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Robert Herrick
|
Lip-Labour.
|
In the old Scripture I have often read,
The calf without meal ne'er was offered;
To figure to us nothing more than this,
Without the heart lip-labour nothing is.
|
In the old Scripture I have often read,
|
The calf without meal ne'er was offered;
To figure to us nothing more than this,
Without the heart lip-labour nothing is.
|
quatrain
|
Robert Herrick
|
Pray And Prosper
|
First offer incense; then, thy field and meads
Shall smile and smell the better by thy beads.
The spangling dew dredged o'er the grass shall be
Turn'd all to mell and manna there for thee.
Butter of amber, cream, and wine, and oil,
Shall run as rivers all throughout thy soil.
Would'st thou to sincere silver turn thy mould?
Pray once, twice pray; and turn thy ground to gold.
|
First offer incense; then, thy field and meads
Shall smile and smell the better by thy beads.
|
The spangling dew dredged o'er the grass shall be
Turn'd all to mell and manna there for thee.
Butter of amber, cream, and wine, and oil,
Shall run as rivers all throughout thy soil.
Would'st thou to sincere silver turn thy mould?
Pray once, twice pray; and turn thy ground to gold.
|
octave
|
William Wordsworth
|
When Philoctetes In The Lemnian Isle
|
When Philoctetes in the Lemnian isle
Like a form sculptured on a monument
Lay couched; on him or his dread bow unbent
Some wild Bird oft might settle and beguile
The rigid features of a transient smile,
Disperse the tear, or to the sigh give vent,
Slackening the pains of ruthless banishment
From his loved home, and from heroic toil.
And trust that spiritual Creatures round us move,
Griefs to allay which Reason cannot heal;
Yea, veriest reptiles have sufficed to prove
To fettered wretchedness, that no Bastile
Is deep enough to exclude the light of love,
Though man for brother man has ceased to feel.
|
When Philoctetes in the Lemnian isle
Like a form sculptured on a monument
Lay couched; on him or his dread bow unbent
Some wild Bird oft might settle and beguile
|
The rigid features of a transient smile,
Disperse the tear, or to the sigh give vent,
Slackening the pains of ruthless banishment
From his loved home, and from heroic toil.
And trust that spiritual Creatures round us move,
Griefs to allay which Reason cannot heal;
Yea, veriest reptiles have sufficed to prove
To fettered wretchedness, that no Bastile
Is deep enough to exclude the light of love,
Though man for brother man has ceased to feel.
|
sonnet
|
Unknown
|
Nursery Rhyme. CCCXCI. Lullabies.
|
Rock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green;
Father's a nobleman, mother's a queen;
And Betty's a lady, and wears a gold ring;
And Johnny's a drummer, and drums for the king.
|
Rock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green;
|
Father's a nobleman, mother's a queen;
And Betty's a lady, and wears a gold ring;
And Johnny's a drummer, and drums for the king.
|
quatrain
|
Charles Baudelaire
|
N'est ce pas qu'il est doux
|
Is it not pleasant, now we are tired,
and tarnished, like other men, to search for those fires
in the furthest East, where, again, we might see
morning's new dawn, and, in mad history,
hear the echoes, that vanish behind us, the sighs
of the young loves, God gives, at the start of our lives?
|
Is it not pleasant, now we are tired,
and tarnished, like other men, to search for those fires
|
in the furthest East, where, again, we might see
morning's new dawn, and, in mad history,
hear the echoes, that vanish behind us, the sighs
of the young loves, God gives, at the start of our lives?
|
free_verse
|
Robert Herrick
|
Upon Comely, A Good Speaker But An Ill Singer. Epig.
|
Comely acts well; and when he speaks his part,
He doth it with the sweetest tones of art:
But when he sings a psalm, there's none can be
More curs'd for singing out of tune than he.
|
Comely acts well; and when he speaks his part,
|
He doth it with the sweetest tones of art:
But when he sings a psalm, there's none can be
More curs'd for singing out of tune than he.
|
quatrain
|
Henry Kendall
|
A Mountain Spring
|
Peace hath an altar there. The sounding feet
Of thunder and the 'wildering wings of rain
Against fire-rifted summits flash and beat,
And through grey upper gorges swoop and strain;
But round that hallowed mountain-spring remain,
Year after year, the days of tender heat,
And gracious nights, whose lips with flowers are sweet,
And filtered lights, and lutes of soft refrain.
A still, bright pool. To men I may not tell
The secret that its heart of water knows,
The story of a loved and lost repose;
Yet this I say to cliff and close-leaved dell:
A fitful spirit haunts yon limpid well,
Whose likeness is the faithless face of Rose.
|
Peace hath an altar there. The sounding feet
Of thunder and the 'wildering wings of rain
Against fire-rifted summits flash and beat,
And through grey upper gorges swoop and strain;
|
But round that hallowed mountain-spring remain,
Year after year, the days of tender heat,
And gracious nights, whose lips with flowers are sweet,
And filtered lights, and lutes of soft refrain.
A still, bright pool. To men I may not tell
The secret that its heart of water knows,
The story of a loved and lost repose;
Yet this I say to cliff and close-leaved dell:
A fitful spirit haunts yon limpid well,
Whose likeness is the faithless face of Rose.
|
sonnet
|
William Wordsworth
|
Picture Of Daniel In The Lions' Den, At Hamilton Palace
|
Amid a fertile region green with wood
And fresh with rivers, well did it become
The ducal Owner, in his palace-home
To naturalise this tawny Lion brood;
Children of Art, that claim strange brotherhood
(Couched in their den) with those that roam at large
Over the burning wilderness, and charge
The wind with terror while they roar for food.
Satiate are 'these'; and stilled to eye and ear;
Hence, while we gaze, a more enduring fear!
Yet is the Prophet calm, nor would the cave
Daunt him, if his Companions, now bedrowsed
Outstretched and listless, were by hunger roused:
Man placed him here, and God, he knows, can save.
|
Amid a fertile region green with wood
And fresh with rivers, well did it become
The ducal Owner, in his palace-home
To naturalise this tawny Lion brood;
|
Children of Art, that claim strange brotherhood
(Couched in their den) with those that roam at large
Over the burning wilderness, and charge
The wind with terror while they roar for food.
Satiate are 'these'; and stilled to eye and ear;
Hence, while we gaze, a more enduring fear!
Yet is the Prophet calm, nor would the cave
Daunt him, if his Companions, now bedrowsed
Outstretched and listless, were by hunger roused:
Man placed him here, and God, he knows, can save.
|
sonnet
|
Robert Fuller Murray
|
On An Edinburgh Advocate
|
In youth with diligence he toiled
A Roman nose to gain,
But though a decent pug was spoiled,
A pug it did remain.
|
In youth with diligence he toiled
|
A Roman nose to gain,
But though a decent pug was spoiled,
A pug it did remain.
|
quatrain
|
Jonathan Swift
|
Fabula Canis Et Umbrae
|
ORE cibum portans catulus dum spectat in undis,
Apparet liquido praedae melioris imago:
Dum speciosa diu damna admiratur, et alt'
Ad latices inhiat, cadit imo vortice praeceps
Ore cibus, nee non simulacrum corripit una.
Occupat ille avidus deceptis faucibus umbram;
Illudit species, ac dentibus a'ra mordet.
|
ORE cibum portans catulus dum spectat in undis,
Apparet liquido praedae melioris imago:
|
Dum speciosa diu damna admiratur, et alt'
Ad latices inhiat, cadit imo vortice praeceps
Ore cibus, nee non simulacrum corripit una.
Occupat ille avidus deceptis faucibus umbram;
Illudit species, ac dentibus a'ra mordet.
|
free_verse
|
Robert Herrick
|
To Mistress Dorothy Parsons.
|
If thou ask me, dear, wherefore
I do write of thee no more,
I must answer, sweet, thy part
Less is here than in my heart.
|
If thou ask me, dear, wherefore
|
I do write of thee no more,
I must answer, sweet, thy part
Less is here than in my heart.
|
quatrain
|
Madison Julius Cawein
|
The Dream
|
This was my dream:
It seemed the afternoon
Of some deep tropic day; and yet the moon
Stood round and bright with golden alchemy
High in a heaven bluer than the sea.
Long lawny lengths of perishable cloud
Hung in a west o'er rolling forests bowed;
Clouds raining colours, gold and violet,
That, opening, seemed from mystic worlds to let
Hints down of Parian beauty and lost charms
Of dim immortals, young, with floating forms.
And all about me fruited orchards grew,
Pear, quince and peach, and plums of dusty blue;
Rose-apricots and apples streaked with fire,
Kissed into ripeness by the sun's desire
And big with juice. And on far, fading hills,
Down which it seemed a hundred torrent rills
Flashed rushing silver, vines and vines and vines
Of purple vintage swollen with cool wines;
Pale pleasant wines and fragrant as late June,
Their delicate tang drawn from the wine-white moon
And from the clouds o'er this sweet world there dripped
An odorous music, strangely feverish-lipped,
That swung and swooned and panted in mad sighs;
Investing at each throb the air with eyes,
And forms of sensuous spirits, limpid white,
Clad on with raiment as of starry night;
Fair, faint embodiments of melody,
From out whose hearts of crystal one could see
The music stream like light through delicate hands
Hollowing a lamp. And as on sounding sands
The ocean murmur haunts the rosy shells,
Within whose convolutions beauty dwells,
My soul became a vibrant harp of love,
Re-echoing all the harmony above.
|
This was my dream:
It seemed the afternoon
Of some deep tropic day; and yet the moon
Stood round and bright with golden alchemy
High in a heaven bluer than the sea.
Long lawny lengths of perishable cloud
Hung in a west o'er rolling forests bowed;
Clouds raining colours, gold and violet,
That, opening, seemed from mystic worlds to let
Hints down of Parian beauty and lost charms
Of dim immortals, young, with floating forms.
|
And all about me fruited orchards grew,
Pear, quince and peach, and plums of dusty blue;
Rose-apricots and apples streaked with fire,
Kissed into ripeness by the sun's desire
And big with juice. And on far, fading hills,
Down which it seemed a hundred torrent rills
Flashed rushing silver, vines and vines and vines
Of purple vintage swollen with cool wines;
Pale pleasant wines and fragrant as late June,
Their delicate tang drawn from the wine-white moon
And from the clouds o'er this sweet world there dripped
An odorous music, strangely feverish-lipped,
That swung and swooned and panted in mad sighs;
Investing at each throb the air with eyes,
And forms of sensuous spirits, limpid white,
Clad on with raiment as of starry night;
Fair, faint embodiments of melody,
From out whose hearts of crystal one could see
The music stream like light through delicate hands
Hollowing a lamp. And as on sounding sands
The ocean murmur haunts the rosy shells,
Within whose convolutions beauty dwells,
My soul became a vibrant harp of love,
Re-echoing all the harmony above.
|
free_verse
|
Robert Herrick
|
Content, Not Cates.
|
'Tis not the food, but the content
That makes the table's merriment.
Where trouble serves the board, we eat
The platters there as soon as meat.
A little pipkin with a bit
Of mutton or of veal in it,
Set on my table, trouble-free,
More than a feast contenteth me.
|
'Tis not the food, but the content
That makes the table's merriment.
|
Where trouble serves the board, we eat
The platters there as soon as meat.
A little pipkin with a bit
Of mutton or of veal in it,
Set on my table, trouble-free,
More than a feast contenteth me.
|
octave
|
John Clare
|
The Last Of April.
|
Old April wanes, and her last dewy morn
Her death-bed steeps in tears:--to hail the May
New blooming blossoms 'neath the sun are born,
And all poor April's charms are swept away.
The early primrose, peeping once so gay,
Is now chok'd up with many a mounting weed,
And the poor violet we once admir'd
Creeps in the grass unsought for--flowers succeed,
Gaudy and new, and more to be desired,
And of the old the school-boy seemeth tired.
So with us all, poor April, as with thee!
Each hath his day;--the future brings my fears:
Friends may grow weary, new flowers rising be,
And my last end, like thine, be steep'd in tears.
|
Old April wanes, and her last dewy morn
Her death-bed steeps in tears:--to hail the May
New blooming blossoms 'neath the sun are born,
And all poor April's charms are swept away.
|
The early primrose, peeping once so gay,
Is now chok'd up with many a mounting weed,
And the poor violet we once admir'd
Creeps in the grass unsought for--flowers succeed,
Gaudy and new, and more to be desired,
And of the old the school-boy seemeth tired.
So with us all, poor April, as with thee!
Each hath his day;--the future brings my fears:
Friends may grow weary, new flowers rising be,
And my last end, like thine, be steep'd in tears.
|
sonnet
|
Henry Austin Dobson
|
A Roman "Round-Robin."
|
("His Friends" To Quintus Horatius Flaccus.)
"H'c decies repetita [non] placebit."--Ars Poetica.
Flaccus, you write us charming songs:
No bard we know possesses
In such perfection what belongs
To brief and bright addresses;
No man can say that Life is short
With mien so little fretful;
No man to Virtue's paths exhort
In phrases less regretful;
Or touch, with more serene distress,
On Fortune's ways erratic;
And then delightfully digress
From Alp to Adriatic:
All this is well, no doubt, and tends
Barbarian minds to soften;
But, HORACE--we, we are your friends--
Why tell us this so often?
Why feign to spread a cheerful feast,
And then thrust in our faces
These barren scraps (to say the least)
Of Stoic common-places?
Recount, and welcome, your pursuits:
Sing Lyd''s lyre and hair;
Sing drums and Berecynthian flutes;
Sing parsley-wreaths; but spare,--
O, spare to sing, what none deny,
That things we love decay;--
That Time and Gold have wings to fly;--
That all must Fate obey!
Or bid us dine--on this day week--
And pour us, if you can,
As soft and sleek as girlish cheek,
Your inmost C'cuban;--
Of that we fear not overplus;
But your didactic 'tap'--
Forgive us!--grows monotonous;
Nunc vale! Verbum sap.
|
("His Friends" To Quintus Horatius Flaccus.)
"H'c decies repetita [non] placebit."--Ars Poetica.
Flaccus, you write us charming songs:
No bard we know possesses
In such perfection what belongs
To brief and bright addresses;
No man can say that Life is short
With mien so little fretful;
No man to Virtue's paths exhort
In phrases less regretful;
Or touch, with more serene distress,
On Fortune's ways erratic;
|
And then delightfully digress
From Alp to Adriatic:
All this is well, no doubt, and tends
Barbarian minds to soften;
But, HORACE--we, we are your friends--
Why tell us this so often?
Why feign to spread a cheerful feast,
And then thrust in our faces
These barren scraps (to say the least)
Of Stoic common-places?
Recount, and welcome, your pursuits:
Sing Lyd''s lyre and hair;
Sing drums and Berecynthian flutes;
Sing parsley-wreaths; but spare,--
O, spare to sing, what none deny,
That things we love decay;--
That Time and Gold have wings to fly;--
That all must Fate obey!
Or bid us dine--on this day week--
And pour us, if you can,
As soft and sleek as girlish cheek,
Your inmost C'cuban;--
Of that we fear not overplus;
But your didactic 'tap'--
Forgive us!--grows monotonous;
Nunc vale! Verbum sap.
|
free_verse
|
Margaret J. Preston
|
Jackson. A Sonnet.
|
Thank God for such a Hero! - Fearless hold
His diamond character beneath the sun,
And brighter scintillations, one by one,
Come flashing from it. Never knight of old
Wore on serener brow, so calm, yet bold,
Diviner courage: never martyr knew
Trust more sublime, - nor patriot, zeal more true, -
Nor saint, self-abnegation of a mould
Touched with profounder beauty. All the rare,
Clear, starry points of light, that gave his soul
Such lambent lustre, owned but one sole aim, -
Not for himself, nor yet his country's fame,
These glories shone: he kept the clustered whole
A jewel for the crown that Christ shall wear!
|
Thank God for such a Hero! - Fearless hold
His diamond character beneath the sun,
And brighter scintillations, one by one,
Come flashing from it. Never knight of old
|
Wore on serener brow, so calm, yet bold,
Diviner courage: never martyr knew
Trust more sublime, - nor patriot, zeal more true, -
Nor saint, self-abnegation of a mould
Touched with profounder beauty. All the rare,
Clear, starry points of light, that gave his soul
Such lambent lustre, owned but one sole aim, -
Not for himself, nor yet his country's fame,
These glories shone: he kept the clustered whole
A jewel for the crown that Christ shall wear!
|
sonnet
|
Bret Harte (Francis)
|
What the Chimney Sang
|
Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
And the Woman stopped, as her babe she tossed,
And thought of the one she had long since lost,
And said, as her teardrops back she forced,
'I hate the wind in the chimney.'
Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
And the Children said, as they closer drew,
''Tis some witch that is cleaving the black night through,
'Tis a fairy trumpet that just then blew,
And we fear the wind in the chimney.'
Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
And the Man, as he sat on his hearth below,
Said to himself, 'It will surely snow,
And fuel is dear and wages low,
And I'll stop the leak in the chimney.'
Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
But the Poet listened and smiled, for he
Was Man and Woman and Child, all three,
And said, 'It is God's own harmony,
This wind we hear in the chimney.'
|
Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
And the Woman stopped, as her babe she tossed,
And thought of the one she had long since lost,
And said, as her teardrops back she forced,
'I hate the wind in the chimney.'
Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
|
And the Children said, as they closer drew,
''Tis some witch that is cleaving the black night through,
'Tis a fairy trumpet that just then blew,
And we fear the wind in the chimney.'
Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
And the Man, as he sat on his hearth below,
Said to himself, 'It will surely snow,
And fuel is dear and wages low,
And I'll stop the leak in the chimney.'
Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
But the Poet listened and smiled, for he
Was Man and Woman and Child, all three,
And said, 'It is God's own harmony,
This wind we hear in the chimney.'
|
free_verse
|
Vachel Lindsay
|
Love and Law
|
True Love is founded in rocks of Remembrance
In stones of Forbearance and mortar of Pain.
The workman lays wearily granite on granite,
And bleeds for his castle 'mid sunshine and rain.
Love is not velvet, not all of it velvet,
Not all of it banners, not gold-leaf alone.
'Tis stern as the ages and old as Religion.
With Patience its watchword, and Law for its throne.
|
True Love is founded in rocks of Remembrance
In stones of Forbearance and mortar of Pain.
|
The workman lays wearily granite on granite,
And bleeds for his castle 'mid sunshine and rain.
Love is not velvet, not all of it velvet,
Not all of it banners, not gold-leaf alone.
'Tis stern as the ages and old as Religion.
With Patience its watchword, and Law for its throne.
|
octave
|
John Keats
|
Sonnet X: To One Who Has Been Long In City Pent
|
To one who has been long in city pent,
'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
And open face of heaven to breathe a prayer
Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
And gentle tale of love and languishment?
