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Matthew Arnold
|
To Marguerite, In Returning A Volume Of The Letters Of Ortis
|
'Yes: in the sea of life enisl'd,
With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
We mortal millions live alone.
The islands feel the enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they know.
But when the moon their hollows lights,
And they are swept by balms of spring,
And in their glens, on starry nights,
The nightingales divinely sing;
And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
Across the sounds and channels pour
Oh! then a longing like despair
Is to their farthest caverns sent;
For surely once, they feel, we were
Parts of a single continent!
Now round us spreads the watery plain
Oh might our marges meet again!
Who order'd, that their longing's fire
Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd?
Who renders vain their deep desire?
A God, a God their severance rul'd!
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea.
|
'Yes: in the sea of life enisl'd,
With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
We mortal millions live alone.
The islands feel the enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they know.
But when the moon their hollows lights,
And they are swept by balms of spring,
|
And in their glens, on starry nights,
The nightingales divinely sing;
And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
Across the sounds and channels pour
Oh! then a longing like despair
Is to their farthest caverns sent;
For surely once, they feel, we were
Parts of a single continent!
Now round us spreads the watery plain
Oh might our marges meet again!
Who order'd, that their longing's fire
Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd?
Who renders vain their deep desire?
A God, a God their severance rul'd!
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea.
|
free_verse
|
Alexander Pope
|
Inscription On A Grotto, The Work Of Nine Ladies.
|
Here, shunning idleness at once and praise,
This radiant pile nine rural sisters raise;
The glittering emblem of each spotless dame,
Clear as her soul and shining as her frame;
Beauty which nature only can impart,
And such a polish as disgraces art;
But Fate disposed them in this humble sort,
And hid in deserts what would charm a Court.
|
Here, shunning idleness at once and praise,
This radiant pile nine rural sisters raise;
|
The glittering emblem of each spotless dame,
Clear as her soul and shining as her frame;
Beauty which nature only can impart,
And such a polish as disgraces art;
But Fate disposed them in this humble sort,
And hid in deserts what would charm a Court.
|
octave
|
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
|
Sonnets From The Portuguese XII
|
Indeed this very love which is my boast,
And which, when rising up from breast to brow,
Doth crown me with a ruby large enow
To draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost,
This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost,
I should not love withal, unless that thou
Hadst set me an example, shown me how,
When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed,
And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak
Of love even, as a good thing of my own:
Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,
And placed it by thee on a golden throne,
And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)
Is by thee only, whom I love alone.
|
Indeed this very love which is my boast,
And which, when rising up from breast to brow,
Doth crown me with a ruby large enow
To draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost,
|
This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost,
I should not love withal, unless that thou
Hadst set me an example, shown me how,
When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed,
And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak
Of love even, as a good thing of my own:
Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,
And placed it by thee on a golden throne,
And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)
Is by thee only, whom I love alone.
|
sonnet
|
Walter Crane
|
Zwei Hasen
|
Zwischen Berg und tiefen, tiefen Thal,
Sassen einst zwei Hasen,
Frassen ab das gr'ne, gr'ne Gras,
Frassen ab das gr'ne, gr'ne Gras
Bis auf den Rasen,
Bis auf den Rasen.
Als sie satt gefressen, 'fressen war'n
Setzten sie sich nieder,
Bis nun dann der J'ger, J'ger kam,
Und schoss sie nieder, und schoss sie nieder,
Als sie sich nun angesammelt hatt'n
Und sich besannen,
Dass sie noch Leben, Leben hatt'n
Liefen sie von dannen.
|
Zwischen Berg und tiefen, tiefen Thal,
Sassen einst zwei Hasen,
Frassen ab das gr'ne, gr'ne Gras,
Frassen ab das gr'ne, gr'ne Gras
|
Bis auf den Rasen,
Bis auf den Rasen.
Als sie satt gefressen, 'fressen war'n
Setzten sie sich nieder,
Bis nun dann der J'ger, J'ger kam,
Und schoss sie nieder, und schoss sie nieder,
Als sie sich nun angesammelt hatt'n
Und sich besannen,
Dass sie noch Leben, Leben hatt'n
Liefen sie von dannen.
|
sonnet
|
Thomas Carew
|
An Elegy Upon The Death Of The Dean Of St. Paul's, Dr. John
|
Can we not force from widow'd poetry,
Now thou art dead (great Donne) one elegy
To crown thy hearse? Why yet dare we not trust,
Though with unkneaded dough-bak'd prose, thy dust,
Such as th' unscissor'd churchman from the flower
Of fading rhetoric, short-liv'd as his hour,
Dry as the sand that measures it, should lay
Upon thy ashes, on the funeral day?
Have we no voice, no tune? Didst thou dispense
Through all our language, both the words and sense?
'Tis a sad truth. The pulpit may her plain
And sober Christian precepts still retain,
Doctrines it may, and wholesome uses, frame,
Grave homilies and lectures, but the flame
Of thy brave soul (that shot such heat and light
As burnt our earth and made our darkness bright,
Committed holy rapes upon our will,
Did through the eye the melting heart distil,
And the deep knowledge of dark truths so teach
As sense might judge what fancy could not reach)
Must be desir'd forever. So the fire
That fills with spirit and heat the Delphic quire,
Which, kindled first by thy Promethean breath,
Glow'd here a while, lies quench'd now in thy death.
The Muses' garden, with pedantic weeds
O'erspread, was purg'd by thee; the lazy seeds
Of servile imitation thrown away,
And fresh invention planted; thou didst pay
The debts of our penurious bankrupt age;
Licentious thefts, that make poetic rage
A mimic fury, when our souls must be
Possess'd, or with Anacreon's ecstasy,
Or Pindar's, not their own; the subtle cheat
Of sly exchanges, and the juggling feat
Of two-edg'd words, or whatsoever wrong
By ours was done the Greek or Latin tongue,
Thou hast redeem'd, and open'd us a mine
Of rich and pregnant fancy; drawn a line
Of masculine expression, which had good
Old Orpheus seen, or all the ancient brood
Our superstitious fools admire, and hold
Their lead more precious than thy burnish'd gold,
Thou hadst been their exchequer, and no more
They each in other's dust had rak'd for ore.
Thou shalt yield no precedence, but of time,
And the blind fate of language, whose tun'd chime
More charms the outward sense; yet thou mayst claim
From so great disadvantage greater fame,
Since to the awe of thy imperious wit
Our stubborn language bends, made only fit
With her tough thick-ribb'd hoops to gird about
Thy giant fancy, which had prov'd too stout
For their soft melting phrases. As in time
They had the start, so did they cull the prime
Buds of invention many a hundred year,
And left the rifled fields, besides the fear
To touch their harvest; yet from those bare lands
Of what is purely thine, thy only hands,
(And that thy smallest work) have gleaned more
Than all those times and tongues could reap before.
But thou art gone, and thy strict laws will be
Too hard for libertines in poetry;
They will repeal the goodly exil'd train
Of gods and goddesses, which in thy just reign
Were banish'd nobler poems; now with these,
The silenc'd tales o' th' Metamorphoses
Shall stuff their lines, and swell the windy page,
Till verse, refin'd by thee, in this last age
Turn ballad rhyme, or those old idols be
Ador'd again, with new apostasy.
Oh, pardon me, that break with untun'd verse
The reverend silence that attends thy hearse,
Whose awful solemn murmurs were to thee,
More than these faint lines, a loud elegy,
That did proclaim in a dumb eloquence
The death of all the arts; whose influence,
Grown feeble, in these panting numbers lies,
Gasping short-winded accents, and so dies.
So doth the swiftly turning wheel not stand
In th' instant we withdraw the moving hand,
But some small time maintain a faint weak course,
By virtue of the first impulsive force;
And so, whilst I cast on thy funeral pile
Thy crown of bays, oh, let it crack awhile,
And spit disdain, till the devouring flashes
Suck all the moisture up, then turn to ashes.
I will not draw the envy to engross
All thy perfections, or weep all our loss;
Those are too numerous for an elegy,
And this too great to be express'd by me.
Though every pen should share a distinct part,
Yet art thou theme enough to tire all art;
Let others carve the rest, it shall suffice
I on thy tomb this epitaph incise:
Here lies a king, that rul'd as he thought fit
The universal monarchy of wit;
Here lie two flamens, and both those, the best,
Apollo's first, at last, the true God's priest.
|
Can we not force from widow'd poetry,
Now thou art dead (great Donne) one elegy
To crown thy hearse? Why yet dare we not trust,
Though with unkneaded dough-bak'd prose, thy dust,
Such as th' unscissor'd churchman from the flower
Of fading rhetoric, short-liv'd as his hour,
Dry as the sand that measures it, should lay
Upon thy ashes, on the funeral day?
Have we no voice, no tune? Didst thou dispense
Through all our language, both the words and sense?
'Tis a sad truth. The pulpit may her plain
And sober Christian precepts still retain,
Doctrines it may, and wholesome uses, frame,
Grave homilies and lectures, but the flame
Of thy brave soul (that shot such heat and light
As burnt our earth and made our darkness bright,
Committed holy rapes upon our will,
Did through the eye the melting heart distil,
And the deep knowledge of dark truths so teach
As sense might judge what fancy could not reach)
Must be desir'd forever. So the fire
That fills with spirit and heat the Delphic quire,
Which, kindled first by thy Promethean breath,
Glow'd here a while, lies quench'd now in thy death.
The Muses' garden, with pedantic weeds
O'erspread, was purg'd by thee; the lazy seeds
Of servile imitation thrown away,
And fresh invention planted; thou didst pay
The debts of our penurious bankrupt age;
Licentious thefts, that make poetic rage
A mimic fury, when our souls must be
Possess'd, or with Anacreon's ecstasy,
|
Or Pindar's, not their own; the subtle cheat
Of sly exchanges, and the juggling feat
Of two-edg'd words, or whatsoever wrong
By ours was done the Greek or Latin tongue,
Thou hast redeem'd, and open'd us a mine
Of rich and pregnant fancy; drawn a line
Of masculine expression, which had good
Old Orpheus seen, or all the ancient brood
Our superstitious fools admire, and hold
Their lead more precious than thy burnish'd gold,
Thou hadst been their exchequer, and no more
They each in other's dust had rak'd for ore.
Thou shalt yield no precedence, but of time,
And the blind fate of language, whose tun'd chime
More charms the outward sense; yet thou mayst claim
From so great disadvantage greater fame,
Since to the awe of thy imperious wit
Our stubborn language bends, made only fit
With her tough thick-ribb'd hoops to gird about
Thy giant fancy, which had prov'd too stout
For their soft melting phrases. As in time
They had the start, so did they cull the prime
Buds of invention many a hundred year,
And left the rifled fields, besides the fear
To touch their harvest; yet from those bare lands
Of what is purely thine, thy only hands,
(And that thy smallest work) have gleaned more
Than all those times and tongues could reap before.
But thou art gone, and thy strict laws will be
Too hard for libertines in poetry;
They will repeal the goodly exil'd train
Of gods and goddesses, which in thy just reign
Were banish'd nobler poems; now with these,
The silenc'd tales o' th' Metamorphoses
Shall stuff their lines, and swell the windy page,
Till verse, refin'd by thee, in this last age
Turn ballad rhyme, or those old idols be
Ador'd again, with new apostasy.
Oh, pardon me, that break with untun'd verse
The reverend silence that attends thy hearse,
Whose awful solemn murmurs were to thee,
More than these faint lines, a loud elegy,
That did proclaim in a dumb eloquence
The death of all the arts; whose influence,
Grown feeble, in these panting numbers lies,
Gasping short-winded accents, and so dies.
So doth the swiftly turning wheel not stand
In th' instant we withdraw the moving hand,
But some small time maintain a faint weak course,
By virtue of the first impulsive force;
And so, whilst I cast on thy funeral pile
Thy crown of bays, oh, let it crack awhile,
And spit disdain, till the devouring flashes
Suck all the moisture up, then turn to ashes.
I will not draw the envy to engross
All thy perfections, or weep all our loss;
Those are too numerous for an elegy,
And this too great to be express'd by me.
Though every pen should share a distinct part,
Yet art thou theme enough to tire all art;
Let others carve the rest, it shall suffice
I on thy tomb this epitaph incise:
Here lies a king, that rul'd as he thought fit
The universal monarchy of wit;
Here lie two flamens, and both those, the best,
Apollo's first, at last, the true God's priest.
|
free_verse
|
Robert Herrick
|
Upon A Virgin.
|
Spend, harmless shade, thy nightly hours
Selecting here both herbs and flowers;
Of which make garlands here and there
To dress thy silent sepulchre.
Nor do thou fear the want of these
In everlasting properties,
Since we fresh strewings will bring hither,
Far faster than the first can wither.
|
Spend, harmless shade, thy nightly hours
Selecting here both herbs and flowers;
|
Of which make garlands here and there
To dress thy silent sepulchre.
Nor do thou fear the want of these
In everlasting properties,
Since we fresh strewings will bring hither,
Far faster than the first can wither.
|
octave
|
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
|
Sweet Hours Have Perished Here;
|
Sweet hours have perished here;
This is a mighty room;
Within its precincts hopes have played, --
Now shadows in the tomb.
|
Sweet hours have perished here;
|
This is a mighty room;
Within its precincts hopes have played, --
Now shadows in the tomb.
|
quatrain
|
Sara Teasdale
|
On The Dunes
|
If there is any life when death is over,
These tawny beaches will know much of me,
I shall come back, as constant and as changeful
As the unchanging, many-colored sea.
If life was small, if it has made me scornful,
Forgive me; I shall straighten like a flame
In the great calm of death, and if you want me
Stand on the sea-ward dunes and call my name.
|
If there is any life when death is over,
These tawny beaches will know much of me,
|
I shall come back, as constant and as changeful
As the unchanging, many-colored sea.
If life was small, if it has made me scornful,
Forgive me; I shall straighten like a flame
In the great calm of death, and if you want me
Stand on the sea-ward dunes and call my name.
|
octave
|
William Wordsworth
|
Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820 - VIII. - In A Carriage, Upon The Banks Of The Rhine
|
Amid this dance of objects sadness steals
O'er the defrauded heart while sweeping by,
As in a fit of Thespian jollity,
Beneath her vine-leaf crown the green Earth reels:
Backward, in rapid evanescence, wheels
The venerable pageantry of Time,
Each beetling rampart, and each tower sublime,
And what the Dell unwillingly reveals
Of lurking cloistral arch, through trees espied
Near the bright River's edge. Yet why repine?
To muse, to creep, to halt at will, to gaze
Such sweet wayfaring of life's spring the pride,
Her summer's faithful joy, 'that' still is mine,
And in fit measure cheers autumnal days.
|
Amid this dance of objects sadness steals
O'er the defrauded heart while sweeping by,
As in a fit of Thespian jollity,
Beneath her vine-leaf crown the green Earth reels:
|
Backward, in rapid evanescence, wheels
The venerable pageantry of Time,
Each beetling rampart, and each tower sublime,
And what the Dell unwillingly reveals
Of lurking cloistral arch, through trees espied
Near the bright River's edge. Yet why repine?
To muse, to creep, to halt at will, to gaze
Such sweet wayfaring of life's spring the pride,
Her summer's faithful joy, 'that' still is mine,
And in fit measure cheers autumnal days.
|
sonnet
|
Robert Herrick
|
No Lock Against Letchery.
|
Bar close as you can, and bolt fast too your door,
To keep out the letcher, and keep in the whore;
Yet quickly you'll see by the turn of a pin,
The whore to come out, or the letcher come in.
|
Bar close as you can, and bolt fast too your door,
|
To keep out the letcher, and keep in the whore;
Yet quickly you'll see by the turn of a pin,
The whore to come out, or the letcher come in.
|
quatrain
|
Louisa May Alcott
|
Little Drops Of Water
|
"Little drops of water,
Little drains of sand,
Mate a might okum (ocean),
And a peasant land.
