TWO XANADU POEMS: ‘Love Remembered’ and ‘When the Nightingale Sings No More’ *




Where are they now, the loved ones of the past?
When I am dead, who’ll sing their requiem?
How long, how long will these dim shadows last?
When I am dust, who will remember them?

The two I loved the dearest nurtured me:
A charming father, faithful to the end;
A caring mother who loved and breastfed me—
She’s with me still, though dead, my closest friend. 

Two others I loved, lost on the world’s wind,  
Tossed into different lives in distant lands.   
Who will call them to account if they sinned?
—We all sink slowly in the same quicksands.

I have no answers. I, too, soon must sink, 
As each day brings me closer to the brink.

—     §     —



These questions vex the mind: ‘Where are they?’ 
‘Where’s true love gone?’ And, ‘How much longer?’ 
‘Where are the songs of yesterday?’ 
The hardest question, last—’Why linger?’

Immortal longings!—All that’s left
When the nightingale sings no more:
When body and soul are bereft, 
And nobody knocks at your door.

12 thoughts to “TWO XANADU POEMS: ‘Love Remembered’ and ‘When the Nightingale Sings No More’ *”

  1. Moving poems, Xanadu. Yeats knew what growing old was like (so do I):

    Sailing to Byzantium

    That is no country for old men. The young
    In one another’s arms, birds in the trees,
    —Those dying generations—at their song,
    The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
    Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
    Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
    Caught in that sensual music all neglect
    Monuments of unageing intellect.

    An aged man is but a paltry thing,
    A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
    Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
    For every tatter in its mortal dress,
    Nor is there singing school but studying
    Monuments of its own magnificence;
    And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
    To the holy city of Byzantium.

    O sages standing in God’s holy fire
    As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
    Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
    And be the singing-masters of my soul.
    Consume my heart away; sick with desire
    And fastened to a dying animal
    It knows not what it is; and gather me
    Into the artifice of eternity.

    Once out of nature I shall never take
    My bodily form from any natural thing,
    But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
    Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
    To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
    Or set upon a golden bough to sing
    To lords and ladies of Byzantium
    Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

      1. @ Traducteur

        You will be familiar with ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree’, possibly Yeats’s most popular anthology piece. But maybe not with the poet’s recitation of his own poem. This was done in the early days of radio, how many decades ago I’ve no idea.

        The Lake Isle of Innisfree


        I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
        And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
        Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
        And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

        And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
        Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
        There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
        And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

        I will arise and go now, for always night and day
        I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
        While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
        I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

        Here now is Yeats reciting his own poem in an incantantory voice. It will send a shiver down your spine. He sounds like one of the ancient bards of antiquity.

        VIDEO : 1.09 mins

  2. Beautiful poetry. Renounce religious syncretism, start attending a traditional, i.e. pre-Vatican II parish and you will find there, or through there, the man that will both make you happy and also help lead you to heaven.

  3. @ Darrell

    Lasha will be pleased with your kind words and well-meant advice, but there is absolutely no suggestion in either of these two poems that Lasha is looking for the man to “make her happy and also lead her to heaven” — which you seem to assume is a problem weighing on her mind. 🙂

    This is not what these poems are about. Nor are they about religious difficulties stemming from Vatican II. If only the world’s problems could be solved by everyone converting to traditional pre-Vatican II Christianity! 🙂

    That’s just not possible. There are many paths up the Mountain.
    The path that suits you will not suit others! Surely Christ would have approved of Gautama Buddha’s admonition, “Work out your own salvation with diligence.”

    1. ADMIN (Sr. Monica) : I really feel sorry for you that you should spend all your time in Spamblinka churning out unpublishable comments like the one below, mostly attacking this website or the one poster you are totally obsessed with: Mahmoud El-Yousseph. As a matter of interest, what mental institution are you writing from? and what disease have your doctors diagnosed you with?


      Maybe there’re many paths up the Mountain, but Lasha, Lucy, and Monica are followers of JEW qabalah lilith and JEW lilith’s path doesn’t go up any Mountain, JEW lilith’s path goes down down down into The Pit. Jew qabalah lilith’s path does NOT go up any Mountain and is certainly NOT the path up the Mountain to God.

      Working out your salvation with JEW qabalah lilith to guide you and help you is like working out a health plan with a rabid feral hungry pit bull on the loose, the pit bull is going to lead you to 😉 robust glowing health and well-being. Yeah, good luck with that, girls. LMFAO!!!!

      JEW qabalah lilith : Hi girls, my name is JEW qabalah lilith and I’m here to 😉 help you work out your salvation, 🙃.

  4. Can’t wait ’till Gian Franco translates these great two new English language death poems by Lasha into due great nuova Lingua Italiana morte poems! Gian’s Italian translations of Lasha’s death poetry genre *morte genere* poems are always fun and exciting! 😊

    1. TROJ –

      Death is the one thing we ALL have in common. Writing poetry about it makes good sense!

  5. Touching poems about death, you might say. But in the real world, Jewish inspired Communism murdered over 120 million people in the 20th century alone, with Alexander Solzhenitsyn and others saying the Jewish politburo murdered approximately 60 million Christian White Russians in the two decades following the 1917 Russian Revolution.
    You can see that I am Science and Math graduate (PhD) and not a student of lovesick, forlorn, death poetry. I am not a pedant,but I read a lot of non fiction.
    Is that serpent really eating out the contents of the young man’s head? Obscene, like Dante’s Inferno.
    I talk to many Muslims whose partners and families were decimated by Israeli and American murderers, such as in the carpet bombing of Baghdad in order to punish Saddam for having mythical wmd’s. Or what about the murdered victims of the Allies’ carpet bombing of Dresden?
    My “art” is framed in a large space on my cloister’s wall and uses a small “d” to signify the one day at Ypres in Belgium when approximately 30,000 young men were slaughtered under intense enemy machine gun and artillery fire. This work of art includes 30,000 “d’s” in orderly lines. It makes for a shocking presentation, measuring over a metre by a metre in size 16 font.
    My great uncle, Percival, was among the fallen and his English wife lived the rest of her life with his fading photograph on her wall.
    Eric Bogle: “Did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind? In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined? Or are you a stranger without even a name? In an old photograph, torn and battered and stained? And fading to yellow in a brown leather frame?
    Real death is not poetic. Bogle: “And I hope you died well and I hope you died clean. Or, Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene.” ….. This is not a “Romantics’ “ poem about death in the Romeo and Juliet genre. Today several Palestinian children were shot by Israeli soldiers who are still aiming for their eyes.

  6. And how poetically “touching” will it all be when millions of loved ones commence to keel over after taking the toxic mRNA vaccine?
    Let’s write a “touching” poem about this. And let’s bring the vile Jewish poisoner extraordinaire, Dr Fauci, into our verse and use elements of William Blake’s artistry.
    Let’s create a highly convoluted, dystopic vision of hell on Earth, under the Jewish diabolicism.
    Let us picture the devilish Jews as many headed hydras and in the “serpent” form that Jesus described the Jews as being.
    Imagine the huge Jewish Money Power as an enormous serpent eating the brains out of the millions of dead Goyim lying on the ground underneath its horrifying gaze.

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