The Watersgreen House Gay Male Reader

The Watersgreen House

Gay Male Reader

Compiled by Michael Wilson

Includes works by

Michelangelo,

Christopher Marlowe,

William Shakespeare,

Lord Byron,

Walt Whitman,

Bayard Taylor,

Oscar Wilde,

A. E. Housman,

Rupert Brooke,

Wilfred Owen

and Luke Hartwell

London

© 2017 by Michael Wilson and Watersgreen House

Watersgreen House

All rights reserved.

Cover art: Boy Against Rock by Henry Scott Tuke

7.44 x 9.69 (18.898 x 24.613 cm) 

Black & White on White paper

ISBN-13: 978-1514755082 

ISBN-10: 1514755084 

BISAC: Literary Collections / LGBT

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Watersgreen House is an independent international book publisher with editorial staff in the UK and USA. One of our aims at Watersgreen House is to showcase same-sex affection in works by important gay and bisexual authors in ways which were not possible at the time the books were originally published. We also publish nonfiction, including textbooks, and contemporary fiction that is unusual, and provocative.

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Contents

Michelangelo, Loves Flame Doth Feed on Age

Christopher Marlowe, The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

William Shakespeare, selected sonnets

Lord Byron, selected poems

Walt Whitman, selected poems

Bayard Taylor, To A Persian Boy

Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

A. E. Housman, selected poems

Rupert Brooke, The Beginning

Wilfred Owen, selected poems

Luke Hartwell, Jimmy

Michelangelo

"Love’s Flame Doth Feed on Age

Se da' prim' anni.

If some mild heat of love in youth confessed

Burns a fresh heart with swift consuming fire,

What will the force be of a flame more dire

Shut up within an old man's cindery breast?

If the mere lapse of lengthening years hath pressed

So sorely that life, strength, and vigour tire,

How shall he fare who must ere long expire,

When to old age is added love's unrest?

Weak as myself, he will be whirled away

Like dust by winds kind in their cruelty,

Robbing the loathly worm of its last prey.

A little flame consumed and fed on me

In my green age: now that the wood is dry,

What hope against this fire more fierce have I?

Christopher Marlowe

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

Come live with me and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove

That hills and vallies, dales and fields,

Woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,

Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks

By shallow rivers to whose falls

Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses

And a thousand fragrant posies,

A cup of flowers and a kirtle

Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wooll

Which from our pretty lambs we pull;

Fair-linèd slippers for the cold,

With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy-buds,

With coral clasps and amber studs;

An if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd-swains shall dance and sing

For thy delight each May-morning:

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me, and be my love.

William Shakespeare

XVIII

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd,

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd:

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,

Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

XXIX

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself, and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,

Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,

Haply I think on thee,— and then my state,

Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;

For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

LV

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments

Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;

But you shall shine more bright in these contents

Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time.

When wasteful war shall statues overturn,

And broils root out the work of masonry,

Nor Mars his sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn

The living record of your memory.

'Gainst death, and all-oblivious enmity

Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room

Even in the eyes of all posterity

That wear this world out to the ending doom.

So, till the judgment that yourself arise,

You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.

LX

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,

So do our minutes hasten to their end;

Each changing place with that which goes before,

In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

Nativity, once in the main of light,

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,

Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,

And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth

And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,

Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,

And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:

And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand.

Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

LXXIII

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west;

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,

Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

XCIV

They that have power to hurt, and will do none,

That do not do the thing they most do show,

Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,

Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;

They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,

And husband nature's riches from expense;

They are the lords and owners of their faces,

Others, but stewards of their excellence.

The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,

Though to itself, it only live and die,

But if that flower with base infection meet,

The basest weed outbraves his dignity:

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;

Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.

CIV

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,

For as you were when first your eye I ey'd,

Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold,

Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,

Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd,

In process of the seasons have I seen,

Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,

Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.

Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand,

Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv'd;

So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,

Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd:

For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred:

Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.

CXVI

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me prov'd,

I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

CXXVI

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power

Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his fickle hour;

Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st

Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow'st.

If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,

As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,

She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill

May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.

Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!

She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:

Her audit (though delayed) answered must be,

And her quietus is to render thee.