"Little words of kindness,
Pokin evvy day,
Make a home a hebbin,
And hep us on a way."
|
"Little drops of water,
Little drains of sand,
|
Mate a might okum (ocean),
And a peasant land.
"Little words of kindness,
Pokin evvy day,
Make a home a hebbin,
And hep us on a way."
|
octave
|
Archibald Lampman
|
Comfort.
|
Comfort the sorrowful with watchful eyes
In silence, for the tongue cannot avail.
Vex not his wounds with rhetoric, nor the stale
Worn truths, that are but maddening mockeries
To him whose grief outmasters all replies.
Only watch near him gently; do but bring
The piteous help of silent ministering,
Watchful and tender. This alone is wise.
So shall thy presence and thine every motion,
The grateful knowledge of thy sad devotion
Melt out the passionate hardness of his grief,
And break the flood-gates of the pent-up soul.
He shall bow down beneath thy mute control,
And take thine hands, and weep, and find relief.
|
Comfort the sorrowful with watchful eyes
In silence, for the tongue cannot avail.
Vex not his wounds with rhetoric, nor the stale
Worn truths, that are but maddening mockeries
|
To him whose grief outmasters all replies.
Only watch near him gently; do but bring
The piteous help of silent ministering,
Watchful and tender. This alone is wise.
So shall thy presence and thine every motion,
The grateful knowledge of thy sad devotion
Melt out the passionate hardness of his grief,
And break the flood-gates of the pent-up soul.
He shall bow down beneath thy mute control,
And take thine hands, and weep, and find relief.
|
sonnet
|
John Keats
|
Lines To Fanny
|
What can I do to drive away
Remembrance from my eyes? for they have seen,
Aye, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen!
Touch has a memory. O say, love, say,
What can I do to kill it and be free
In my old liberty?
When every fair one that I saw was fair
Enough to catch me in but half a snare,
Not keep me there:
When, howe'er poor or particolour'd things,
My muse had wings,
And ever ready was to take her course
Whither I bent her force,
Unintellectual, yet divine to me;
Divine, I say! What sea-bird o'er the sea
Is a philosopher the while he goes
Winging along where the great water throes?
How shall I do
To get anew
Those moulted feathers, and so mount once more
Above, above
The reach of fluttering Love,
And make him cower lowly while I soar?
Shall I gulp wine? No, that is vulgarism,
A heresy and schism,
Foisted into the canon law of love;
No, wine is only sweet to happy men;
More dismal cares
Seize on me unawares,
Where shall I learn to get my peace again?
To banish thoughts of that most hateful land,
Dungeoner of my friends, that wicked strand
Where they were wreck'd and live a wrecked life;
That monstrous region, whose dull rivers pour
Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore,
Unown'd of any weedy-haired gods;
Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scourging rods,
Iced in the great lakes, to afflict mankind;
Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, and blind,
Would fright a Dryad; whose harsh herbag'd meads
Make lean and lank the starv'd ox while he feeds;
There flowers have no scent, birds no sweet song,
And great unerring Nature once seems wrong.
O, for some sunny spell
To dissipate the shadows of this hell!
Say they are gone, with the new dawning light
Steps forth my lady bright!
O, let me once more rest
My soul upon that dazzling breast!
Let once again these aching arms be plac'd,
The tender gaolers of thy waist!
And let me feel that warm breath here and there
To spread a rapture in my very hair,
O, the sweetness of the pain!
Give me those lips again!
Enough! Enough! it is enough for me
To dream of thee!
|
What can I do to drive away
Remembrance from my eyes? for they have seen,
Aye, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen!
Touch has a memory. O say, love, say,
What can I do to kill it and be free
In my old liberty?
When every fair one that I saw was fair
Enough to catch me in but half a snare,
Not keep me there:
When, howe'er poor or particolour'd things,
My muse had wings,
And ever ready was to take her course
Whither I bent her force,
Unintellectual, yet divine to me;
Divine, I say! What sea-bird o'er the sea
Is a philosopher the while he goes
Winging along where the great water throes?
How shall I do
To get anew
|
Those moulted feathers, and so mount once more
Above, above
The reach of fluttering Love,
And make him cower lowly while I soar?
Shall I gulp wine? No, that is vulgarism,
A heresy and schism,
Foisted into the canon law of love;
No, wine is only sweet to happy men;
More dismal cares
Seize on me unawares,
Where shall I learn to get my peace again?
To banish thoughts of that most hateful land,
Dungeoner of my friends, that wicked strand
Where they were wreck'd and live a wrecked life;
That monstrous region, whose dull rivers pour
Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore,
Unown'd of any weedy-haired gods;
Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scourging rods,
Iced in the great lakes, to afflict mankind;
Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, and blind,
Would fright a Dryad; whose harsh herbag'd meads
Make lean and lank the starv'd ox while he feeds;
There flowers have no scent, birds no sweet song,
And great unerring Nature once seems wrong.
O, for some sunny spell
To dissipate the shadows of this hell!
Say they are gone, with the new dawning light
Steps forth my lady bright!
O, let me once more rest
My soul upon that dazzling breast!
Let once again these aching arms be plac'd,
The tender gaolers of thy waist!
And let me feel that warm breath here and there
To spread a rapture in my very hair,
O, the sweetness of the pain!
Give me those lips again!
Enough! Enough! it is enough for me
To dream of thee!
|
free_verse
|
Unknown
|
Nursery Rhyme. CCLXXV. Gaffers And Gammers.
|
A little old man of Derby,
How do you think he served me?
He took away my bread and cheese,
And that is how he served me.
|
A little old man of Derby,
|
How do you think he served me?
He took away my bread and cheese,
And that is how he served me.
|
quatrain
|
William Wordsworth
|
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part II. - XXIX - Translation Of The Bible
|
But, to outweigh all harm, the sacred Book,
In dusty sequestration wrapt too long,
Assumes the accents of our native tongue;
And he who guides the plough, or wields the crook,
With understanding spirit now may look
Upon her records, listen to her song,
And sift her laws, much wondering that the wrong,
Which Faith has suffered, Heaven could calmly brook.
Transcendent boon! noblest that earthly King
Ever bestowed to equalize and bless
Under the weight of mortal wretchedness!
But passions spread like plagues, and thousands wild
With bigotry shall tread the Offering
Beneath their feet, detested and defiled.
|
But, to outweigh all harm, the sacred Book,
In dusty sequestration wrapt too long,
Assumes the accents of our native tongue;
And he who guides the plough, or wields the crook,
|
With understanding spirit now may look
Upon her records, listen to her song,
And sift her laws, much wondering that the wrong,
Which Faith has suffered, Heaven could calmly brook.
Transcendent boon! noblest that earthly King
Ever bestowed to equalize and bless
Under the weight of mortal wretchedness!
But passions spread like plagues, and thousands wild
With bigotry shall tread the Offering
Beneath their feet, detested and defiled.
|
sonnet
|
Arthur Macy
|
The Hatband
|
My hatband goes around my hat,
And while there's nothing strange in that,
It seems just like a lazy man
Who leaves off where he first began.
But then this fact is always true,
The band does what it ought to do,
And is more useful than the man,
Because it does the best it can.
|
My hatband goes around my hat,
And while there's nothing strange in that,
|
It seems just like a lazy man
Who leaves off where he first began.
But then this fact is always true,
The band does what it ought to do,
And is more useful than the man,
Because it does the best it can.
|
octave
|
Michael Earls
|
Attainment
|
Let me go back again. There is the road,
O memory! The humble garden lane
So young with me. Let me rebuild again
The start of faith and hope by that abode;
Amend with morning freshness all the code
Of youth's desire; remap my chart's demesne
With tuneful joy, and plan a far campaign
For better marches in ambition's mode.
Ah, no, my heart! More certain now the skies
For joy abide: the cage of tree and sod,
Horizons firm that faith and hope attain,
Far realms of innocence in children's eyes,
And hearts harmonious with the will of God:--
These might I miss if I were back again.
|
Let me go back again. There is the road,
O memory! The humble garden lane
So young with me. Let me rebuild again
The start of faith and hope by that abode;
|
Amend with morning freshness all the code
Of youth's desire; remap my chart's demesne
With tuneful joy, and plan a far campaign
For better marches in ambition's mode.
Ah, no, my heart! More certain now the skies
For joy abide: the cage of tree and sod,
Horizons firm that faith and hope attain,
Far realms of innocence in children's eyes,
And hearts harmonious with the will of God:--
These might I miss if I were back again.
|
sonnet
|
Robert Herrick
|
Upon His Eyesight Failing Him.
|
I begin to wane in sight;
Shortly I shall bid good-night:
Then no gazing more about,
When the tapers once are out.
|
I begin to wane in sight;
|
Shortly I shall bid good-night:
Then no gazing more about,
When the tapers once are out.
|
quatrain
|
Gerard Manley Hopkins
|
Fragment
|
The sea took pity: it interposed with doom:
'I have tall daughters dear that heed my hand:
Let Winter wed one, sow them in her womb,
And she shall child them on the New-world strand.'
|
The sea took pity: it interposed with doom:
|
'I have tall daughters dear that heed my hand:
Let Winter wed one, sow them in her womb,
And she shall child them on the New-world strand.'
|
quatrain
|
Unknown
|
Nursery Rhyme. DCXLI. Relics.
|
Parson Darby wore a black gown,
And every button cost half-a-crown;
From port to port, and toe to toe,
Turn the ship and away we go!
|
Parson Darby wore a black gown,
|
And every button cost half-a-crown;
From port to port, and toe to toe,
Turn the ship and away we go!
|
quatrain
|
Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)
|
When Love is Over - Song of Khan Zada
|
Only in August my heart was aflame,
Catching the scent of your Wind-stirred hair,
Now, though you spread it to soften my sleep
Through the night, I should hardly care.
Only last August I drank that water
Because it had chanced to cool your hands;
When love is over, how little of love
Even the lover understands!
|
Only in August my heart was aflame,
Catching the scent of your Wind-stirred hair,
|
Now, though you spread it to soften my sleep
Through the night, I should hardly care.
Only last August I drank that water
Because it had chanced to cool your hands;
When love is over, how little of love
Even the lover understands!
|
octave
|
Gilbert Keith Chesterton
|
A Chord Of Colour
|
My Lady clad herself in grey,
That caught and clung about her throat;
Then all the long grey winter day
On me a living splendour smote;
And why grey palmers holy are,
And why grey minsters great in story,
And grey skies ring the morning star,
And grey hairs are a crown of glory.
My Lady clad herself in green,
Like meadows where the wind-waves pass;
Then round my spirit spread, I ween,
A splendour of forgotten grass.
Then all that dropped of stem or sod,
Hoarded as emeralds might be,
I bowed to every bush, and trod
Amid the live grass fearfully.
My Lady clad herself in blue,
Then on me, like the seer long gone,
The likeness of a sapphire grew,
The throne of him that sat thereon.
Then knew I why the Fashioner
Splashed reckless blue on sky and sea;
And ere 'twas good enough for her,
He tried it on Eternity.
Beneath the gnarled old Knowledge-tree
Sat, like an owl, the evil sage:
'The World's a bubble,' solemnly
He read, and turned a second page.
'A bubble, then, old crow,' I cried,
'God keep you in your weary wit!
'A bubble--have you ever spied
'The colours I have seen on it?'
|
My Lady clad herself in grey,
That caught and clung about her throat;
Then all the long grey winter day
On me a living splendour smote;
And why grey palmers holy are,
And why grey minsters great in story,
And grey skies ring the morning star,
And grey hairs are a crown of glory.
My Lady clad herself in green,
Like meadows where the wind-waves pass;
|
Then round my spirit spread, I ween,
A splendour of forgotten grass.
Then all that dropped of stem or sod,
Hoarded as emeralds might be,
I bowed to every bush, and trod
Amid the live grass fearfully.
My Lady clad herself in blue,
Then on me, like the seer long gone,
The likeness of a sapphire grew,
The throne of him that sat thereon.
Then knew I why the Fashioner
Splashed reckless blue on sky and sea;
And ere 'twas good enough for her,
He tried it on Eternity.
Beneath the gnarled old Knowledge-tree
Sat, like an owl, the evil sage:
'The World's a bubble,' solemnly
He read, and turned a second page.
'A bubble, then, old crow,' I cried,
'God keep you in your weary wit!
'A bubble--have you ever spied
'The colours I have seen on it?'
|
free_verse
|
Robert Herrick
|
Upon A Maid.
|
Hence a blessed soul is fled,
Leaving here the body dead;
Which since here they can't combine,
For the saint we'll keep the shrine.
|
Hence a blessed soul is fled,
|
Leaving here the body dead;
Which since here they can't combine,
For the saint we'll keep the shrine.
|
quatrain
|
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
|
I Wonder If The Sepulchre
|
I wonder if the sepulchre
Is not a lonesome way,
When men and boys, and larks and June
Go down the fields to hay!
|
I wonder if the sepulchre
|
Is not a lonesome way,
When men and boys, and larks and June
Go down the fields to hay!
|
quatrain
|
Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)
|
The City Of Dreadful Thirst
|
The stranger came from Narromine and made his little joke--
"They say we folks in Narromine are narrow-minded folk.
But all the smartest men down here are puzzled to define
A kind of new phenomenon that came to Narromine.
"Last summer up in Narromine 'twas gettin' rather warm,
Two hundred in the water bag, and lookin' like a storm,
We all were in the private bar, the coolest place in town,
When out across the stretch of plain a cloud came rollin' down,
"We don't respect the clouds up there, they fill us with disgust,
They mostly bring a Bogan shower, three raindrops and some dust;
But each man, simultaneous-like, to each man said, 'I think
That cloud suggests it's up to us to have another drink!'
"There's clouds of rain and clouds of dust, we've heard of them before,
And sometimes in the daily press we read of 'clouds of war':
But, if this ain't the Gospel truth I hope that I may burst.
That cloud that came to Narromine was just a cloud of thirst.
"It wasn't like a common cloud, 'twas more a sort of haze;
It settled down about the streets, and stopped for days and days,
And now a drop of dew could fall and not a sunbeam shine
To pierce that dismal sort of mist that hung on Narromine.
"Oh, Lord! we had a dreadful time beneath that cloud of thirst!
We all chucked up our daily work and went upon the burst.
The very blacks about the town that used to cadge for grub,
They made an organised attack and tried to loot the pub.
"We couldn't leave the private bar no matter how we tried;
Shearers and squatters, union men and blacklegs side by side
Were drinkin' there and dursn't move, for each was sure, he said,
Before he'd get a half a mile the thirst would strike him dead!
"We drank until the drink gave out, we searched from room to room,
And round the pub, like drunken ghosts, went howling through the gloom.
The shearers found some kerosene and settled down again,
But all the squatter chaps and I, we staggered to the train.
"And, once outside the cloud of thirst, we felt as right as pie,
But while we stopped about the town we had to drink or die.
But now I hear it's safe enough, I'm going back to work
Because they say the cloud of thirst has shifted on to Bourke.
"But when you see these clouds about, like this one over here,
All white and frothy at the top, just like a pint of beer,
It's time to go and have a drink, for if that cloud should burst
You'd find the drink would all be gone, for that's a cloud of thirst!"
* * * * * * *
We stood the man from Narromine a pint of half-and-half;
He drank it off without a gasp in one tremendous quaff;
"I joined some friends last night," he said, "in what they called a spree;
But after Narromine 'twas just a holiday to me."