Returning home at evening, with an ear
Catching the notes of Philomel, an eye
Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,
He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
E'en like the passage of an angel's tear
That falls through the clear ether silently.
|
To one who has been long in city pent,
'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
And open face of heaven to breathe a prayer
Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
|
Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
And gentle tale of love and languishment?
Returning home at evening, with an ear
Catching the notes of Philomel, an eye
Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,
He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
E'en like the passage of an angel's tear
That falls through the clear ether silently.
|
sonnet
|
Alexander Pope
|
Epigram On The Toasts Of The Kit-Cat Club, Anno 1716.
|
Whence deathless 'Kit-cat' took its name,
Few critics can unriddle:
Some say from 'pastrycook' it came,
And some, from 'cat' and 'fiddle.'
From no trim beaux its name it boasts,
Gray statesmen, or green wits;
But from this pell-mell pack of toasts
Of old 'cats' and young 'kits.'
|
Whence deathless 'Kit-cat' took its name,
Few critics can unriddle:
|
Some say from 'pastrycook' it came,
And some, from 'cat' and 'fiddle.'
From no trim beaux its name it boasts,
Gray statesmen, or green wits;
But from this pell-mell pack of toasts
Of old 'cats' and young 'kits.'
|
octave
|
Thomas Hardy
|
Her Reproach
|
Con the dead page as 'twere live love: press on!
Cold wisdom's words will ease thy track for thee;
Aye, go; cast off sweet ways, and leave me wan
To biting blasts that are intent on me.
But if thy object Fame's far summits be,
Whose inclines many a skeleton o'erlies
That missed both dream and substance, stop and see
How absence wears these cheeks and dims these eyes!
It surely is far sweeter and more wise
To water love, than toil to leave anon
A name whose glory-gleam will but advise
Invidious minds to quench it with their own,
And over which the kindliest will but stay
A moment, musing, "He, too, had his day!"
WESTBOURNE PARK VILLAS,
1867.
|
Con the dead page as 'twere live love: press on!
Cold wisdom's words will ease thy track for thee;
Aye, go; cast off sweet ways, and leave me wan
To biting blasts that are intent on me.
But if thy object Fame's far summits be,
|
Whose inclines many a skeleton o'erlies
That missed both dream and substance, stop and see
How absence wears these cheeks and dims these eyes!
It surely is far sweeter and more wise
To water love, than toil to leave anon
A name whose glory-gleam will but advise
Invidious minds to quench it with their own,
And over which the kindliest will but stay
A moment, musing, "He, too, had his day!"
WESTBOURNE PARK VILLAS,
1867.
|
free_verse
|
James Whitcomb Riley
|
A Very Youthful Affair
|
I'm bin a-visitun 'bout a week
To my little Cousin's at Nameless Creek,
An' I'm got the hives an' a new straw hat,
An' I'm come back home where my beau lives at.
|
I'm bin a-visitun 'bout a week
|
To my little Cousin's at Nameless Creek,
An' I'm got the hives an' a new straw hat,
An' I'm come back home where my beau lives at.
|
quatrain
|
Archibald Lampman
|
The Poet's Possession
|
Think not, oh master of the well-tilled field,
This earth is only thine; for after thee,
When all is sown and gathered and put by,
Comes the grave poet with creative eye,
And from these silent acres and clean plots,
Bids with his wand the fancied after-yield,
A second tilth and second harvest, be,
The crop of images and curious thoughts.
|
Think not, oh master of the well-tilled field,
This earth is only thine; for after thee,
|
When all is sown and gathered and put by,
Comes the grave poet with creative eye,
And from these silent acres and clean plots,
Bids with his wand the fancied after-yield,
A second tilth and second harvest, be,
The crop of images and curious thoughts.
|
octave
|
William Wordsworth
|
To A Child - Written In Her Album
|
Small service is true service while it lasts:
Of humblest Friends, bright Creature! scorn not one:
The Daisy, by the shadow that it casts,
Protects the lingering dew-drop from the Sun.
|
Small service is true service while it lasts:
|
Of humblest Friends, bright Creature! scorn not one:
The Daisy, by the shadow that it casts,
Protects the lingering dew-drop from the Sun.
|
quatrain
|
Henry Kendall
|
On the Paroo
|
As when the strong stream of a wintering sea
Rolls round our coast, with bodeful breaks of storm,
And swift salt rain, and bitter wind that saith
Wild things and woeful of the White South Land
Alone with God and silence in the cold
As when this cometh, men from dripping doors
Look forth, and shudder for the mariners
Abroad, so we for absent brothers looked
In days of drought, and when the flying floods
Swept boundless; roaring down the bald, black plains
Beyond the farthest spur of western hills.
For where the Barwon cuts a rotten land,
Or lies unshaken, like a great blind creek,
Between hot mouldering banks, it came to this,
All in a time of short and thirsty sighs,
That thirty rainless months had left the pools
And grass as dry as ashes: then it was
Our kinsmen started for the lone Paroo,
From point to point, with patient strivings, sheer
Across the horrors of the windless downs,
Blue gleaming like a sea of molten steel.
But never drought had broke them: never flood
Had quenched them: they with mighty youth and health,
And thews and sinews knotted like the trees
They, like the children of the native woods,
Could stem the strenuous waters, or outlive
The crimson days and dull, dead nights of thirst
Like camels: yet of what avail was strength
Alone to them though it was like the rocks
On stormy mountains in the bloody time
When fierce sleep caught them in the camps at rest,
And violent darkness gripped the life in them
And whelmed them, as an eagle unawares
Is whelmed and slaughtered in a sudden snare.
All murdered by the blacks; smit while they lay
In silver dreams, and with the far, faint fall
Of many waters breaking on their sleep!
Yea, in the tracts unknown of any man
Save savages the dim-discovered ways
Of footless silence or unhappy winds
The wild men came upon them, like a fire
Of desert thunder; and the fine, firm lips
That touched a mother's lips a year before,
And hands that knew a dearer hand than life,
Were hewn a sacrifice before the stars,
And left with hooting owls and blowing clouds,
And falling leaves and solitary wings!
Aye, you may see their graves you who have toiled
And tripped and thirsted, like these men of ours;
For, verily, I say that not so deep
Their bones are that the scattered drift and dust
Of gusty days will never leave them bare.
O dear, dead, bleaching bones! I know of those
Who have the wild, strong will to go and sit
Outside all things with you, and keep the ways
Aloof from bats, and snakes, and trampling feet
That smite your peace and theirs who have the heart,
Without the lusty limbs, to face the fire
And moonless midnights, and to be, indeed,
For very sorrow, like a moaning wind
In wintry forests with perpetual rain.
Because of this because of sisters left
With desperate purpose and dishevelled hair,
And broken breath, and sweetness quenched in tears
Because of swifter silver for the head,
And furrows for the face because of these
That should have come with age, that come with pain
O Master! Father! sitting where our eyes
Are tired of looking, say for once are we
Are we to set our lips with weary smiles
Before the bitterness of Life and Death,
And call it honey, while we bear away
A taste like wormwood?
Turn thyself, and sing
Sing, Son of Sorrow! Is there any gain
For breaking of the loins, for melting eyes,
And knees as weak as water? any peace,
Or hope for casual breath and labouring lips,
For clapping of the palms, and sharper sighs
Than frost; or any light to come for those
Who stand and mumble in the alien streets
With heads as grey as Winter? any balm
For pleading women, and the love that knows
Of nothing left to love?
They sleep a sleep
Unknown of dreams, these darling friends of ours.
And we who taste the core of many tales
Of tribulation we whose lives are salt
With tears indeed we therefore hide our eyes
And weep in secret, lest our grief should risk
The rest that hath no hurt from daily racks
Of fiery clouds and immemorial rains.
|
As when the strong stream of a wintering sea
Rolls round our coast, with bodeful breaks of storm,
And swift salt rain, and bitter wind that saith
Wild things and woeful of the White South Land
Alone with God and silence in the cold
As when this cometh, men from dripping doors
Look forth, and shudder for the mariners
Abroad, so we for absent brothers looked
In days of drought, and when the flying floods
Swept boundless; roaring down the bald, black plains
Beyond the farthest spur of western hills.
For where the Barwon cuts a rotten land,
Or lies unshaken, like a great blind creek,
Between hot mouldering banks, it came to this,
All in a time of short and thirsty sighs,
That thirty rainless months had left the pools
And grass as dry as ashes: then it was
Our kinsmen started for the lone Paroo,
From point to point, with patient strivings, sheer
Across the horrors of the windless downs,
Blue gleaming like a sea of molten steel.
But never drought had broke them: never flood
Had quenched them: they with mighty youth and health,
And thews and sinews knotted like the trees
They, like the children of the native woods,
Could stem the strenuous waters, or outlive
The crimson days and dull, dead nights of thirst
Like camels: yet of what avail was strength
Alone to them though it was like the rocks
On stormy mountains in the bloody time
|
When fierce sleep caught them in the camps at rest,
And violent darkness gripped the life in them
And whelmed them, as an eagle unawares
Is whelmed and slaughtered in a sudden snare.
All murdered by the blacks; smit while they lay
In silver dreams, and with the far, faint fall
Of many waters breaking on their sleep!
Yea, in the tracts unknown of any man
Save savages the dim-discovered ways
Of footless silence or unhappy winds
The wild men came upon them, like a fire
Of desert thunder; and the fine, firm lips
That touched a mother's lips a year before,
And hands that knew a dearer hand than life,
Were hewn a sacrifice before the stars,
And left with hooting owls and blowing clouds,
And falling leaves and solitary wings!
Aye, you may see their graves you who have toiled
And tripped and thirsted, like these men of ours;
For, verily, I say that not so deep
Their bones are that the scattered drift and dust
Of gusty days will never leave them bare.
O dear, dead, bleaching bones! I know of those
Who have the wild, strong will to go and sit
Outside all things with you, and keep the ways
Aloof from bats, and snakes, and trampling feet
That smite your peace and theirs who have the heart,
Without the lusty limbs, to face the fire
And moonless midnights, and to be, indeed,
For very sorrow, like a moaning wind
In wintry forests with perpetual rain.
Because of this because of sisters left
With desperate purpose and dishevelled hair,
And broken breath, and sweetness quenched in tears
Because of swifter silver for the head,
And furrows for the face because of these
That should have come with age, that come with pain
O Master! Father! sitting where our eyes
Are tired of looking, say for once are we
Are we to set our lips with weary smiles
Before the bitterness of Life and Death,
And call it honey, while we bear away
A taste like wormwood?
Turn thyself, and sing
Sing, Son of Sorrow! Is there any gain
For breaking of the loins, for melting eyes,
And knees as weak as water? any peace,
Or hope for casual breath and labouring lips,
For clapping of the palms, and sharper sighs
Than frost; or any light to come for those
Who stand and mumble in the alien streets
With heads as grey as Winter? any balm
For pleading women, and the love that knows
Of nothing left to love?
They sleep a sleep
Unknown of dreams, these darling friends of ours.
And we who taste the core of many tales
Of tribulation we whose lives are salt
With tears indeed we therefore hide our eyes
And weep in secret, lest our grief should risk
The rest that hath no hurt from daily racks
Of fiery clouds and immemorial rains.
|
free_verse
|
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
|
The Island Of Endless Play
|
Said Willie to Tom, 'Let us hie away
To the wonderful Island of Endless Play.
It lies off the border of "No School Land,"
And abounds with pleasure, I understand.
There boys go swimming whenever they please
In a lovely river right under the trees.
And marbles are free, so you need not buy;
And kites of all sizes are ready to fly.
We sail down the Isthmus of Idle Delight -
We sail and we sail for a day and a night.
And then, if favoured by billows and breeze,
We land in the Harbour of Do-as-You-Please.
And there lies the Island of Endless Play,
With no one to say to us, Must, or Nay.
Books are not known in that land so fair,
Teachers are stoned if they set foot there.
Hurrah for the Island, so glad and free,
That is the country for you and me.'
So away went Willie and Tom together
On a pleasure boat, in the lazy weather,
And they sailed in the teeth of a friendly breeze
Right into the harbour of 'Do-as-You-Please.'
Where boats and tackle and marbles and kites
Were waiting them there in this Land of Delights.
They dwelt on the Island of Endless Play
For five long years; then one sad day
A strange, dark ship sailed up to the strand,
And 'Ho! for the voyage to Stupid Land,'
The captain cried, with a terrible noise,
As he seized the frightened and struggling boys
And threw them into the dark ship's hold;
And off and away sailed the captain bold.
They vainly begged him to let them out,
He answered only with scoff and shout.
'Boys that don't study or work,' said he,
'Must sail one day down the Ignorant Sea
To Stupid Land by the No-Book Strait,
With Captain Time on the Pitiless Fate.'
He let out the sails and away went the three
Over the waters of Ignorant Sea,
Out and away to Stupid Land;
And they live there yet, I understand.
And there's where every one goes, they say,
Who seeks the Island of Endless Play.
|
Said Willie to Tom, 'Let us hie away
To the wonderful Island of Endless Play.
It lies off the border of "No School Land,"
And abounds with pleasure, I understand.
There boys go swimming whenever they please
In a lovely river right under the trees.
And marbles are free, so you need not buy;
And kites of all sizes are ready to fly.
We sail down the Isthmus of Idle Delight -
We sail and we sail for a day and a night.
And then, if favoured by billows and breeze,
We land in the Harbour of Do-as-You-Please.
And there lies the Island of Endless Play,
With no one to say to us, Must, or Nay.
|
Books are not known in that land so fair,
Teachers are stoned if they set foot there.
Hurrah for the Island, so glad and free,
That is the country for you and me.'
So away went Willie and Tom together
On a pleasure boat, in the lazy weather,
And they sailed in the teeth of a friendly breeze
Right into the harbour of 'Do-as-You-Please.'
Where boats and tackle and marbles and kites
Were waiting them there in this Land of Delights.
They dwelt on the Island of Endless Play
For five long years; then one sad day
A strange, dark ship sailed up to the strand,
And 'Ho! for the voyage to Stupid Land,'
The captain cried, with a terrible noise,
As he seized the frightened and struggling boys
And threw them into the dark ship's hold;
And off and away sailed the captain bold.
They vainly begged him to let them out,
He answered only with scoff and shout.
'Boys that don't study or work,' said he,
'Must sail one day down the Ignorant Sea
To Stupid Land by the No-Book Strait,
With Captain Time on the Pitiless Fate.'
He let out the sails and away went the three
Over the waters of Ignorant Sea,
Out and away to Stupid Land;
And they live there yet, I understand.
And there's where every one goes, they say,
Who seeks the Island of Endless Play.
|
free_verse
|
William Shakespeare
|
The Sonnets LXXXIII - I never saw that you did painting need
|
I never saw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
That barren tender of a poet's debt:
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself, being extant, well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory being dumb;
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life, and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
Than both your poets can in praise devise.
|
I never saw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
That barren tender of a poet's debt:
|
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself, being extant, well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory being dumb;
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life, and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
Than both your poets can in praise devise.
|
sonnet
|
Mark Lemon
|
How To Make A Man Of Consequence
|
A brow austere, a circumspective eye.
A frequent shrug of the os humeri;
A nod significant, a stately gait,
A blustering manner, and a tone of weight,
A smile sarcastic, an expressive stare:
Adopt all these, as time and place will bear;
Then rest assur'd that those of little sense
Will deem you sure a man of consequence.
|
A brow austere, a circumspective eye.
A frequent shrug of the os humeri;
|
A nod significant, a stately gait,
A blustering manner, and a tone of weight,
A smile sarcastic, an expressive stare:
Adopt all these, as time and place will bear;
Then rest assur'd that those of little sense
Will deem you sure a man of consequence.
|
octave
|
Michael Earls
|
The Countersign
|
Along Virginia's wondering roads
While armies hastened on,
To Beauregard's great Southern host,
Manassas fields upon,
Came Colonel Smith's good regiment,
Eager for Washington.
But Colonel Smith must halt his men
In a dangerous delay,
Though well he knows the countryside
To the distant host of grey.
He cannot join with Beauregard
For Bull Run's bloody fray.
And does he halt for storm or ford,
Or does he stay to dine?
Say, No! but death will meet his men,
Onward if moves the line:
He dares not hurry to Beauregard,
Not knowing the countersign.
Flashed in the sun his waving sword;
"Who rides for me?" he cried,
"And ask of the Chief the countersign,
Upon a daring ride;
Though never the lad come back again
With the good that will betide.
"I will send a letter to Beauregard,"
The Colonel slowly said;
"The bearer dies at the pickets' line,
But the letter shall be read
When the pickets find it for the Chief,
In the brave hand of the dead."
|
Along Virginia's wondering roads
While armies hastened on,
To Beauregard's great Southern host,
Manassas fields upon,
Came Colonel Smith's good regiment,
Eager for Washington.
But Colonel Smith must halt his men
In a dangerous delay,
Though well he knows the countryside
To the distant host of grey.
|
He cannot join with Beauregard
For Bull Run's bloody fray.
And does he halt for storm or ford,
Or does he stay to dine?
Say, No! but death will meet his men,
Onward if moves the line:
He dares not hurry to Beauregard,
Not knowing the countersign.
Flashed in the sun his waving sword;
"Who rides for me?" he cried,
"And ask of the Chief the countersign,
Upon a daring ride;
Though never the lad come back again
With the good that will betide.
"I will send a letter to Beauregard,"
The Colonel slowly said;
"The bearer dies at the pickets' line,
But the letter shall be read
When the pickets find it for the Chief,
In the brave hand of the dead."
|
free_verse
|
William Lisle Bowles
|
Distant View Of England From The Sea
|
Yes! from mine eyes the tears unbidden start,
As thee, my country, and the long-lost sight
Of thy own cliffs, that lift their summits white
Above the wave, once more my beating heart
With eager hope and filial transport hails!
Scenes of my youth, reviving gales ye bring,
As when erewhile the tuneful morn of spring
Joyous awoke amidst your hawthorn vales,
And filled with fragrance every village lane:
Fled are those hours, and all the joys they gave!
Yet still I gaze, and count each rising wave
That bears me nearer to my home again;
If haply, 'mid those woods and vales so fair,
Stranger to Peace, I yet may meet her there.
|
Yes! from mine eyes the tears unbidden start,
As thee, my country, and the long-lost sight
Of thy own cliffs, that lift their summits white
Above the wave, once more my beating heart
|
With eager hope and filial transport hails!
Scenes of my youth, reviving gales ye bring,
As when erewhile the tuneful morn of spring
Joyous awoke amidst your hawthorn vales,
And filled with fragrance every village lane:
Fled are those hours, and all the joys they gave!
