詩(shī)歌欣賞：Call Me Ishmael

　　詩(shī)歌欣賞：Call Me Ishmael

　　by Jackson Mac Low

　　Circulation． And long long

　　Mind every

　　Interest Some how mind and every long

　　Coffin about little little

　　Money especially

　　I shore， having money about especially little

　　Cato a little little

　　Me extreme

　　I sail have me an extreme little

　　Cherish and left， left，

　　Myself extremest

　　It see hypos myself and extremest left，

　　City a land． Land．

　　Mouth； east，

　　Is spleen， hand mouth； an east， land．

　　詩(shī)歌欣賞：A Poet to His Beloved

　　I bring you with reverent hands

　　The books of my numberless dreams，

　　White woman that passion has worn

　　As the tide wears the dove－grey sands，

　　And with heart more old than the horn

　　That is brimmed from the pale fire of time：

　　White woman with numberless dreams，

　　I bring you my passionate rhyme．

　　詩(shī)歌欣賞A Purchase of Porcelain

　　Because the king

　　decrees that every Jew

　　must buy his wedding－right

　　in unsold porcelain

　　from the royal chinaworks，

　　here he stands， an amorous Jew，

　　gazing at luminous

　　suns and moons arrayed

　　on doths of velvet－blue，

　　earth that has married fire twice，

　　that has been shaped and named

　　for what it comprehends： sherbets， salads，

　　gravies， desserts． He lifts a platter fine

　　as alabaster in cathedral windows：

　　salvation， the passage of light

　　through bone． Ah， but

　　not for you， the store－man says．

　　Closeted， in shipping crates

　　are pieces no one else will buy

　　baboon fops in feathered caps，

　　chimpanzees in petticoats．

　　Visitors will later testify，

　　his home was comfortable，

　　despite the china apes

　　peering from every corner．

　　詩(shī)歌欣賞：Batuschka

　　From yonder gilded minaret

　　Beside the steel－blue Neva set，

　　I faintly catch， from time to time，

　　The sweet， aerial midnight chime——

　　"God save the Tsar！"

　　Above the ravelins and the moats

　　Of the white citadel it floats；

　　And men in dungeons far beneath

　　Listen， and pray， and gnash their teeth——

　　"God save the Tsar！"

　　The soft reiterations sweep

　　Across the horror of their sleep，

　　a term of endearment applied

　　to the Tsar in Russian folk－song．

　　As if some daemon in his glee

　　Were mocking at their misery——

　　"God save the Tsar！"

　　In his Red Palace over there，

　　Wakeful， he needs must hear the prayer．

　　How can it drown the broken cries

　　Wrung from his children's agonies?——

　　"God save the Tsar！"

　　Father they called him from of old——

　　Batuschka！ ． ． ． How his heart is cold！

　　Wait till a million scourged men

　　Rise in their awful might， and then——

　　God save the Tsar！

　　詩(shī)歌欣賞：Camma

　　Camma

　　（To Ellen Terry）

　　As one who poring on a Grecian urn

　　Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made，

　　God with slim goddess， goodly man with maid，

　　And for their beauty's sake is loth to turn

　　And face the obvious day， must I not yearn

　　For many a secret moon of indolent bliss，

　　When in midmost shrine of Artemis

　　I see thee standing， antique－limbed， and stern?

　　And yet － methinks I'd rather see thee play

　　That serpent of old Nile， whose witchery

　　Made Emperors drunken， － come， great Egypt， shake

　　Our stage with all thy mimic pageants！ Nay，

　　I am grown sick of unreal passions， make

　　The world thine Actium， me thine Anthony！

　　詩(shī)歌欣賞：A Prayer for My Son

　　Bid a strong ghost stand at the head

　　That my Michael may sleep sound，

　　Nor cry， nor turn in the bed

　　Till his morning meal come round；

　　And may departing twilight keep

　　All dread afar till morning‘s back，

　　That his mother may not lack

　　Her fill of sleep．

　　Bid the ghost have sword in fist：

　　Some there are， for I avow

　　Such devilish things exist，

　　Who have planned his murder， for they know

　　Of some most haughty deed or thought

　　That waits upon his future days，

　　And would through hatred of the bays

　　Bring that to nought．

　　Though You can fashion everything

　　From nothing every day， and teach

　　The morning stars to sing，

　　You have lacked articulate speech

　　To tell Your simplest want， and known，

　　Wailing upon a woman‘s knee，

　　All of that worst ignominy

　　Of flesh and bone；

　　And when through all the town there ran

　　The servants of Your enemy，

　　A woman and a man，

　　Unless the Holy Writings lie，

　　Hurried through the smooth and rough

　　And through the fertile and waste，

　　Protecting， till the danger past，

　　With human love．

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