And now beyond the Western Range, where sunset skies are red,
And clouds of dust, and clouds of thirst, go drifting overhead,
The railway train is taking back, along the Western Line,
That narrow-minded person on his road to Narromine.
|
The stranger came from Narromine and made his little joke--
"They say we folks in Narromine are narrow-minded folk.
But all the smartest men down here are puzzled to define
A kind of new phenomenon that came to Narromine.
"Last summer up in Narromine 'twas gettin' rather warm,
Two hundred in the water bag, and lookin' like a storm,
We all were in the private bar, the coolest place in town,
When out across the stretch of plain a cloud came rollin' down,
"We don't respect the clouds up there, they fill us with disgust,
They mostly bring a Bogan shower, three raindrops and some dust;
But each man, simultaneous-like, to each man said, 'I think
That cloud suggests it's up to us to have another drink!'
"There's clouds of rain and clouds of dust, we've heard of them before,
And sometimes in the daily press we read of 'clouds of war':
But, if this ain't the Gospel truth I hope that I may burst.
That cloud that came to Narromine was just a cloud of thirst.
|
"It wasn't like a common cloud, 'twas more a sort of haze;
It settled down about the streets, and stopped for days and days,
And now a drop of dew could fall and not a sunbeam shine
To pierce that dismal sort of mist that hung on Narromine.
"Oh, Lord! we had a dreadful time beneath that cloud of thirst!
We all chucked up our daily work and went upon the burst.
The very blacks about the town that used to cadge for grub,
They made an organised attack and tried to loot the pub.
"We couldn't leave the private bar no matter how we tried;
Shearers and squatters, union men and blacklegs side by side
Were drinkin' there and dursn't move, for each was sure, he said,
Before he'd get a half a mile the thirst would strike him dead!
"We drank until the drink gave out, we searched from room to room,
And round the pub, like drunken ghosts, went howling through the gloom.
The shearers found some kerosene and settled down again,
But all the squatter chaps and I, we staggered to the train.
"And, once outside the cloud of thirst, we felt as right as pie,
But while we stopped about the town we had to drink or die.
But now I hear it's safe enough, I'm going back to work
Because they say the cloud of thirst has shifted on to Bourke.
"But when you see these clouds about, like this one over here,
All white and frothy at the top, just like a pint of beer,
It's time to go and have a drink, for if that cloud should burst
You'd find the drink would all be gone, for that's a cloud of thirst!"
* * * * * * *
We stood the man from Narromine a pint of half-and-half;
He drank it off without a gasp in one tremendous quaff;
"I joined some friends last night," he said, "in what they called a spree;
But after Narromine 'twas just a holiday to me."
And now beyond the Western Range, where sunset skies are red,
And clouds of dust, and clouds of thirst, go drifting overhead,
The railway train is taking back, along the Western Line,
That narrow-minded person on his road to Narromine.
|
free_verse
|
John Milton
|
Sonnets. VII
|
How soon hath Time the suttle theef of youth,
Stoln on his wing my three and twentith yeer !
My hasting dayes flie on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th,
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arriv'd so near,
And inward ripenes doth much less appear,
That som more timely-happy spirits indu'th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow.
It shall be still in strictest measure eev'n,
To that same lot, however mean, or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n;
All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great task Masters eye.
|
How soon hath Time the suttle theef of youth,
Stoln on his wing my three and twentith yeer !
My hasting dayes flie on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th,
|
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arriv'd so near,
And inward ripenes doth much less appear,
That som more timely-happy spirits indu'th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow.
It shall be still in strictest measure eev'n,
To that same lot, however mean, or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n;
All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great task Masters eye.
|
sonnet
|
Paul Laurence Dunbar
|
Love's Humility
|
As some rapt gazer on the lowly earth,
Looks up to radiant planets, ranging far,
So I, whose soul doth know thy wondrous worth
Look longing up to thee as to a star.
|
As some rapt gazer on the lowly earth,
|
Looks up to radiant planets, ranging far,
So I, whose soul doth know thy wondrous worth
Look longing up to thee as to a star.
|
quatrain
|
Robert Herrick
|
Anthea's Retractation
|
Anthea laugh'd, and, fearing lest excess
Might stretch the cords of civil comeliness
She with a dainty blush rebuked her face,
And call'd each line back to his rule and space.
|
Anthea laugh'd, and, fearing lest excess
|
Might stretch the cords of civil comeliness
She with a dainty blush rebuked her face,
And call'd each line back to his rule and space.
|
quatrain
|
Gerard Manley Hopkins
|
No worst
|
No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,
More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.
Comforter, where, where is your comforting?
Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?
My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief
Woe, world-sorrow; on an age-old anvil wince and sing -
Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked 'No ling-
ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief'.
O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
May who ne'er hung there. Nor does long our small
Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,
Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all
Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.
|
No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,
More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.
Comforter, where, where is your comforting?
Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?
|
My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief
Woe, world-sorrow; on an age-old anvil wince and sing -
Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked 'No ling-
ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief'.
O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
May who ne'er hung there. Nor does long our small
Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,
Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all
Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.
|
sonnet
|
George MacDonald
|
Much And More
|
When thy heart, love-filled, grows graver,
And eternal bliss looks nearer,
Ask thy heart, nor show it favour,
Is the gift or giver dearer?
Love, love on; love higher, deeper;
Let love's ocean close above her;
Only, love thou more love's keeper,
More, the love-creating lover.
|
When thy heart, love-filled, grows graver,
And eternal bliss looks nearer,
|
Ask thy heart, nor show it favour,
Is the gift or giver dearer?
Love, love on; love higher, deeper;
Let love's ocean close above her;
Only, love thou more love's keeper,
More, the love-creating lover.
|
octave
|
Heinrich Hoffmann
|
Shock-headed Peter
|
Just look at him! there he stands,
With his nasty hair and hands.
See! his nails are never cut;
They are grimed as black as soot;
And the sloven, I declare,
Never once has combed his hair;
Anything to me is sweeter
Than to see Shock-headed Peter.
|
Just look at him! there he stands,
With his nasty hair and hands.
|
See! his nails are never cut;
They are grimed as black as soot;
And the sloven, I declare,
Never once has combed his hair;
Anything to me is sweeter
Than to see Shock-headed Peter.
|
octave
|
Unknown
|
Nursery Rhyme. DCXX. Relics.
|
Little girl, little girl, where have you been?
Gathering roses to give to the queen.
Little girl, little girl, what gave she you?
She gave me a diamond as big as my shoe.
|
Little girl, little girl, where have you been?
|
Gathering roses to give to the queen.
Little girl, little girl, what gave she you?
She gave me a diamond as big as my shoe.
|
quatrain
|
Robert Fuller Murray
|
Ichabod
|
Gone is the glory from the hills,
The autumn sunshine from the mere,
Which mourns for the declining year
In all her tributary rills.
A sense of change obscurely chills
The misty twilight atmosphere,
In which familiar things appear
Like alien ghosts, foreboding ills.
The twilight hour a month ago
Was full of pleasant warmth and ease,
The pearl of all the twenty-four.
Erelong the winter gales shall blow,
Erelong the winter frosts shall freeze--
And oh, that it were June once more!
|
Gone is the glory from the hills,
The autumn sunshine from the mere,
Which mourns for the declining year
In all her tributary rills.
|
A sense of change obscurely chills
The misty twilight atmosphere,
In which familiar things appear
Like alien ghosts, foreboding ills.
The twilight hour a month ago
Was full of pleasant warmth and ease,
The pearl of all the twenty-four.
Erelong the winter gales shall blow,
Erelong the winter frosts shall freeze--
And oh, that it were June once more!
|
sonnet
|
William Henry Drummond
|
Phil-O-Rum's Canoe
|
O Ma ole canoe! w'at's matter wit' you, an' w'y was you be so slow?
Don 't I work hard enough on de paddle, an' still you don 't seem to go,
No win' at all on de fronte side, an' current she don 't be strong,
Den w'y are you lak lazy feller, too sleepy for move along?
"I 'member de tam w'en you jomp de sam' as deer wit' de wolf behin'
An' brochet on d top de water, you scare heem mos' off hees min';
But fish don 't care for you now at all, only jus' mebbe wink de eye,
For he know it 's easy get out de way w'en you was a passin' by."
I 'm spikin' dis way de oder day w'en I 'm out wit'de ole canoe,
Crossin' de point w'ere I see las' fall wan very beeg caribou,
W'en somebody say, "Phil-o-rum, mon vieux, wat's matter wit' you youse'f?"
An' who do you s'pose was talkin'? w'y de poor ole canoe shese'f.
O yass, I 'm scare w'en I 'm sittin' dere an' she 's callin' ma nam' dat way:
"Phil-o-rum Juneau, w'y you spik so moche, you 're off on de head to-day
Can't be you forget ole feller, you an' me we 're not too young,
An' if I'm lookin' so ole lak you, I t'ink I will close ma tongue.
"You should feel ashame; for you 're alway blame, w'en it is n't ma fault at all
For I 'm tryin' to do bes' I can for you on summer-tam, spring, an' fall.
How offen you drown on de reever if I 'm not lookin' out for you
W'en you 're takin' too moche on de w'isky some night comin' down de Soo.
"De firse tam we go on de Wessoneau no feller can beat us den,
For you 're purty strong man wit' de paddle, but dat 's long ago ma frien',
An' win' she can blow off de mountain, an' tonder an' rain may come,
But camp see us bote on de evening-you know dat was true Phil-o-rum.
"An' who's your horse too, but your ole canoe, an' w'en you feel cole an' wet
Who was your house w'en I 'm upside down an' onder de roof you get,
Wit' rain ronnin' down ma back, Bapt'me! till I 'm gettin' de rheumateez,
An' I never say not'ing at all, moi-m'me, but let you do jus' you please.
"You t'ink it was right, kip me out all night on reever side down below,
An' even' Bon Soir' you was never say, but off on de camp you go
Leffin' your poor ole canoe behin' lyin' dere on de groun'
Watchin' de moon on de water, an' de bat flyin' all aroun'.
"O! dat 's lonesome t'ing hear de grey owl sing up on de beeg pine tree
An' many long night she kip me awake till sun on de eas' I see,
An' den you come down on de morning for start on some more voyage,
An' only t'ing decen' you do all day is carry me on portage.
"Dat 's way Phil-o-rum, rheumateez she come, wit' pain ronnin' troo ma side
Wan leetle hole here, noder beeg wan dere, dat not'ing can never hide;
Don 't do any good fix me up agen, no matter how moche you try,
For w'en we come ole an' our work she 's done, bote man an' canoe mus'die."
"Wall! she talk dat way mebbe mos' de day, till we 're passin' some beaver dam
An' wan de young beaver he 's mak' hees tail come down on de water flam!
I never see de canoe so scare, she jomp nearly two, t'ree feet
I t'ink she was goin' for ronne away, an' she shut up de mout' toute suite.
It mak'me feel queer, de strange t'ing I hear, an' I 'm glad she don 't spik no more,
But soon as we fin'ourse'f arrive over dere on de noder shore
I tak' dat canoe lak de lady, an' carry her off wit' me,
For I 'm sorry de way I treat her, an' she know more dan me, sapree!
Yass! dat 's smart canoe, an' I know it 's true, w'at she 's spikin' wit' me dat day,
I 'm not de young feller I use to be w'en work she was only play;
An' I know I was comin' closer on place w'ere I mus' tak' care
W'ere de mos' worse current 's de las' wan too, de current of Dead Riviere.
You can only steer, an' if rock be near, wit' wave dashin' all aroun',
Better mak' leetle prayer, for on Dead Riviere some very smart man get drown;
But if you be locky an' watch youse'f, mebbe reever won 't seem so wide,
An' firse t'ing you know you 'll ronne ashore, safe on de noder side.
|
O Ma ole canoe! w'at's matter wit' you, an' w'y was you be so slow?
Don 't I work hard enough on de paddle, an' still you don 't seem to go,
No win' at all on de fronte side, an' current she don 't be strong,
Den w'y are you lak lazy feller, too sleepy for move along?
"I 'member de tam w'en you jomp de sam' as deer wit' de wolf behin'
An' brochet on d top de water, you scare heem mos' off hees min';
But fish don 't care for you now at all, only jus' mebbe wink de eye,
For he know it 's easy get out de way w'en you was a passin' by."
I 'm spikin' dis way de oder day w'en I 'm out wit'de ole canoe,
Crossin' de point w'ere I see las' fall wan very beeg caribou,
W'en somebody say, "Phil-o-rum, mon vieux, wat's matter wit' you youse'f?"
An' who do you s'pose was talkin'? w'y de poor ole canoe shese'f.
O yass, I 'm scare w'en I 'm sittin' dere an' she 's callin' ma nam' dat way:
"Phil-o-rum Juneau, w'y you spik so moche, you 're off on de head to-day
Can't be you forget ole feller, you an' me we 're not too young,
An' if I'm lookin' so ole lak you, I t'ink I will close ma tongue.
"You should feel ashame; for you 're alway blame, w'en it is n't ma fault at all
For I 'm tryin' to do bes' I can for you on summer-tam, spring, an' fall.
|
How offen you drown on de reever if I 'm not lookin' out for you
W'en you 're takin' too moche on de w'isky some night comin' down de Soo.
"De firse tam we go on de Wessoneau no feller can beat us den,
For you 're purty strong man wit' de paddle, but dat 's long ago ma frien',
An' win' she can blow off de mountain, an' tonder an' rain may come,
But camp see us bote on de evening-you know dat was true Phil-o-rum.
"An' who's your horse too, but your ole canoe, an' w'en you feel cole an' wet
Who was your house w'en I 'm upside down an' onder de roof you get,
Wit' rain ronnin' down ma back, Bapt'me! till I 'm gettin' de rheumateez,
An' I never say not'ing at all, moi-m'me, but let you do jus' you please.
"You t'ink it was right, kip me out all night on reever side down below,
An' even' Bon Soir' you was never say, but off on de camp you go
Leffin' your poor ole canoe behin' lyin' dere on de groun'
Watchin' de moon on de water, an' de bat flyin' all aroun'.
"O! dat 's lonesome t'ing hear de grey owl sing up on de beeg pine tree
An' many long night she kip me awake till sun on de eas' I see,
An' den you come down on de morning for start on some more voyage,
An' only t'ing decen' you do all day is carry me on portage.
"Dat 's way Phil-o-rum, rheumateez she come, wit' pain ronnin' troo ma side
Wan leetle hole here, noder beeg wan dere, dat not'ing can never hide;
Don 't do any good fix me up agen, no matter how moche you try,
For w'en we come ole an' our work she 's done, bote man an' canoe mus'die."
"Wall! she talk dat way mebbe mos' de day, till we 're passin' some beaver dam
An' wan de young beaver he 's mak' hees tail come down on de water flam!
I never see de canoe so scare, she jomp nearly two, t'ree feet
I t'ink she was goin' for ronne away, an' she shut up de mout' toute suite.
It mak'me feel queer, de strange t'ing I hear, an' I 'm glad she don 't spik no more,
But soon as we fin'ourse'f arrive over dere on de noder shore
I tak' dat canoe lak de lady, an' carry her off wit' me,
For I 'm sorry de way I treat her, an' she know more dan me, sapree!
Yass! dat 's smart canoe, an' I know it 's true, w'at she 's spikin' wit' me dat day,
I 'm not de young feller I use to be w'en work she was only play;
An' I know I was comin' closer on place w'ere I mus' tak' care
W'ere de mos' worse current 's de las' wan too, de current of Dead Riviere.
You can only steer, an' if rock be near, wit' wave dashin' all aroun',
Better mak' leetle prayer, for on Dead Riviere some very smart man get drown;
But if you be locky an' watch youse'f, mebbe reever won 't seem so wide,
An' firse t'ing you know you 'll ronne ashore, safe on de noder side.
|
free_verse
|
Oliver Wendell Holmes
|
To The Poets Who Only Read And Listen
|
When evening's shadowy fingers fold
The flowers of every hue,
Some shy, half-opened bud will hold
Its drop of morning's dew.