Yet still I gaze, and count each rising wave
That bears me nearer to my home again;
If haply, 'mid those woods and vales so fair,
Stranger to Peace, I yet may meet her there.
|
sonnet
|
Robert Herrick
|
Upon Peason. Epig.
|
Long locks of late our zealot Peason wears,
Not for to hide his high and mighty ears;
No, but because he would not have it seen
That stubble stands where once large ears have been.
|
Long locks of late our zealot Peason wears,
|
Not for to hide his high and mighty ears;
No, but because he would not have it seen
That stubble stands where once large ears have been.
|
quatrain
|
Madison Julius Cawein
|
A Coign Of The Forest
|
The hills hang woods around, where green, below
Dark, breezy boughs of beech-trees, mats the moss,
Crisp with the brittle hulls of last year's nuts;
The water hums one bar there; and a glow
Of gold lies steady where the trailers toss
Red, bugled blossoms and a rock abuts;
In spots the wild-phlox and oxalis grow
Where beech-roots bulge the loam, protrude across
The grass-grown road and roll it into ruts.
And where the sumach brakes grow dusk and dense,
Among the rocks, great yellow violets,
Blue-bells and wind-flowers bloom; the agaric
In dampness crowds; a Fungus, thick, intense
With gold and crimson and wax-white, that sets
The May-apples along the terraced creek
At bold defiance. Where the old rail-fence
Divides the hollow, there the bee-bird whets
His bill, and there the elder hedge is thick.
No one can miss it; for two cat-birds nest,
Calling all morning, in the trumpet-vine;
And there at noon the pewee sits and floats
A woodland welcome; and his very best
At eve the red-bird sings, as if to sign
The record of its loveliness with notes.
At night the moon stoops over it to rest,
And unreluctant stars. Where waters shine
There runs a whisper as of wind-swept oats.
|
The hills hang woods around, where green, below
Dark, breezy boughs of beech-trees, mats the moss,
Crisp with the brittle hulls of last year's nuts;
The water hums one bar there; and a glow
Of gold lies steady where the trailers toss
Red, bugled blossoms and a rock abuts;
In spots the wild-phlox and oxalis grow
Where beech-roots bulge the loam, protrude across
The grass-grown road and roll it into ruts.
|
And where the sumach brakes grow dusk and dense,
Among the rocks, great yellow violets,
Blue-bells and wind-flowers bloom; the agaric
In dampness crowds; a Fungus, thick, intense
With gold and crimson and wax-white, that sets
The May-apples along the terraced creek
At bold defiance. Where the old rail-fence
Divides the hollow, there the bee-bird whets
His bill, and there the elder hedge is thick.
No one can miss it; for two cat-birds nest,
Calling all morning, in the trumpet-vine;
And there at noon the pewee sits and floats
A woodland welcome; and his very best
At eve the red-bird sings, as if to sign
The record of its loveliness with notes.
At night the moon stoops over it to rest,
And unreluctant stars. Where waters shine
There runs a whisper as of wind-swept oats.
|
free_verse
|
James McIntyre
|
Brantford.
|
In these sketches of towns in Southern Ontario we are not vain enough to suppose that because we have produced some lines thereon that said rhymes are poetry. If we furnish an occasional poetic gleam like a dewdrop sparkling in the sun, it is all we dare hope for.
Brantford as thriving city's famed,
And after Indian Chief is named,
And here the sparkling Grand River
It doth flow a joy forever.
Campbell he sang a dismal tale
Of horrors of Wyoming's vale,
The tale one's mind doth ever haunt,
The cruelties of monster Brant.
But the Chief's son to England went
And Campbell to him did lament,
And all the tale he did recant
About cruel butcheries of Brant.
Now pleasant thoughts it doth awake
When Brantford thinks of her namesake,
She evermore with pride will chant
The bold heroic name of Brant.
We sing of two great Indian names,
Tecumseh on the banks of Thames,
And the Grand River it doth vaunt
O'er the historic name of Brant.
The city's pride it doth find vent
In building him a monument,
And Indians will proudly stalk
Past memorial of great Mohawk.
|
In these sketches of towns in Southern Ontario we are not vain enough to suppose that because we have produced some lines thereon that said rhymes are poetry. If we furnish an occasional poetic gleam like a dewdrop sparkling in the sun, it is all we dare hope for.
Brantford as thriving city's famed,
And after Indian Chief is named,
And here the sparkling Grand River
It doth flow a joy forever.
Campbell he sang a dismal tale
Of horrors of Wyoming's vale,
The tale one's mind doth ever haunt,
|
The cruelties of monster Brant.
But the Chief's son to England went
And Campbell to him did lament,
And all the tale he did recant
About cruel butcheries of Brant.
Now pleasant thoughts it doth awake
When Brantford thinks of her namesake,
She evermore with pride will chant
The bold heroic name of Brant.
We sing of two great Indian names,
Tecumseh on the banks of Thames,
And the Grand River it doth vaunt
O'er the historic name of Brant.
The city's pride it doth find vent
In building him a monument,
And Indians will proudly stalk
Past memorial of great Mohawk.
|
free_verse
|
Philip Sidney (Sir)
|
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet LXXXIII
|
Good brother Philip, I haue borne you long;
I was content you should in fauour creepe,
While craftely you seem'd your cut to keepe,
As though that faire soft hand did you great wrong:
I bare with enuie, yet I bare your song,
When in her necke you did loue-ditties peepe;
Nay (more foole I) oft suffred you to sleepe
In lillies neast where Loues selfe lies along.
What, doth high place ambitious thoughts augment?
Is sawcinesse reward of curtesie?
Cannot such grace your silly selfe content,
But you must needs with those lips billing be,
And through those lips drinke nectar from that toong?
Leaue that, Syr Phip, least off your neck be wroong!
|
Good brother Philip, I haue borne you long;
I was content you should in fauour creepe,
While craftely you seem'd your cut to keepe,
As though that faire soft hand did you great wrong:
|
I bare with enuie, yet I bare your song,
When in her necke you did loue-ditties peepe;
Nay (more foole I) oft suffred you to sleepe
In lillies neast where Loues selfe lies along.
What, doth high place ambitious thoughts augment?
Is sawcinesse reward of curtesie?
Cannot such grace your silly selfe content,
But you must needs with those lips billing be,
And through those lips drinke nectar from that toong?
Leaue that, Syr Phip, least off your neck be wroong!
|
sonnet
|
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
|
To The River Charles.
|
River! that in silence windest
Through the meadows, bright and free,
Till at length thy rest thou findest
In the bosom of the sea!
Four long years of mingled feeling,
Half in rest, and half in strife,
I have seen thy waters stealing
Onward, like the stream of life.
Thou hast taught me, Silent River!
Many a lesson, deep and long;
Thou hast been a generous giver;
I can give thee but a song.
Oft in sadness and in illness,
I have watched thy current glide,
Till the beauty of its stillness
Overflowed me, like a tide.
And in better hours and brighter,
When I saw thy waters gleam,
I have felt my heart beat lighter,
And leap onward with thy stream.
Not for this alone I love thee,
Nor because thy waves of blue
From celestial seas above thee
Take their own celestial hue.
Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,
And thy waters disappear,
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee,
And have made thy margin dear.
More than this;--thy name reminds me
Of three friends, all true and tried;
And that name, like magic, binds me
Closer, closer to thy side.
Friends my soul with joy remembers!
How like quivering flames they start,
When I fan the living embers
On the hearth-stone of my heart!
'T is for this, thou Silent River!
That my spirit leans to thee;
Thou hast been a generous giver,
Take this idle song from me.
|
River! that in silence windest
Through the meadows, bright and free,
Till at length thy rest thou findest
In the bosom of the sea!
Four long years of mingled feeling,
Half in rest, and half in strife,
I have seen thy waters stealing
Onward, like the stream of life.
Thou hast taught me, Silent River!
Many a lesson, deep and long;
Thou hast been a generous giver;
I can give thee but a song.
Oft in sadness and in illness,
|
I have watched thy current glide,
Till the beauty of its stillness
Overflowed me, like a tide.
And in better hours and brighter,
When I saw thy waters gleam,
I have felt my heart beat lighter,
And leap onward with thy stream.
Not for this alone I love thee,
Nor because thy waves of blue
From celestial seas above thee
Take their own celestial hue.
Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,
And thy waters disappear,
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee,
And have made thy margin dear.
More than this;--thy name reminds me
Of three friends, all true and tried;
And that name, like magic, binds me
Closer, closer to thy side.
Friends my soul with joy remembers!
How like quivering flames they start,
When I fan the living embers
On the hearth-stone of my heart!
'T is for this, thou Silent River!
That my spirit leans to thee;
Thou hast been a generous giver,
Take this idle song from me.
|
free_verse
|
Vachel Lindsay
|
To Reformers in Despair
|
'Tis not too late to build our young land right,
Cleaner than Holland, courtlier than Japan,
Devout like early Rome, with hearths like hers,
Hearths that will recreate the breed called man.
|
'Tis not too late to build our young land right,
|
Cleaner than Holland, courtlier than Japan,
Devout like early Rome, with hearths like hers,
Hearths that will recreate the breed called man.
|
quatrain
|
Robert Herrick
|
To Roses In Julia's Bosom.
|
Roses, you can never die,
Since the place wherein ye lie,
Heat and moisture mix'd are so
As to make ye ever grow.
|
Roses, you can never die,
|
Since the place wherein ye lie,
Heat and moisture mix'd are so
As to make ye ever grow.
|
quatrain
|
Robert Herrick
|
Hanch, A Schoolmaster. Epig.
|
Hanch, since he lately did inter his wife,
He weeps and sighs, as weary of his life.
Say, is't for real grief he mourns? not so;
Tears have their springs from joy, as well as woe.
|
Hanch, since he lately did inter his wife,
|
He weeps and sighs, as weary of his life.
Say, is't for real grief he mourns? not so;
Tears have their springs from joy, as well as woe.
|
quatrain
|
Rudyard Kipling
|
The Rout Of The White Hussars
|
It was not in the open fight
We threw away the sword,
But in the lonely watching
In the darkness by the ford.
The waters lapped, the night-wind blew,
Full-armed the Fear was born and grew,
And we were flying ere we knew
From panic in the night.
|
It was not in the open fight
We threw away the sword,
|
But in the lonely watching
In the darkness by the ford.
The waters lapped, the night-wind blew,
Full-armed the Fear was born and grew,
And we were flying ere we knew
From panic in the night.
|
octave
|
Charles Baudelaire
|
The Cat
|
Come, my fine cat, to my amorous heart;
Please let your claws be concealed.
And let me plunge into your beautiful eyes,
Coalescence of agate and steel.
When my leisurely fingers are stroking your head
And your body's elasticity,
And my hand becomes drunk with the pleasure it finds
In the feel of electricity,
My woman comes into my mind. Her regard
Like your own, my agreeable beast,
Is deep and is cold, and it splits like a spear,
And, from her head to her feet,
A subtle and dangerous air of perfume
Floats always around her brown skin.
|
Come, my fine cat, to my amorous heart;
Please let your claws be concealed.
And let me plunge into your beautiful eyes,
Coalescence of agate and steel.
|
When my leisurely fingers are stroking your head
And your body's elasticity,
And my hand becomes drunk with the pleasure it finds
In the feel of electricity,
My woman comes into my mind. Her regard
Like your own, my agreeable beast,
Is deep and is cold, and it splits like a spear,
And, from her head to her feet,
A subtle and dangerous air of perfume
Floats always around her brown skin.
|
sonnet
|
Hattie Howard
|
Storm-bound.
|
My careful plans all storm-subdued,
In disappointing solitude
The weary hours began;
And scarce I deemed when time had sped,
Marked only by the passing tread
Of some pedestrian.
But with the morrow's tranquil dawn,
A fairy scene I looked upon
That filled me with delight;
Far-reaching from my own abode,
The world in matchless splendor glowed,
Arrayed in spotless white.
The surface of the hillside slope
Gleamed in my farthest vision's scope
Like opalescent stone;
Rich jewels hung on every tree,
Whose crystalline transparency
Golconda's gems outshone.
Beyond the line where wayside posts
Stood up, like fear-inspiring ghosts
Of awful form and mien,
A mansion tall, my neighbor's pride,
A seeming castle fortified,
Uprose in wondrous sheen.
The evergreens loomed up before
My staunch and storm-defying door,
Like snowy palaces
That one dare only penetrate
With reverence - as at Heaven's gate,
Awed by its mysteries.
The apple trees' extended arms
Upheld a thousand varied charms;
The curious tracery
Of trellised grapevine seemed to me
A rare network of filigree
In silver drapery.
And I no longer thought it hard
From favorite pursuits debarred,
Nor gazed with rueful face;
For every object seemed to be
Invested with the witchery
Of magic art and grace.
And, though a multitude of cares,
Perplexing, profitless affairs,
Absorbed the hours, it seems
That on the golden steps of thought
I mounted heavenward, and wrought
Out many hopeful schemes.
Thus every day, though it may span
The gulf wherein some cherished plan
Lies disarranged and crossed,
If, ere its close, we shall have trod
The path that leads us nearer God,
Cannot be counted lost.
|
My careful plans all storm-subdued,
In disappointing solitude
The weary hours began;
And scarce I deemed when time had sped,
Marked only by the passing tread
Of some pedestrian.
But with the morrow's tranquil dawn,
A fairy scene I looked upon
That filled me with delight;
Far-reaching from my own abode,
The world in matchless splendor glowed,
Arrayed in spotless white.
The surface of the hillside slope
Gleamed in my farthest vision's scope
Like opalescent stone;
Rich jewels hung on every tree,
Whose crystalline transparency
Golconda's gems outshone.
|
Beyond the line where wayside posts
Stood up, like fear-inspiring ghosts
Of awful form and mien,
A mansion tall, my neighbor's pride,
A seeming castle fortified,
Uprose in wondrous sheen.
The evergreens loomed up before
My staunch and storm-defying door,
Like snowy palaces
That one dare only penetrate
With reverence - as at Heaven's gate,
Awed by its mysteries.
The apple trees' extended arms
Upheld a thousand varied charms;
The curious tracery
Of trellised grapevine seemed to me
A rare network of filigree
In silver drapery.
And I no longer thought it hard
From favorite pursuits debarred,
Nor gazed with rueful face;
For every object seemed to be
Invested with the witchery
Of magic art and grace.
And, though a multitude of cares,
Perplexing, profitless affairs,
Absorbed the hours, it seems
That on the golden steps of thought
I mounted heavenward, and wrought
Out many hopeful schemes.
Thus every day, though it may span
The gulf wherein some cherished plan
Lies disarranged and crossed,
If, ere its close, we shall have trod
The path that leads us nearer God,
Cannot be counted lost.
|
free_verse
|
Lewis Carroll
|
Epilogue To Through The Looking Glass
|
A boat, beneath a sunny sky
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July,
Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear
Pleased a simple tale to hear,
Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.
Still she haunts me, phantomwise
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.
Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:
Ever drifting down the stream,
Lingering in the golden gleam,
Life what is it but a dream?
|
A boat, beneath a sunny sky
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July,
Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear
Pleased a simple tale to hear,
Long has paled that sunny sky:
|
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.
Still she haunts me, phantomwise
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.
Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:
Ever drifting down the stream,
Lingering in the golden gleam,
Life what is it but a dream?
|
free_verse
|
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
|
At Least To Pray Is Left, Is Left.
|
At least to pray is left, is left.
O Jesus! in the air
I know not which thy chamber is, --
I 'm knocking everywhere.
Thou stirrest earthquake in the South,
And maelstrom in the sea;
Say, Jesus Christ of Nazareth,
Hast thou no arm for me?
|
At least to pray is left, is left.
O Jesus! in the air
|
I know not which thy chamber is, --
I 'm knocking everywhere.
Thou stirrest earthquake in the South,
And maelstrom in the sea;
Say, Jesus Christ of Nazareth,
Hast thou no arm for me?
|
octave
|
Robert Herrick
|
God Has A Twofold Part.
|
God, when for sin He makes His children smart,
His own He acts not, but another's part;
But when by stripes He saves them, then 'tis known
He comes to play the part that is His own.
|
God, when for sin He makes His children smart,
|
His own He acts not, but another's part;
But when by stripes He saves them, then 'tis known
He comes to play the part that is His own.
|
quatrain
|
Paul Bewsher
|
Cloud Thoughts
|
Above the clouds I sail, above the clouds,
And wish my mind
Above its clouds could climb as well,
And leave behind
The world and all its crowds,
And ever dwell
In such a calm and limpid solitude
With ne'er a breath unkind or harsh or rude
To break the spell -
With ne'er a thought to drive away
The golden splendour of the day.
Alone and lost beneath the tranquil blue,
My God! With you!
Written in an Aeroplane.
|
Above the clouds I sail, above the clouds,
And wish my mind
Above its clouds could climb as well,
And leave behind
|
The world and all its crowds,
And ever dwell
In such a calm and limpid solitude
With ne'er a breath unkind or harsh or rude
To break the spell -
With ne'er a thought to drive away
The golden splendour of the day.
Alone and lost beneath the tranquil blue,
My God! With you!
Written in an Aeroplane.
|
sonnet
|
Robert Herrick
|
The Soul.
|
When once the soul has lost her way,
O then how restless does she stray!
And having not her God for light,
How does she err in endless night!
|
When once the soul has lost her way,
|
O then how restless does she stray!
And having not her God for light,
How does she err in endless night!
|
quatrain
|
William Cowper
|
On The Queen's Visit To London. The Night Of The Seventeenth Of March 1789.
|
When, long sequester'd from his throne,
George took his seat again,
By right of worth, not blood alone,
Entitled here to reign,
Then loyalty, with all his lamps
New trimm'd, a gallant show!
Chasing the darkness and the damps,
Set London in a glow.
'Twas hard to tell, of streets or squares
Which form'd the chief display,
These most resembling cluster'd stars,
Those the long milky way.
Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires,
And rockets flew, self-driven,
To hang their momentary fires
Amid the vault of heaven.
So, fire with water to compare,
The ocean serves, on high
Up-spouted by a whale in air,
To express unwieldy joy.
Had all the pageants of the world
In one procession join'd,
And all the banners been unfurl'd
That heralds e'er design'd,
For no such sight had England's queen
Forsaken her retreat,
Where George, recover'd, made a scene
Sweet always, doubly sweet.
Yet glad she came that night to prove,
A witness undescried,
How much the object of her love
Was loved by all beside.
Darkness the skies had mantled o'er
In aid of her design'
Darkness, O Queen! ne'er called before
To veil a deed of thine!
On borrow'd wheels away she flies,
Resolved to be unknown,
And gratify no curious eyes
That night except her own.
Arrived, a night like noon she sees,
And hears the million hum;
As all by instinct, like the bees,
Had known their sovereign come.
Pleased she beheld, aloft portray'd
On many a splendid wall,
Emblems of health and heavenly aid,
And George the theme of all.
Unlike the enigmatic line,
So difficult to spell,
Which shook Belshazzar at his wine
The night his city fell.
