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Posted by: Marzia Ornofoli
in Poems (Author's Poems)
The falling dew is cold and chill,
And no bird sings in Arcady,
The little fauns have left the hill,
Even the tired daffodil
Has closed its gilded doors, and still
My lover comes not back to me.
False moon! False moon! O waning moon!
Where is my own true lover gone,
Where are the lips vermilion,
The shepherd's crook, the purple shoon?
Why spread that silver pavilion,
Why wear that veil of drifting mist?
Ah! thou hast young Endymion,
Thou hast the lips that should be kissed!
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    Posted by: Marzia Ornofoli
    in Poems (Author's Poems)
    Ay! had we never loved at all, who knows If yonder daffodil had
    lured the bee Into its gilded womb, or any rose Had hung with
    crimson lamps its little tree!
    Methinks no leaf would ever bud in spring, But for the lovers' lips
    that kiss, the poet's lips that sing
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      in Poems (Author's Poems)
      For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;
      sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;
      ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.

      Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.

      And now I know that we must lift the sail
      and catch the winds of destiny
      wherever they drive the boat.

      To put meaning in one's life may end in madness,
      but life without meaning is the torture
      of restlessness and vague desire,
      it is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.
      .
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        in Poems (Author's Poems)
        You can't resist love
        because the hands want to own the beauty
        and not stun years of silence.
        Because love is living two-thousand dreams
        until the sublime kiss.
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          Posted by: Marzia Ornofoli
          in Poems (Author's Poems)
          Full winter: and the lusty goodman brings
          His load of faggots from the chilly byre,
          And stamps his feet upon the hearth, and flings
          The sappy billets on the waning fire,
          And laughs to see the sudden lightening scare
          His children at their play, and yet, - the spring is in the air;
          Then up and down the field the sower goes,
          While close behind the laughing younker scares
          With shrilly whoop the black and thievish crows,
          And then the chestnut-tree its glory wears,
          And on the grass the creamy blossom falls
          In odorous excess, and faint half-whispered madrigals
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            Posted by: Marzia Ornofoli
            in Poems (Author's Poems)
            But we have left those gentle haunts to pass
            With weary feet to the new Calvary,
            Where we behold, as one who in a glass
            Sees his own face, self-slain Humanity,
            And in the dumb reproach of that sad gaze
            Learn what an awful phantom the red hand of man can raise.
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              Posted by: Elisabetta
              in Poems (Author's Poems)
              The silver trumpets rang across the Dome:
              The people knelt upon the ground with awe:
              And borne upon the necks of men I saw,
              Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
              Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,
              And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,
              Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:
              In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.
              My heart stole back across wide wastes of years
              To One who wandered by a lonely sea,
              And sought in vain for any place of rest:
              'Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,
              I, only I, must wander wearily,
              And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.'
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                in Poems (Author's Poems)
                An onion is something else.
                It doesn't have any innerds.
                Until its onioness.
                Oniony outside,
                oniony to the heart,
                it could look within itself
                without feeling any fear.
                In us the unknown and forests
                of flesh just covered,
                infernal innerds,
                violent anatomy,
                but within the onion - onion,
                not contorted bowels.
                She is time and time again naked,
                till the end and so on.
                The onion is coherent,
                the onion is realized.
                In one there's the other,
                in the biggest the smallest,
                meaning the third and the fourth.
                A centripetal flight.
                A composed echo in a choir.
                The onion, okay:
                the most beautiful belly in the world.
                To itself of auras
                it wraps around itself.
                In us - fat, nerves, veins,
                muchus ad secretions.
                And to us is negated
                the idiocy of perfection.
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