Sweeter with every sunlit hour
The trembling sphere has grown,
Till all the fragrance of the flower
Becomes at last its own.
We that have sung perchance may find
Our little meed of praise,
And round our pallid temples bind
The wreath of fading bays.
Ah, Poet, who hast never spent
Thy breath in idle strains,
For thee the dewdrop morning lent
Still in thy heart remains;
Unwasted, in its perfumed cell
It waits the evening gale;
Then to the azure whence it fell
Its lingering sweets exhale.
|
When evening's shadowy fingers fold
The flowers of every hue,
Some shy, half-opened bud will hold
Its drop of morning's dew.
Sweeter with every sunlit hour
The trembling sphere has grown,
|
Till all the fragrance of the flower
Becomes at last its own.
We that have sung perchance may find
Our little meed of praise,
And round our pallid temples bind
The wreath of fading bays.
Ah, Poet, who hast never spent
Thy breath in idle strains,
For thee the dewdrop morning lent
Still in thy heart remains;
Unwasted, in its perfumed cell
It waits the evening gale;
Then to the azure whence it fell
Its lingering sweets exhale.
|
free_verse
|
William Blake
|
The Shepherd
|
How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot!
From the morn to the evening he stays;
He shall follow his sheep all the day,
And his tongue shall be filled with praise.
For he hears the lambs' innocent call,
And he hears the ewes' tender reply;
He is watching while they are in peace,
For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.
|
How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot!
From the morn to the evening he stays;
|
He shall follow his sheep all the day,
And his tongue shall be filled with praise.
For he hears the lambs' innocent call,
And he hears the ewes' tender reply;
He is watching while they are in peace,
For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.
|
octave
|
Michael Earls
|
The Columbine
|
Gray lonely rocks about thee stand,
Ignored of sun and dew,
Yet is thy breath upon the land,
To thy vocation true.
So come they character to me
That works in sunless ways,
And I shall learn to give with thee
Dark hills a constant praise.
|
Gray lonely rocks about thee stand,
Ignored of sun and dew,
|
Yet is thy breath upon the land,
To thy vocation true.
So come they character to me
That works in sunless ways,
And I shall learn to give with thee
Dark hills a constant praise.
|
octave
|
Madison Julius Cawein
|
Dreams
|
They mock the present and they haunt the past,
And in the future there is naught agleam
With hope, the soul desires, that at last
The heart pursuing does not find a dream.
|
They mock the present and they haunt the past,
|
And in the future there is naught agleam
With hope, the soul desires, that at last
The heart pursuing does not find a dream.
|
quatrain
|
Unknown
|
Nursery Rhyme. DXV. Natural History.
|
All of a row,
Bend the bow,
Shot at a pigeon,
And killed a crow.
|
All of a row,
|
Bend the bow,
Shot at a pigeon,
And killed a crow.
|
quatrain
|
Madison Julius Cawein
|
To a Critic
|
Song hath a catalogue of lovely things
Thy kind hath oft defiled, whose spite misleads
The world too often! where the poet reads,
As in a fable, of old envyings,
Crows, such as thou, which hush the bird that sings,
Or kill it with their cawings; thorns and weeds,
Such as thyself, 'midst which the wind sows seeds
Of flow'rs, these crush before one blossom swings.
But here and there the wisdom of a School
Unknown to these hath often written down
"Fame" in white ink the future hath turned brown;
When every beauty, heaped with ridicule,
In their ignoble prose, proved their renown,
Making each famous, as an ass or fool.
|
Song hath a catalogue of lovely things
Thy kind hath oft defiled, whose spite misleads
The world too often! where the poet reads,
As in a fable, of old envyings,
|
Crows, such as thou, which hush the bird that sings,
Or kill it with their cawings; thorns and weeds,
Such as thyself, 'midst which the wind sows seeds
Of flow'rs, these crush before one blossom swings.
But here and there the wisdom of a School
Unknown to these hath often written down
"Fame" in white ink the future hath turned brown;
When every beauty, heaped with ridicule,
In their ignoble prose, proved their renown,
Making each famous, as an ass or fool.
|
sonnet
|
Archibald Lampman
|
The Martyrs.
|
Oh ye, who found in men's brief ways no sign
Of strength or help, so cast them forth, and threw
Your whole souls up to one ye deemed most true,
Nor failed nor doubted but held fast your line,
Seeing before you that divine face shine;
Shall we not mourn, when yours are now so few,
Those sterner days, when all men yearned to you,
White souls whose beauty made their world divine:
Yet still across life's tangled storms we see,
Following the cross, your pale procession led,
One hope, one end, all others sacrificed,
Self-abnegation, love, humility,
Your faces shining toward the bended head,
The wounded hands and patient feet of Christ.
|
Oh ye, who found in men's brief ways no sign
Of strength or help, so cast them forth, and threw
Your whole souls up to one ye deemed most true,
Nor failed nor doubted but held fast your line,
|
Seeing before you that divine face shine;
Shall we not mourn, when yours are now so few,
Those sterner days, when all men yearned to you,
White souls whose beauty made their world divine:
Yet still across life's tangled storms we see,
Following the cross, your pale procession led,
One hope, one end, all others sacrificed,
Self-abnegation, love, humility,
Your faces shining toward the bended head,
The wounded hands and patient feet of Christ.
|
sonnet
|
John Milton
|
Sonnets. VI
|
Giovane piano, e semplicetto amante
Poi che fuggir me stesso in dubbio sono,
Madonna a voi del mio cuor l'humil dono
Faro divoto; io certo a prove tante
L'hebbi fedele, intrepido, costante,
De pensieri leggiadro, accorto, e buono;
Quando rugge il gran mondo, e scocca il tuono,
S 'arma di se, e d' intero diamante,
Tanto del forse, e d' invidia sicuro,
Di timori, e speranze al popol use
Quanto d'ingegno, e d' alto valor vago,
E di cetra sonora, e delle muse:
Sol troverete in tal parte men duro
Ove amor mise l 'insanabil ago.
|
Giovane piano, e semplicetto amante
Poi che fuggir me stesso in dubbio sono,
Madonna a voi del mio cuor l'humil dono
Faro divoto; io certo a prove tante
|
L'hebbi fedele, intrepido, costante,
De pensieri leggiadro, accorto, e buono;
Quando rugge il gran mondo, e scocca il tuono,
S 'arma di se, e d' intero diamante,
Tanto del forse, e d' invidia sicuro,
Di timori, e speranze al popol use
Quanto d'ingegno, e d' alto valor vago,
E di cetra sonora, e delle muse:
Sol troverete in tal parte men duro
Ove amor mise l 'insanabil ago.
|
sonnet
|
Robert Herrick
|
Delight In Disorder
|
A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness;
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly;
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat;
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility;--
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.
|
A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness;
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;
|
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly;
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat;
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility;--
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.
|
sonnet
|
Vachel Lindsay
|
How Samson Bore Away the Gates of Gaza
|
(A Negro Sermon.)
Once, in a night as black as ink,
She drove him out when he would not drink.
Round the house there were men in wait
Asleep in rows by the Gaza gate.
But the Holy Spirit was in this man.
Like a gentle wind he crept and ran.
("It is midnight," said the big town clock.)
He lifted the gates up, post and lock.
The hole in the wall was high and wide
When he bore away old Gaza's pride
Into the deep of the night: -
The bold Jack Johnson Israelite, -
Samson -
The Judge,
The Nazarite.
The air was black, like the smoke of a dragon.
Samson's heart was as big as a wagon.
He sang like a shining golden fountain.
He sweated up to the top of the mountain.
He threw down the gates with a noise like judgment.
And the quails all ran with the big arousement.
But he wept - "I must not love tough queens,
And spend on them my hard earned means.
I told that girl I would drink no more.
Therefore she drove me from her door.
Oh sorrow!
Sorrow!
I cannot hide.
Oh Lord look down from your chariot side.
You made me Judge, and I am not wise.
I am weak as a sheep for all my size."
Let Samson
Be coming
Into your mind.
The moon shone out, the stars were gay.
He saw the foxes run and play.
He rent his garments, he rolled around
In deep repentance on the ground.
Then he felt a honey in his soul.
Grace abounding made him whole.
Then he saw the Lord in a chariot blue.
The gorgeous stallions whinnied and flew.
The iron wheels hummed an old hymn-tune
And crunched in thunder over the moon.
And Samson shouted to the sky:
"My Lord, my Lord is riding high."
Like a steed, he pawed the gates with his hoof.
He rattled the gates like rocks on the roof,
And danced in the night
On the mountain-top,
Danced in the deep of the night:
The Judge, the holy Nazarite,
Whom ropes and chains could never bind.
Let Samson
Be coming
Into your mind.
Whirling his arms, like a top he sped.
His long black hair flew round his head
Like an outstretched net of silky cord,
Like a wheel of the chariot of the Lord.
Let Samson
Be coming
Into your mind.
Samson saw the sun anew.
He left the gates in the grass and dew.
He went to a county-seat a-nigh.
Found a harlot proud and high:
Philistine that no man could tame -
Delilah was her lady-name.
Oh sorrow,
Sorrow,
She was too wise.
She cut off his hair,
She put out his eyes.
Let Samson
Be coming
Into your mind.
|
(A Negro Sermon.)
Once, in a night as black as ink,
She drove him out when he would not drink.
Round the house there were men in wait
Asleep in rows by the Gaza gate.
But the Holy Spirit was in this man.
Like a gentle wind he crept and ran.
("It is midnight," said the big town clock.)
He lifted the gates up, post and lock.
The hole in the wall was high and wide
When he bore away old Gaza's pride
Into the deep of the night: -
The bold Jack Johnson Israelite, -
Samson -
The Judge,
The Nazarite.
The air was black, like the smoke of a dragon.
Samson's heart was as big as a wagon.
He sang like a shining golden fountain.
He sweated up to the top of the mountain.
He threw down the gates with a noise like judgment.
And the quails all ran with the big arousement.
But he wept - "I must not love tough queens,
And spend on them my hard earned means.
I told that girl I would drink no more.
Therefore she drove me from her door.
|
Oh sorrow!
Sorrow!
I cannot hide.
Oh Lord look down from your chariot side.
You made me Judge, and I am not wise.
I am weak as a sheep for all my size."
Let Samson
Be coming
Into your mind.
The moon shone out, the stars were gay.
He saw the foxes run and play.
He rent his garments, he rolled around
In deep repentance on the ground.
Then he felt a honey in his soul.
Grace abounding made him whole.
Then he saw the Lord in a chariot blue.
The gorgeous stallions whinnied and flew.
The iron wheels hummed an old hymn-tune
And crunched in thunder over the moon.
And Samson shouted to the sky:
"My Lord, my Lord is riding high."
Like a steed, he pawed the gates with his hoof.
He rattled the gates like rocks on the roof,
And danced in the night
On the mountain-top,
Danced in the deep of the night:
The Judge, the holy Nazarite,
Whom ropes and chains could never bind.
Let Samson
Be coming
Into your mind.
Whirling his arms, like a top he sped.
His long black hair flew round his head
Like an outstretched net of silky cord,
Like a wheel of the chariot of the Lord.
Let Samson
Be coming
Into your mind.
Samson saw the sun anew.
He left the gates in the grass and dew.
He went to a county-seat a-nigh.
Found a harlot proud and high:
Philistine that no man could tame -
Delilah was her lady-name.
Oh sorrow,
Sorrow,
She was too wise.
She cut off his hair,
She put out his eyes.
Let Samson
Be coming
Into your mind.
|
free_verse
|
John McCrae
|
Equality
|
I saw a King, who spent his life to weave
Into a nation all his great heart thought,
Unsatisfied until he should achieve
The grand ideal that his manhood sought;
Yet as he saw the end within his reach,
Death took the sceptre from his failing hand,
And all men said, "He gave his life to teach
The task of honour to a sordid land!"
Within his gates I saw, through all those years,
One at his humble toil with cheery face,
Whom (being dead) the children, half in tears,
Remembered oft, and missed him from his place.
If he be greater that his people blessed
Than he the children loved, God knoweth best.
|
I saw a King, who spent his life to weave
Into a nation all his great heart thought,
Unsatisfied until he should achieve
The grand ideal that his manhood sought;
|
Yet as he saw the end within his reach,
Death took the sceptre from his failing hand,
And all men said, "He gave his life to teach
The task of honour to a sordid land!"
Within his gates I saw, through all those years,
One at his humble toil with cheery face,
Whom (being dead) the children, half in tears,
Remembered oft, and missed him from his place.
If he be greater that his people blessed
Than he the children loved, God knoweth best.
|
sonnet
|
William Henry Drummond
|
To His Lute
|
My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear;
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
For which be silent as in woods before:
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widowed turtle, still her loss complain.
|
My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
|
Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear;
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
For which be silent as in woods before:
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widowed turtle, still her loss complain.
|
sonnet
|
Rudyard Kipling
|
The Queen Of Fairy Land
|
"I have a thousand men," said he,
"To wait upon my will;
And towers nine upon the Tyne,
And three upon the Till."
"And what care I for your men? " said she,
"Or towers from Tyne to Till?
Sith you must go with me," said she,
"To wait upon my will.
And you may lead a thousand men
Nor ever draw the rein,
But before you lead the Fairy Queen
'Twill burst your heart in twain."
He has slipped his foot from the stirrup-bar,
The bridle from his hand,
And he is bound by hand and foot
To the Queen of Fairy Land.
|
"I have a thousand men," said he,
"To wait upon my will;
And towers nine upon the Tyne,
And three upon the Till."
"And what care I for your men? " said she,
|
"Or towers from Tyne to Till?
Sith you must go with me," said she,
"To wait upon my will.
And you may lead a thousand men
Nor ever draw the rein,
But before you lead the Fairy Queen
'Twill burst your heart in twain."
He has slipped his foot from the stirrup-bar,
The bridle from his hand,
And he is bound by hand and foot
To the Queen of Fairy Land.
|
free_verse
|
Toru Dutt
|
Sonnet.--The Lotus.
|
Love came to Flora asking for a flower
That would of flowers be undisputed queen,
The lily and the rose, long, long had been
Rivals for that high honour. Bards of power
Had sung their claims. "The rose can never tower
Like the pale lily with her Juno mien"--
"But is the lily lovelier?" Thus between
Flower-factions rang the strife in Psyche's bower.
"Give me a flower delicious as the rose
And stately as the lily in her pride"--
"But of what colour?"--"Rose-red," Love first chose,
Then prayed,--"No, lily-white,--or, both provide;"
And Flora gave the lotus, "rose-red" dyed,
And "lily-white,"--the queenliest flower that blows.
|
Love came to Flora asking for a flower
That would of flowers be undisputed queen,
The lily and the rose, long, long had been
Rivals for that high honour. Bards of power
|
Had sung their claims. "The rose can never tower
Like the pale lily with her Juno mien"--
"But is the lily lovelier?" Thus between
Flower-factions rang the strife in Psyche's bower.
"Give me a flower delicious as the rose
And stately as the lily in her pride"--
"But of what colour?"--"Rose-red," Love first chose,
Then prayed,--"No, lily-white,--or, both provide;"
And Flora gave the lotus, "rose-red" dyed,
And "lily-white,"--the queenliest flower that blows.
|
sonnet
|
Anna Seward
|
Sonnet XXVII.
|
See wither'd WINTER, bending low his head;
His ragged locks stiff with the hoary dew;
His eyes, like frozen lakes, of livid hue;
His train, a sable cloud, with murky red
Streak'd. - Ah! behold his nitrous breathings shed
Petrific death! - Lean, wailful Birds pursue,
On as he sweeps o'er the dun lonely moor,
Amid the battling blast of all the Winds,
That, while their sleet the climbing Sailor blinds,
Lash the white surges to the sounding shore.