CXXX

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red, than her lips red:

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound:

I grant I never saw a goddess go,—

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:

And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,

As any she belied with false compare.

CXLIV

Two loves I have of comfort and despair,

Which like two spirits do suggest me still:

The better angel is a man right fair,

The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.

To win me soon to hell, my female evil,

Tempteth my better angel from my side,

And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,

Wooing his purity with her foul pride.

And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend,

Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;

But being both from me, both to each friend,

I guess one angel in another's hell:

Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,

Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

Lord Byron

The Cornelian

1.

No specious splendour of this stone

Endears it to my memory ever;

With lustre only once it shone,

And blushes modest as the giver.

2.

Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties,

Have, for my weakness, oft reprov'd me;

Yet still the simple gift I prize,

For I am sure, the giver lov'd me.

3.

He offer'd it with downcast look,

As fearful that I might refuse it;

I told him, when the gift I took,

My only fear should be, to lose it.

4.

This pledge attentively I view'd,

And sparkling as I held it near,

Methought one drop the stone bedew'd,

And, ever since, I've lov'd a tear.

5.

Still, to adorn his humble youth,

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield;

But he, who seeks the flowers of truth,

Must quit the garden, for the field.

6.

'Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth,

Which beauty shews, and sheds perfume;

The flowers, which yield the most of both,

In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom.

7.

Had Fortune aided Nature's care,

For once forgetting to be blind,

His would have been an ample share,

If well proportioned to his mind.

8.

But had the Goddess clearly seen,

His form had fix'd her fickle breast;

Her countless hoards would his have been,

And none remain'd to give the rest.

There Was a Time, I Need Not Name

1.

There was a time, I need not name,

Since it will ne'er forgotten be,

When all our feelings were the same

As still my soul hath been to thee.

2.

And from that hour when first thy tongue

Confess'd a love which equall'd mine,

Though many a grief my heart hath wrung,

Unknown, and thus unfelt, by thine,

3.

None, none hath sunk so deep as this—

To think how all that love hath flown;

Transient as every faithless kiss,

But transient in thy breast alone.

4.

And yet my heart some solace knew,

When late I heard thy lips declare,

In accents once imagined true,

Remembrance of the days that were.

5.

Yes! my adored, yet most unkind!

Though thou wilt never love again,

To me 'tis doubly sweet to find

Remembrance of that love remain.

6.

Yes! 'tis a glorious thought to me,

Nor longer shall my soul repine,

Whate'er thou art or e'er shall be,

Thou hast been dearly, solely mine.

June 10, 1808

To Thyrza

Without a stone to mark the spot,

And say, what Truth might well have said,

By all, save one, perchance forgot,

Ah! wherefore art thou lowly laid?

By many a shore and many a sea

Divided, yet beloved in vain;

The Past, the Future fled to thee,

To bid us meet—no—ne'er again!

Could this have been—a word, a look,

That softly said, We part in peace,

Had taught my bosom how to brook,

With fainter sighs, thy soul's release.

And didst thou not, since Death for thee

Prepared a light and pangless dart,

Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see,

Who held, and holds thee in his heart?

Oh! who like him had watched thee here?

Or sadly marked thy glazing eye,

In that dread hour ere Death appear,

When silent Sorrow fears to sigh,

Till all was past? But when no more

'Twas thine to reck of human woe,

Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,

Had flowed as fast—as now they flow.

Shall they not flow, when many a day

In these, to me, deserted towers,

Ere called but for a time away,

Affection's mingling tears were ours?

Ours too the glance none saw beside;

The smile none else might understand;

The whispered thought of hearts allied,

The pressure of the thrilling hand;

The kiss, so guiltless and refined,

That Love each warmer wish forbore;

Those eyes proclaimed so pure a mind,

Ev'n Passion blushed to plead for more.

The tone, that taught me to rejoice,

When prone, unlike thee, to repine;

The song, celestial from thy voice,

But sweet to me from none but thine;

The pledge we wore—I wear it still,

But where is thine?—Ah! where art thou?

Oft have I borne the weight of ill,

But never bent beneath till now!

Well hast thou left in Life's best bloom

The cup of Woe for me to drain.

