Poetry 208 Classic Poems 01 They Flee from Me That Sometime Did Me Seek by Sir Thomas Wyatt 1503? - 1542 02 With How Sad Steps, O Moon, Thou Climbest the Skies by Sir Philip Sidney 1554 - 1586 03 The Passionate Shepherd to his Love by Christopher Marlowe 1564 - 1593 04 Fear No More the Heat'o The Sun by Shakespeare 1564 - 1616 05 When to the Sessions of Sweet Silent Thought by Shakespeare 1564-1616 06 Let Me Not to the Marriage of True Minds by Shakespeare 1564-1616 07 Shall I compare Thee To a Summer's Day? By Shakespeare 1564-1616 08 The Expense of Spirit in a Waste of Shame by Shakespeare 1564-1616 09 That Time of Year Thou Mayest in Me Behold by Shakespeare 1564-1616 10 Crabbéd Age and Youth by William Shakespeare 1564-1616 11 My Mistress's Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun by William Shakespeare 1564-1616 12 The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd by Sir Walter Raleigh 1552 - 1618 13 Since There's No Help by Michael Drayton 1562 - 1631 14 Death Be Not Proud by John Donne 1573 - 1631 15 Batter my Heart, Three-Personed God by John Donne 1573 - 1631 16 At the Round Earth's Imagined Corners by John Donne 1573 - 1631 17 The Good-Morrow by John Donne 1573 - 1631 18 The Sun Rising by John Donne 1573 - 1631 19 A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning by John Donne 1573 - 1631 20 Go and Catch a Falling Star by John Donne 1573 - 1631 21 Love III by George Herbert 1593 - 1633 22 The Pulley by George Herbert 1593 - 1633 23 Virtue by George Herbert 1593 - 1633 24 A Song: Ask Me No More Where Jove Bestows by Thomas Carew 1594 - 1640 25 On My First Son by Ben Johnson 1572-1637 26 Song: To Celia by Ben Johnson 1572-1637 27 Still to Be Neat by Ben Johnson 1572-1637 28 To Meadows by Robert Herrick 1591-1674 29 To Daffodills by Robert Herrick 1591-1674 30 To the Virgins, To Make Much of Time by Robert Herrick 1591-1674 31 Upon Julia's Clothes by Robert Herrick 1591-1674 32 Delight in Disorder by Robert Herrick 1591-1674 33 Go, Lovely Rose by Edmund Waller 1606-1687 34 Why So Pale and Wan, Fond Lover? By Sir John Suckling 1609 - 1641 35 To Lucasta, Going to the Wars by Richard Lovelace 1618 - 1657 36 To Althea, from Prison by Richard Lovelace 1618 - 1657 37 The Retreat by Henry Vaughan 1621 - 1695 38 To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell 1621 - 1678 39 The Garden by Andrew Marvell 1621 - 1678 40 Lycidas by John Milton 1608 - 1674 41 Ode on the Death of a Favorite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes by Thomas Gray 1716-1771 42 Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray 1716-1771 43 A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns 1759 - 1796 44 On Another's Sorrow by William Blake 1757-1827 45 Night by William Blake 1757-182746 To Spring by William Blake 1757-1827 47 To Summer by William Blake 1757-1827 48 To Autumn by William Blake 1757-1827 49 To Winter by William Blake 1757-1827 50 Milton: And Did Those Feet in Ancient Timesby William Blake 1757-1827 51 London by William Blake 1757-1827 52 Augeries of Innocence by William Blake 1757-1827 53 The Little Boy Black by William Blake 1757-1827 54 Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge 1772 - 1834 55 The Tear by George Gordon Lord Byron 1788 - 1824 56 So, We'll Go No More a-Roving by George Gordon Lord Byron 1788 - 1824 57 She Walks in Beauty by Goerge Gordon Lord Byron 1788 - 1824 58 On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer by John Keats 1795-1821 59 Ode to A Nightengale by John Keats 1795-1821 60 When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be by John Keats 1795-1821 61 Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats 1795-1821 62 I Stood Tiptoe upon a Little Hill by John Keats 1795-1821 63 I Had a Dove by John Keats 1795 -1821 64 To Autumn by John Keats 1795-1821 65 A Thing of Beauty from Endymion by John Keats 1795-1821 66 Happy is England by John Keats 1795-1821 67 La Belle Dame sans Merci by John Keats 1795-1821 68 Robin Hood by John Keats 1795-1821 69 The Cloud by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-182270 To a Skylark by Percy Bysse Shelley 1792-1822 71 A Widow Bird Sat Mourning for Her Love by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792 - 1822 72 Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822 73 A Dirge by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822 74 Ode to the West Wind by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822 75 Daffodils by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 76 To the Skylark William Wordsworth 1770-1850 77 She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 78 The World is Too Much With Us by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 79 The Solitary Reaper by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 80 Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802 by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 81 