Bad Poetry: The Vampyre
Robert Lytton, Earl of Lytton was a 19th-century British diplomat, the son of Parliament member and writer Edward George Bulwer Lytton (possibly most famous for the opening line of his Paul Clifford, "It was a dark and stormy night.").
Like father, like son. Robert Lytton, who used the pseudonym "Owen Meredith," liked to mix the macabre with the sweet and maidenly. Perfect for Halloween.
Here's a taste, from The Vampyre:
I found a corpse, with golden hair,
Of a maiden seven months dead.
But the face, with the death in it, still was fair,
And the lips with their love were red.
Rose-leaves on a snow-drift shed,
Blood-drops by Adonis bled,
Doubtless were not so red.
...
I would that this woman's head
Were less golden about the hair:
I would her lips were less red,
And her face less deadly fair.
For this is the worst to hear--
How came that redness there?
'T is my heart, be sure, she eats for her food;
And it makes one's whole flesh creep
To think that she drinks and drains my blood
Unawares, when I am asleep.
How else could those red-lips keep
Their redness so damson-deep?
There's a thought like a serpent, slips
Ever into my heart and head,--
There are plenty of women, alive and human,
One might woo, if one wished, and wed--
Woemn with hearts, and brains,--ay, and lips
Not so very terribly red.
Like father, like son. Robert Lytton, who used the pseudonym "Owen Meredith," liked to mix the macabre with the sweet and maidenly. Perfect for Halloween.
Here's a taste, from The Vampyre:
I found a corpse, with golden hair,
Of a maiden seven months dead.
But the face, with the death in it, still was fair,
And the lips with their love were red.
Rose-leaves on a snow-drift shed,
Blood-drops by Adonis bled,
Doubtless were not so red.
...
I would that this woman's head
Were less golden about the hair:
I would her lips were less red,
And her face less deadly fair.
For this is the worst to hear--
How came that redness there?
'T is my heart, be sure, she eats for her food;
And it makes one's whole flesh creep
To think that she drinks and drains my blood
Unawares, when I am asleep.
How else could those red-lips keep
Their redness so damson-deep?
There's a thought like a serpent, slips
Ever into my heart and head,--
There are plenty of women, alive and human,
One might woo, if one wished, and wed--
Woemn with hearts, and brains,--ay, and lips
Not so very terribly red.
Labels: bad poetry, poetry