So com'st thou, WINTER, finally to doom
The sinking year; and with thy ice-dropt sprays,
Cypress and yew, engarland her pale tomb,
Her vanish'd hopes, and aye-departed days.
|
See wither'd WINTER, bending low his head;
His ragged locks stiff with the hoary dew;
His eyes, like frozen lakes, of livid hue;
His train, a sable cloud, with murky red
|
Streak'd. - Ah! behold his nitrous breathings shed
Petrific death! - Lean, wailful Birds pursue,
On as he sweeps o'er the dun lonely moor,
Amid the battling blast of all the Winds,
That, while their sleet the climbing Sailor blinds,
Lash the white surges to the sounding shore.
So com'st thou, WINTER, finally to doom
The sinking year; and with thy ice-dropt sprays,
Cypress and yew, engarland her pale tomb,
Her vanish'd hopes, and aye-departed days.
|
sonnet
|
James McIntyre
|
Coleridge, Southey And Wordsworth.
|
England had triplets at a birth,
Coleridge, Southey and Wordsworth,
And these three are widely famed,
And the "Lake Poets" they were named.
With joy they did pursue their themes,
'Mong England's lakes and hills and streams,
From there with gladness they could view
The distant Scottish mountains blue.
|
England had triplets at a birth,
Coleridge, Southey and Wordsworth,
|
And these three are widely famed,
And the "Lake Poets" they were named.
With joy they did pursue their themes,
'Mong England's lakes and hills and streams,
From there with gladness they could view
The distant Scottish mountains blue.
|
octave
|
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
|
The Bustle In A House
|
The bustle in a house
The morning after death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon earth, --
The sweeping up the heart,
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity.
|
The bustle in a house
The morning after death
|
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon earth, --
The sweeping up the heart,
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity.
|
octave
|
Ben Jonson
|
A Hymn On The Nativity Of My Savior
|
I sing the birth was born tonight,
The Author both of life and light;
The angels so did sound it,
And like the ravished shepherds said,
Who saw the light, and were afraid,
Yet searched, and true they found it.
The Son of God, the eternal King,
That did us all salvation bring,
And freed the soul from danger;
He whom the whole world could not take,
The Word, which heaven and earth did make,
Was now laid in a manger.
The Father's wisdom willed it so,
The Son's obedience knew no 'No,'
Both wills were in one stature;
And as that wisdom had decreed,
The Word was now made Flesh indeed,
And took on Him our nature.
What comfort by Him do we win?
Who made Himself the Prince of sin,
To make us heirs of glory?
To see this Babe, all innocence,
A Martyr born in our defense,
Can man forget this story?
|
I sing the birth was born tonight,
The Author both of life and light;
The angels so did sound it,
And like the ravished shepherds said,
Who saw the light, and were afraid,
Yet searched, and true they found it.
The Son of God, the eternal King,
That did us all salvation bring,
|
And freed the soul from danger;
He whom the whole world could not take,
The Word, which heaven and earth did make,
Was now laid in a manger.
The Father's wisdom willed it so,
The Son's obedience knew no 'No,'
Both wills were in one stature;
And as that wisdom had decreed,
The Word was now made Flesh indeed,
And took on Him our nature.
What comfort by Him do we win?
Who made Himself the Prince of sin,
To make us heirs of glory?
To see this Babe, all innocence,
A Martyr born in our defense,
Can man forget this story?
|
free_verse
|
Madison Julius Cawein
|
Lilith
|
Yea, there are some who always seek
The love that lasts an hour;
And some who in love's language speak,
Yet never know his power.
Of such was I, who knew not what
Sweet mysteries may rise
Within the heart when 't is its lot
To love and realize.
Of such was I, ah me! till, lo,
Your face on mine did gleam,
And changed that world, I used to know,
Into an evil dream.
That world wherein, on hill and plain,
Great blood-red poppies bloomed,
Their hot hearts thirsty for the rain,
And sleepily perfumed.
Above, below, on every part
A crimson shadow lay,
As if the red sun streamed athwart
And sunset was alway.
I know not how, I know not when,
I only know that there
She met me in the haunted glen,
A poppy in her hair.
Her face seemed fair as Mary's is,
That knows no sin or wrong;
Her presence filled the silences
As music fills a song.
And she was clad like the Mother of God,
As 't were for Christ's sweet sake,
But when she moved and where she trod
A hiss went of a snake.
Though seeming sinless, till I die
I shall not know for sure
Why to my soul she seemed a lie
And otherwise than pure.
Nor why I kissed her soon and late
And for her felt desire,
While loathing of her passion ate
Into my soul like fire.
Was it because my soul could tell
That, like the poppy-flower,
She had no soul? a thing of Hell,
That o'er it had no power.
Or was it that your love at last
My soul so long had craved,
From the sweet sin that held me fast
At that last moment saved?
|
Yea, there are some who always seek
The love that lasts an hour;
And some who in love's language speak,
Yet never know his power.
Of such was I, who knew not what
Sweet mysteries may rise
Within the heart when 't is its lot
To love and realize.
Of such was I, ah me! till, lo,
Your face on mine did gleam,
And changed that world, I used to know,
Into an evil dream.
That world wherein, on hill and plain,
Great blood-red poppies bloomed,
Their hot hearts thirsty for the rain,
And sleepily perfumed.
|
Above, below, on every part
A crimson shadow lay,
As if the red sun streamed athwart
And sunset was alway.
I know not how, I know not when,
I only know that there
She met me in the haunted glen,
A poppy in her hair.
Her face seemed fair as Mary's is,
That knows no sin or wrong;
Her presence filled the silences
As music fills a song.
And she was clad like the Mother of God,
As 't were for Christ's sweet sake,
But when she moved and where she trod
A hiss went of a snake.
Though seeming sinless, till I die
I shall not know for sure
Why to my soul she seemed a lie
And otherwise than pure.
Nor why I kissed her soon and late
And for her felt desire,
While loathing of her passion ate
Into my soul like fire.
Was it because my soul could tell
That, like the poppy-flower,
She had no soul? a thing of Hell,
That o'er it had no power.
Or was it that your love at last
My soul so long had craved,
From the sweet sin that held me fast
At that last moment saved?
|
free_verse
|
George MacDonald
|
Eine Kleine Predigt
|
Graut Euch nicht, Ihr lieben Leute,
Vor dem ungeheuren Morgen;
Wenn es kommt, es ist das Heute,
Und der liebe Gott zu sorgen.
|
Graut Euch nicht, Ihr lieben Leute,
|
Vor dem ungeheuren Morgen;
Wenn es kommt, es ist das Heute,
Und der liebe Gott zu sorgen.
|
quatrain
|
Paul Cameron Brown
|
The Draper's Cloth
|
I imagine stars at the dragon's tail,
eyelids ringing with butter.
I want to brush palms as
lightly as two sparks.
take the wand of your waist
in two plush hands
with the pitiless gesture
of a sparrow
We part the leaves in breath,
arouse trees in envy.
I sense colours more vivid
than your tongue
after wine,
explosions to cap the wind.
To enter you in argument -
a bough creeking in underbrush,
svelte panthers hiding.
And afterwards, sheets are open galleys,
oarsmen ploughing breakers
across both sea and night.
|
I imagine stars at the dragon's tail,
eyelids ringing with butter.
I want to brush palms as
lightly as two sparks.
take the wand of your waist
in two plush hands
|
with the pitiless gesture
of a sparrow
We part the leaves in breath,
arouse trees in envy.
I sense colours more vivid
than your tongue
after wine,
explosions to cap the wind.
To enter you in argument -
a bough creeking in underbrush,
svelte panthers hiding.
And afterwards, sheets are open galleys,
oarsmen ploughing breakers
across both sea and night.
|
free_verse
|
Unknown
|
Nursery Rhyme. CCCCVII. Jingles.
|
Hey ding a ding, what shall I sing?
How many holes in a skimmer?
Four and twenty, - my stomach is empty;
Pray, mamma, give me some dinner.
|
Hey ding a ding, what shall I sing?
|
How many holes in a skimmer?
Four and twenty, - my stomach is empty;
Pray, mamma, give me some dinner.
|
quatrain
|
Robert Burns
|
O Whar Did Ye Get
|
Tune - "Bonnie Dundee."
I.
O, whar did ye get that hauver meal bannock?
O silly blind body, O dinna ye see?
I gat it frae a young brisk sodger laddie,
Between Saint Johnston and bonnie Dundee.
O gin I saw the laddie that gae me't!
Aft has he doudl'd me up on his knee;
May Heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie,
And send him safe hame to his babie and me!
II.
My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie,
My blessin's upon thy bonnie e'e brie!
Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie,
Thou's ay the dearer and dearer to me!
But I'll big a bower on yon bonnie banks,
Where Tay rins wimplin' by sae clear;
And I'll cleed thee in the tartan sae fine,
And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear.
|
Tune - "Bonnie Dundee."
I.
O, whar did ye get that hauver meal bannock?
O silly blind body, O dinna ye see?
I gat it frae a young brisk sodger laddie,
Between Saint Johnston and bonnie Dundee.
|
O gin I saw the laddie that gae me't!
Aft has he doudl'd me up on his knee;
May Heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie,
And send him safe hame to his babie and me!
II.
My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie,
My blessin's upon thy bonnie e'e brie!
Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie,
Thou's ay the dearer and dearer to me!
But I'll big a bower on yon bonnie banks,
Where Tay rins wimplin' by sae clear;
And I'll cleed thee in the tartan sae fine,
And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear.
|
free_verse
|
Robert Herrick
|
Upon Lucia Dabbled In The Dew.
|
My Lucia in the dew did go,
And prettily bedabbled so,
Her clothes held up, she showed withal
Her decent legs, clean, long, and small.
I follow'd after to descry
Part of the nak'd sincerity;
But still the envious scene between
Denied the mask I would have seen.
|
My Lucia in the dew did go,
And prettily bedabbled so,
|
Her clothes held up, she showed withal
Her decent legs, clean, long, and small.
I follow'd after to descry
Part of the nak'd sincerity;
But still the envious scene between
Denied the mask I would have seen.
|
octave
|
Robert Burns
|
On R.A., Esq.
|
Know thou, O stranger to the fame
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold.
|
Know thou, O stranger to the fame
|
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold.
|
quatrain
|
William Wordsworth
|
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - XII - Down A Swift Stream
|
Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold design
Have we pursued, with livelier stir of heart
Than his who sees, borne forward by the Rhine,
The living landscapes greet him, and depart;
Sees spires fast sinking, up again to start!
And strives the towers to number, that recline
O'er the dark steeps, or on the horizon line
Striding with shattered crests his eye athwart,
So have we hurried on with troubled pleasure:
Henceforth, as on the bosom of a stream
That slackens, and spreads wide a watery gleam,
We, nothing loth a lingering course to measure,
May gather up our thoughts, and mark at leisure
How widely spread the interests of our theme.
|
Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold design
Have we pursued, with livelier stir of heart
Than his who sees, borne forward by the Rhine,
The living landscapes greet him, and depart;
|
Sees spires fast sinking, up again to start!
And strives the towers to number, that recline
O'er the dark steeps, or on the horizon line
Striding with shattered crests his eye athwart,
So have we hurried on with troubled pleasure:
Henceforth, as on the bosom of a stream
That slackens, and spreads wide a watery gleam,
We, nothing loth a lingering course to measure,
May gather up our thoughts, and mark at leisure
How widely spread the interests of our theme.
|
sonnet
|
Robert Herrick
|
Chop-Cherry.
|
Thou gav'st me leave to kiss,
Thou gav'st me leave to woo;
Thou mad'st me think, by this
And that, thou lov'dst me too.
But I shall ne'er forget
How, for to make thee merry,
Thou mad'st me chop, but yet
Another snapp'd the cherry.
|
Thou gav'st me leave to kiss,
Thou gav'st me leave to woo;
|
Thou mad'st me think, by this
And that, thou lov'dst me too.
But I shall ne'er forget
How, for to make thee merry,
Thou mad'st me chop, but yet
Another snapp'd the cherry.
|
octave
|
Walt Whitman
|
France, The 18th Year Of These States
|
A great year and place;
A harsh, discordant, natal scream out-sounding, to touch the mother's heart closer than any yet.
I walk'd the shores of my Eastern Sea,
Heard over the waves the little voice,
Saw the divine infant, where she woke, mournfully wailing, amid the roar of cannon, curses, shouts, crash of falling buildings;
Was not so sick from the blood in the gutters running--nor from the single corpses, nor those in heaps, nor those borne away in the tumbrils;
Was not so desperate at the battues of death--was not so shock'd at the repeated fusillades of the guns.
Pale, silent, stern, what could I say to that long-accrued retribution?
Could I wish humanity different?
Could I wish the people made of wood and stone?
Or that there be no justice in destiny or time?
O Liberty! O mate for me!
Here too the blaze, the grape-shot and the axe, in reserve, to fetch them out in case of need;
Here too, though long represt, can never be destroy'd;
Here too could rise at last, murdering and extatic;
Here too demanding full arrears of vengeance.
Hence I sign this salute over the sea,
And I do not deny that terrible red birth and baptism,
But remember the little voice that I heard wailing--and wait with perfect trust, no matter how long;
And from to-day, sad and cogent, I maintain the bequeath'd cause, as for all lands,
And I send these words to Paris with my love,
And I guess some chansonniers there will understand them,
For I guess there is latent music yet in France--floods of it;
O I hear already the bustle of instruments--they will soon be drowning all that would interrupt them;
O I think the east wind brings a triumphal and free march,
It reaches hither--it swells me to joyful madness,
I will run transpose it in words, to justify it,
I will yet sing a song for you, Ma Femme.
|
A great year and place;
A harsh, discordant, natal scream out-sounding, to touch the mother's heart closer than any yet.
I walk'd the shores of my Eastern Sea,
Heard over the waves the little voice,
Saw the divine infant, where she woke, mournfully wailing, amid the roar of cannon, curses, shouts, crash of falling buildings;
Was not so sick from the blood in the gutters running--nor from the single corpses, nor those in heaps, nor those borne away in the tumbrils;
Was not so desperate at the battues of death--was not so shock'd at the repeated fusillades of the guns.
Pale, silent, stern, what could I say to that long-accrued retribution?
Could I wish humanity different?
|
Could I wish the people made of wood and stone?
Or that there be no justice in destiny or time?
O Liberty! O mate for me!
Here too the blaze, the grape-shot and the axe, in reserve, to fetch them out in case of need;
Here too, though long represt, can never be destroy'd;
Here too could rise at last, murdering and extatic;
Here too demanding full arrears of vengeance.
Hence I sign this salute over the sea,
And I do not deny that terrible red birth and baptism,
But remember the little voice that I heard wailing--and wait with perfect trust, no matter how long;
And from to-day, sad and cogent, I maintain the bequeath'd cause, as for all lands,
And I send these words to Paris with my love,
And I guess some chansonniers there will understand them,
For I guess there is latent music yet in France--floods of it;
O I hear already the bustle of instruments--they will soon be drowning all that would interrupt them;
O I think the east wind brings a triumphal and free march,
It reaches hither--it swells me to joyful madness,
I will run transpose it in words, to justify it,
I will yet sing a song for you, Ma Femme.
|
free_verse
|
Unknown
|
Nursery Rhyme. CLXV. Songs.
|
How does my lady's garden grow?
How does my lady's garden grow?
With cockle shells, and silver bells,
And pretty maids all of a row.
|
How does my lady's garden grow?
|
How does my lady's garden grow?