Soon watery grew her eyes and dim,
But with a joyful tear,
None else, except in prayer for him,
George ever drew from her.
It was a scene in every part
Like those in fable feign'd,
And seem'd by some magician's art
Created and sustain'd.
But other magic there, she knew,
Had been exerted none,
To raise such wonders in her view,
Save love of George alone.
That cordial thought her spirit cheer'd,
And, through the cumbrous throng,
Not else unworthy to be fear'd,
Convey'd her calm along.
So, ancient poets say, serene
The sea-maid rides the waves,
And fearless of the billowy scene,
Her peaceful bosom laves.
With more than astronomic eyes
She view'd the sparkling show;
One Georgian star adorns the skies,
She myriads found below.
Yet let the glories of a night
Like that, once seen, suffice,
Heaven grant us no such future sight,
Such previous woe the price!
|
When, long sequester'd from his throne,
George took his seat again,
By right of worth, not blood alone,
Entitled here to reign,
Then loyalty, with all his lamps
New trimm'd, a gallant show!
Chasing the darkness and the damps,
Set London in a glow.
'Twas hard to tell, of streets or squares
Which form'd the chief display,
These most resembling cluster'd stars,
Those the long milky way.
Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires,
And rockets flew, self-driven,
To hang their momentary fires
Amid the vault of heaven.
So, fire with water to compare,
The ocean serves, on high
Up-spouted by a whale in air,
To express unwieldy joy.
Had all the pageants of the world
In one procession join'd,
And all the banners been unfurl'd
That heralds e'er design'd,
For no such sight had England's queen
Forsaken her retreat,
|
Where George, recover'd, made a scene
Sweet always, doubly sweet.
Yet glad she came that night to prove,
A witness undescried,
How much the object of her love
Was loved by all beside.
Darkness the skies had mantled o'er
In aid of her design'
Darkness, O Queen! ne'er called before
To veil a deed of thine!
On borrow'd wheels away she flies,
Resolved to be unknown,
And gratify no curious eyes
That night except her own.
Arrived, a night like noon she sees,
And hears the million hum;
As all by instinct, like the bees,
Had known their sovereign come.
Pleased she beheld, aloft portray'd
On many a splendid wall,
Emblems of health and heavenly aid,
And George the theme of all.
Unlike the enigmatic line,
So difficult to spell,
Which shook Belshazzar at his wine
The night his city fell.
Soon watery grew her eyes and dim,
But with a joyful tear,
None else, except in prayer for him,
George ever drew from her.
It was a scene in every part
Like those in fable feign'd,
And seem'd by some magician's art
Created and sustain'd.
But other magic there, she knew,
Had been exerted none,
To raise such wonders in her view,
Save love of George alone.
That cordial thought her spirit cheer'd,
And, through the cumbrous throng,
Not else unworthy to be fear'd,
Convey'd her calm along.
So, ancient poets say, serene
The sea-maid rides the waves,
And fearless of the billowy scene,
Her peaceful bosom laves.
With more than astronomic eyes
She view'd the sparkling show;
One Georgian star adorns the skies,
She myriads found below.
Yet let the glories of a night
Like that, once seen, suffice,
Heaven grant us no such future sight,
Such previous woe the price!
|
free_verse
|
Thomas Moore
|
Epigram. From The French.
|
"I never gave a kiss (says Prue),
"To naughty man, for I abhor it."
She will not give a kiss, 'tis true;
She'll take one though, and thank you for it.
|
"I never gave a kiss (says Prue),
|
"To naughty man, for I abhor it."
She will not give a kiss, 'tis true;
She'll take one though, and thank you for it.
|
quatrain
|
Robert Herrick
|
North And South.
|
The Jews their beds and offices of ease,
Placed north and south for these clean purposes;
That man's uncomely froth might not molest
God's ways and walks, which lie still east and west.
|
The Jews their beds and offices of ease,
|
Placed north and south for these clean purposes;
That man's uncomely froth might not molest
God's ways and walks, which lie still east and west.
|
quatrain
|
Matthew Arnold
|
The World's Triumphs
|
So far as I conceive the World's rebuke
To him address'd who would recast her new,
Not from herself her fame of strength she took,
But from their weakness, who would work her rue.
'Behold,' she cries, 'so many rages lull'd,
So many fiery spirits quite cool'd down:
Look how so many valours, long undull'd,
After short commerce with me, fear my frown.
Thou too, when thou against my crimes wouldst cry,
Let thy foreboded homage check thy tongue.'
The World speaks well: yet might her foe reply
'Are wills so weak? then let not mine wait long.
Hast thou so rare a poison? let me be
Keener to slay thee, lest thou poison me.
|
So far as I conceive the World's rebuke
To him address'd who would recast her new,
Not from herself her fame of strength she took,
But from their weakness, who would work her rue.
|
'Behold,' she cries, 'so many rages lull'd,
So many fiery spirits quite cool'd down:
Look how so many valours, long undull'd,
After short commerce with me, fear my frown.
Thou too, when thou against my crimes wouldst cry,
Let thy foreboded homage check thy tongue.'
The World speaks well: yet might her foe reply
'Are wills so weak? then let not mine wait long.
Hast thou so rare a poison? let me be
Keener to slay thee, lest thou poison me.
|
sonnet
|
Robert Fuller Murray
|
A Song Of Greek Prose
|
Thrice happy are those
Who ne'er heard of Greek Prose--
Or Greek Poetry either, as far as that goes;
For Liddell and Scott
Shall cumber them not,
Nor Sargent nor Sidgwick shall break their repose.
But I, late at night,
By the very bad light
Of very bad gas, must painfully write
Some stuff that a Greek
With his delicate cheek
Would smile at as 'barbarous'--faith, he well might.
For when it is done,
I doubt if, for one,
I myself could explain how the meaning might run;
And as for the style--
Well, it's hardly worth while
To talk about style, where style there is none.
It was all very fine
For a poet divine
Like Byron, to rave of Greek women and wine;
But the Prose that I sing
Is a different thing,
And I frankly acknowledge it's not in my line.
So away with Greek Prose,
The source of my woes!
(This metre's too tough, I must draw to a close.)
May Sargent be drowned
In the ocean profound,
And Sidgwick be food for the carrion crows!
|
Thrice happy are those
Who ne'er heard of Greek Prose--
Or Greek Poetry either, as far as that goes;
For Liddell and Scott
Shall cumber them not,
Nor Sargent nor Sidgwick shall break their repose.
But I, late at night,
By the very bad light
Of very bad gas, must painfully write
Some stuff that a Greek
|
With his delicate cheek
Would smile at as 'barbarous'--faith, he well might.
For when it is done,
I doubt if, for one,
I myself could explain how the meaning might run;
And as for the style--
Well, it's hardly worth while
To talk about style, where style there is none.
It was all very fine
For a poet divine
Like Byron, to rave of Greek women and wine;
But the Prose that I sing
Is a different thing,
And I frankly acknowledge it's not in my line.
So away with Greek Prose,
The source of my woes!
(This metre's too tough, I must draw to a close.)
May Sargent be drowned
In the ocean profound,
And Sidgwick be food for the carrion crows!
|
free_verse
|
Sara Teasdale
|
In A Cuban Garden
|
Hibiscus flowers are cups of fire,
(Love me, my lover, life will not stay)
The bright poinsettia shakes in the wind,
A scarlet leaf is blowing away.
A lizard lifts his head and listens
Kiss me before the noon goes by,
Here in the shade of the ceiba hide me
From the great black vulture circling the sky.
|
Hibiscus flowers are cups of fire,
(Love me, my lover, life will not stay)
|
The bright poinsettia shakes in the wind,
A scarlet leaf is blowing away.
A lizard lifts his head and listens
Kiss me before the noon goes by,
Here in the shade of the ceiba hide me
From the great black vulture circling the sky.
|
free_verse
|
Thomas Runciman
|
Sonnet.
|
She scanned the record of Beethoven's thought,
And made the dumb chords speak both clear and low,
And spread the dead man's voice till I was caught
Away, and now seemed long and long ago.
Methought in Tellus' bosom still I lay,
While centuries like steeds tramped overhead,
To the wild rhythms that, by night and day,
From nature and man's passions still are made.
The music of their motion as they pranced
Lulled me to flawless ease as of a God;
Never upon me pain or pleasure chanced;
Unknown the dew of bliss, or fate's hard rod.
Thus dreamed I ... But I know our mother Earth
Waits to give back the peace she reft at birth.
|
She scanned the record of Beethoven's thought,
And made the dumb chords speak both clear and low,
And spread the dead man's voice till I was caught
Away, and now seemed long and long ago.
|
Methought in Tellus' bosom still I lay,
While centuries like steeds tramped overhead,
To the wild rhythms that, by night and day,
From nature and man's passions still are made.
The music of their motion as they pranced
Lulled me to flawless ease as of a God;
Never upon me pain or pleasure chanced;
Unknown the dew of bliss, or fate's hard rod.
Thus dreamed I ... But I know our mother Earth
Waits to give back the peace she reft at birth.
|
sonnet
|
Sara Teasdale
|
Chance
|
How many times we must have met
Here on the street as strangers do,
Children of chance we were, who passed
The door of heaven and never knew.
|
How many times we must have met
|
Here on the street as strangers do,
Children of chance we were, who passed
The door of heaven and never knew.
|
quatrain
|
Edward Smyth Jones
|
Put Nothing In Another's Way
|
Put nothing in another's way,
Who's plodding on through life,
But fill each heart with joy each day,
With peace instead of strife.
So then let not a missent word,
Or thought, or act, or deed
Be by our weaker brother heard
To cause his heart to bleed.
Put nothing in another's way,
It clear and ample leave;
For words and actions day by day
Life's great example weave.
'Tis then not meet that we should think
That we are solely free
In manners, dress, in food, or drink,
Or fulsome revelry.
Put nothing in another's way,
Just learn the Christian part
To let a holy, sunny ray
Shine in thy brother's heart.
Help him to bear his load of care,
His soul get edified -
'Twas only for the soul's welfare
That Jesus bled and died.
Put nothing in another's way,
Ye who are sent to teach;
No dark cloud cast across the day,
Ye who the gospel preach.
Ye twain must set the truth aright
With joy and peace and love;
For in your souls shines forth the light
From Jesus Christ above.
Put nothing in another's way,
Belov'd Christian friends;
On through your toils, and cares, still pray,
Till life's fleet journey ends.
When at the resurrection dawn
Eternal life is given,
We'll get our harp, our robe, our crown,
The star-lit crown of heaven.
|
Put nothing in another's way,
Who's plodding on through life,
But fill each heart with joy each day,
With peace instead of strife.
So then let not a missent word,
Or thought, or act, or deed
Be by our weaker brother heard
To cause his heart to bleed.
Put nothing in another's way,
It clear and ample leave;
For words and actions day by day
Life's great example weave.
'Tis then not meet that we should think
|
That we are solely free
In manners, dress, in food, or drink,
Or fulsome revelry.
Put nothing in another's way,
Just learn the Christian part
To let a holy, sunny ray
Shine in thy brother's heart.
Help him to bear his load of care,
His soul get edified -
'Twas only for the soul's welfare
That Jesus bled and died.
Put nothing in another's way,
Ye who are sent to teach;
No dark cloud cast across the day,
Ye who the gospel preach.
Ye twain must set the truth aright
With joy and peace and love;
For in your souls shines forth the light
From Jesus Christ above.
Put nothing in another's way,
Belov'd Christian friends;
On through your toils, and cares, still pray,
Till life's fleet journey ends.
When at the resurrection dawn
Eternal life is given,
We'll get our harp, our robe, our crown,
The star-lit crown of heaven.
|
free_verse
|
Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)
|
Because The Good Are Never Fair
|
When she appears the daylight envies her garment,
The wanton daylight envies her garment
To show it to the jealous sun.
And when she walks,
All women tall and tiny
Want her figure and start crying.
Because of your mouth,
Long life to the Agata valley,
Long life to pearls.
Watchers have discovered paradise in your cheeks,
But I am undecided,
For there is a hint of the tops of flames
In their purple shining.
From the Arabic of Ahmed Bey Chawky (contemporary).
|
When she appears the daylight envies her garment,
The wanton daylight envies her garment
To show it to the jealous sun.
And when she walks,
|
All women tall and tiny
Want her figure and start crying.
Because of your mouth,
Long life to the Agata valley,
Long life to pearls.
Watchers have discovered paradise in your cheeks,
But I am undecided,
For there is a hint of the tops of flames
In their purple shining.
From the Arabic of Ahmed Bey Chawky (contemporary).
|
sonnet
|
Walter Crane
|
Puss At Court
|
"Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, where have you been?"
"I've been to London to look at the Queen."
"Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, what did you there?"
"I caught a little mouse under the chair."
|
"Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, where have you been?"
|
"I've been to London to look at the Queen."
"Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, what did you there?"
"I caught a little mouse under the chair."
|
quatrain
|
Rupert Brooke
|
Town And Country
|
Here, where love's stuff is body, arm and side
Are stabbing-sweet 'gainst chair and lamp and wall.
In every touch more intimate meanings hide;
And flaming brains are the white heart of all.
Here, million pulses to one centre beat:
Closed in by men's vast friendliness, alone,
Two can be drunk with solitude, and meet
On the sheer point where sense with knowing's one.
Here the green-purple clanging royal night,
And the straight lines and silent walls of town,
And roar, and glare, and dust, and myriad white
Undying passers, pinnacle and crown
Intensest heavens between close-lying faces
By the lamp's airless fierce ecstatic fire;
And we've found love in little hidden places,
Under great shades, between the mist and mire.
Stay! though the woods are quiet, and you've heard
Night creep along the hedges. Never go
Where tangled foliage shrouds the crying bird,
And the remote winds sigh, and waters flow!
Lest, as our words fall dumb on windless noons,
Or hearts grow hushed and solitary, beneath
Unheeding stars and unfamiliar moons,
Or boughs bend over, close and quiet as death,
Unconscious and unpassionate and still,
Cloud-like we lean and stare as bright leaves stare,
And gradually along the stranger hill
Our unwalled loves thin out on vacuous air,
And suddenly there's no meaning in our kiss,
And your lit upward face grows, where we lie,
Lonelier and dreadfuller than sunlight is,
And dumb and mad and eyeless like the sky.
|
Here, where love's stuff is body, arm and side
Are stabbing-sweet 'gainst chair and lamp and wall.
In every touch more intimate meanings hide;
And flaming brains are the white heart of all.
Here, million pulses to one centre beat:
Closed in by men's vast friendliness, alone,
Two can be drunk with solitude, and meet
On the sheer point where sense with knowing's one.
Here the green-purple clanging royal night,
And the straight lines and silent walls of town,
|
And roar, and glare, and dust, and myriad white
Undying passers, pinnacle and crown
Intensest heavens between close-lying faces
By the lamp's airless fierce ecstatic fire;
And we've found love in little hidden places,
Under great shades, between the mist and mire.
Stay! though the woods are quiet, and you've heard
Night creep along the hedges. Never go
Where tangled foliage shrouds the crying bird,
And the remote winds sigh, and waters flow!
Lest, as our words fall dumb on windless noons,
Or hearts grow hushed and solitary, beneath
Unheeding stars and unfamiliar moons,
Or boughs bend over, close and quiet as death,
Unconscious and unpassionate and still,
Cloud-like we lean and stare as bright leaves stare,
And gradually along the stranger hill
Our unwalled loves thin out on vacuous air,
And suddenly there's no meaning in our kiss,
And your lit upward face grows, where we lie,
Lonelier and dreadfuller than sunlight is,
And dumb and mad and eyeless like the sky.
|
free_verse
|
Francis William Lauderdale Adams
|
Dai Butsu. {70}
|
He sits. Upon the kingly head doth rest
The round-balled wimple, and the heavy rings
Touch on the shoulders where the shadow clings.
The downward garment shows the ambiguous breast;
The face - that face one scarce can look on lest
One learn the secret of unspeakable things;
But the dread gaze descends with shudderings,
To the veiled couched knees, the hands and thumbs close-pressed.
O lidded, downcast eyes that bear the weight
Of all our woes and terrible wrong's increase:
Proud nostrils, lips proud-perfecter than these,
With what a soul within you do you wait!
Disdain and pity, love late-born of hate,
Passion eternal, patience, pain and peace!
|
He sits. Upon the kingly head doth rest
The round-balled wimple, and the heavy rings
Touch on the shoulders where the shadow clings.
The downward garment shows the ambiguous breast;
|
The face - that face one scarce can look on lest
One learn the secret of unspeakable things;
But the dread gaze descends with shudderings,
To the veiled couched knees, the hands and thumbs close-pressed.
O lidded, downcast eyes that bear the weight
Of all our woes and terrible wrong's increase:
Proud nostrils, lips proud-perfecter than these,
With what a soul within you do you wait!
Disdain and pity, love late-born of hate,
Passion eternal, patience, pain and peace!
|
sonnet
|
Algernon Charles Swinburne
|
The Transvaal
|
Patience, long sick to death, is dead. Too long
Have sloth and doubt and treason bidden us be
What Cromwell's England was not, when the sea
To him bore witness given of Blake how strong
She stood, a commonweal that brooked no wrong
From foes less vile than men like wolves set free
Whose war is waged where none may fight or flee
With women and with weanlings. Speech and song
Lack utterance now for loathing. Scarce we hear
Foul tongues that blacken God's dishonoured name
With prayers turned curses and with praise found shame
Defy the truth whose witness now draws near
To scourge these dogs, agape with jaws afoam,
Down out of life. Strike, England, and strike home.
|
Patience, long sick to death, is dead. Too long
Have sloth and doubt and treason bidden us be
What Cromwell's England was not, when the sea
To him bore witness given of Blake how strong
|
She stood, a commonweal that brooked no wrong
From foes less vile than men like wolves set free
Whose war is waged where none may fight or flee
With women and with weanlings. Speech and song
Lack utterance now for loathing. Scarce we hear
Foul tongues that blacken God's dishonoured name
With prayers turned curses and with praise found shame
Defy the truth whose witness now draws near
To scourge these dogs, agape with jaws afoam,
Down out of life. Strike, England, and strike home.
|
sonnet
|
James Whitcomb Riley
|
A Song By Uncle Sidney
|
O were I not a clod, intent
On being just an earthly thing,
I'd be that rare embodiment
Of Heart and Spirit, Voice and Wing,
With pure, ecstatic, rapture-sent,
Divinely-tender twittering
That Echo swoons to re-present, -
A bluebird in the Spring.
|
O were I not a clod, intent
On being just an earthly thing,
|
I'd be that rare embodiment
Of Heart and Spirit, Voice and Wing,
With pure, ecstatic, rapture-sent,
Divinely-tender twittering
That Echo swoons to re-present, -
A bluebird in the Spring.
|
octave
|
William Hayley
|
Hymn.
|
Since the Evening of Life will soon close,
While I live, may I justly incline
To diffuse peace of heart among those,
Whose lives may be guided by mine!
