Rachel Annand Taylor

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 aloud
  Christian 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 cloke
  In my land.
  ‘Duchies of dreamland, emerald, rose
  Lie at your command?’
  Poverty like a princess goes
  In my land.
  ‘Wherefore the mask of silken lace
  Tied with a golden band?’
  Poverty walks with wanton grace
  In my land.
  ‘Why do you softly, richly speak
  Rhythm so sweetly-scanned?’
  Poverty hath the Gaelic and Greek
  In my land.
  ‘There’s a far-off scent about you seems
  Born in Samarkand.’
  Poverty hath luxurious dreams
  In my land.
  ‘You have wounds that like passion-flowers you hide:
  I cannot understand.’
  Poverty hath one name with Pride
  In my land.
  ‘Oh! Will you draw your last sad breath
  ’Mid bitter bent and sand?’
  Poverty begs from none but Death
  In my land.
  • "The Princess of Scotland"

• O ye that look on Ecstasy
  The Dancer lone and white,
  Cover your charmèd eyes, for she
  Is Death’s own acolyte.
  She dances on the moonstone floors
  Against the jewelled peacock doors:
  The roses flame in her gold hair,
  The tired sad lids are overfair.
  All ye that look on Ecstasy
  The Dancer lone and white,
  Cover your dreaming eyes, lest she—
  (Oh! softly, strangely!)—float you through
  These doors all bronze and green and blue
  Into 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 Tree
  Redden the roads of the earth from East to West.
      They lie in my breast.
  O Rose, O Rose of the World, bow down to me
  Who can cleave no more, so pierced are my hands and feet.
      For oh! Thou art sweet.
  • "Rosa Mundi"

External links

• Encyclopedic article on Rachel Annand Taylor on Wikipedia