With cockle shells, and silver bells,
And pretty maids all of a row.
|
quatrain
|
George MacDonald
|
Home From The Wars
|
A tattered soldier, gone the glow and gloss,
With wounds half healed, and sorely trembling knee,
Homeward I come, to claim no victory-cross:
I only faced the foe, and did not flee.
|
A tattered soldier, gone the glow and gloss,
|
With wounds half healed, and sorely trembling knee,
Homeward I come, to claim no victory-cross:
I only faced the foe, and did not flee.
|
quatrain
|
Nancy Rebecca Campbell Glass
|
The Desert Spring
|
"Oh, no, my lord, she cannot stay;
Cast out this bond maid with her mocking child,
For they cannot be heirs with thine and mine."
Abraham was sad, for he had prayed, "O God,
That Ishmael may dwell within thy sight!"
And now the message came to him, "Fear not!
In all that Sarah says list to her voice.
In Isaac shall thy seed be called. Also
I'll make of Hagar's son a nation great,
Because he sprang from thee."
Then Abraham rose
At early dawn, and lading Egypt's child
With water and with bread, sent her grief-worn
With Ishmael to wander lone within
Beersheba's wilderness. While yet the air
Was cool, and nature locked in the embrace
Of morn, likely the child was blithe and gay,
Unheeding the sad face and drooping form
Of her who doubtless turned from childhood's tents
In tears of woe.
Thrilled with his Arab blood
He raced along; and thus to fancy's ear
He prattled on: "O mother, do not weep!
The Princess Sarah cannot chide us now.
We're free! I love the wilderness! I love
The earth and sky! Look at those birds,
Far as the fleecy clouds! And here
Are flowers with which to wreathe my bow.
With it I'll bring thee deer and fowl to dress,
When by and by we reach a babbling stream
Where we may safely dwell."
On, still on,
Through arid plains, with blistering feet,
Beneath a burning sky, they toil along.
The lad no longer talks of birds and flowers,
But begs for water water just to cool
His parching throat; and likely 'twas that when
Noon's shadows mirrored the encircling hills,
He saw the empty flask, and must at last
Have fainted on the scorching sand.
We read
That Hagar cast him 'neath a shrub, and then,
Withdrawing quite a space, she prayed, "O God,
Let me not see his death!" and so sank down
Upon the ground to watch him where he lay,
And wept such tears as touched the world on high
With sympathy divine. God heard the lad,
And from his radiant home an angel spake:
"What aileth thee, O Hagar? Rise and take
The lad, and stand him on his feet. I'll make
Of him a nation great." Her eyes were opened;
And she saw a well, from which with joyful haste
She filled her flask and gave the weakling lad
A draught which gave him back to health
And life again.
Water! a type of Christ,
God's son, that whosoever will may drink
That everflowing stream of love and live
Eternally! The angel's prophecy foretold
Those countless hordes, those tented caravans,
Whose graceful steeds have plied through centuries past
Those barren, trackless wastes; some of the men
Who, Egypt-bound with spicery and balm,
Halted beside the lonely pit, and bartered there
For that young lad whose coat dyed in the blood
Of kids, made Jacob with wild agony exclaim,
"This is my Joseph's coat! He has, no doubt,
Been rent in twain by beasts!"
The wanderers soon
Lay down to rest, 'neath starry skies to wait
Another dawn, and on the mother's face
There must have been a light of joy divine;
For had she not held intercourse with Heaven?
Were not its guardian bands around them then
In desert weird and wild?
Ye weary souls,
Tired travelers on the sands of time,
Trust God and look to him for strength!
The angel of his word speaks faith and peace,
And presses to the thirsting lip the cup
Of immortality!
|
"Oh, no, my lord, she cannot stay;
Cast out this bond maid with her mocking child,
For they cannot be heirs with thine and mine."
Abraham was sad, for he had prayed, "O God,
That Ishmael may dwell within thy sight!"
And now the message came to him, "Fear not!
In all that Sarah says list to her voice.
In Isaac shall thy seed be called. Also
I'll make of Hagar's son a nation great,
Because he sprang from thee."
Then Abraham rose
At early dawn, and lading Egypt's child
With water and with bread, sent her grief-worn
With Ishmael to wander lone within
Beersheba's wilderness. While yet the air
Was cool, and nature locked in the embrace
Of morn, likely the child was blithe and gay,
Unheeding the sad face and drooping form
Of her who doubtless turned from childhood's tents
In tears of woe.
Thrilled with his Arab blood
He raced along; and thus to fancy's ear
He prattled on: "O mother, do not weep!
The Princess Sarah cannot chide us now.
We're free! I love the wilderness! I love
The earth and sky! Look at those birds,
Far as the fleecy clouds! And here
|
Are flowers with which to wreathe my bow.
With it I'll bring thee deer and fowl to dress,
When by and by we reach a babbling stream
Where we may safely dwell."
On, still on,
Through arid plains, with blistering feet,
Beneath a burning sky, they toil along.
The lad no longer talks of birds and flowers,
But begs for water water just to cool
His parching throat; and likely 'twas that when
Noon's shadows mirrored the encircling hills,
He saw the empty flask, and must at last
Have fainted on the scorching sand.
We read
That Hagar cast him 'neath a shrub, and then,
Withdrawing quite a space, she prayed, "O God,
Let me not see his death!" and so sank down
Upon the ground to watch him where he lay,
And wept such tears as touched the world on high
With sympathy divine. God heard the lad,
And from his radiant home an angel spake:
"What aileth thee, O Hagar? Rise and take
The lad, and stand him on his feet. I'll make
Of him a nation great." Her eyes were opened;
And she saw a well, from which with joyful haste
She filled her flask and gave the weakling lad
A draught which gave him back to health
And life again.
Water! a type of Christ,
God's son, that whosoever will may drink
That everflowing stream of love and live
Eternally! The angel's prophecy foretold
Those countless hordes, those tented caravans,
Whose graceful steeds have plied through centuries past
Those barren, trackless wastes; some of the men
Who, Egypt-bound with spicery and balm,
Halted beside the lonely pit, and bartered there
For that young lad whose coat dyed in the blood
Of kids, made Jacob with wild agony exclaim,
"This is my Joseph's coat! He has, no doubt,
Been rent in twain by beasts!"
The wanderers soon
Lay down to rest, 'neath starry skies to wait
Another dawn, and on the mother's face
There must have been a light of joy divine;
For had she not held intercourse with Heaven?
Were not its guardian bands around them then
In desert weird and wild?
Ye weary souls,
Tired travelers on the sands of time,
Trust God and look to him for strength!
The angel of his word speaks faith and peace,
And presses to the thirsting lip the cup
Of immortality!
|
free_verse
|
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
|
The Master.
|
He fumbles at your spirit
As players at the keys
Before they drop full music on;
He stuns you by degrees,
Prepares your brittle substance
For the ethereal blow,
By fainter hammers, further heard,
Then nearer, then so slow
Your breath has time to straighten,
Your brain to bubble cool, --
Deals one imperial thunderbolt
That scalps your naked soul.
|
He fumbles at your spirit
As players at the keys
Before they drop full music on;
He stuns you by degrees,
|
Prepares your brittle substance
For the ethereal blow,
By fainter hammers, further heard,
Then nearer, then so slow
Your breath has time to straighten,
Your brain to bubble cool, --
Deals one imperial thunderbolt
That scalps your naked soul.
|
free_verse
|
Jonathan Swift
|
Verses On I Know Not What
|
My latest tribute here I send,
With this let your collection end.
Thus I consign you down to fame
A character to praise or blame:
And if the whole may pass for true,
Contented rest, you have your due.
Give future time the satisfaction,
To leave one handle for detraction.
|
My latest tribute here I send,
With this let your collection end.
|
Thus I consign you down to fame
A character to praise or blame:
And if the whole may pass for true,
Contented rest, you have your due.
Give future time the satisfaction,
To leave one handle for detraction.
|
octave
|
Robert Burns
|
Sketch.
|
A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,
And still his precious self his dear delight;
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets:
A man of fashion, too, he made his tour,
Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive l'amour:
So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve,
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love.
Much specious lore, but little understood;
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood:
His solid sense, by inches you must tell.
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell;
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend,
Still making work his selfish craft must mend.
|
A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,
And still his precious self his dear delight;
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets:
|
A man of fashion, too, he made his tour,
Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive l'amour:
So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve,
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love.
Much specious lore, but little understood;
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood:
His solid sense, by inches you must tell.
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell;
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend,
Still making work his selfish craft must mend.
|
sonnet
|
Robert Herrick
|
On Himself (2)
|
Live by thy Muse thou shalt, when others die,
Leaving no fame to long posterity;
When monarchies trans-shifted are, and gone,
Here shall endure thy vast dominion.
|
Live by thy Muse thou shalt, when others die,
|
Leaving no fame to long posterity;
When monarchies trans-shifted are, and gone,
Here shall endure thy vast dominion.
|
quatrain
|
Unknown
|
Courtship
|
Augustus Fitzgibbons Moran
Fell in love with Maria McCann.
With a yell and a whoop
He cleared the front stoop
Just ahead of her papa's brogan.
|
Augustus Fitzgibbons Moran
|
Fell in love with Maria McCann.
With a yell and a whoop
He cleared the front stoop
Just ahead of her papa's brogan.
|
free_verse
|
Robert Herrick
|
Upon The Same. (To The Detractor.)
|
I ask'd thee oft what poets thou hast read,
And lik'st the best. Still thou reply'st: The dead.
I shall, ere long, with green turfs cover'd be;
Then sure thou'lt like or thou wilt envy me.
|
I ask'd thee oft what poets thou hast read,
|
And lik'st the best. Still thou reply'st: The dead.
I shall, ere long, with green turfs cover'd be;
Then sure thou'lt like or thou wilt envy me.
|
quatrain
|
Algernon Charles Swinburne
|
Prologue to Doctor Faustus
|
Light, as when dawn takes wing and smites the sea,
Smote England when his day bade Marlowe be.
No fire so keen had thrilled the clouds of time
Since Dante's breath made Italy sublime.
Earth, bright with flowers whose dew shone soft as tears,
Through Chaucer cast her charm on eyes and ears:
The lustrous laughter of the love-lit earth
Rang, leapt, and lightened in his might of mirth.
Deep moonlight, hallowing all the breathless air,
Made earth and heaven for Spenser faint and fair.
But song might bid not heaven and earth be one
Till Marlowe's voice gave warning of the sun.
Thought quailed and fluttered as a wounded bird
Till passion fledged the wing of Marlowe's word.
Faith born of fear bade hope and doubt be dumb
Till Marlowe's pride bade light or darkness come.
Then first our speech was thunder: then our song
Shot lightning through the clouds that wrought us wrong.
Blind fear, whose faith feeds hell with fire, became
A moth self-shrivelled in its own blind flame.
We heard, in tune with even our seas that roll,
The speech of storm, the thunders of the soul.
Men's passions, clothed with all the woes they wrought,
Shone through the fire of man's transfiguring thought.
The thirst of knowledge, quenchless at her springs,
Ambition, fire that clasps the thrones of kings,
Love, light that makes of life one lustrous hour,
And song, the soul's chief crown and throne of power,
The hungering heart of greed and ravenous hate,
Made music high as heaven and deep as fate.
Strange pity, scarce half scornful of her tear,
In Berkeley's vaults bowed down on Edward's bier.
But higher in forceful flight of song than all
The soul of man, its own imperious thrall,
Rose, when his royal spirit of fierce desire
Made life and death for man one flame of fire.
Incarnate man, fast bound as earth and sea,
Spake, when his pride would fain set Faustus free.
Eternal beauty, strong as day and night,
Shone, when his word bade Helen back to sight.
Fear, when he bowed the soul before her spell,
Thundered and lightened through the vaults of hell.
The music known of all men's tongues that sing,
When Marlowe sang, bade love make heaven of spring;
The music none but English tongues may make,
Our own sole song, spake first when Marlowe spake;
And on his grave, though there no stone may stand,
The flower it shows was laid by Shakespeare's hand.
|
Light, as when dawn takes wing and smites the sea,
Smote England when his day bade Marlowe be.
No fire so keen had thrilled the clouds of time
Since Dante's breath made Italy sublime.
Earth, bright with flowers whose dew shone soft as tears,
Through Chaucer cast her charm on eyes and ears:
The lustrous laughter of the love-lit earth
Rang, leapt, and lightened in his might of mirth.
Deep moonlight, hallowing all the breathless air,
Made earth and heaven for Spenser faint and fair.
But song might bid not heaven and earth be one
Till Marlowe's voice gave warning of the sun.
Thought quailed and fluttered as a wounded bird
Till passion fledged the wing of Marlowe's word.
Faith born of fear bade hope and doubt be dumb
Till Marlowe's pride bade light or darkness come.
|
Then first our speech was thunder: then our song
Shot lightning through the clouds that wrought us wrong.
Blind fear, whose faith feeds hell with fire, became
A moth self-shrivelled in its own blind flame.
We heard, in tune with even our seas that roll,
The speech of storm, the thunders of the soul.
Men's passions, clothed with all the woes they wrought,
Shone through the fire of man's transfiguring thought.
The thirst of knowledge, quenchless at her springs,
Ambition, fire that clasps the thrones of kings,
Love, light that makes of life one lustrous hour,
And song, the soul's chief crown and throne of power,
The hungering heart of greed and ravenous hate,
Made music high as heaven and deep as fate.
Strange pity, scarce half scornful of her tear,
In Berkeley's vaults bowed down on Edward's bier.
But higher in forceful flight of song than all
The soul of man, its own imperious thrall,
Rose, when his royal spirit of fierce desire
Made life and death for man one flame of fire.
Incarnate man, fast bound as earth and sea,
Spake, when his pride would fain set Faustus free.
Eternal beauty, strong as day and night,
Shone, when his word bade Helen back to sight.
Fear, when he bowed the soul before her spell,
Thundered and lightened through the vaults of hell.
The music known of all men's tongues that sing,
When Marlowe sang, bade love make heaven of spring;
The music none but English tongues may make,
Our own sole song, spake first when Marlowe spake;
And on his grave, though there no stone may stand,
The flower it shows was laid by Shakespeare's hand.
|
free_verse
|
Sara Teasdale
|
It Will Not Change
|
It will not change now
After so many years;
Life has not broken it
With parting or tears;
Death will not alter it,
It will live on
In all my songs for you
When I am gone.
|
It will not change now
After so many years;
|
Life has not broken it
With parting or tears;
Death will not alter it,
It will live on
In all my songs for you
When I am gone.
|
octave
|
Edgar Allan Poe
|
Fairyland
|
Dim vales- and shadowy floods,
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over!
Huge moons there wax and wane,
Again, again, again,
Every moment of the night,
Forever changing places,
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial,
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down, still down, and down,
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain's eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be,
O'er the strange woods- o'er the sea,
Over spirits on the wing,
Over every drowsy thing,
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light,
And then, how deep!- O, deep!
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like- almost anything,
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before,
Videlicet, a tent,
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again,
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.
|
Dim vales- and shadowy floods,
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over!
Huge moons there wax and wane,
Again, again, again,
Every moment of the night,
Forever changing places,
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial,
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down, still down, and down,
|
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain's eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be,
O'er the strange woods- o'er the sea,
Over spirits on the wing,
Over every drowsy thing,
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light,
And then, how deep!- O, deep!
