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    Florence on a Certain Night, and Other Poems
    Florence on a Certain Night, and Other Poems
    Florence on a Certain Night, and Other Poems
    Ebook126 pages57 minutes

    Florence on a Certain Night, and Other Poems

    By Coningsby Dawson

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    About this ebook

    This is a fascinating collection of the most cherished poems by Anglo-American novelist and soldier of the Canadian Field Artillery, Coningsby Dawson. The words and thoughts expressed in these verses are a joy to read and will leave an everlasting impact on the reader. Dawson makes brilliant use of imagery and writes simply, making his verses easy to follow. These delightful poems are written on various topics that interest the readers and keep them connected with the poet throughout the collection.
    This work will take the reader on a beautiful journey into the captivating world of poetry. It comprises several incredible poems, including Florence on a Certain Night, Centuries Ago, His Mother, Queen Mary of Heaven, and many more.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGood Press
    Release dateMay 19, 2021
    ISBN4064066168711
    Florence on a Certain Night, and Other Poems

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      Book preview

      Florence on a Certain Night, and Other Poems - Coningsby Dawson

      Coningsby Dawson

      Florence on a Certain Night, and Other Poems

      Published by Good Press, 2022

      [email protected]

      EAN 4064066168711

      Table of Contents

      I

      II

      CENTURIES AGO

      HIS MOTHER

      PERHAPS

      BELLUM AMORIS

      QUEEN MARY OF HEAVEN

      A BRAVE LIFE

      THE MOON-MOTHER

      TO A YOUNG GIRL WHO SAID SHE WAS NOT BEAUTIFUL

      HALLOWE'EN

      UNSEEN

      WHY THEY LOVED HIM

      CHILDISH TRAVELLING

      THE IVORY LATCH

      THE ONCE SUNG SONG

      SPRING

      A LULLABY

      UNANSWERABLE QUESTIONS

      THE HILL-TOWER

      A ROMANCE

      DAYBREAK

      HOME

      VANISHED LOVE

      THALATTA! THALATTA!

      TO ENGLAND'S GREATEST SATIRIST

      IN THE GLAD MONTH OF MAY

      THE LILIES BLOOM

      HERE, SWEET, WE LAY

      OUT OF THE BLACKNESS

      IF GOD SHOULD COME

      A NEW TENANT

      LIFE WITHOUT THEE

      ANSWERED PRAYER

      IN BEDLAM

      A SONG OF IGNOBLE EASE

      A WISH FOR HER

      WE MEET

      HEART-BREAK

      UP AGAIN

      MASTERLESS

      FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD

      ABANDON

      MAN'S BEGINNING

      LOVE AT LAST

      THE MIRROR OF THOUGHT

      I'M SORRY

      DREAMLAND LOVE

      I

      Table of Contents

      (October, 1504)

      [Someone sings in the street below]

      Fair-fleeting Youth must snatch at happiness,

      He knows not if To-morrow curse or bless,

      Nor round what bend upon his travel-way

      The bandit Death lurks armed—of Yesterday

      His palely featured griefs he knows too well;

      Therefore with jests To-day, come Heaven, come Hell,

      He plucks with either hand what joys he may.

      Joy is a flower

      White-leafd or red,

      None knows which colour

      Till it is dead:

      White gives forth fragrance

      Pure as God's breath;

      Red in its dying

      Yields the gatherer death.

      [Leonardo da Vinci speaks]

      So 'tis Lorenzo's song they sing to-night,

      That haunting song which long years since he sang

      When, with his gallants through the torch-

      smirched dusk,

      He laughing rode toward the Carnival,

      And young girls loosened all abroad their hair

      And flung up petals through the cool moonlight,

      Some of which falling rested on his face,

      Some of which falling covered up his eyes;

      And girls there were who kissed his drooping

      hands

      And clasped his stirrups, begging him to stay,

      To halt one little moment, stay with them:

      Life is so short. Delay with us a while.

      But he rode on, and sang of joy and love.

      Lorenzo il Magnifico is dead;

      His lips are silent, and he now could halt

      Oh, endlessly, if one of those fair maids

      Should come to him imploring him to stay.

      For twelve slow years within the sacristy

      Of San Lorenzo he has never waked,

      But has the rest he could not find in life—

      Ungrateful now, because postponed too long.

      If one should steal to him from out the past

      And bending down should whisper low his name,

      He would not hearken. True, she would be old,

      As are all maids of that spent gala-night;

      So, if he heard her, he would only smile,

      For he loved only beauty in his day.

      II

      Table of Contents

      [ Someone sings in the street below]

      Fair-fleeting Youth wends ever to the West,

      He, like the sun, too soon must sink to rest.

      Stars of Remorse, fast-following on his track,

      Moon of Old-Age, can nothing turn ye back f

      Ah, soon the golden Day'll have spent his breath!

      Then comes the drear, eventless Night of Death

      When Youth, no longer young, all joys must lack.

      [Leonardo da Vinci speaks]

      Then comes the drear, eventless Night of Death!

      'Tis true, for who in Tuscany to-day

      Dares breathe the Medicean name aloud?

      When a man dies, the watchers by the bed

      Close down his eye-lids, so is he once dead;

      Twice dead is he whose mem'ry men dang down

      To dark oblivion when his soul is fled.

      Florence forgets her singer, but his song

      Still echoes through her streets on autumn nights,

      And pausing at the door of some old friend,

      Bids him remember all the hope he had

      In spacious days, before Lorenzo died . . .

      It seems Lorenzo's soul crept back to earth

      Re-seeking Joy he coveted in life,

      Seeking the happiness he never found.

      Yet, was his labour lost? Did he not find?

      He sang one song which lingers in men's hearts

      And, having sung, he surely solved his quest.

      Who of Joy's seekers finds the flower itself,

      And plucking, knows the snow-white from the red?

      Not I, for I've been truant in my search;

      I've pluck't the mauve of Honour and the green

      Of cloistered Knowledge, yellow of Romance,

      The blue which feigns a deep Tranquillity,

      Scarlet of Boldness, purple of Despair,

      Orange of Idleness which flaunts the sun,

      And indigo of wizard Heresy—

      And gray which gives to Weariness unrest.

      Perchance I've clutched within this eager hand

      The Death of Joy—the fatal flower

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