To Christ may I lead them to own
The charms of his tender controul,
And with gratitude gaze on His throne.
Whom to serve is the joy of the soul!
|
Since the Evening of Life will soon close,
While I live, may I justly incline
|
To diffuse peace of heart among those,
Whose lives may be guided by mine!
To Christ may I lead them to own
The charms of his tender controul,
And with gratitude gaze on His throne.
Whom to serve is the joy of the soul!
|
octave
|
Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson
|
Hymn Of The Puritans (From Maria Stuart)
|
Arm me, Lord, my strength redouble,
Heaven open, heed my trouble!
God, if my cause Thine shall be,
Grant a day of victory!
Fell all Thy foes now!
Fell all Thy foes now!
Roll forth Thy thunders, Thy lightning affright them,
Into the pit, the bottomless, smite them,
Their seed uproot,
Tread under foot!
Send then Thy snowy white dove peace-bringing,
Unto Thy faithful Thy token winging,
Olive-branch fair of Thy summer's fruition
After the deluge of sin's punition!
|
Arm me, Lord, my strength redouble,
Heaven open, heed my trouble!
God, if my cause Thine shall be,
Grant a day of victory!
|
Fell all Thy foes now!
Fell all Thy foes now!
Roll forth Thy thunders, Thy lightning affright them,
Into the pit, the bottomless, smite them,
Their seed uproot,
Tread under foot!
Send then Thy snowy white dove peace-bringing,
Unto Thy faithful Thy token winging,
Olive-branch fair of Thy summer's fruition
After the deluge of sin's punition!
|
sonnet
|
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
|
To Learn The Transport By The Pain,
|
To learn the transport by the pain,
As blind men learn the sun;
To die of thirst, suspecting
That brooks in meadows run;
To stay the homesick, homesick feet
Upon a foreign shore
Haunted by native lands, the while,
And blue, beloved air --
This is the sovereign anguish,
This, the signal woe!
These are the patient laureates
Whose voices, trained below,
Ascend in ceaseless carol,
Inaudible, indeed,
To us, the duller scholars
Of the mysterious bard!
|
To learn the transport by the pain,
As blind men learn the sun;
To die of thirst, suspecting
That brooks in meadows run;
To stay the homesick, homesick feet
|
Upon a foreign shore
Haunted by native lands, the while,
And blue, beloved air --
This is the sovereign anguish,
This, the signal woe!
These are the patient laureates
Whose voices, trained below,
Ascend in ceaseless carol,
Inaudible, indeed,
To us, the duller scholars
Of the mysterious bard!
|
free_verse
|
Madison Julius Cawein
|
Earth And Moon.
|
I Saw the day like some great monarch die,
Gold-couched, behind the clouds' rich tapestries.
Then, purple-sandaled, clad in silences
Of sleep, through halls of skyey lazuli,
The twilight, like a mourning queen, trailed by,
Dim-paged of dreams and shadowy mysteries;
And now the night, the star-robed child of these,
In meditative loveliness draws nigh.
Earth, like to Romeo, deep in dew and scent,
Beneath Heaven's window, watching till a light,
Like some white blossom, in its square be set,
Lifts a faint face unto the firmament,
That, with the moon, grows gradually bright,
Bidding him climb and clasp his Juliet.
|
I Saw the day like some great monarch die,
Gold-couched, behind the clouds' rich tapestries.
Then, purple-sandaled, clad in silences
Of sleep, through halls of skyey lazuli,
|
The twilight, like a mourning queen, trailed by,
Dim-paged of dreams and shadowy mysteries;
And now the night, the star-robed child of these,
In meditative loveliness draws nigh.
Earth, like to Romeo, deep in dew and scent,
Beneath Heaven's window, watching till a light,
Like some white blossom, in its square be set,
Lifts a faint face unto the firmament,
That, with the moon, grows gradually bright,
Bidding him climb and clasp his Juliet.
|
sonnet
|
William Browne
|
Caelia - Sonnet - 1
|
Lo, I the man that whilom lov'd and lost,
Not dreading loss, do sing again of love;
And like a man but lately tempest-toss'd,
Try if my stars still inauspicious prove:
Not to make good that poets never can
Long time without a chosen mistress be,
Do I sing thus; or my affections ran
Within the maze of mutability;
What last I lov'd was beauty of the mind,
And that lodg'd in a temple truly fair,
Which ruin'd now by death, if I can find
The saint that liv'd therein some otherwhere,
I may adore it there, and love the cell
For entertaining what I lov'd so well.
|
Lo, I the man that whilom lov'd and lost,
Not dreading loss, do sing again of love;
And like a man but lately tempest-toss'd,
Try if my stars still inauspicious prove:
|
Not to make good that poets never can
Long time without a chosen mistress be,
Do I sing thus; or my affections ran
Within the maze of mutability;
What last I lov'd was beauty of the mind,
And that lodg'd in a temple truly fair,
Which ruin'd now by death, if I can find
The saint that liv'd therein some otherwhere,
I may adore it there, and love the cell
For entertaining what I lov'd so well.
|
sonnet
|
James Thomson - (Bysshe Vanolis)
|
The Lord of the Castle of Indolence
|
I.
Nor did we lack our own right royal king,
The glory of our peaceful realm and race.
By no long years of restless travailing,
By no fierce wars or intrigues bland and base,
Did he attain his superlofty place;
But one fair day he lounging to the throne
Reclined thereon with such possessing grace
That all could see it was in sooth his own,
That it for him was fit and he for it alone.
II.
He there reclined as lilies on a river,
All cool in sunfire, float in buoyant rest;
He stirred as flowers that in the sweet south quiver;
He moved as swans move on a lake's calm breast,
Or clouds slow gliding in the golden west;
He thought as birds may think when 'mid the trees
Their joy showers music o'er the brood-filled nest;
He swayed us all with ever placid ease
As sways the throned moon her world-wide wandering seas.
III.
Look, as within some fair and princely hall
The marble statue of a god may rest,
Admired in silent reverence by all;
Soothing the weary brain and anguished breast,
By life's sore burthens all-too-much oppressed,
With visions of tranquillity supreme;
So, self-sufficing, grand and bland and blest,
He dwelt enthroned, and whoso gazed did seem
Endowed with death-calm life in long unwistful dream.
IV.
While others fumed and schemed and toiled in vain
To mould the world according to their mood,
He did by might of perfect faith refrain
From any part in such disturbance rude.
The world, he said, indeed is very good,
Its Maker surely wiser far than we;
Feed soul and flesh upon its bounteous food,
Nor fret because of ill; All-good is He,
And worketh not in years but in Eternity.
V.
How men will strain to row against the tide,
Which yet must sweep them down in its career!
Or if some win their way and crown their pride,
What do they win? the desert wild and drear,
The savage rocks, the icy wastes austere,
Wherefrom the river's turbid rills downflow
But he upon the waters broad and clear,
In harmony with all the winds that blow,
'Mid cities, fields and farms, went drifting to and fro.
VI.
The king with constant heed must rule his realm,
The soldier faint and starve in marches long,
The sailor guide with sleepless care his helm,
The poet from sick languors soar in song:
But he alone amidst the troubled throng
In restful ease diffused beneficence;
Most like a mid-year noontide rich and strong,
That fills the earth with fruitful life intense,
And yet doth trance it all in sweetest indolence.
VII.
When summer reigns the joyous leaves and flowers
Steal imperceptibly upon the tree;
So stole upon him all his bounteous hours,
So passive to their influence seemed he,
So clothed they him with joy and majesty;
Basking in ripest summer all his time,
We blessed his shade and sang him songs of glee;
The dew and sunbeams fed his perfect prime,
And rooted broad and deep he broadly towered sublime.
VIII.
Thus could he laugh those great and generous laughs
Which made us love ourselves, the world, and him;
And while they rang we felt as one who quaffs
Some potent wine-cup dowered to the brim,
And straightway all things seem to reel and swim,'
Suns, moons, earth, stars sweep through the vast profound,
Wrapt in a golden mist-light warm and dim,
Rolled in a volume of triumphant sound;
So in that laughter's joy the whole world carolled round.
IX.
The sea, the sky, wood, mountain, stream and plain,
Our whole fair world did serve him and adorn,
Most like some casual robe which he might deign
To use when kinglier vesture was not worn.
Was all its being by his soul upborne,
That it should render homage so complete?
The day and night, the even and the morn,
Seemed ever circling grateful round his feet,
'With Thee, through Thee we live this rich life pure and sweet!'
X.
For while he loved our broad world beautiful,
His placid wisdom penetrated it,
And found the lovely words but poor and dull
Beside the secret splendours they transmit,
The Heavenly things in earthly symbols writ:
He knew the blood-red sweetness of the vine,
Yet did not therefore at the revel sit;
But straining out the very wine of wine,
Lived calm and pure and glad in drunkenness divine.
XI.
Without an effort the imperial sun
With ever ample life of light doth feed
The spheres revolving round it every one:
So all his heart and soul and thought and deed
Flowed freely forth for every brother's need;
He knew no difference between good and ill,
But as the sun doth nourish flower and weed
With self-same bounty, he too ever still
Lived blessing all alike with equal loving will.
XII.
The all-bestowing sun is clothed with splendour,
The all-supporting sun doth reign supreme;
So must eternal justice ever render
Each unsought payment to its last extreme:
Thus he most rich in others' joy did seem,
And reigned by servitude all-effortless;
For heaven and earth must vanish like a dream
Ere such a soul divine can know distress,
Whom all the laws of Life conspire to love and bless.
|
I.
Nor did we lack our own right royal king,
The glory of our peaceful realm and race.
By no long years of restless travailing,
By no fierce wars or intrigues bland and base,
Did he attain his superlofty place;
But one fair day he lounging to the throne
Reclined thereon with such possessing grace
That all could see it was in sooth his own,
That it for him was fit and he for it alone.
II.
He there reclined as lilies on a river,
All cool in sunfire, float in buoyant rest;
He stirred as flowers that in the sweet south quiver;
He moved as swans move on a lake's calm breast,
Or clouds slow gliding in the golden west;
He thought as birds may think when 'mid the trees
Their joy showers music o'er the brood-filled nest;
He swayed us all with ever placid ease
As sways the throned moon her world-wide wandering seas.
III.
Look, as within some fair and princely hall
The marble statue of a god may rest,
Admired in silent reverence by all;
Soothing the weary brain and anguished breast,
By life's sore burthens all-too-much oppressed,
With visions of tranquillity supreme;
So, self-sufficing, grand and bland and blest,
He dwelt enthroned, and whoso gazed did seem
Endowed with death-calm life in long unwistful dream.
IV.
While others fumed and schemed and toiled in vain
To mould the world according to their mood,
He did by might of perfect faith refrain
From any part in such disturbance rude.
The world, he said, indeed is very good,
Its Maker surely wiser far than we;
Feed soul and flesh upon its bounteous food,
Nor fret because of ill; All-good is He,
And worketh not in years but in Eternity.
|
V.
How men will strain to row against the tide,
Which yet must sweep them down in its career!
Or if some win their way and crown their pride,
What do they win? the desert wild and drear,
The savage rocks, the icy wastes austere,
Wherefrom the river's turbid rills downflow
But he upon the waters broad and clear,
In harmony with all the winds that blow,
'Mid cities, fields and farms, went drifting to and fro.
VI.
The king with constant heed must rule his realm,
The soldier faint and starve in marches long,
The sailor guide with sleepless care his helm,
The poet from sick languors soar in song:
But he alone amidst the troubled throng
In restful ease diffused beneficence;
Most like a mid-year noontide rich and strong,
That fills the earth with fruitful life intense,
And yet doth trance it all in sweetest indolence.
VII.
When summer reigns the joyous leaves and flowers
Steal imperceptibly upon the tree;
So stole upon him all his bounteous hours,
So passive to their influence seemed he,
So clothed they him with joy and majesty;
Basking in ripest summer all his time,
We blessed his shade and sang him songs of glee;
The dew and sunbeams fed his perfect prime,
And rooted broad and deep he broadly towered sublime.
VIII.
Thus could he laugh those great and generous laughs
Which made us love ourselves, the world, and him;
And while they rang we felt as one who quaffs
Some potent wine-cup dowered to the brim,
And straightway all things seem to reel and swim,'
Suns, moons, earth, stars sweep through the vast profound,
Wrapt in a golden mist-light warm and dim,
Rolled in a volume of triumphant sound;
So in that laughter's joy the whole world carolled round.
IX.
The sea, the sky, wood, mountain, stream and plain,
Our whole fair world did serve him and adorn,
Most like some casual robe which he might deign
To use when kinglier vesture was not worn.
Was all its being by his soul upborne,
That it should render homage so complete?
The day and night, the even and the morn,
Seemed ever circling grateful round his feet,
'With Thee, through Thee we live this rich life pure and sweet!'
X.
For while he loved our broad world beautiful,
His placid wisdom penetrated it,
And found the lovely words but poor and dull
Beside the secret splendours they transmit,
The Heavenly things in earthly symbols writ:
He knew the blood-red sweetness of the vine,
Yet did not therefore at the revel sit;
But straining out the very wine of wine,
Lived calm and pure and glad in drunkenness divine.
XI.
Without an effort the imperial sun
With ever ample life of light doth feed
The spheres revolving round it every one:
So all his heart and soul and thought and deed
Flowed freely forth for every brother's need;
He knew no difference between good and ill,
But as the sun doth nourish flower and weed
With self-same bounty, he too ever still
Lived blessing all alike with equal loving will.
XII.
The all-bestowing sun is clothed with splendour,
The all-supporting sun doth reign supreme;
So must eternal justice ever render
Each unsought payment to its last extreme:
Thus he most rich in others' joy did seem,
And reigned by servitude all-effortless;
For heaven and earth must vanish like a dream
Ere such a soul divine can know distress,
Whom all the laws of Life conspire to love and bless.
|
free_verse
|
Walter Savage Landor
|
Years
|
Years, many parti-colour'd years,
Some have crept on, and some have flown
Since first before me fell those tears
I never could see fall alone.
Years, not so many, are to come,
Years not so varied, when from you
One more will fall: when, carried home,
I see it not, nor hear Adieu.
|
Years, many parti-colour'd years,
Some have crept on, and some have flown
|
Since first before me fell those tears
I never could see fall alone.
Years, not so many, are to come,
Years not so varied, when from you
One more will fall: when, carried home,
I see it not, nor hear Adieu.
|
octave
|
Robert William Service
|
The Wistful One
|
I sought the trails of South and North,
I wandered East and West;
But pride and passion drove me forth
And would not let me rest.
And still I seek, as still I roam,
A snug roof overhead;
Four walls, my own; a quiet home. . . .
"You'll have it - when you're dead."
|
I sought the trails of South and North,
I wandered East and West;
|
But pride and passion drove me forth
And would not let me rest.
And still I seek, as still I roam,
A snug roof overhead;
Four walls, my own; a quiet home. . . .
"You'll have it - when you're dead."
|
octave
|
Robert Herrick
|
Upon Julia's Ribbon
|
As shews the air when with a rain-bow graced,
So smiles that ribbon 'bout my Julia's waist;
Or like Nay, 'tis that Zonulet of love,
Wherein all pleasures of the world are wove.
|
As shews the air when with a rain-bow graced,
|
So smiles that ribbon 'bout my Julia's waist;
Or like Nay, 'tis that Zonulet of love,
Wherein all pleasures of the world are wove.
|
quatrain
|
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
|
Loyalty.
|
Split the lark and you'll find the music,
Bulb after bulb, in silver rolled,
Scantily dealt to the summer morning,
Saved for your ear when lutes be old.
Loose the flood, you shall find it patent,
Gush after gush, reserved for you;
Scarlet experiment! sceptic Thomas,
Now, do you doubt that your bird was true?
|
Split the lark and you'll find the music,
Bulb after bulb, in silver rolled,
|
Scantily dealt to the summer morning,
Saved for your ear when lutes be old.
Loose the flood, you shall find it patent,
Gush after gush, reserved for you;
Scarlet experiment! sceptic Thomas,
Now, do you doubt that your bird was true?
|
octave
|
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
|
The Old Bridge At Florence
|
Taddeo Gaddi built me. I am old,
Five centuries old. I plant my foot of stone
Upon the Arno, as St. Michael's own
Was planted on the dragon. Fold by fold
Beneath me as it struggles. I behold
Its glistening scales. Twice hath it overthrown
My kindred and companions. Me alone
It moveth not, but is by me controlled,
I can remember when the Medici
Were driven from Florence; longer still ago
The final wars of Ghibelline and Guelf.
Florence adorns me with her jewelry;
And when I think that Michael Angelo
Hath leaned on me, I glory in myself.
|
Taddeo Gaddi built me. I am old,
Five centuries old. I plant my foot of stone
Upon the Arno, as St. Michael's own
Was planted on the dragon. Fold by fold
|
Beneath me as it struggles. I behold
Its glistening scales. Twice hath it overthrown
My kindred and companions. Me alone
It moveth not, but is by me controlled,
I can remember when the Medici
Were driven from Florence; longer still ago
The final wars of Ghibelline and Guelf.
Florence adorns me with her jewelry;
And when I think that Michael Angelo
Hath leaned on me, I glory in myself.
|
sonnet
|
Frank Sidgwick
|
The Nutbrown Maid
|
The Text is from Arnold's Chronicle, of the edition which, from typographical evidence, is said to have been printed at Antwerp in 1502 by John Doesborowe. Each stanza is there printed in six long lines. Considerable variations appear in later editions. There is also a Balliol MS. (354), which contains a contemporary version, and the Percy Folio contains a corrupt version.
This should not be considered as a ballad proper; it is rather a 'dramatic lyric.' Its history, however, is quite as curious as that of many ballads. It occurs, as stated above, in the farrago known as the Chronicle of Richard Arnold, inserted between a list of the 'tolls' due on merchandise entering or leaving the port of Antwerp, and a table giving Flemish weights and moneys in terms of the corresponding English measures. Why such a poem should be printed in such incongruous surroundings, what its date or who its author was, are questions impossible to determine. Its position here is perhaps almost as incongruous as in its original place.
From 3.9 to the end of the last verse but one, it is a dialogue between an earl's son and a baron's daughter, in alternate stanzas; a prologue and an epilogue are added by the author.
Matthew Prior printed the poem in his works, in order to contrast it with his own version, Henry and Emma, which appealed to contemporary taste as more elegant than its rude original.
THE NUTBROWN MAID
1.