If rest alone be in the tomb,

I would not wish thee here again:

But if in worlds more blest than this

Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere,

Impart some portion of thy bliss,

To wean me from mine anguish here.

Teach me—too early taught by thee!

To bear, forgiving and forgiven:

On earth thy love was such to me;

It fain would form my hope in Heaven!

Away, Away, Ye Notes of Woe!

1.

Away, away, ye notes of Woe!

Be silent, thou once soothing Strain,

Or I must flee from hence—for, oh!

I dare not trust those sounds again.

To me they speak of brighter days—

But lull the chords, for now, alas!

I must not think, I may not gaze,

On what I am—on what I was.

2.

The voice that made those sounds more sweet

Is hushed, and all their charms are fled;

And now their softest notes repeat

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead!

Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee,

Belovéd dust! since dust thou art;

And all that once was Harmony

Is worse than discord to my heart!

3.

'Tis silent all!—but on my ear

The well remembered Echoes thrill;

I hear a voice I would not hear,

A voice that now might well be still:

Yet oft my doubting Soul 'twill shake;

Ev'n Slumber owns its gentle tone,

Till Consciousness will vainly wake

To listen, though the dream be flown.

4.

Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,

Thou art but now a lovely dream;

A Star that trembled o'er the deep,

Then turned from earth its tender beam.

But he who through Life's dreary way

Must pass, when Heaven is veiled in wrath,

Will long lament the vanished ray

That scattered gladness o'er his path.

Love and Death

1.

I watched thee when the foe was at our side,

Ready to strike at him—or thee and me.

Were safety hopeless—rather than divide

Aught with one loved save love and liberty.

2.

I watched thee on the breakers, when the rock

Received our prow and all was storm and fear,

And bade thee cling to me through every shock;

This arm would be thy bark, or breast thy bier.

3.

I watched thee when the fever glazed thine eyes,

Yielding my couch and stretched me on the ground,

When overworn with watching, ne'er to rise

From thence if thou an early grave hadst found.

4.

The earthquake came, and rocked the quivering wall,

And men and nature reeled as if with wine.

Whom did I seek around the tottering hall?

For thee. Whose safety first provide for? Thine.

5.

And when convulsive throes denied my breath

The faintest utterance to my fading thought,

To thee—to thee—e'en in the gasp of death

My spirit turned, oh! oftener than it ought.

6.

Thus much and more; and yet thou lov'st me not,

And never wilt! Love dwells not in our will.

Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot

To strongly, wrongly, vainly love thee still.

Last Words on Greece

What are to me those honours or renown

Past or to come, a new-born people's cry?

Albeit for such I could despise a crown

Of aught save laurel, or for such could die.

I am a fool of passion, and a frown

Of thine to me is as an adder's eye.

To the poor bird whose pinion fluttering down

Wafts unto death the breast it bore so high;

Such is this maddening fascination grown,

So strong thy magic or so weak am I.

On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sixth Year

1.

'T is time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it hath ceased to move:

Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love!

2.

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of Love are gone;

The worm, the canker, and the grief

Are mine alone!

3.

The fire that on my bosom preys

Is lone as some Volcanic isle;

No torch is kindled at its blaze—

A funeral pile.

4.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,

The exalted portion of the pain

And power of love, I cannot share,

But wear the chain.

5.

But 't is not thus—and 't is not here—

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now

Where Glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

6.

The Sword, the Banner, and the Field,

Glory and Greece, around me see!

The Spartan, borne upon his shield,

Was not more free.

7.

Awake! (not Greece—she is awake!)

Awake, my spirit! Think through whom

Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,

And then strike home!

8.

Tread those reviving passions down,

Unworthy manhood!—unto thee

Indifferent should the smile or frown

Of Beauty be.

9.

If thou regret'st thy youth, why live?

The land of honourable death

Is here:—up to the Field, and give

Away thy breath!

10.

Seek out—less often sought than found—

A soldier's grave, for thee the best;

Then look around, and choose thy ground,

And take thy Rest.

Missolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824

Walt Whitman

Recorders Ages Hence

Recorders ages hence,

Come, I will take you down underneath this impassive exterior, I will tell you what to say of me,

Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the tenderest lover,

The friend the lover's portrait, of whom his