A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 82 The Minstrel Boy Thomas Moore 1779-1852 83 To a Waterfowl by William Cullen Bryant 1794-1878 84 I Remember, I Remember by Thomas Hood 1799-1845 85 Lochinvar, from Marmion by Sir Walter Scott 1771-1832 86 King John and the Abbot of Canterbury (Anonymous) 87 Western Wind Anonymous 88 Edward, Edward Anonymous 89 Sir Patrick Spens Anonymous 90 Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe 1809 - 1849 91 The Bells by Edgar Allan Poe 1809 - 1849 92 The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe 1809 - 1849 93 To Helen by Edgar Allan Poe 1809 - 1849 94 Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold (1822-1888) 95 The Latest Decalogue by Arthur Hugh Clough 1819 - 1861 96 A Book by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 97 The Grass by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 98 Certainty by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 99 Sunset by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 100 The Moon by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 101 Because I Could Not Stop For Death by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 102 Success is Counted Sweetest by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 103 I Heard a Fly Buzz by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 104 A Day by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 105 After Great Pain a Formal Feeling Comes by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 106 The Flowers by William Brighty Rands 1823-1882 107 Great, Wide, Beautiful, Wonderful World by William Brighty Rands 1823-1882 108 Hiawatha by Longfellow 1807-1882 109 The Children's Hour by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-1882 110 The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám selections by Edward Fitzgerald 1809 - 1883 111 The Lotos-Eaters by Alfred Lord Tennyson 1809-1883 112 Charge of the Light Brigade by Alfred Lord Tennyson 1809-1883 113 Break, Break, Break by Alfred Lord Tennyson 1809-1883 114 Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson 1809-1883 115 September by Helen Hunt Jackson 1830-1885 116 How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806 - 1861) 117 My Last Duchess by Robert Browning (1812-1889) 118 Home-Thoughts, from Abroad by Robert Browning (1812-1889) 119 Meeting at Night by Robert Browning (1812-1889) 120 Opportunity by Edward Roland Sill 1841 - 1887 121 Summer Days by Christina Rossetti 1830-1894 122 All Things Wait Upon Thee by Christina Rossetti 1830-1894 123 Up-Hill by Christina Rossetti 1830-1894 124 Spring Quiet by Christina Rossetti 1830-1894 125 The Barefoot Boy by John Greenleaf Whittier 1807 - 1892 126 O Captain, My Captain! by Walt Whitman 1819-1892 127 When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer by Walt Whitman 1819 - 1892 128 My Garden by Thomas Edward Brown 1830-1897 129 Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae sub Regno Cynarae by Ernest Dowson 1867 - 1900 130 Requiem by Robert Louis Stevenson 1850 - 1894 131 Pied Beauty by Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844 - 1889 132 Spring and Fall by Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844 - 1889 133 The Windhover by Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844 - 1889 134 Spring and Fall by Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844 - 1889 135 Binsey Poplars Felled 1879 by Gerald Manley Hopkins 1844 - 1889 136 The Humble-Bee by Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803 - 1882 137 Andrew Lang 1844-1912 138 I Have a Rendevous with Death by Alan Seeger 1888-1916 139 Invictus by William Ernest Henley 1849-1903 140 The Creation by James Weldon Johnson 1871 - 1938 141 The Battle Hymn of the Republic by Julia Ward Howe 1819 - 1910 142 The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy 1840 - 1928 143 Loveliest of Trees by A. E. Housman 1859 - 1936 144 Bredon Hill by A.E. Housman 1859 - 1936 145 When I Was One-and-Twenty A.E. Housman 1859 - 1936 146 To An Athelete Dying Young by A.E. Housman 1859 - 1936 147 I Did Not Lose My Heart In Summer's Even by A.E. Housman 1859 - 1936 148 My Dreams Are Of a Field Afar by A.E. Housman 1859 - 1936 149 The Lads in Their Hundreds by A.E. Housman 1859 - 1936 150 Oh, When I Was in Love With You by A.E. Housman 151 A Vagabond Song by Bliss Carman 1861-1929 152 In Flanders Field by John McCrae 1872 - 1918 153 Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer 1863 - 1940 154 The Lake Isle of Innisfree by Yeats 1865 - 1939 155 The Song of Wandering Aengus by William Butler Yeats 1865 - 1939 156 The Second Coming by William Butler Yeats 1865 - 1939 157 Leda and the Swan by William Butler Yeats 1865 - 1939 158 Sailing to Byzantium by William Butler Yeats 1865 - 1939 159 The Wild Swans at Coole by William Butler Yeats 1865 - 1939 160 Leisure by W.H. Davies 1870 - 1940 161 Patterns by Amy Lowell 