Be it right, or wrong, these men among
On women do complaine;
Affermyng this, how that it is
A labour spent in vaine,
To loue them wele; for neuer a dele,
They loue a man agayne;
For lete a man do what he can,
Ther fouour to attayne,
Yet, yf a newe to them pursue,
Ther furst trew louer than
Laboureth for nought; and from her though[t]
He is a bannisshed man.
2.
I say not nay, bat that all day
It is bothe writ and sayde
That womans fayth is as who saythe
All utterly decayed;
But neutheles, right good wytnes
In this case might be layde;
That they loue trewe, and contynew,
Recorde the Nutbrowne maide:
Which from her loue, whan, her to proue,
He cam to make his mone,
Wolde not departe, for in her herte,
She louyd but hym allone.
3.
Than betwene us lete us discusse,
What was all the maner
Betwene them too; we wyll also
Tell all they payne in fere,
That she was in; now I begynne,
Soo that ye me answere;
Wherfore, ye, that present be
I pray you geue an eare.
I am the knyght; I cum be nyght,
As secret as I can;
Sayng, alas! thus stondyth the cause,
I am a bannisshed man.
4.
And I your wylle for to fulfylle
In this wyl not refuse;
Trusting to shewe, in wordis fewe,
That men haue an ille use
To ther owne shame wymen to blame,
And causeles them accuse;
Therfore to you I answere nowe,
All wymen to excuse,--
Myn owne hert dere, with you what chiere?
I prey you, tell anoon;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I loue but you allon.
5.
It stondith so; a dede is do,
Wherfore moche harme shal growe;
My desteny is for to dey
A shamful dethe, I trowe;
Or ellis to flee: the ton must bee.
None other wey I knowe,
But to withdrawe as an outlaw,
And take me to my bowe.
Wherefore, adew, my owne hert trewe,
None other red I can:
For I muste to the grene wode goo,
Alone a bannysshed man.
6.
O Lorde, what is this worldis blisse,
That chaungeth as the mone!
My somers day in lusty may
Is derked before the none.
I here you saye farwel: nay, nay,
We depart not soo sone.
Why say ye so? wheder wyll ye goo?
Alas! what haue ye done?
Alle my welfare to sorow and care
Shulde chaunge, yf ye were gon;
For, in [my] mynde, of all mankynde
I loue but you alone.
7.
I can beleue, it shal you greue,
And somwhat you distrayne;
But, aftyrwarde, your paynes harde
Within a day or tweyne
Shall sone aslake; and ye shall take
Comfort to you agayne.
Why shuld ye nought? for, to make thought,
Your labur were in vayne.
And thus I do; and pray you, loo,
As hertely as I can;
For I must too the grene wode goo,
Alone a banysshed man.
8.
Now, syth that ye haue shewed to me
The secret of your mynde,
I shalbe playne to you agayne,
Lyke as ye shal me fynde.
Syth it is so, that ye wyll goo,
I wol not leue behynde;
Shall neuer be sayd, the Nutbrowne mayd,
Was to her loue unkind:
Make you redy, for soo am I,
All though it were anoon;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I loue but you alone.
9.
Yet I you rede take good hede
Whan men wyl thynke, and sey;
Of yonge, and olde, it shalbe tolde,
That ye be gone away,
Your wanton wylle for to fulfylle,
In grene wood you to play;
And that ye myght from your delyte
Noo lenger make delay:
Rather than ye shuld thus for me
Be called an ylle woman,
Yet wolde I to the grene wodde goo,
Alone a banyshed man.
10.
Though it be songe of olde and yonge,
That I shuld be to blame,
Theirs be the charge, that speke so large
In hurting of my name:
For I wyl proue that feythful loue
It is deuoyd of shame;
In your distresse and heuynesse,
To parte wyth you, the same:
And sure all thoo, that doo not so,
Trewe louers ar they noon;
But, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I loue but you alone.
11.
I councel yow, remembre howe
It is noo maydens lawe,
Nothing to dought, but to renne out
To wod with an outlawe;
For ye must there in your hande bere
A bowe to bere and drawe;
And, as a theef, thus must ye lyeue,
Euer in drede and awe,
By whiche to yow gret harme myght grow:
Yet had I leuer than,
That I had too the grenewod goo,
Alone a banysshyd man.
12.
I thinke not nay, but as ye saye,
It is noo maydens lore:
But loue may make me for your sake,
As ye haue said before
To com on fote, to hunte, and shote,
To gete us mete and store;
For soo that I your company
May haue, I aske noo more:
From whiche to parte, it makith myn herte
As colde as ony ston;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I loue but you alone.
13.
For an outlawe, this is the lawe,
That men hym take and binde;
Wythout pytee hanged to bee,
And wauer with the wynde.
Yf I had neede, (as God forbede!)
What rescous coude ye finde?
Forsothe, I trowe, you and your bowe
Shuld drawe for fere behynde:
And noo merueyle; for lytel auayle
Were in your councel than:
Wherfore I too the woode wyl goo
Alone a banysshd man.
14.
Ful wel knowe ye, that wymen bee
Ful febyl for to fyght;
Noo womanhed is it in deede
To bee bolde as a knight:
Yet, in suche fere, yf that ye were
Amonge enemys day and nyght,
I wolde wythstonde, with bowe in hande,
To greue them as I myght,
And you to saue; as wymen haue
From deth many one:
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I loue but you alone.
15.
Yet take good hede, for euer I drede
That ye coude not sustein
The thorney wayes, the depe valeis,
The snowe, the frost, the reyn,
The colde, the hete: for drye, or wete,
We must lodge on the playn;
And, us abowe, noon other roue
But a brake bussh or twayne:
Which sone shulde greue you, I beleue;
And ye wolde gladly than
That I had too the grenewode goo,
Alone a banysshyd man.
16.
Syth I haue here ben partynere
With you of joy and blysse,
I must also parte of your woo
Endure, as reason is:
Yet am I sure of oon plesure;
And, shortly, it is this:
That, where ye bee, me semeth, perde,
I coude not fare amysse,
Wythout more speche, I you beseche
That we were soon agone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde,
I loue but you alone.
17.
Yef ye goo thedyr, ye must consider,
Whan ye haue lust to dyne
Ther shal no mete before to gete,
Nor drinke, beer, ale, ne wine;
Ne shetis clene, to lye betwene,
Made of thred and twyne;
Noon other house but leuys and bowes
To keuer your hed and myn,
Loo, myn herte swete, this ylle dyet
Shuld make you pale and wan;
Wherfore I to the wood wyl goo,
Alone, a banysshid man.
18.
Amonge the wylde dere, suche an archier,
As men say that ye bee,
Ne may not fayle of good vitayle
Where is so grete plente:
And watir cleere of the ryuere
Shalbe ful swete to me;
Wyth whiche in hele I shal right wele
Endure, as ye shal see;
And, or we goo, a bed or twoo
I can prouide anoon;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I loue but you alone.
19.
Loo, yet before ye must doo more,
Yf ye wyl goo with me;
As cutte your here up by your ere,
Your kirtel by the knee;
Wyth bowe in hande, for to withstonde
Your enmys, yf nede bee:
And this same nyght before daylyght,
To woodwarde wyl I flee.
And ye wyl all this fulfylle,
Doo it shortely as ye can:
Ellis wil I to the grenewode goo,
Alone, a banysshyd man.
20.
I shal as now do more for you
That longeth to womanhed;
To short my here, a bowe to bere,
To shote in tyme of nede.
O my swete mod[er], before all other
For you haue I most drede:
But now, adiew! I must ensue
Wher fortune duth me leede.
All this make ye: now lete us flee;
The day cum fast upon;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I loue but you alone.
21.
Nay, nay, not soo; ye shal not goo,
And I shal telle you why,--
Your appetyte is to be lyght
Of loue, I wele aspie:
For, right as ye haue sayd to me,
In lyke wyse hardely
Ye wolde answere who so euer it were,
In way of company.
It is sayd of olde, sone hote, sone colde;
And so is a woman.
Wherfore I too the woode wly goo,
Alone, a banysshid man.
22.
Yef ye take hede, yet is noo nede
Suche wordis to say by me;
For ofte ye preyd, and longe assayed,
Or I you louid, parde:
And though that I of auncestry
A barons doughter bee,
Yet haue you proued how I you loued
A squyer of lowe degree;
And euer shal, whatso befalle--
To dey therfore anoon;
For, in my mynde, of al mankynde
I loue but you alone.
23.
A barons childe to be begyled,
It were a curssed dede;
To be felow with an outlawe,
Almyghty God forbede.
Yet bettyr were the power squyere
Alone to forest yede,
Than ye shal saye another day,
That, be [my] wyked dede,
Ye were betrayed: wherfore, good maide,
The best red that I can,
Is, that I too the grenewode goo,
Alone, a banysshed man.
24.
Whatso euer befalle, I neuer shal
Of this thing you upbrayd:
But yf ye goo, and leue me soo,
Than haue ye me betraied.
Remembre you wele, how that ye dele
For, yf ye as the[y] sayd,
Be so unkynde, to leue behynde
Your loue, the notbrowne maide,
Trust me truly, that I [shall] dey
Sone after ye be gone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I loue but you alone.
25.
Yef that ye went, ye shulde repent;
For in the forest nowe
I haue purueid me of a maide,
Whom I loue more than you;
Another fayrer, than euer ye were,
I dare it wel auowe;
And of you bothe eche shulde be wrothe
With other, as I trowe;
It were myn ease, to lyue in pease,
So wyl I, yf I can:
Wherfore I to the wode wyl goo,
Alone a banysshid man.
26.
Though in the wood I undirstode
Ye had a paramour,
All this may nought reineue my thought,
But that I wil be your;
And she shal fynde me soft and kynde,
And curteis euery our;
Glad to fulfylle all that she wylle
Commaunde me to my power:
For had ye, loo, an hundred moo,
Yet wolde I be that one,
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde,
I loue but you alone.
27.
Myn owne dere loue, I see the proue
That ye be kynde and trewe,
Of mayde, and wyf, in al my lyf,
The best that euer I knewe.
Be mery and glad, be no more sad,
The case is chaunged newe;
For it were ruthe, that, for your trouth,
Ye shuld haue cause to rewe.
Be not dismayed; whatsoeuer I sayd
To you, whan I began,
I wyl not too the grene wod goo,
I am noo banysshyd man.
28.
This tidingis be more glad to me,
Than to be made a quene,
Yf I were sure they shuld endure;
But it is often seen,
When men wyl breke promyse, they speke
The wordis on the splene;
Ye shape some wyle me to begyle
And stele fro me, I wene:
Than were the case wurs than it was,
And I more woobegone:
For, in my mynde, of al mankynde
I loue but you alone.
29.
Ye shal not nede further to drede;
I wyl not disparage
You, (God defende!) syth you descend
Of so grete a lynage.
Now understonde; to Westmerlande,
Whiche is my herytage,
I wyl you brynge; and wyth a rynge,
By wey of maryage
I wyl you take, and lady make,
As shortly as I can:
Thus haue ye wone an erles son
And not a banysshyd man.
30.
Here may ye see, that wymen be
In loue, meke, kinde, and stable;
Late neuer man repreue them than,
Or calle them variable;
But rather prey God that we may
To them be comfortable;
Whiche somtyme prouyth suche as loueth,
Yf they be charitable.
For sith men wolde that wymen sholde
Be meke to them echeon,
Moche more ought they to God obey,
And serue but Hym alone.
|
The Text is from Arnold's Chronicle, of the edition which, from typographical evidence, is said to have been printed at Antwerp in 1502 by John Doesborowe. Each stanza is there printed in six long lines. Considerable variations appear in later editions. There is also a Balliol MS. (354), which contains a contemporary version, and the Percy Folio contains a corrupt version.
This should not be considered as a ballad proper; it is rather a 'dramatic lyric.' Its history, however, is quite as curious as that of many ballads. It occurs, as stated above, in the farrago known as the Chronicle of Richard Arnold, inserted between a list of the 'tolls' due on merchandise entering or leaving the port of Antwerp, and a table giving Flemish weights and moneys in terms of the corresponding English measures. Why such a poem should be printed in such incongruous surroundings, what its date or who its author was, are questions impossible to determine. Its position here is perhaps almost as incongruous as in its original place.
From 3.9 to the end of the last verse but one, it is a dialogue between an earl's son and a baron's daughter, in alternate stanzas; a prologue and an epilogue are added by the author.
Matthew Prior printed the poem in his works, in order to contrast it with his own version, Henry and Emma, which appealed to contemporary taste as more elegant than its rude original.
THE NUTBROWN MAID
1.
Be it right, or wrong, these men among
On women do complaine;
Affermyng this, how that it is
A labour spent in vaine,
To loue them wele; for neuer a dele,
They loue a man agayne;
For lete a man do what he can,
Ther fouour to attayne,
Yet, yf a newe to them pursue,
Ther furst trew louer than
Laboureth for nought; and from her though[t]
He is a bannisshed man.
2.
I say not nay, bat that all day
It is bothe writ and sayde
That womans fayth is as who saythe
All utterly decayed;
But neutheles, right good wytnes
In this case might be layde;
That they loue trewe, and contynew,
Recorde the Nutbrowne maide:
Which from her loue, whan, her to proue,
He cam to make his mone,
Wolde not departe, for in her herte,
She louyd but hym allone.
3.
Than betwene us lete us discusse,
What was all the maner
Betwene them too; we wyll also
Tell all they payne in fere,
That she was in; now I begynne,
Soo that ye me answere;
Wherfore, ye, that present be
I pray you geue an eare.
I am the knyght; I cum be nyght,
As secret as I can;
Sayng, alas! thus stondyth the cause,
I am a bannisshed man.
4.
And I your wylle for to fulfylle
In this wyl not refuse;
Trusting to shewe, in wordis fewe,
That men haue an ille use
To ther owne shame wymen to blame,
And causeles them accuse;
Therfore to you I answere nowe,
All wymen to excuse,--
Myn owne hert dere, with you what chiere?
I prey you, tell anoon;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I loue but you allon.
5.
It stondith so; a dede is do,
Wherfore moche harme shal growe;
My desteny is for to dey
A shamful dethe, I trowe;
Or ellis to flee: the ton must bee.
None other wey I knowe,
But to withdrawe as an outlaw,
And take me to my bowe.
Wherefore, adew, my owne hert trewe,
None other red I can:
For I muste to the grene wode goo,
Alone a bannysshed man.
6.
O Lorde, what is this worldis blisse,
That chaungeth as the mone!
My somers day in lusty may
Is derked before the none.
I here you saye farwel: nay, nay,
We depart not soo sone.
Why say ye so? wheder wyll ye goo?
Alas! what haue ye done?
Alle my welfare to sorow and care
Shulde chaunge, yf ye were gon;
For, in [my] mynde, of all mankynde
I loue but you alone.
7.
I can beleue, it shal you greue,
And somwhat you distrayne;
But, aftyrwarde, your paynes harde
Within a day or tweyne
Shall sone aslake; and ye shall take
Comfort to you agayne.
Why shuld ye nought? for, to make thought,
Your labur were in vayne.
And thus I do; and pray you, loo,
As hertely as I can;
For I must too the grene wode goo,
Alone a banysshed man.
8.
Now, syth that ye haue shewed to me
The secret of your mynde,
I shalbe playne to you agayne,
Lyke as ye shal me fynde.
Syth it is so, that ye wyll goo,
I wol not leue behynde;
Shall neuer be sayd, the Nutbrowne mayd,
Was to her loue unkind:
Make you redy, for soo am I,
All though it were anoon;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I loue but you alone.
9.
Yet I you rede take good hede
Whan men wyl thynke, and sey;
Of yonge, and olde, it shalbe tolde,
That ye be gone away,
Your wanton wylle for to fulfylle,
In grene wood you to play;
And that ye myght from your delyte
Noo lenger make delay:
Rather than ye shuld thus for me
Be called an ylle woman,
Yet wolde I to the grene wodde goo,
Alone a banyshed man.
10.
Though it be songe of olde and yonge,
That I shuld be to blame,
Theirs be the charge, that speke so large
In hurting of my name:
For I wyl proue that feythful loue
It is deuoyd of shame;
In your distresse and heuynesse,
To parte wyth you, the same:
|
And sure all thoo, that doo not so,
Trewe louers ar they noon;
But, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I loue but you alone.
11.
I councel yow, remembre howe
It is noo maydens lawe,
Nothing to dought, but to renne out
To wod with an outlawe;
For ye must there in your hande bere
A bowe to bere and drawe;
And, as a theef, thus must ye lyeue,
Euer in drede and awe,
By whiche to yow gret harme myght grow:
Yet had I leuer than,
That I had too the grenewod goo,
Alone a banysshyd man.
12.
I thinke not nay, but as ye saye,
It is noo maydens lore:
But loue may make me for your sake,
As ye haue said before
To com on fote, to hunte, and shote,
To gete us mete and store;
For soo that I your company
May haue, I aske noo more:
From whiche to parte, it makith myn herte
As colde as ony ston;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I loue but you alone.
13.
For an outlawe, this is the lawe,
That men hym take and binde;
Wythout pytee hanged to bee,
And wauer with the wynde.
Yf I had neede, (as God forbede!)
What rescous coude ye finde?
Forsothe, I trowe, you and your bowe
Shuld drawe for fere behynde:
And noo merueyle; for lytel auayle
Were in your councel than:
Wherfore I too the woode wyl goo
Alone a banysshd man.
14.
Ful wel knowe ye, that wymen bee
Ful febyl for to fyght;
Noo womanhed is it in deede
To bee bolde as a knight:
Yet, in suche fere, yf that ye were
Amonge enemys day and nyght,
I wolde wythstonde, with bowe in hande,
To greue them as I myght,
And you to saue; as wymen haue
From deth many one:
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I loue but you alone.
15.
Yet take good hede, for euer I drede
That ye coude not sustein
The thorney wayes, the depe valeis,
The snowe, the frost, the reyn,
The colde, the hete: for drye, or wete,
We must lodge on the playn;
And, us abowe, noon other roue
But a brake bussh or twayne:
Which sone shulde greue you, I beleue;
And ye wolde gladly than
That I had too the grenewode goo,
Alone a banysshyd man.
16.
Syth I haue here ben partynere
With you of joy and blysse,
I must also parte of your woo
Endure, as reason is:
Yet am I sure of oon plesure;
And, shortly, it is this:
That, where ye bee, me semeth, perde,
I coude not fare amysse,
Wythout more speche, I you beseche
That we were soon agone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde,
I loue but you alone.
17.
Yef ye goo thedyr, ye must consider,
Whan ye haue lust to dyne
Ther shal no mete before to gete,
Nor drinke, beer, ale, ne wine;
Ne shetis clene, to lye betwene,
Made of thred and twyne;
Noon other house but leuys and bowes
To keuer your hed and myn,
Loo, myn herte swete, this ylle dyet
Shuld make you pale and wan;
Wherfore I to the wood wyl goo,
Alone, a banysshid man.
