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    The Poetry of John Payne - Volume IV: Salvestra
    The Poetry of John Payne - Volume IV: Salvestra
    The Poetry of John Payne - Volume IV: Salvestra
    Ebook61 pages49 minutes

    The Poetry of John Payne - Volume IV: Salvestra

    By John Payne

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    About this ebook

    John Payne was born on 23rd August 1842 in Bloomsbury, London.

    He began his career in the legal profession but thus was soon put to one side as he began his renowned translations of Boccaccio's Decameron, The Arabian Nights, and then the poets Omar Khayyam, François Villon and Diwan Hafez. Of the latter, who he ranked in the same bracket as Dante and Shakepeare, he said; he takes the "whole sweep of human experience and irradiates all things with his sun-gold and his wisdom".

    Later Payne became involved with limited edition publishing, and the Villon Society, which was dedicated to the poems of François Villon who was Frances’ best known poet of the middle Ages and unfortunately also a thief and a murderer.

    John Payne died on 11th February, 1916 at the age of 73 in South Kensington, London.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPortable Poetry
    Release dateNov 27, 2018
    ISBN9781787802490
    The Poetry of John Payne - Volume IV: Salvestra
    Author

    John Payne

    John is a 28-year veteran, serving the Victorian community within Corrections, Government Investigations and as a Volunteer firefighter and lives in the northern suburbs of Melbourne, Austraslia. During his career, he was involved in many incidents including the Black Saturday bushfire in which he was honoured with the Emergency Service Medal. As a direct result of his service, he was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) a condition in which he has lived with for the past 9 years. John is passionate about addressing the stigma associated with mental illness and advocating awareness to the greater community, particularly to first responders. One of his key messages is, ‘Reach out early – you will be supported and don’t suffer in silence.’ Encouraging early help-seeking is a crucial priority in any effective mental health strategy.

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      Book preview

      The Poetry of John Payne - Volume IV - John Payne

      The Poetry of John Payne

      Volume IV - Salvestra

      John Payne was born on 23rd August 1842 in Bloomsbury, London.

      He began his career in the legal profession but thus was soon put to one side as he began his renowned translations of Boccaccio's Decameron, The Arabian Nights, and then the poets Omar Khayyam, François Villon and Diwan Hafez.  Of the latter, who he ranked in the same bracket as Dante and Shakepeare, he said; he takes the whole sweep of human experience and irradiates all things with his sun-gold and his wisdom

      Later Payne became involved with limited edition publishing, and the Villon Society, which was dedicated to the poems of François Villon who was Frances’ best known poet of the middle Ages and unfortunately also a thief and a murderer.

       John Payne died on 11th February, 1916 at the age of 73 in South Kensington, London.

      Index of Contents

      SALVESTRA

      JOHN PAYNE – A CONCISE BIBLIOGRAPHY

      SALVESTRA

      Ah love, thou art but as a Summer's guest,

      That long before the Winter fleest away

      And in some warmer haven harbourest,

      Nipt by the hard swift life of our Today!

      Our love is scant and flowerless as our May

      And will not lightly let its pinions soil

      Their rainbow plumes in our unblissful toil.

      Time was, fair God, when thou heldst fuller sway

      And all folk were thy thralls in gentilesse:

      Time was when men were simpler than today

      And life was not one fierce and loveless stress

      Of unrelenting labour in the press

      Of joyless souls, when men had leave to rest

      And toy with grace and beauty, unreprest.

      Full sweet, ah! hopeless sweet, to us it seems—

      Fast bounden in a mesh of strife and care—

      That time of graceful ease and builded dreams,

      Seen in a glamour through the misted air;

      Through which sweet strains of song the breezes bear

      And scents of flowers that then were full and blythe

      But now are mown away by Timers swift scythe.

      And yet it was no golden age, that time;

      Not unalloyed with pain and doubt and strife:

      But through all ventures ran the gold of rhyme

      And Love was high and was the Lord of Life.

      From Venice-turrets unto Algarsife,

      All held fair deeds and lovely worshipful

      And all were scholars in Lovers gracious school.

      Then men did honour Love with heart and soul,

      Setting their lives upon his smile or frown;

      For in their hearts his altar-flame was whole

      And burnt unchanged until Life’s sun went down.

      Love was the flower of life and honour's crown,

      Wherewith men perfumed all the weary years

      And purged the air from mean and sordid fears.

      Then men, as they for very Love could Iive,

      So for the death of very Love could die,

      Holding it shame to let the rank flesh give

      Commandment to the swift soul’s fantasy;

      And for the love of him they held so high,

      Did woo and win, with fair and potent faith,

      The cold embraces of his brother Death.

      A sad sweet tale is hovering in my thought,

      A tale of perfect love in death fulfilled,

      From out the waves of sweeping Time upwrought

      By that enchanter of the pasty who filled

      The ears of men with music sweet and wild,

      When in the world he breathed strange scents upon

      That sheaf of flowers men call Decameron. 

      A tale in dreams, heard betwixt wake and sleeps

      Under the tremulous shadow of the planes;

      Attuned to rhythmic cadence by the sweep

      Of murmurous rillets through the scented lanes

      Of rose and jasmine, sweep of wings and strains

      Of happy linnets piping to the rose

      And chirp of crickets in the olive-close.

      O Master, of whose speech in that green time,

      Heard under shredded laurels and faint flowers,

      I took the echo for my painful rhyme,

      To warm it in this cold hard time of ours,

      Whose plagues no wall of rose or lys outbowers—

      Let not thy laureat brow be rough with frown,

      If I unleavè thy honeysuckle crown

      With

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