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like- almost anything,
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before,
Videlicet, a tent,
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again,
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.
|
free_verse
|
George William Russell
|
The Enchantment of Cuchullain
|
While our vision, backward cast,
Ranged the everliving past,
Through a haze of misty things--
Luminous with quiverings
Musical as starry chimes--
Rose a hero of old times,
In whose breast the magic powers
Slumbering from primeval hours,
Woke at the enchantment wild
Of Aed Abrait's lovely child;
Still for all her Druid learning
With the wild-bird heart, whose yearning
Blinded at his strength and beauty,
Clung to love and laughed at duty.
Warrior chief, and mystic maid,
Through your stumbling footsteps strayed,
This at least in part atones--
Jewels were your stumbling-stones!
|
While our vision, backward cast,
Ranged the everliving past,
Through a haze of misty things--
Luminous with quiverings
Musical as starry chimes--
Rose a hero of old times,
|
In whose breast the magic powers
Slumbering from primeval hours,
Woke at the enchantment wild
Of Aed Abrait's lovely child;
Still for all her Druid learning
With the wild-bird heart, whose yearning
Blinded at his strength and beauty,
Clung to love and laughed at duty.
Warrior chief, and mystic maid,
Through your stumbling footsteps strayed,
This at least in part atones--
Jewels were your stumbling-stones!
|
free_verse
|
George MacDonald
|
Sonnet. About Jesus. XI.
|
The eye was shut in men; the hearing ear
Dull unto deafness; nought but earthly things
Had credence; and no highest art that flings
A spirit radiance from it, like the spear
Of the ice-pointed mountain, lifted clear
In the nigh sunrise, had made skyey springs
Of light in the clouds of dull imaginings:
Vain were the painter or the sculptor here.
Give man the listening heart, the seeing eye;
Give life; let sea-derived fountain well,
Within his spirit, infant waves, to tell
Of the far ocean-mysteries that lie
Silent upon the horizon,--evermore
Falling in voices on the human shore.
|
The eye was shut in men; the hearing ear
Dull unto deafness; nought but earthly things
Had credence; and no highest art that flings
A spirit radiance from it, like the spear
|
Of the ice-pointed mountain, lifted clear
In the nigh sunrise, had made skyey springs
Of light in the clouds of dull imaginings:
Vain were the painter or the sculptor here.
Give man the listening heart, the seeing eye;
Give life; let sea-derived fountain well,
Within his spirit, infant waves, to tell
Of the far ocean-mysteries that lie
Silent upon the horizon,--evermore
Falling in voices on the human shore.
|
sonnet
|
Madison Julius Cawein
|
Moths And Fireflies
|
Since Fancy taught me in her school of spells
I know her tricks--These are not moths at all,
Nor fireflies; but masking Elfland belles
Whose link-boys torch them to Titania's ball.
|
Since Fancy taught me in her school of spells
|
I know her tricks--These are not moths at all,
Nor fireflies; but masking Elfland belles
Whose link-boys torch them to Titania's ball.
|
quatrain
|
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
|
To Help Our Bleaker Parts
|
To help our bleaker parts
Salubrious hours are given,
Which if they do not fit for earth
Drill silently for heaven.
|
To help our bleaker parts
|
Salubrious hours are given,
Which if they do not fit for earth
Drill silently for heaven.
|
quatrain
|
Charles Baudelaire
|
The Way Her Silky Garments Undulate
|
The way her silky garments undulate
It seems she's dancing as she walks along,
Like serpents that the sacred charmers make
To move in rhythms of their waving wands.
Like desert sands and skies she is as well,
As unconcerned with human misery,
Like the long networks of the ocean's swells
Unfolding with insensibility.
Her polished eyes are made of charming stones,
And in her essence, where the natures mix
Of holy angel and the ancient sphinx,
Where all is lit with gold, steel, diamonds,
A useless star, it shines eternally,
The sterile woman's frigid majesty.
|
The way her silky garments undulate
It seems she's dancing as she walks along,
Like serpents that the sacred charmers make
To move in rhythms of their waving wands.
|
Like desert sands and skies she is as well,
As unconcerned with human misery,
Like the long networks of the ocean's swells
Unfolding with insensibility.
Her polished eyes are made of charming stones,
And in her essence, where the natures mix
Of holy angel and the ancient sphinx,
Where all is lit with gold, steel, diamonds,
A useless star, it shines eternally,
The sterile woman's frigid majesty.
|
sonnet
|
Horatio Alger, Jr.
|
Mrs. Merdle Ordereth The Second Course.
|
Come, John, Jane, and Susan, the soup take away,
And bring in the turbot, the sheep's head and bass;
And have you got lobster and salad to-day?
And see that the celery's all right in the glass.
Now fish--Colonel Dinewell, which fish will you try?
And how shall I dress it to suit your nice taste?
For sauce to the fish is as love to the sigh,
Imperfect, it's worthless, and both prove a waste.
|
Come, John, Jane, and Susan, the soup take away,
And bring in the turbot, the sheep's head and bass;
|
And have you got lobster and salad to-day?
And see that the celery's all right in the glass.
Now fish--Colonel Dinewell, which fish will you try?
And how shall I dress it to suit your nice taste?
For sauce to the fish is as love to the sigh,
Imperfect, it's worthless, and both prove a waste.
|
octave
|
Thomas Hardy
|
Seventy-Four And Twenty
|
Here goes a man of seventy-four,
Who sees not what life means for him,
And here another in years a score
Who reads its very figure and trim.
The one who shall walk to-day with me
Is not the youth who gazes far,
But the breezy wight who cannot see
What Earth's ingrained conditions are.
|
Here goes a man of seventy-four,
Who sees not what life means for him,
|
And here another in years a score
Who reads its very figure and trim.
The one who shall walk to-day with me
Is not the youth who gazes far,
But the breezy wight who cannot see
What Earth's ingrained conditions are.
|
octave
|
William Lisle Bowles
|
Associations
|
As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds,
Still on that vision which is flown I dwell,
On images I loved, alas, too well!
Now past, and but remembered like sweet sounds
Of yesterday! Yet in my breast I keep
Such recollections, painful though they seem,
And hours of joy retrace, till from my dream
I start, and find them not; then I could weep
To think how Fortune blights the fairest flowers;
To think how soon life's first endearments fail,
And we are still misled by Hope's smooth tale,
Who, like a flatterer, when the happiest hours
Pass, and when most we call on her to stay,
Will fly, as faithless and as fleet as they!
|
As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds,
Still on that vision which is flown I dwell,
On images I loved, alas, too well!
Now past, and but remembered like sweet sounds
|
Of yesterday! Yet in my breast I keep
Such recollections, painful though they seem,
And hours of joy retrace, till from my dream
I start, and find them not; then I could weep
To think how Fortune blights the fairest flowers;
To think how soon life's first endearments fail,
And we are still misled by Hope's smooth tale,
Who, like a flatterer, when the happiest hours
Pass, and when most we call on her to stay,
Will fly, as faithless and as fleet as they!
|
sonnet
|
Vachel Lindsay
|
Parvenu
|
Where does Cinderella sleep?
By far-off day-dream river.
A secret place her burning Prince
Decks, while his heart-strings quiver.
Homesick for our cinder world,
Her low-born shoulders shiver;
She longs for sleep in cinders curled -
We, for the day-dream river.
|
Where does Cinderella sleep?
By far-off day-dream river.
|
A secret place her burning Prince
Decks, while his heart-strings quiver.
Homesick for our cinder world,
Her low-born shoulders shiver;
She longs for sleep in cinders curled -
We, for the day-dream river.
|
octave
|
John Le Gay Brereton
|
The Power Of Hell
|
'There is no place,' he said,
'For love or pity here;
We dread and only dread
The moods that once were dear.
'We break the ancient spell,
And arm to take our part
Against the power of Hell.'
And Hell was in his heart.
|
'There is no place,' he said,
'For love or pity here;
|
We dread and only dread
The moods that once were dear.
'We break the ancient spell,
And arm to take our part
Against the power of Hell.'
And Hell was in his heart.
|
octave
|
Unknown
|
Nursery Rhyme. DVII. Natural History.
|
"What do they call you?"
"Patchy Dolly."
"Where were you born?"
"In the cow's horn."
"Where were you bred?"
"In the cow's head."
"Where will you die?"
"In the cow's eye."
|
"What do they call you?"
"Patchy Dolly."
|
"Where were you born?"
"In the cow's horn."
"Where were you bred?"
"In the cow's head."
"Where will you die?"
"In the cow's eye."
|
octave
|
Thomas Moore
|
The Fudges In England. Letter VII. From Miss Fanny Fudge, To Her Cousin, Miss Kitty ----.
|
IRREGULAR ODE.
Bring me the slumbering souls of flowers,
While yet, beneath some northern sky,
Ungilt by beams, ungemmed by showers,
They wait the breath of summer hours,
To wake to light each diamond eye,
And let loose every florid sigh!
Bring me the first-born ocean waves,
From out those deep primeval caves,
Where from the dawn of Time they've lain--
THE EMBRYOS OF A FUTURE MAIN!--
Untaught as yet, young things, to speak
The language of their PARENT SEA
(Polyphlysbaean named, in Greek),
Tho' soon, too soon, in bay and creek,
Round startled isle and wondering peak,
They'll thunder loud and long as HE!
Bring me, from Hecla's iced abode,
Young fires--
I had got, dear, thus far in my ODE
Intending to fill the whole page to the bottom,
But, having invoked such a lot of fine things,
Flowers, billows and thunderbolts, rainbows and wings,
Didn't know what to do with 'em, when I had got 'em.
The truth is, my thoughts are too full, at this minute,
Of Past MSS. any new ones to try.
This very night's coach brings my destiny in it--
Decides the great question, to live or to die!
And, whether I'm henceforth immortal or no,
All depends on the answer of Simpkins and Co.!
You'll think, love, I rave, so 'tis best to let out
The whole secret, at once--I have publisht a book!!!
Yes, an actual Book:--if the marvel you doubt,
You have only in last Monday's Courier to look,
And you'll find "This day publisht by Simpkins and Co.
A Romaunt, in twelve Cantos, entitled 'Woe Woe!'
By Miss Fanny F----, known more commonly so [symbol: hand]."
This I put that my friends mayn't be left in the dark
But may guess at my writing by knowing my mark.
How I managed, at last, this great deed to achieve,
Is itself a "Romaunt" which you'd scarce, dear believe;
Nor can I just now, being all in a whirl,
Looking out for the Magnet,[1] explain it, dear girl.
Suffice it to say, that one half the expense
Of this leasehold of fame for long centuries hence--
(Tho' "God knows," as aunt says my humble ambition
Aspires not beyond a small Second Edition)--
One half the whole cost of the paper and printing,
I've managed, to scrape up, this year past, by stinting
My own little wants in gloves, ribands, and shoes,
Thus defrauding the toilet to fit out the Muse!
And who, my dear Kitty; would not do the same?
What's eau de Cologne to the sweet breath of fame?
Yards of riband soon end--but the measures of rhyme,
Dipt in hues of the rainbow, stretch out thro' all time.
Gloves languish and fade away pair after pair,
While couplets shine out, but the brighter for wear,
And the dancing-shoe's gloss in an evening is gone,
While light-footed lyrics thro' ages trip on.
The remaining expense, trouble, risk--and, alas!
My poor copyright too--into other hands pass;
And my friend, the Head Devil of the "County Gazette"
(The only Mecaenas I've ever had yet),
He who set up in type my first juvenile lays,
Is now see up by them for the rest of his days;
And while Gods (as my "Heathen Mythology" says)
Live on naught but ambrosia, his lot how much sweeter
To live, lucky devil, on a young lady's metre!
As for puffing--that first of all literary boons,
And essential alike both to bards and balloons,
As, unless well supplied with inflation, 'tis found
Neither bards nor balloons budge an inch from the ground;--
In this respect, naught could more prosperous befall;
As my friend (for no less this kind imp can I call)
Knows the whole would of critics--the hypers and all.
I suspect he himself, indeed, dabbles in rhyme,
Which, for imps diabolic, is not the first time;
As I've heard uncle Bob say, 'twas known among Gnostics,
That the Devil on Two Sticks was a devil at Acrostics.
But hark! there's the Magnet just dasht in from Town--
How my heart, Kitty, beats! I shall surely drop down.
That awful Court Journal, Gazette Athenaeum,
All full of my book--I shall sink when I see 'em.
And then the great point--whether Simpkins and Co.
Are actually pleased with their bargain or no!--
Five o'clock.
All's delightful--such praises!--I really fear
That this poor little head will turn giddy, my dear,
I've but time now to send you two exquisite scraps--
All the rest by the Magnet, on Monday, perhaps.
FROM THE "MORNING POST."
'Tis known that a certain distinguisht physician
Prescribes, for dyspepsia, a course of light reading;
And Rhymes by young Ladies, the first, fresh edition
(Ere critics have injured their powers of nutrition,)
Are he thinks, for weak stomachs, the best sort of feeding.
Satires irritate--love-songs are found calorific;
But smooth, female sonnets he deems a specific,
And, if taken at bedtime, a sure soporific.
Among works of this kind, the most pleasing we know,
Is a volume just published by Simpkins and Co.,
Where all such ingredients--the flowery, the sweet,
And the gently narcotic--are mixt per receipt,
With a hand so judicious, we've no hesitation
To say that--'bove all, for the young generation--
'Tis an elegant, soothing and safe preparation.
Nota bene--for readers, whose object's to sleep,
And who read, in their nightcaps, the publishers keep
Good fire-proof binding, which comes very cheap.
ANECDOTE--FROM THE "COURT JOURNAL."
T' other night, at the Countess of ***'s rout,
An amusing event was much whispered about.
It was said that Lord ---, at the Council, that day,
Had, move than once, jumpt from his seat, like a rocket,
And flown to a corner, where--heedless, they say,
How the country's resources were squandered away--
He kept reading some papers he'd brought in his pocket.
Some thought them despatches from Spain or the Turk,
Others swore they brought word we had lost the Mauritius;
But it turned out 'twas only Miss Fudge's new work,
Which his Lordship devoured with such zeal expeditious--
Messrs. Simpkins and Co., to avoid all delay,
Having sent it in sheets, that his Lordship might say,
He had distanced the whole reading world by a day!
|
IRREGULAR ODE.
Bring me the slumbering souls of flowers,
While yet, beneath some northern sky,
Ungilt by beams, ungemmed by showers,
They wait the breath of summer hours,
To wake to light each diamond eye,
And let loose every florid sigh!
Bring me the first-born ocean waves,
From out those deep primeval caves,
Where from the dawn of Time they've lain--
THE EMBRYOS OF A FUTURE MAIN!--
Untaught as yet, young things, to speak
The language of their PARENT SEA
(Polyphlysbaean named, in Greek),
Tho' soon, too soon, in bay and creek,
Round startled isle and wondering peak,
They'll thunder loud and long as HE!
Bring me, from Hecla's iced abode,
Young fires--
I had got, dear, thus far in my ODE
Intending to fill the whole page to the bottom,
But, having invoked such a lot of fine things,
Flowers, billows and thunderbolts, rainbows and wings,
Didn't know what to do with 'em, when I had got 'em.
The truth is, my thoughts are too full, at this minute,
Of Past MSS. any new ones to try.
This very night's coach brings my destiny in it--
Decides the great question, to live or to die!
And, whether I'm henceforth immortal or no,
All depends on the answer of Simpkins and Co.!
You'll think, love, I rave, so 'tis best to let out
The whole secret, at once--I have publisht a book!!!
Yes, an actual Book:--if the marvel you doubt,
You have only in last Monday's Courier to look,
And you'll find "This day publisht by Simpkins and Co.
A Romaunt, in twelve Cantos, entitled 'Woe Woe!'
By Miss Fanny F----, known more commonly so [symbol: hand]."
This I put that my friends mayn't be left in the dark
But may guess at my writing by knowing my mark.