18.
Amonge the wylde dere, suche an archier,
As men say that ye bee,
Ne may not fayle of good vitayle
Where is so grete plente:
And watir cleere of the ryuere
Shalbe ful swete to me;
Wyth whiche in hele I shal right wele
Endure, as ye shal see;
And, or we goo, a bed or twoo
I can prouide anoon;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I loue but you alone.
19.
Loo, yet before ye must doo more,
Yf ye wyl goo with me;
As cutte your here up by your ere,
Your kirtel by the knee;
Wyth bowe in hande, for to withstonde
Your enmys, yf nede bee:
And this same nyght before daylyght,
To woodwarde wyl I flee.
And ye wyl all this fulfylle,
Doo it shortely as ye can:
Ellis wil I to the grenewode goo,
Alone, a banysshyd man.
20.
I shal as now do more for you
That longeth to womanhed;
To short my here, a bowe to bere,
To shote in tyme of nede.
O my swete mod[er], before all other
For you haue I most drede:
But now, adiew! I must ensue
Wher fortune duth me leede.
All this make ye: now lete us flee;
The day cum fast upon;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I loue but you alone.
21.
Nay, nay, not soo; ye shal not goo,
And I shal telle you why,--
Your appetyte is to be lyght
Of loue, I wele aspie:
For, right as ye haue sayd to me,
In lyke wyse hardely
Ye wolde answere who so euer it were,
In way of company.
It is sayd of olde, sone hote, sone colde;
And so is a woman.
Wherfore I too the woode wly goo,
Alone, a banysshid man.
22.
Yef ye take hede, yet is noo nede
Suche wordis to say by me;
For ofte ye preyd, and longe assayed,
Or I you louid, parde:
And though that I of auncestry
A barons doughter bee,
Yet haue you proued how I you loued
A squyer of lowe degree;
And euer shal, whatso befalle--
To dey therfore anoon;
For, in my mynde, of al mankynde
I loue but you alone.
23.
A barons childe to be begyled,
It were a curssed dede;
To be felow with an outlawe,
Almyghty God forbede.
Yet bettyr were the power squyere
Alone to forest yede,
Than ye shal saye another day,
That, be [my] wyked dede,
Ye were betrayed: wherfore, good maide,
The best red that I can,
Is, that I too the grenewode goo,
Alone, a banysshed man.
24.
Whatso euer befalle, I neuer shal
Of this thing you upbrayd:
But yf ye goo, and leue me soo,
Than haue ye me betraied.
Remembre you wele, how that ye dele
For, yf ye as the[y] sayd,
Be so unkynde, to leue behynde
Your loue, the notbrowne maide,
Trust me truly, that I [shall] dey
Sone after ye be gone;
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde
I loue but you alone.
25.
Yef that ye went, ye shulde repent;
For in the forest nowe
I haue purueid me of a maide,
Whom I loue more than you;
Another fayrer, than euer ye were,
I dare it wel auowe;
And of you bothe eche shulde be wrothe
With other, as I trowe;
It were myn ease, to lyue in pease,
So wyl I, yf I can:
Wherfore I to the wode wyl goo,
Alone a banysshid man.
26.
Though in the wood I undirstode
Ye had a paramour,
All this may nought reineue my thought,
But that I wil be your;
And she shal fynde me soft and kynde,
And curteis euery our;
Glad to fulfylle all that she wylle
Commaunde me to my power:
For had ye, loo, an hundred moo,
Yet wolde I be that one,
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde,
I loue but you alone.
27.
Myn owne dere loue, I see the proue
That ye be kynde and trewe,
Of mayde, and wyf, in al my lyf,
The best that euer I knewe.
Be mery and glad, be no more sad,
The case is chaunged newe;
For it were ruthe, that, for your trouth,
Ye shuld haue cause to rewe.
Be not dismayed; whatsoeuer I sayd
To you, whan I began,
I wyl not too the grene wod goo,
I am noo banysshyd man.
28.
This tidingis be more glad to me,
Than to be made a quene,
Yf I were sure they shuld endure;
But it is often seen,
When men wyl breke promyse, they speke
The wordis on the splene;
Ye shape some wyle me to begyle
And stele fro me, I wene:
Than were the case wurs than it was,
And I more woobegone:
For, in my mynde, of al mankynde
I loue but you alone.
29.
Ye shal not nede further to drede;
I wyl not disparage
You, (God defende!) syth you descend
Of so grete a lynage.
Now understonde; to Westmerlande,
Whiche is my herytage,
I wyl you brynge; and wyth a rynge,
By wey of maryage
I wyl you take, and lady make,
As shortly as I can:
Thus haue ye wone an erles son
And not a banysshyd man.
30.
Here may ye see, that wymen be
In loue, meke, kinde, and stable;
Late neuer man repreue them than,
Or calle them variable;
But rather prey God that we may
To them be comfortable;
Whiche somtyme prouyth suche as loueth,
Yf they be charitable.
For sith men wolde that wymen sholde
Be meke to them echeon,
Moche more ought they to God obey,
And serue but Hym alone.
|
free_verse
|
James McIntyre
|
Gray Hairs.
|
Once on a time a lady quarrelled
With the witty Douglass Jerrold,
Because that he had been so bold,
To hint that she was growing old.
She said her hair was dark 'till one day
She used an essence turned it gray,
O, yes, said he, tincture of time
Affects the hair in this our clime.
|
Once on a time a lady quarrelled
With the witty Douglass Jerrold,
|
Because that he had been so bold,
To hint that she was growing old.
She said her hair was dark 'till one day
She used an essence turned it gray,
O, yes, said he, tincture of time
Affects the hair in this our clime.
|
octave
|
Jean Blewett
|
Morning.
|
The eastern sky grew all aglow,
A tinted fleet sailed just below.
The thick wood and the clinging mist
Slow parted, wept good-bye, and kissed.
To primrose, tulip, daffodil,
The wind came piping gay and shrill:
"Wake up! wake up! while day is new,
And all the world is washed with dew!"
|
The eastern sky grew all aglow,
A tinted fleet sailed just below.
|
The thick wood and the clinging mist
Slow parted, wept good-bye, and kissed.
To primrose, tulip, daffodil,
The wind came piping gay and shrill:
"Wake up! wake up! while day is new,
And all the world is washed with dew!"
|
octave
|
William Wordsworth
|
Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland 1814 - II. Composed At Cora Linn - In Sight Of Wallace's Tower
|
"How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the name
Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower,
All over his dear Country; left the deeds
Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts,
To people the steep rocks and river banks,
Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul
Of independence and stern liberty."
- See The Prelude, Book I, Lines 214-20.
Lord of the vale! astounding Flood;
The dullest leaf in this thick wood
Quakes conscious of thy power;
The caves reply with hollow moan;
And vibrates, to its central stone,
Yon time-cemented Tower!
And yet how fair the rural scene!
For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been
Beneficent as strong;
Pleased in refreshing dews to steep
The little trembling flowers that peep
Thy shelving rocks among.
Hence all who love their country, love
To look on thee, delight to rove
Where they thy voice can hear;
And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade,
Lord of the vale! to Heroes laid
In dust, that voice is dear!
Along thy banks, at dead of night
Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight;
Or stands, in warlike vest,
Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam,
A Champion worthy of the stream,
Yon grey tower's living crest!
But clouds and envious darkness hide
A Form not doubtfully descried:
Their transient mission o'er,
O say to what blind region flee
These Shapes of awful phantasy?
To what untrodden shore?
Less than divine command they spurn;
But this we from the mountains learn,
And this the valleys show;
That never will they deign to hold
Communion where the heart is cold
To human weal and woe.
The man of abject soul in vain
Shall walk the Marathonian plain;
Or thrid the shadowy gloom,
That still invests the guardian Pass,
Where stood, sublime, Leonidas
Devoted to the tomb.
And let no Slave his head incline,
Or kneel, before the votive shrine
By Uri's lake, where Tell
Leapt, from his storm-vext boat, to land,
Heaven's Instrument, for by his hand
That day the Tyrant fell.
|
"How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the name
Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower,
All over his dear Country; left the deeds
Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts,
To people the steep rocks and river banks,
Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul
Of independence and stern liberty."
- See The Prelude, Book I, Lines 214-20.
Lord of the vale! astounding Flood;
The dullest leaf in this thick wood
Quakes conscious of thy power;
The caves reply with hollow moan;
And vibrates, to its central stone,
Yon time-cemented Tower!
And yet how fair the rural scene!
For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been
Beneficent as strong;
Pleased in refreshing dews to steep
|
The little trembling flowers that peep
Thy shelving rocks among.
Hence all who love their country, love
To look on thee, delight to rove
Where they thy voice can hear;
And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade,
Lord of the vale! to Heroes laid
In dust, that voice is dear!
Along thy banks, at dead of night
Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight;
Or stands, in warlike vest,
Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam,
A Champion worthy of the stream,
Yon grey tower's living crest!
But clouds and envious darkness hide
A Form not doubtfully descried:
Their transient mission o'er,
O say to what blind region flee
These Shapes of awful phantasy?
To what untrodden shore?
Less than divine command they spurn;
But this we from the mountains learn,
And this the valleys show;
That never will they deign to hold
Communion where the heart is cold
To human weal and woe.
The man of abject soul in vain
Shall walk the Marathonian plain;
Or thrid the shadowy gloom,
That still invests the guardian Pass,
Where stood, sublime, Leonidas
Devoted to the tomb.
And let no Slave his head incline,
Or kneel, before the votive shrine
By Uri's lake, where Tell
Leapt, from his storm-vext boat, to land,
Heaven's Instrument, for by his hand
That day the Tyrant fell.
|
free_verse
|
George MacDonald
|
Life Or Death?
|
Is there a secret Joy, that may not weep,
For every flower that ends its little span,
For every child that groweth up to man,
For every captive bird a cage doth keep,
For every aching eye that went to sleep
Long ages back, when other eyes began
To see and know and love as now they can,
Unravelling God's wonders heap by heap?
Or doth the Past lie 'mid Eternity
In charnel dens that rot and reek alway,
A dismal light for those that go astray,
A pit of foul deformity--to be,
Beauty, a dreadful source of growth for thee
When thou wouldst lift thine eyes to greet the day?
|
Is there a secret Joy, that may not weep,
For every flower that ends its little span,
For every child that groweth up to man,
For every captive bird a cage doth keep,
|
For every aching eye that went to sleep
Long ages back, when other eyes began
To see and know and love as now they can,
Unravelling God's wonders heap by heap?
Or doth the Past lie 'mid Eternity
In charnel dens that rot and reek alway,
A dismal light for those that go astray,
A pit of foul deformity--to be,
Beauty, a dreadful source of growth for thee
When thou wouldst lift thine eyes to greet the day?
|
sonnet
|
Unknown
|
Beauty
|
A thing of beauty is a joy forever;
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
|
A thing of beauty is a joy forever;
|
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
|
free_verse
|
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
|
The Sea Of Sunset.
|
This is the land the sunset washes,
These are the banks of the Yellow Sea;
Where it rose, or whither it rushes,
These are the western mystery!
Night after night her purple traffic
Strews the landing with opal bales;
Merchantmen poise upon horizons,
Dip, and vanish with fairy sails.
|
This is the land the sunset washes,
These are the banks of the Yellow Sea;
|
Where it rose, or whither it rushes,
These are the western mystery!
Night after night her purple traffic
Strews the landing with opal bales;
Merchantmen poise upon horizons,
Dip, and vanish with fairy sails.
|
octave
|
Sara Teasdale
|
At Night
|
Love said, "Wake still and think of me,"
Sleep, "Close your eyes till break of day,"
But Dreams came by and smilingly
Gave both to Love and Sleep their way.
|
Love said, "Wake still and think of me,"
|
Sleep, "Close your eyes till break of day,"
But Dreams came by and smilingly
Gave both to Love and Sleep their way.
|
quatrain
|
Rose Hawthorne Lathrop
|
Life's Burying-Ground.
|
My graveyard holds no once-loved human forms,
Grown hideous and forgotten, left alone,
But every agony my heart has known, -
The new-born trusts that died, the drift of storms.
I visit every day the shadowy grove;
I bury there my outraged tender thought;
I bring the insult for the love I sought,
And my contempt, where I had tried to love.
|
My graveyard holds no once-loved human forms,
Grown hideous and forgotten, left alone,
|
But every agony my heart has known, -
The new-born trusts that died, the drift of storms.
I visit every day the shadowy grove;
I bury there my outraged tender thought;
I bring the insult for the love I sought,
And my contempt, where I had tried to love.
|
octave
|
Robert Browning
|
The Glove
|
PETER RONSARD loquitur.
'Heigho!' yawned one day King Francis,
'Distance all value enhances!
'When a man's busy, why, leisure
'Strikes him as wonderful pleasure,
''Faith, and at leisure once is he?
'Straightway he wants to be busy.
'Here we've got peace; and aghast I'm
'Caught thinking war the true pastime!
'Is there a reason in metre?
'Give us your speech, master Peter!'
I who, if mortal dare say so,
Ne'er am at loss with my Naso,
'Sire,' I replied, 'joys prove cloudlets:
'Men are the merest Ixions',
Here the King whistled aloud, 'Let's
' . . Heigho . . go look at our lions!'
Such are the sorrowful chances
If you talk fine to King Francis.
And so, to the courtyard proceeding,
Our company, Francis was leading,
Increased by new followers tenfold
Before he arrived at the penfold;
Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen
At sunset the western horizon.
And Sir De Lorge pressed 'mid the foremost
With the dame he professed to adore most.
Oh, what a face! One by fits eyed
Her, and the horrible pitside;
For the penfold surrounded a hollow
Which led where the eye scarce dared follow,
And shelved to the chamber secluded
Where Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded.
The King bailed his keeper, an Arab
As glossy and black as a scarab,
And bade him make sport and at once stir
Up and out of his den the old monster.
They opened a hole in the wire-work
Across it, and dropped there a firework,
And fled: one's heart's beating redoubled;
A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled,
The blackness and silence so utter,
By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter;
Then earth in a sudden contortion
Gave out to our gaze her abortion!
Such a brute! Were I friend Clement Marot
(Whose experience of nature's but narrow,
And whose faculties move in no small mist
When he versifies David the Psalmist)
I should study that brute to describe you
Illim Juda Leonem de Tribu!
One's whole blood grew curdling and creepy
To see the black mane, vast and heapy,
The tail in the air stiff and straining,
The wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning,
As over the barrier which bounded
His platform, and us who surrounded
The barrier, they reached and they rested
On space that might stand him in best stead:
For who knew, he thought, what the amazement,
The eruption of clatter and blaze meant,
And if, in this minute of wonder,
No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder,
Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered,
The lion at last was delivered?
Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead!
And you saw by the flash on his forehead,
By the hope in those eyes wide and steady,
He was leagues in the desert already,
Driving the flocks up the mountain,
Or catlike couched hard by the fountain
To waylay the date-gathering negress:
So guarded he entrance or egress.
'How he stands!' quoth the King: 'we may well swear,
('No novice, we've won our spurs elsewhere
'And so can afford the confession,)
'We exercise wholesome discretion
'In keeping aloof from his threshold;
'Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold,
'Their first would too pleasantly purloin
'The visitor's brisket or surloin:
'But who's he would prove so fool-hardy?
'Not the best man of Marignan, pardie!'
The sentence no sooner was uttered,
Than over the rails a glove flattered,
Fell close to the lion, and rested:
The dame 'twas, who flung it and jested
With life so, De Lorge had been wooing
For months past; he sate there pursuing
His suit, weighing out with nonchalance
Fine speeches like gold from a balance.
Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier!
De Lorge made one leap at the barrier,
Walked straight to the glove, while the lion
Ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on
The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire,
And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir,
Picked it up, and as calmly retreated,
Leaped back where the lady was seated,
And full in the face of its owner
Flung the glove.
'Your heart's queen, you dethrone her?
'So should I!' cried the King, ''twas mere vanity,
'Not love, set that task to humanity!'
Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing
From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing.
Not so, I; for I caught an expression
In her brow's undisturbed self-possession
Amid the Court's scoffing and merriment,
As if from no pleasing experiment
She rose, yet of pain not much heedful
So long as the process was needful,
As if she had tried in a crucible,
To what 'speeches like gold' were reducible,
And, finding the finest prove copper,
Felt the smoke in her face was but proper;
To know what she had not to trust to,
Was worth all the ashes and dust too.
She went out 'mid hooting and laughter;
Clement Marot stayed; I followed after,
And asked, as a grace, what it all meant?
If she wished not the rash deed's recalment?
'For I', so I spoke, 'am a poet:
'Human nature, behoves that I know it!'
She told me, 'Too long had I heard
'Of the deed proved alone by the word:
'For my love, what De Lorge would not dare!
'With my scorn, what De Lorge could compare!
'And the endless descriptions of death
'He would brave when my lip formed a breath,
'I must reckon as braved, or, of course,
'Doubt his word, and moreover, perforce,
'For such gifts as no lady could spurn,
'Must offer my love in return.
'When I looked on your lion, it brought
'All the dangers at once to my thought,
'Encountered by all sorts of men,
'Before he was lodged in his den,
'From the poor slave whose club or bare hands
'Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands,
'With no King and no Court to applaud,
'By no shame, should he shrink, overawed,
'Yet to capture the creature made shift,
'That his rude boys might laugh at the gift,
'To the page who last leaped o'er the fence
'Of the pit, on no greater pretence
'Than to get back the bonnet he dropped,
'Lest his pay for a week should be stopped,
'So, wiser I judged it to make
'One trial what 'death for my sake'
'Really meant, while the power was yet mine,
'Than to wait until time should define
'Such a phrase not so simply as I,
'Who took it to mean just 'to die.'
'The blow a glove gives is but weak:
'Does the mark yet discolour my cheek?
'But when the heart suffers a blow,
'Will the pain pass so soon, do you know?'
I looked, as away she was sweeping,
And saw a youth eagerly keeping
As close as he dared to the doorway:
No doubt that a noble should more weigh
His life than befits a plebeian;
And yet, had our brute been Nemean,
(I judge by a certain calm fervour
The youth stepped with, forward to serve her)
He'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turn
If you whispered 'Friend, what you'd get, first earn!'
And when, shortly after, she carried
Her shame from the Court, and they married,
To that marriage some happiness, maugre
The voice of the Court, I dared augur.
For De Lorge, he made women with men vie,
Those in wonder and praise, these in envy;
And in short stood so plain a head taller
That he wooed and won . . . how do you call her?
The beauty, that rose in the sequel
To the King's love, who loved her a week well.
And 'twas noticed he never would honour
De Lorge (who looked daggers upon her)
With the easy commission of stretching
His legs in the service, and fetching
His wife, from her chamber, those straying
Sad gloves she was always mislaying,
While the King took the closet to chat in,
But of course this adventure came pat in;
And never the King told the story,
How bringing a glove brought such glory,
But the wife smiled, 'His nerves are grown firmer,
'Mine he brings now and utters no murmur.'
