Lionel Pigot Johnson Poems

DARK Angel, with thine aching lust
To rid the world of penitence:
Malicious Angel, who still dost
My soul such subtile violence!
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Ah! fair face gone from sight,
With all its light
Of eyes that pierced the deep!
Oh human night!
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A TERRIBLE and splendid trust,
Heartens the host of Innisfail;
Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust;
The lightning glory of the Gael.
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I HATE you with a necessary hate.
First, I sought patience: passionate was she:
My patience turned in very scorn of me,
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Imageries of dream reveal a gracious age:
Black armour, falling lace, and altar lights at morn.
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A VOICE on the winds,
A voice by the waters,
Wanders and cries:
Oh! what are the winds?
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Why, no Sir! If a barren rascal cries,
That he is most in love with pleasing woe,
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GO from me: I am one of those who fall.
What! hath no cold wind swept your heart at all,
In my sad company? Before the end,
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SUMMER lightning, and rich rain:
Roses perfume the hot air.
All the breathless night is faint,
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To Olivier Georges Destrée

IN Merioneth, over the sad moor
Drives the rain, the cold wind blows:
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