How I managed, at last, this great deed to achieve,
Is itself a "Romaunt" which you'd scarce, dear believe;
|
Nor can I just now, being all in a whirl,
Looking out for the Magnet,[1] explain it, dear girl.
Suffice it to say, that one half the expense
Of this leasehold of fame for long centuries hence--
(Tho' "God knows," as aunt says my humble ambition
Aspires not beyond a small Second Edition)--
One half the whole cost of the paper and printing,
I've managed, to scrape up, this year past, by stinting
My own little wants in gloves, ribands, and shoes,
Thus defrauding the toilet to fit out the Muse!
And who, my dear Kitty; would not do the same?
What's eau de Cologne to the sweet breath of fame?
Yards of riband soon end--but the measures of rhyme,
Dipt in hues of the rainbow, stretch out thro' all time.
Gloves languish and fade away pair after pair,
While couplets shine out, but the brighter for wear,
And the dancing-shoe's gloss in an evening is gone,
While light-footed lyrics thro' ages trip on.
The remaining expense, trouble, risk--and, alas!
My poor copyright too--into other hands pass;
And my friend, the Head Devil of the "County Gazette"
(The only Mecaenas I've ever had yet),
He who set up in type my first juvenile lays,
Is now see up by them for the rest of his days;
And while Gods (as my "Heathen Mythology" says)
Live on naught but ambrosia, his lot how much sweeter
To live, lucky devil, on a young lady's metre!
As for puffing--that first of all literary boons,
And essential alike both to bards and balloons,
As, unless well supplied with inflation, 'tis found
Neither bards nor balloons budge an inch from the ground;--
In this respect, naught could more prosperous befall;
As my friend (for no less this kind imp can I call)
Knows the whole would of critics--the hypers and all.
I suspect he himself, indeed, dabbles in rhyme,
Which, for imps diabolic, is not the first time;
As I've heard uncle Bob say, 'twas known among Gnostics,
That the Devil on Two Sticks was a devil at Acrostics.
But hark! there's the Magnet just dasht in from Town--
How my heart, Kitty, beats! I shall surely drop down.
That awful Court Journal, Gazette Athenaeum,
All full of my book--I shall sink when I see 'em.
And then the great point--whether Simpkins and Co.
Are actually pleased with their bargain or no!--
Five o'clock.
All's delightful--such praises!--I really fear
That this poor little head will turn giddy, my dear,
I've but time now to send you two exquisite scraps--
All the rest by the Magnet, on Monday, perhaps.
FROM THE "MORNING POST."
'Tis known that a certain distinguisht physician
Prescribes, for dyspepsia, a course of light reading;
And Rhymes by young Ladies, the first, fresh edition
(Ere critics have injured their powers of nutrition,)
Are he thinks, for weak stomachs, the best sort of feeding.
Satires irritate--love-songs are found calorific;
But smooth, female sonnets he deems a specific,
And, if taken at bedtime, a sure soporific.
Among works of this kind, the most pleasing we know,
Is a volume just published by Simpkins and Co.,
Where all such ingredients--the flowery, the sweet,
And the gently narcotic--are mixt per receipt,
With a hand so judicious, we've no hesitation
To say that--'bove all, for the young generation--
'Tis an elegant, soothing and safe preparation.
Nota bene--for readers, whose object's to sleep,
And who read, in their nightcaps, the publishers keep
Good fire-proof binding, which comes very cheap.
ANECDOTE--FROM THE "COURT JOURNAL."
T' other night, at the Countess of ***'s rout,
An amusing event was much whispered about.
It was said that Lord ---, at the Council, that day,
Had, move than once, jumpt from his seat, like a rocket,
And flown to a corner, where--heedless, they say,
How the country's resources were squandered away--
He kept reading some papers he'd brought in his pocket.
Some thought them despatches from Spain or the Turk,
Others swore they brought word we had lost the Mauritius;
But it turned out 'twas only Miss Fudge's new work,
Which his Lordship devoured with such zeal expeditious--
Messrs. Simpkins and Co., to avoid all delay,
Having sent it in sheets, that his Lordship might say,
He had distanced the whole reading world by a day!
|
free_verse
|
Robert Herrick
|
Felicity Knows No Fence.
|
Of both our fortunes good and bad we find
Prosperity more searching of the mind:
Felicity flies o'er the wall and fence,
While misery keeps in with patience.
|
Of both our fortunes good and bad we find
|
Prosperity more searching of the mind:
Felicity flies o'er the wall and fence,
While misery keeps in with patience.
|
quatrain
|
Robert Herrick
|
To The Water-nymphs Drinking At The Fountain
|
Reach with your whiter hands to me
Some crystal of the spring;
And I about the cup shall see
Fresh lilies flourishing.
Or else, sweet nymphs, do you but this
To th' glass your lips incline;
And I shall see by that one kiss
The water turn'd to wine.
|
Reach with your whiter hands to me
Some crystal of the spring;
|
And I about the cup shall see
Fresh lilies flourishing.
Or else, sweet nymphs, do you but this
To th' glass your lips incline;
And I shall see by that one kiss
The water turn'd to wine.
|
octave
|
Unknown
|
Nursery Rhyme. DCLIX. Relics.
|
How do you do, neighbour?
Neighbour, how do you do?
I am pretty well,
And how does Cousin Sue do?
She's pretty well,
And sends her duty to you,
So does bonnie Nell.
Good lack, how does she do?
|
How do you do, neighbour?
Neighbour, how do you do?
|
I am pretty well,
And how does Cousin Sue do?
She's pretty well,
And sends her duty to you,
So does bonnie Nell.
Good lack, how does she do?
|
octave
|
Unknown
|
Nursery Rhyme. CCXCVIII. Games.
|
Ride a cock-horse to Banbury-cross,
To buy little Johnny a galloping-horse;
It trots behind, and it ambles before,
And Johnny shall ride till he can ride no more.
|
Ride a cock-horse to Banbury-cross,
|
To buy little Johnny a galloping-horse;
It trots behind, and it ambles before,
And Johnny shall ride till he can ride no more.
|
quatrain
|
Louisa May Alcott
|
And If Your Nancy Frowns, My Lad
|
'"And if your Nancy frowns, my lad,
And scorns a jacket blue,
Just hoist your sails for other ports,
And find a maid more true."'
|
'"And if your Nancy frowns, my lad,
|
And scorns a jacket blue,
Just hoist your sails for other ports,
And find a maid more true."'
|
quatrain
|
William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)
|
Cup Of Mixture
|
For every Guest who comes with him to sup,
The Host compounds a strangely mingled cup;--
Red Wine of Life and Dregs of Bitterness,
And, will-he, nil-he, each must drink it up.
|
For every Guest who comes with him to sup,
|
The Host compounds a strangely mingled cup;--
Red Wine of Life and Dregs of Bitterness,
And, will-he, nil-he, each must drink it up.
|
quatrain
|
Victor-Marie Hugo
|
Early Love Revisited.
|
("O douleur! j'ai voulu savoir.")
[XXXIV. i., October, 183-.]
I have wished in the grief of my heart to know
If the vase yet treasured that nectar so clear,
And to see what this beautiful valley could show
Of all that was once to my soul most dear.
In how short a span doth all Nature change,
How quickly she smoothes with her hand serene -
And how rarely she snaps, in her ceaseless range,
The links that bound our hearts to the scene.
Our beautiful bowers are all laid waste;
The fir is felled that our names once bore;
Our rows of roses, by urchins' haste,
Are destroyed where they leap the barrier o'er.
The fount is walled in where, at noonday pride,
She so gayly drank, from the wood descending;
In her fairy hand was transformed the tide,
And it turned to pearls through her fingers wending
The wild, rugged path is paved with spars,
Where erst in the sand her footsteps were traced,
When so small were the prints that the surface mars,
That they seemed to smile ere by mine effaced.
The bank on the side of the road, day by day,
Where of old she awaited my loved approach,
Is now become the traveller's way
To avoid the track of the thundering coach.
Here the forest contracts, there the mead extends,
Of all that was ours, there is little left -
Like the ashes that wildly are whisked by winds,
Of all souvenirs is the place bereft.
Do we live no more - is our hour then gone?
Will it give back naught to our hungry cry?
The breeze answers my call with a mocking tone,
The house that was mine makes no reply.
True! others shall pass, as we have passed,
As we have come, so others shall meet,
And the dream that our mind had sketched in haste,
Shall others continue, but never complete.
For none upon earth can achieve his scheme,
The best as the worst are futile here:
We awake at the selfsame point cf the dream -
All is here begun, and finished elsewhere.
Yes! others shall come in the bloom of the heart,
To enjoy in this pure and happy retreat,
All that nature to timid love can impart
Of solemn repose and communion sweet.
In our fields, in our paths, shall strangers stray,
In thy wood, my dearest, new lovers go lost,
And other fair forms in the stream shall play
Which of old thy delicate feet have crossed.
Author of "Critical Essays."
|
("O douleur! j'ai voulu savoir.")
[XXXIV. i., October, 183-.]
I have wished in the grief of my heart to know
If the vase yet treasured that nectar so clear,
And to see what this beautiful valley could show
Of all that was once to my soul most dear.
In how short a span doth all Nature change,
How quickly she smoothes with her hand serene -
And how rarely she snaps, in her ceaseless range,
The links that bound our hearts to the scene.
Our beautiful bowers are all laid waste;
The fir is felled that our names once bore;
Our rows of roses, by urchins' haste,
Are destroyed where they leap the barrier o'er.
The fount is walled in where, at noonday pride,
She so gayly drank, from the wood descending;
In her fairy hand was transformed the tide,
|
And it turned to pearls through her fingers wending
The wild, rugged path is paved with spars,
Where erst in the sand her footsteps were traced,
When so small were the prints that the surface mars,
That they seemed to smile ere by mine effaced.
The bank on the side of the road, day by day,
Where of old she awaited my loved approach,
Is now become the traveller's way
To avoid the track of the thundering coach.
Here the forest contracts, there the mead extends,
Of all that was ours, there is little left -
Like the ashes that wildly are whisked by winds,
Of all souvenirs is the place bereft.
Do we live no more - is our hour then gone?
Will it give back naught to our hungry cry?
The breeze answers my call with a mocking tone,
The house that was mine makes no reply.
True! others shall pass, as we have passed,
As we have come, so others shall meet,
And the dream that our mind had sketched in haste,
Shall others continue, but never complete.
For none upon earth can achieve his scheme,
The best as the worst are futile here:
We awake at the selfsame point cf the dream -
All is here begun, and finished elsewhere.
Yes! others shall come in the bloom of the heart,
To enjoy in this pure and happy retreat,
All that nature to timid love can impart
Of solemn repose and communion sweet.
In our fields, in our paths, shall strangers stray,
In thy wood, my dearest, new lovers go lost,
And other fair forms in the stream shall play
Which of old thy delicate feet have crossed.
Author of "Critical Essays."
|
free_verse
|
Henry Kendall
|
Sedan
|
Another battle! and the sounds have rolled
By many a gloomy gorge and wasted plain
O'er huddled hills and mountains manifold,
Like winds that run before a heavy rain
When Autumn lops the leaves and drooping grain,
And earth lies deep in brown and cloudy gold.
My brothers, lo! our grand old England stands,
With weapons gleaming in her ready hands,
Outside the tumult! Let us watch and trust
That she will never darken in the dust
And drift of wild contention, but remain
The hope and stay of many troubled lands,
Where so she waits the issue of the fight,
Aloof; but praying 'God defend the Right!'
|
Another battle! and the sounds have rolled
By many a gloomy gorge and wasted plain
O'er huddled hills and mountains manifold,
Like winds that run before a heavy rain
|
When Autumn lops the leaves and drooping grain,
And earth lies deep in brown and cloudy gold.
My brothers, lo! our grand old England stands,
With weapons gleaming in her ready hands,
Outside the tumult! Let us watch and trust
That she will never darken in the dust
And drift of wild contention, but remain
The hope and stay of many troubled lands,
Where so she waits the issue of the fight,
Aloof; but praying 'God defend the Right!'
|
sonnet
|
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
|
A Book.
|
He ate and drank the precious words,
His spirit grew robust;
He knew no more that he was poor,
Nor that his frame was dust.
He danced along the dingy days,
And this bequest of wings
Was but a book. What liberty
A loosened spirit brings!
|
He ate and drank the precious words,
His spirit grew robust;
|
He knew no more that he was poor,
Nor that his frame was dust.
He danced along the dingy days,
And this bequest of wings
Was but a book. What liberty
A loosened spirit brings!
|
octave
|
A. H. Laidlaw
|
The Young Vets.
|
We all know the face of the chap who can tell
How he led the victorious van,
Through whose terrible yell all the enemy fell
Or fled from this murderous man.
We all know the pate of the chap who was late,
Too late for a wound or a scar,
A year or two late for a soldierly fate,
And twenty too late for the war.
We all know the voice of Goliah the Great,
Who never smelt powder, you know,
Who came to the field of battle too late
To give little David a show.
We all know the tale of the chap who delights
To tell all the girls he can find
Of the terrible sights, of the feuds and the fights,
That he fought in the depths of his mind.
On a Century Map, we all know the chap
Who can trace his proud place without fear,
Who claims the drum-tap found him first in the gap,
Though he skulked forty miles in the rear.
|
We all know the face of the chap who can tell
How he led the victorious van,
Through whose terrible yell all the enemy fell
Or fled from this murderous man.
We all know the pate of the chap who was late,
Too late for a wound or a scar,
|
A year or two late for a soldierly fate,
And twenty too late for the war.
We all know the voice of Goliah the Great,
Who never smelt powder, you know,
Who came to the field of battle too late
To give little David a show.
We all know the tale of the chap who delights
To tell all the girls he can find
Of the terrible sights, of the feuds and the fights,
That he fought in the depths of his mind.
On a Century Map, we all know the chap
Who can trace his proud place without fear,
Who claims the drum-tap found him first in the gap,
Though he skulked forty miles in the rear.
|
free_verse
|
Robert Herrick
|
Vow To Venus
|
Happily I had a sight
Of my dearest dear last night;
Make her this day smile on me,
And I'll roses give to thee!
|
Happily I had a sight
|
Of my dearest dear last night;
Make her this day smile on me,
And I'll roses give to thee!
|
quatrain
|
Unknown
|
Nursery Rhyme. DXVIII. Natural History.
|
When the snow is on the ground,
Little Robin Red-breast grieves;
For no berries can be found,
And on the trees there are no leaves.
The air is cold, the worms are hid,
For this poor bird what can be done?
We'll strew him here some crumbs of bread,
And then he'll live till the snow is gone.
|
When the snow is on the ground,
Little Robin Red-breast grieves;
|
For no berries can be found,
And on the trees there are no leaves.
The air is cold, the worms are hid,
For this poor bird what can be done?
We'll strew him here some crumbs of bread,
And then he'll live till the snow is gone.
|
octave
|
Robert Herrick
|
Meat Without Mirth.
|
Eaten I have; and though I had good cheer,
I did not sup, because no friends were there.
Where mirth and friends are absent when we dine
Or sup, there wants the incense and the wine.
|
Eaten I have; and though I had good cheer,
|
I did not sup, because no friends were there.
Where mirth and friends are absent when we dine
Or sup, there wants the incense and the wine.
|
quatrain
|
Edgar Allan Poe
|
Alone
|
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were, I have not seen
As others saw, I could not bring
My passions from a common spring,
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow, I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone,
And all I loved, I loved alone,
Thou,in my childhood,in the dawn
Of a most stormy life,was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still,
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
|
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were, I have not seen
As others saw, I could not bring
My passions from a common spring,
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow, I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone,
|
And all I loved, I loved alone,
Thou,in my childhood,in the dawn
Of a most stormy life,was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still,
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
|
free_verse
|
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