Great thread!
Clark Ashton Smith is the first poet who springs to mind. Here is his last ever poem (written 4 June, 1961, he died on 14 August that year):
CyclesThe sorcerer departs ... and his high tower is drowned
Slowly by low flat communal seas that level all ...
While crowding centuries retreat, return and fall
Into the cyclic gulf that girds the cosmos round,
Widening, deepening ever outward without bound ...
Till the oft-rerisen bells from young Atlantis call;
And again the wizard-mortised tower upbuilds its wall
Above a re-beginning cycle, turret-crowned.
New-born, the mage re-summons stronger spells, and spirits
With dazzling darkness clad about, and fierier flame
Renewed by aeon-curtained slumber. All the powers
Of genii and Solomon the sage inherits;
And there, to blaze with blinding glory the bored hours,
He calls upon the Sham-hamphorash, the nameless Name.
It's touching that this poem has echoes of
HP Lovecraft's tribute to him, which incidentally was HPL's last poem, written at the end of 1936:
To Klarkash-Ton, Lord of AveroigneA time-black tower against dim banks of cloud;
Around its base the pathless, pressing wood,
Shadow and silence, moss and mould, enshroud
Grey, age-fell'd slabs that once as cromlechs stood
No fall of foot, no song of bird awakes
The lethal aisles of sempiternal night,
Tho' oft with stir of wings the dense air shakes,
As in the tower there glows a pallid light.
For here, apart, dwells one whose hands have wrought
Strange eidola that chill the world with fear;
Whose graven runes in tones have dread have taught
What things beyond the star-gulfs lurk and leer.
Dark Lord of Averoigne - whose windows stare
On pits of dream no other gaze could bear!
From more 'mainstream' poets, my favourite has to be Keats':
La Belle Dame Sans Merci, 1819Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.
I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
'I love thee true'.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
The original
femme fatale!
I'm sure REH would have appreciated
William Morris's early poems (he got a bit bland and boring in later years, although
Sigurd the Volsung is brilliant):
The Haystack in the FloodsHAD she come all the way for this,
To part at last without a kiss?
Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain
That her own eyes might see him slain
Beside the haystack in the floods?
Along the dripping leafless woods,
The stirrup touching either shoe,
She rode astride as troopers do;
With kirtle kilted to her knee,
To which the mud splash'd wretchedly;
And the wet dripp'd from every tree
Upon her head and heavy hair,
And on her eyelids broad and fair;
The tears and rain ran down her face.
By fits and starts they rode apace,
And very often was his place
Far off from her; he had to ride
Ahead, to see what might betide
When the roads cross'd; and sometimes, when
There rose a murmuring from his men,
Had to turn back with promises;
Ah me! she had but little ease;
And often for pure doubt and dread
She sobb'd, made giddy in the head
By the swift riding; while, for cold,
Her slender fingers scarce could hold
The wet reins; yea, and scarcely, too,
She felt the foot within her shoe
Against the stirrup : all for this,
To part at last without a kiss
Beside the haystack in the floods.
For when they near'd that old soak'd hay,
They saw across the only way
That Judas, Godmar, and the three.
Red running lions dismally
Grinn'd from his pennon, under which,
In one straight line along the ditch,
They counted thirty heads.
So then,
While Robert turn'd round to his men,
She saw at once the wretched'end,
And, stooping down, tried hard to rend
Her coif the wrong way from her head,
And hid her eyes; while Robert said :
'Nay, love, 'tis scarcely two to one,
At Poictiers where we made them run
So fast?why, sweet my love, good cheer,
The Gascon frontier is so near,
Nought after this,'
But, '0,' she said,
'My God! my God! I have to tread
The long way back without you; then
The court at Paris; those six men;
The gratings of the Chatelet;
The swift Seine on some rainy day
Like this, and people standing by,
And laughing, while my weak hands try
To recollect how strong men swim.
All this, or else a life with him,
For which I should be damned at last,
Would God that this next hour were past!'
He answer'd not, but cried his cry,
'St. George for Marny!' cheerily;
And laid his hand upon her rein.
Alas! no man of all his train
Gave back that cheery cry again;
And, while for rage his thumb beat fast
Upon his sword-hilts, some one cast
About his neck a kerchief long,
And bound him.
Then they went along
To Godmar; who said: 'Now, Jehane,
Your lover's life is on the wane
So fast, that, if this very hour
You yield not as my paramour,
He will not see the rain leave off-
Nay, keep your tongue from gibe and scoff,
Sir Robert, or I slay you now.'
She laid her hand upon her brow,
Then gazed upon the palm, as though
She thought her forehead bled, and -- 'No.'
