check out our site at http://AudioPoems.org
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Beyond the pale of memory,
In some mysterious dusky grove;
A place of shadows utterly,
Where never coos the turtle-dove,
A world forgotten of the sun:
I dreamed we met when day was done,
And marvelled at our ancient love.
Met there by chance, long kept apart,
We wandered through the darkling glades;
And that old language of the heart
We sought to speak: alas! poor shades!
Over our pallid lips had run
The waters of oblivion,
Which crown all loves of men or maids.
In vain we stammered: from afar
Our old desire shone cold and dead:
That time was distant as a star,
When eyes were bright and lips were red.
And still we went with downcast eye
And no delight in being nigh,
Poor shadows most uncomforted.
Ah, Lalage! while life is ours,
Hoard not thy beauty rose and white,
But pluck the pretty, fleeting flowers
That deck our little path of light;
For all too soon we twain shall tread
The bitter pastures of the dead:
Estranged, sad spectres of the night.
Amor Profanus by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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