Rachel Annand Taylor

thumb| Rachel Annand Taylor (3 April 1876 – 15 August 1960) was a Scottish poet, prominent in the Celtic Revival, and later a biographer and literary critic. Quotes We crazed for you, aspired and fell for you;  Over us trod Desire, with feet of fire.Ah! the sad stories we would tell for you,    Full of dark nights and sighing    While—you were dying,        Chrysola!Roundels and all rich rimes we rang for you;  How from the plangent lyre pled our Desire!But the musicians vainly sang for you;—    Through the dear music, crying    That—you were dying,        Chrysola!High on the golden throne love wrought for you  With eyes enthrall’d of rest, tired of our best;You sat unheeding while we fought for you    Glaive unto glaive replying;    For—you were dying,        Chrysola!Frenzied from out the jousts we came to you;  ‘Can we love more, Dream-fast? Crown, then, at last.’But love and hate were one dim flame to you;    Strange things you smiled us—dying,    O! You were dying,        Chrysola!Great spoils of frankincense we burn’d for you,  Round your death-chamber proud—then cursed aloudChristian or Pagan god that yearn’d for you,    Till you were undenying.—    O Dream undying,        Chrysola! "The Knights to Chrysola" As a dancer dancing in a shower of roses before her King        (A dreamer dark, the King)Throws back her head like a wind-loved flower, and makes her cymbals ring        (O’er her lit eyes they ring);As a fair white dancer strange of heart, and crown’d and shod with gold,My soul exults before the Art, the magian Art of old. "The Joys of Art" ‘Who are you that so strangely woke,And raised a fine hand?’Poverty wears a scarlet clokeIn my land.‘Duchies of dreamland, emerald, roseLie at your command?’Poverty like a princess goesIn my land.‘Wherefore the mask of silken laceTied with a golden band?’Poverty walks with wanton graceIn my land.‘Why do you softly, richly speakRhythm so sweetly-scanned?’Poverty hath the Gaelic and GreekIn my land.‘There’s a far-off scent about you seemsBorn in Samarkand.’Poverty hath luxurious dreamsIn my land.‘You have wounds that like passion-flowers you hide:I cannot understand.’Poverty hath one name with PrideIn my land.‘Oh! Will you draw your last sad breath’Mid bitter bent and sand?’Poverty begs from none but DeathIn my land. "The Princess of Scotland" O ye that look on EcstasyThe Dancer lone and white,Cover your charmèd eyes, for sheIs Death’s own acolyte.She dances on the moonstone floorsAgainst the jewelled peacock doors:The roses flame in her gold hair,The tired sad lids are overfair.All ye that look on EcstasyThe Dancer lone and white,Cover your dreaming eyes, lest she—(Oh! softly, strangely!)—float you throughThese doors all bronze and green and blueInto the Bourg of Night. "Ecstasy" The Rose of the World hangs high on a thorny Tree.Whoso would gather must harrow his hands and feet.    But oh! It is sweet.The leaves that drop like blood from the thorny TreeRedden the roads of the earth from East to West.    They lie in my breast.O Rose, O Rose of the World, bow down to meWho can cleave no more, so pierced are my hands and feet.    For oh! Thou art sweet. "Rosa Mundi" External links Author:Rachel Annand Taylor Category:Poets from Scotland Category:1876 births Category:1960 deaths Category:Women authors from Scotland