She said, and turn'd her head away,
As there were nothing else to say,
And everything were settled: red
Grew Godmar's face from chin to head:
'Jehane, on yonder hill there stands
My castle, guarding well my lands :
What hinders me from taking you,
And doing that I list to do
To your fair wilful body, while
Your knight lies dead?'
A wicked smile
Wrinkled her face, her lips grew thin,
A long way out she thrust her chin: go
'You know that I should strangle you
While you were sleeping; or bite through
Your throat, by God's help-ah!' she said,
'Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid!
For in such wise they hem me in,
I cannot choose but sin and sin,
Whatever happens : yet I think
They could not make me eat or drink,
And so should I just reach my rest.'
'Nay, if you do not my behest,
O Jehane! though I love you well,'
Said Godmar, 'would I fail to tell
All that I know.' 'Foul lies,' she said.
'Eh? lies my Jehane? by God's head,
At Paris folks would deem them true!
Do you know, Jehane, they cry for you,
"Jehane the brown! Jehane the brown!
Give us Jehane to bum or drown!"--
Eh -- gag me Robert! -- sweet my friend,
This were indeed a piteous end no
For those long fingers, and long feet,
And long neck, and smooth shoulders sweet;
An end that few men would forget
That saw it -- So, an hour yet:
Consider, Jehane, which to take
Of life or death!'
So, scarce awake,
Dismounting, did she leave that place,
And totter some yards : with her face
Turn'd upward to the sky she lay,
Her head on a wet heap of hay,
And fell asleep: and while she slept,
And did not dream, the minutes crept
Round to the twelve again; but she,
Being waked at last, sigh'd quietly,
And strangely childlike came, and said:
'I will not.' Straightway Godmar's head,
As though it hung on strong wires, turn'd
Most sharply round, and his face burn'd.
For Robert -- both his eyes were dry,
He could not weep, but gloomily
He seem'd to watch the rain; yea, too,
His lips were firm; he tried once more
To touch her lips; she reach'd out, sore
And vain desire so tortured them,
The poor grey lips, and now the hem
Of his sleeve brush'd them.
With a start
Up Godmar rose, thrust them apart;
From Robert's throat he loosed the bands
Of silk and mail; with empty hands
Held out, she stood and gazed, and saw,
The long bright blade without a flaw
Glide out from Godmar's sheath, his hand
In Robert's hair; she saw him bend
Back Robert's head; she saw him send
The thin steel down; the blow told well,
Right backward the knight Robert fell,
And moan'd as dogs do, being half dead,
Unwitting, as I deem : so then
Godmar turn'd grinning to his men,
Who ran, some five or six, and beat
His head to pieces at their feet.
Then Godmar turn'd again and said:
'So, Jehane, the first fitte is read!
Take note, my lady, that your way
Lies backward to the Chatelet!'
She shook her head and gazed awhile
At her cold hands with a rueful smile,
As though this thing had made her mad.
This was the parting that they had
Beside the haystack in the floods.
There are some great old ballads like
Tom o' Bedlam:
"From the hag and hungry goblin
That into rags would rend ye,
All the sprites that stand by the naked man
In the book of moons, defend ye."
and
Thomas the Rhymer (quoted in
The Worm Ouroboros, no less):
"True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank,
A ferlie he spied wi' his ee,
And there he saw a lady bright,
Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.
Her shirt was o' the grass-green silk,
Her mantle o' the velvet fine,
At ilka tett her horse's mane
Hang fifty siller bells and nine.
True Thomas, he pulld aff his cap,
And louted low down to his knee:
'All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven!
For thy peer on earth I never did see.'
'Oh no, O no, Thomas,' she said,
'That name does not belong to me;
I am but the queen of fair elfland,
That am hither come to visit thee.'"
As you said you would also like some song lyrics, Buxom, I think this amusing offering from one of my favourite bands,
Blyth Power will be just up your street:
Rowan's RidingThere was a young man from Spalding town
Riding along and alone he came
Stopped for a night at the Rose and Crown
Riding along on a roan
He called for a quart of strong brown ale
Riding along and alone he came
Took to his room where he rang the bell
Riding along on a roan
When the potgirl came to his room by and by
Riding along and alone he came
He tipped her a wink and slapped her thigh
Riding along on a roan
Kind sir she said have done have done
Riding along and alone he came
Then pulled out a switchblade sharp and long
Riding along on a roan
She slashed him first from his ear to his throat
Riding along and alone he came
Then made him a dame with a backhand stroke
Riding along on a roan
Do you follow me
If you follow me
Round where the Ouse rolls down to the sea
Until dawn light serenade me
It will soon be your night you'll see
"There is no lesson here to learn beyond the necessity of observing the common grounds of decency..."Indeed! 
Edited by Mikey_C, 22 July 2006 - 12:20 PM.
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