Classic and Contemporary Poetry
VILLA PLINIANA, by JOHN LAWSON STODDARD Poet's Biography First Line: It stands where darkly wooded cliffs Last Line: O roman poet, dost thou know? Subject(s): Life; Love; Soul | ||||||||
It stands where darkly wooded cliffs Slope swiftly to the deep, And silvery streams from ledge to ledge In foaming splendor leap, -- A broad expanse of saffron walls, A wilderness of mouldering halls. The torrent's breath hath spread its blight On every darkened room, And oozing mosses drip decay Through corridors of gloom, While Ruin lays a subtle snare On many a yielding rail and stair. There seats, which beauty once enthroned, In tattered damask stand; In gray neglect a faun extends A mutilated hand; And silence makes the festal board Mute as the stringless harpsichord. The boldest hesitate to tread Those gruesome courts at night; 'Tis whispered that a spectral form Then haunts the lonely height; For he who built this home apart Had stabbed his rival to the heart. Oblivion's boon is vainly sought Amid those scenes sublime; Forever lurked within his breast The nemesis of crime; Not all that flood of limpid spray Could wash the fatal stain away. Yet certain fearless souls have dwelt Within that haunted pile; Among them she, whose portrait still, With enigmatic smile, Lights up the mansion, like a gem Set in a tarnished diadem; -- The princess, at whose thrilling call Unnumbered patriots rose To drive from fettered Lombardy Her immemorial foes, -- A woman, loved from sea to sea, As Liberty's divinity. But now the old, historic site Lives only in the past; Neglected and untenanted, Its life is ebbing fast; Each crumbling step, each mossy stone Is marked by Ruin for her own. Yet one mysterious charm abides, -- The spring, whose ebb and flow Were praised in Pliny's classic prose Two thousand years ago, -- A fountain, whose perennial grace Millenniums could not efface. Thrice daily in their polished cup Its crystal waters sink; Thrice daily to they rise again And overflow the brink, -- Since Pliny's day no more, no less, Unchanged in rhythmic loveliness. Sweet Larian lake, and sylvan cliffs, Cascade, and storied spring, Ye are the same as when he loved Your varied charms to sing; 'Tis man alone who sadly goes! The lake remains, the fountain flows. Like drops in its exhaustless flood, Our little lives emerge, Swirl for an instant, and are gone, Sunk by another surge! Whence come they? Whither do they go? O Roman poet, dost thou know? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CRUEL FALCON by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE WHOLE SOUL by PHILIP LEVINE I KNOW MY SOUL by CLAUDE MCKAY HONORING THE SAND; IN MEMORY OF JOSEPH CAMPBELL by ROBERT BLY THE CHINESE PEAKS; FOR DONALD HALL by ROBERT BLY THE LIFE OF TOWNS: TOWN OF THE EXHUMATION by ANNE CARSON A MAY MONODY by JOHN LAWSON STODDARD |
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