Venienti occurrite morbo!
With which moral I drop my theorbo.
|
PETER RONSARD loquitur.
'Heigho!' yawned one day King Francis,
'Distance all value enhances!
'When a man's busy, why, leisure
'Strikes him as wonderful pleasure,
''Faith, and at leisure once is he?
'Straightway he wants to be busy.
'Here we've got peace; and aghast I'm
'Caught thinking war the true pastime!
'Is there a reason in metre?
'Give us your speech, master Peter!'
I who, if mortal dare say so,
Ne'er am at loss with my Naso,
'Sire,' I replied, 'joys prove cloudlets:
'Men are the merest Ixions',
Here the King whistled aloud, 'Let's
' . . Heigho . . go look at our lions!'
Such are the sorrowful chances
If you talk fine to King Francis.
And so, to the courtyard proceeding,
Our company, Francis was leading,
Increased by new followers tenfold
Before he arrived at the penfold;
Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen
At sunset the western horizon.
And Sir De Lorge pressed 'mid the foremost
With the dame he professed to adore most.
Oh, what a face! One by fits eyed
Her, and the horrible pitside;
For the penfold surrounded a hollow
Which led where the eye scarce dared follow,
And shelved to the chamber secluded
Where Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded.
The King bailed his keeper, an Arab
As glossy and black as a scarab,
And bade him make sport and at once stir
Up and out of his den the old monster.
They opened a hole in the wire-work
Across it, and dropped there a firework,
And fled: one's heart's beating redoubled;
A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled,
The blackness and silence so utter,
By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter;
Then earth in a sudden contortion
Gave out to our gaze her abortion!
Such a brute! Were I friend Clement Marot
(Whose experience of nature's but narrow,
And whose faculties move in no small mist
When he versifies David the Psalmist)
I should study that brute to describe you
Illim Juda Leonem de Tribu!
One's whole blood grew curdling and creepy
To see the black mane, vast and heapy,
The tail in the air stiff and straining,
The wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning,
As over the barrier which bounded
His platform, and us who surrounded
The barrier, they reached and they rested
On space that might stand him in best stead:
For who knew, he thought, what the amazement,
The eruption of clatter and blaze meant,
And if, in this minute of wonder,
No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder,
Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered,
|
The lion at last was delivered?
Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead!
And you saw by the flash on his forehead,
By the hope in those eyes wide and steady,
He was leagues in the desert already,
Driving the flocks up the mountain,
Or catlike couched hard by the fountain
To waylay the date-gathering negress:
So guarded he entrance or egress.
'How he stands!' quoth the King: 'we may well swear,
('No novice, we've won our spurs elsewhere
'And so can afford the confession,)
'We exercise wholesome discretion
'In keeping aloof from his threshold;
'Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold,
'Their first would too pleasantly purloin
'The visitor's brisket or surloin:
'But who's he would prove so fool-hardy?
'Not the best man of Marignan, pardie!'
The sentence no sooner was uttered,
Than over the rails a glove flattered,
Fell close to the lion, and rested:
The dame 'twas, who flung it and jested
With life so, De Lorge had been wooing
For months past; he sate there pursuing
His suit, weighing out with nonchalance
Fine speeches like gold from a balance.
Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier!
De Lorge made one leap at the barrier,
Walked straight to the glove, while the lion
Ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on
The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire,
And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir,
Picked it up, and as calmly retreated,
Leaped back where the lady was seated,
And full in the face of its owner
Flung the glove.
'Your heart's queen, you dethrone her?
'So should I!' cried the King, ''twas mere vanity,
'Not love, set that task to humanity!'
Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing
From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing.
Not so, I; for I caught an expression
In her brow's undisturbed self-possession
Amid the Court's scoffing and merriment,
As if from no pleasing experiment
She rose, yet of pain not much heedful
So long as the process was needful,
As if she had tried in a crucible,
To what 'speeches like gold' were reducible,
And, finding the finest prove copper,
Felt the smoke in her face was but proper;
To know what she had not to trust to,
Was worth all the ashes and dust too.
She went out 'mid hooting and laughter;
Clement Marot stayed; I followed after,
And asked, as a grace, what it all meant?
If she wished not the rash deed's recalment?
'For I', so I spoke, 'am a poet:
'Human nature, behoves that I know it!'
She told me, 'Too long had I heard
'Of the deed proved alone by the word:
'For my love, what De Lorge would not dare!
'With my scorn, what De Lorge could compare!
'And the endless descriptions of death
'He would brave when my lip formed a breath,
'I must reckon as braved, or, of course,
'Doubt his word, and moreover, perforce,
'For such gifts as no lady could spurn,
'Must offer my love in return.
'When I looked on your lion, it brought
'All the dangers at once to my thought,
'Encountered by all sorts of men,
'Before he was lodged in his den,
'From the poor slave whose club or bare hands
'Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands,
'With no King and no Court to applaud,
'By no shame, should he shrink, overawed,
'Yet to capture the creature made shift,
'That his rude boys might laugh at the gift,
'To the page who last leaped o'er the fence
'Of the pit, on no greater pretence
'Than to get back the bonnet he dropped,
'Lest his pay for a week should be stopped,
'So, wiser I judged it to make
'One trial what 'death for my sake'
'Really meant, while the power was yet mine,
'Than to wait until time should define
'Such a phrase not so simply as I,
'Who took it to mean just 'to die.'
'The blow a glove gives is but weak:
'Does the mark yet discolour my cheek?
'But when the heart suffers a blow,
'Will the pain pass so soon, do you know?'
I looked, as away she was sweeping,
And saw a youth eagerly keeping
As close as he dared to the doorway:
No doubt that a noble should more weigh
His life than befits a plebeian;
And yet, had our brute been Nemean,
(I judge by a certain calm fervour
The youth stepped with, forward to serve her)
He'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turn
If you whispered 'Friend, what you'd get, first earn!'
And when, shortly after, she carried
Her shame from the Court, and they married,
To that marriage some happiness, maugre
The voice of the Court, I dared augur.
For De Lorge, he made women with men vie,
Those in wonder and praise, these in envy;
And in short stood so plain a head taller
That he wooed and won . . . how do you call her?
The beauty, that rose in the sequel
To the King's love, who loved her a week well.
And 'twas noticed he never would honour
De Lorge (who looked daggers upon her)
With the easy commission of stretching
His legs in the service, and fetching
His wife, from her chamber, those straying
Sad gloves she was always mislaying,
While the King took the closet to chat in,
But of course this adventure came pat in;
And never the King told the story,
How bringing a glove brought such glory,
But the wife smiled, 'His nerves are grown firmer,
'Mine he brings now and utters no murmur.'
Venienti occurrite morbo!
With which moral I drop my theorbo.
|
free_verse
|
Richard Le Gallienne
|
Art
|
Art is a gipsy,
Fickle as fair,
Good to kiss and flirt with,
But marry - if you dare!
|
Art is a gipsy,
|
Fickle as fair,
Good to kiss and flirt with,
But marry - if you dare!
|
quatrain
|
Robert Herrick
|
Fortune Favours.
|
Fortune did never favour one
Fully, without exception;
Though free she be, there's something yet
Still wanting to her favourite.
|
Fortune did never favour one
|
Fully, without exception;
Though free she be, there's something yet
Still wanting to her favourite.
|
quatrain
|
Oliver Herford
|
Christopher Columbus
|
Columbus is an easy one
To draw, for when the picture's done,
Where is the captious critic who
Can say the likeness is not true?
|
Columbus is an easy one
|
To draw, for when the picture's done,
Where is the captious critic who
Can say the likeness is not true?
|
quatrain
|
Ralph Waldo Emerson
|
Hush!
|
Every thought is public,
Every nook is wide;
Thy gossips spread each whisper,
And the gods from side to side.
|
Every thought is public,
|
Every nook is wide;
Thy gossips spread each whisper,
And the gods from side to side.
|
quatrain
|
Siegfried Loraine Sassoon
|
Blighters
|
The house is crammed: tier beyond tier they grin
And cackle at the Show, while prancing ranks
Of harlots shrill the chorus, drunk with din;
"We're sure the Kaiser loves the dear old Tanks!"
I'd like to see a Tank come down the stalls,
Lurching to rag-time tunes, or "Home, sweet Home," -
And there'd be no more jokes in Music-halls
To mock the riddled corpses round Bapaume.
|
The house is crammed: tier beyond tier they grin
And cackle at the Show, while prancing ranks
|
Of harlots shrill the chorus, drunk with din;
"We're sure the Kaiser loves the dear old Tanks!"
I'd like to see a Tank come down the stalls,
Lurching to rag-time tunes, or "Home, sweet Home," -
And there'd be no more jokes in Music-halls
To mock the riddled corpses round Bapaume.
|
octave
|
Matthew Arnold
|
East London
|
'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead
Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green,
And the pale weaver, through his windows seen
In Spitalfields, looked thrice dispirited.
I met a preacher there I knew, and said:
'Ill and o'erworked, how fare you in this scene?',
'Bravely!' said he; 'for I of late have been
Much cheered with thoughts of Christ, the living bread.'
O human soul! as long as thou canst so
Set up a mark of everlasting light,
Above the howling senses' ebb and flow,
To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam,
Not with lost toil thou labourest through the night!
Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home.
|
'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead
Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green,
And the pale weaver, through his windows seen
In Spitalfields, looked thrice dispirited.
|
I met a preacher there I knew, and said:
'Ill and o'erworked, how fare you in this scene?',
'Bravely!' said he; 'for I of late have been
Much cheered with thoughts of Christ, the living bread.'
O human soul! as long as thou canst so
Set up a mark of everlasting light,
Above the howling senses' ebb and flow,
To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam,
Not with lost toil thou labourest through the night!
Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home.
|
sonnet
|
William Cowper
|
Song. On Peace.
|
Written in the summer of 1783, at the request of Lady Austen, who gave the sentiment.
Air''My fond Shepherds of late.'
No longer I follow a sound;
No longer a dream I pursue;
O happiness! not to be found,
Unattainable treasure, adieu!
I have sought thee in splendour and dress,
In the regions of pleasure and taste;
I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess,
But have proved thee a vision at last.
An humble ambition and hope
The voice of true wisdom inspires;
'Tis sufficient, if peace be the scope,
And the summit of all our desires.
Peace may be the lot of the mind
That seeks it in meekness and love;
But rapture and bliss are confined
To the glorified spirits above.
|
Written in the summer of 1783, at the request of Lady Austen, who gave the sentiment.
Air''My fond Shepherds of late.'
No longer I follow a sound;
No longer a dream I pursue;
O happiness! not to be found,
Unattainable treasure, adieu!
|
I have sought thee in splendour and dress,
In the regions of pleasure and taste;
I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess,
But have proved thee a vision at last.
An humble ambition and hope
The voice of true wisdom inspires;
'Tis sufficient, if peace be the scope,
And the summit of all our desires.
Peace may be the lot of the mind
That seeks it in meekness and love;
But rapture and bliss are confined
To the glorified spirits above.
|
free_verse
|
Unknown
|
Hosts
|
Here's to the host and the hostess,
We're honored to be here tonight;
May they both live long and prosper,
May their star of hope ever be bright.
|
Here's to the host and the hostess,
|
We're honored to be here tonight;
May they both live long and prosper,
May their star of hope ever be bright.
|
quatrain
|
Rudyard Kipling
|
Chapter Headings - Kim
|
Unto whose use the pregnant suns are poised,
With idiot moons and stars retracting stars?
Creep thou between, thy coming's all unnoised.
Heaven hath her high, as Earth her baser, wars
Heir to these tumults, this affright, that fray
(By Adam's, fathers', own, sin bound alway);
Peer up, draw out thy horoscope and say
Which planet mends thy threadbare fate, or mars.
|
Unto whose use the pregnant suns are poised,
With idiot moons and stars retracting stars?
|
Creep thou between, thy coming's all unnoised.
Heaven hath her high, as Earth her baser, wars
Heir to these tumults, this affright, that fray
(By Adam's, fathers', own, sin bound alway);
Peer up, draw out thy horoscope and say
Which planet mends thy threadbare fate, or mars.
|
octave
|
Oliver Herford
|
The Whole Duty of Kittens
|
When Human Folk at Table eat,
A Kitten must not mew for meat,
Or jump to grab it from the Dish,
(Unless it happens to be fish).
|
When Human Folk at Table eat,
|
A Kitten must not mew for meat,
Or jump to grab it from the Dish,
(Unless it happens to be fish).
|
quatrain
|
Henry John Newbolt, Sir
|
Felix Antonius
|
(After Martial)
To-day, my friend is seventy-five;
He tells his tale with no regret;
His brave old eyes are steadfast yet,
His heart the .lightest heart alive.
He sees behind him green and wide
The pathway of his pilgrim years;
He sees the shore, and dreadless hears
The whisper of the creeping tide.
For out of all his days, not one
Has passed and left its unlaid ghost
To seek a light for ever lost,
Or wail a deed for ever done.
So for reward of life-long truth
He lives again, as good men can,
Redoubling his allotted span
With memories of a stainless youth.
|
(After Martial)
To-day, my friend is seventy-five;
He tells his tale with no regret;
His brave old eyes are steadfast yet,
His heart the .lightest heart alive.
|
He sees behind him green and wide
The pathway of his pilgrim years;
He sees the shore, and dreadless hears
The whisper of the creeping tide.
For out of all his days, not one
Has passed and left its unlaid ghost
To seek a light for ever lost,
Or wail a deed for ever done.
So for reward of life-long truth
He lives again, as good men can,
Redoubling his allotted span
With memories of a stainless youth.
|
free_verse
|
W. M. MacKeracher
|
God in Nature.
|
We see our Father's hand in all around;
In summer's sun, and in cold winter's snow,
In leafy wood, on grassy-covered ground,
In showers that fall and icy blasts that blow.
And when we see the light'ning's flash, and hear
The thunder's roar, majestically grand,
A heavenly voice says, "Christian, do not fear,
'Tis but the working of thy Father's hand."
|
We see our Father's hand in all around;
In summer's sun, and in cold winter's snow,
|
In leafy wood, on grassy-covered ground,
In showers that fall and icy blasts that blow.
And when we see the light'ning's flash, and hear
The thunder's roar, majestically grand,
A heavenly voice says, "Christian, do not fear,
'Tis but the working of thy Father's hand."
|
octave
|
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
|
A Musical Instrument
|
I.
What was he doing, the great god Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river ?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river.
II.
He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river :
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
Ere he brought it out of the river.
III.
High on the shore sate the great god Pan,
While turbidly flowed the river ;
And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.
IV.
He cut it short, did the great god Pan,
(How tall it stood in the river !)
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notched the poor dry empty thing
In holes, as he sate by the river.
V.
This is the way,' laughed the great god Pan,
Laughed while he sate by the river,)
The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed.'
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
He blew in power by the river.
VI.
Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan !
Piercing sweet by the river !
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan !
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.
VII.
Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man :
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.
|
I.
What was he doing, the great god Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river ?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river.
II.
He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river :
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
Ere he brought it out of the river.
III.
High on the shore sate the great god Pan,
|
While turbidly flowed the river ;
And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.
IV.
He cut it short, did the great god Pan,
(How tall it stood in the river !)
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notched the poor dry empty thing
In holes, as he sate by the river.
V.
This is the way,' laughed the great god Pan,
Laughed while he sate by the river,)
The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed.'
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
He blew in power by the river.
VI.
Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan !
Piercing sweet by the river !
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan !
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.
VII.
Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man :
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.
|
free_verse
|
Hanford Lennox Gordon
|
My Dead
|
Last night in my feverish dreams I heard
A voice like the moan of an autumn sea,
Or the low, sad wail of a widowed bird,
And it said "My darling, come home to me."
Then a hand was laid on my throbbing head
As cold as clay, but it soothed my pain:
I wakened and knew from among the dead
My darling stood by my coach again.
|
Last night in my feverish dreams I heard
A voice like the moan of an autumn sea,
|
Or the low, sad wail of a widowed bird,
And it said "My darling, come home to me."
Then a hand was laid on my throbbing head
As cold as clay, but it soothed my pain:
I wakened and knew from among the dead
My darling stood by my coach again.
|
octave
|
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
|
The Monument.
|
She laid her docile crescent down,
And this mechanic stone
Still states, to dates that have forgot,
The news that she is gone.
So constant to its stolid trust,
The shaft that never knew,
It shames the constancy that fled
Before its emblem flew.
|
She laid her docile crescent down,
And this mechanic stone
|
Still states, to dates that have forgot,
The news that she is gone.
So constant to its stolid trust,
The shaft that never knew,
It shames the constancy that fled
Before its emblem flew.
|
octave
|
Anna Akhmatova
|
Along the Hard Crust...
|
Along the hard crust of deep snows,
To the secret, white house of yours,
So gentle and quiet ' we both
Are walking, in silence half-lost.
And sweeter than all songs, sung ever,
Are this dream, becoming the truth,
Entwined twigs' a-nodding with favor,
The light ring of your silver spurs...
|
Along the hard crust of deep snows,
To the secret, white house of yours,
|
So gentle and quiet ' we both
Are walking, in silence half-lost.
And sweeter than all songs, sung ever,
Are this dream, becoming the truth,
Entwined twigs' a-nodding with favor,
The light ring of your silver spurs...
|
octave
|
William Butler Yeats
|
The Lover Speaks To The Hearers Of His Songs In Coming Days
|
O women, kneeling by your altar-rails long hence,
When songs I wove for my beloved hide the prayer,
And smoke from this dead heart drifts through the violet air
And covers away the smoke of myrrh and frankincense;
Bend down and pray for all that sin I wove in song,
Till the Attorney for Lost Souls cry her sweet cry,
And.call to my beloved and me: "No longer fly
Amid the hovering, piteouS, penitential throng.
|
O women, kneeling by your altar-rails long hence,
When songs I wove for my beloved hide the prayer,
|
And smoke from this dead heart drifts through the violet air
And covers away the smoke of myrrh and frankincense;
Bend down and pray for all that sin I wove in song,
Till the Attorney for Lost Souls cry her sweet cry,
And.call to my beloved and me: "No longer fly
Amid the hovering, piteouS, penitential throng.
|
octave
|
Henry John Newbolt, Sir
|
On Spion Kop
|
Foremost of all on battle's fiery steep
Here VERTUE fell, and here he sleeps his sleep.*
A fairer name no Roman ever gave
To stand sole monument on Valour's grave.
|
Foremost of all on battle's fiery steep
|
Here VERTUE fell, and here he sleeps his sleep.*
A fairer name no Roman ever gave
To stand sole monument on Valour's grave.
|
quatrain
|
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