1874 - 1925 162 Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen 1893 - 1918 163 Dulce Et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen 1893 - 1918 164 The Song of Elf by G. K. Chesterton 1874-1936 165 The Song of the Oak by G. K. Chesterton 1874-1936 166 Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight by Vachel Lindsay 1879 - 1931 167 The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes 1880 - 1958 168 Stars by Sara Teasdale 1884-1933 169 Barter by Sara Teasdale 1884-1933 170 The Coin by Sara Teasdale 1884 1933 171 April by Sara Teasdale 1884 1933 172 Night Song at Amalfi by Sara Teasdale 1884 - 1933 173 If by Rudyard Kipling 1865 - 1936 174 Gunga Din by Rudyard Kipling 1865-1936 175 Reading Aloud by Christopher Morley 1890-1957 176 The House with Nobody in It by Joyce Kilmer 1886 - 1918 177 High Flight by John Gillespie Magee 1922-1941 178 Mr. Flood's Party by Edwin Arlington Robinson 1869 - 1935 179 God's World by Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892-1950 180 Travel by Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892 - 1950 181 Renascence by Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892 - 1950 182 Recuerdo by Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892 - 1950 183 Spring by Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892 - 1950 184 The Man With the Hoe by Edwin Markham 1852 - 1940 185 Silver by Walter de la Mare 1873-1956 186 The Listeners by Walter de la Mare 1873-1956 187 The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost 1874-1963 188 Stopping By Woods on A Snowy Evening by Robert Frost 1874-1963 189 Mending Wall by Robert Frost 1874-1963 190 Design by Robert Frost 1874-1963 191 Chicago by Carl Sandburg 1878 - 1967 192 Sea Fever by John Masefield 1878- 1967 193 Cargoes by John Masefield 1878 -1967 194 Tewkesbury Road by John Masefield 1878- 1967 195 Janet Waking by John Crowe Ransom 1888 - 1974 196 Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas 1914 - 1953 197 Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas 1914 - 1953 198 A Refusal to Mourn the Death, By Fire, of a Child in London by Dylan Thomas 1914 - 1953 199 The Force That Through the Green Fuse Drives by Dylan Thomas 1914 - 1953 200 Character Building by Edward Anthony 201 Résumé by Dorothy Parker 1893-1967 202 Musee des Beaux Arts by W.H. Auden 1907-1973 203 Song: Stop All The Clocks by W.H. Auden 1907-1973 204 Admonition by Herman Bitterman 1914-1944 205 Prayer Before Birth by Louis MacNeice 1907 - 1963 206 The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner by Randall Jarrell (1969?) 207 How To Eat a Poem by Eve Merriam 1916-1992 208 The Thought-Fox by Ted Hughes 1930-1998 __________ 01 They Flee from Me That Sometime Did Me Seek by Sir Thomas Wyatt 1503? - 1542 They flee from me that sometime did me seek, With naked foot stalking in my chamber. I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek That are now wild and do not remember That sometime they put themselves in danger To take bread at my hand; and now they range Busily seeking with a continual change. Thanked be fortune, it hath been otherwise Twenty times better; but once in special, In thin array after a pleasant guise, When her loose gown did from her shoulders did fall, And she me caught in her arms long and small, Therewithall sweetly did me kiss, And softly said, "Dear heart, how like you this?" It was no dream, I lay broad waking. But all is turned thorough my gentleness, Into a strange fashion of forsaking; And I have leave to go of her goodness, And she also to use newfangleness. But since that I so kindly am served, I would fain know what she hath deserved. __________ 02 With How Sad Steps, O Moon, Thou Climbest the Skies by Sir Philip Sidney 1554 - 1586 With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies ! How silently, and with how wan a face ! What, may it be that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? Sure, if that long with love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; I read it in thy looks; thy languisht grace To me that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue there, ungratefulness? __________ 03 The Passionate Shepherd to his Love by Christopher Marlowe 1564 - 1593 Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods or steepy mountain yields. And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle; A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of th purest gold; A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my love. The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my love. __________ 04 Fear No More the Heat'o The Sun by Shakespeare 1564 - 1616 from Cymbelline Guiderius: Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages; Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Arviragus: Fear no more the frown o' the great, Thou art past the tyrant's stroke: Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Guiderius: Fear no more the lightning-flash, Arviragus: Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Guiderius: Fear not slander, censure rash; Arviragus: Thou hast finish'd joy and moan: Both: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. Guiderius: No exorciser harm thee! Arviragus: Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Guiderius: Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Arvirgus: Nothing ill come near thee! Both: Quiet consummation have; And renowned be thy grave! __________ 05 When to the Sessions of Sweet Silent Thought by Shakespeare 1564-1616 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste : Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight : Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end. __________ 06 Let Me Not to the Marriage of True Minds by Shakespeare 1564-1616 Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. __________ 07 Shall I compare Thee To a Summer's Day? By Shakespeare 1564-1616 Shall I compare thee to a summer's day ? Thou art more lovely and more temperate : Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date : Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest : So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee. __________ 08 The Expense of Spirit in a Waste of Shame by Shakespeare 1564-1616 Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action; and till action, lust Is perjur'd, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust; Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight; Past reason hunted; and, no sooner had, Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait, On purpose laid to make the taker mad: Mad in pursuit, and in possession so; Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme; A bliss in proof, and prov'd, a very woe; Before, a joy propos'd; behind, a dream. All this the world well knows; yet none knows well To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. __________ 09 That Time of Year Thou Mayest in Me Behold by Shakespeare 1564-1616 That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. __________ 10 Crabbéd Age and Youth by William Shakespeare 1564-1616 Crabbéd Age and Youth Cannot live together: Youth is full of pleasance, Age is full of care; Youth like summer morn, Age like winter weather; Youth like summer brave, Age like winter bare. Youth is full of sport, Age's breath is short; Youth is nimble, Age is lame; Youth is hot and bold, Age is weak and cold; Youth is wild, and Age is tame. Age, I do abhor thee; Youth, I do adore thee; O, my Love, my Love is young! Age, I do defy thee: O, sweet shepherd, hie thee! For methinks thou stay'st too long. __________ 11 My Mistress's Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun by William Shakespeare 1564-1616 My mistress's eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lip's red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun, If hair be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; In some perfumes there is more delight Than the breath with which my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know, Music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare. __________ 12 The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd by Sir Walter Raleigh 1552 - 1618 If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love. Time drives the flocks from field to fold When rivers rage and rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb; The rest complains of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yields; A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall, Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten-- In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, Thy coral claps and somber studs, All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy love. But could youth last and love still breed, Had joys no date nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy love. __________ 13 Since There's No Help by Michael Drayton 1562 - 1631 Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part-- Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes, --Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover. __________ 14 Death Be Not Proud by John Donne 1573 - 1631 Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. __________ 15 Batter my Heart, Three-Personed God by John Donne 1573 - 1631 Batter my heart, three-personed God, for you As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new. I, like an usurped town to another due, Labor to admit to you, but oh, to no end; Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captived, and proves weak or untrue. Yet dearly I love you, and would be lovéd fain But am betrothed unto your enemy; Divorce me, untie or break that knot again; Take me to you, imprison me, for I, Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me. __________ 16 At the Round Earth's Imagined Corners by John Donne 1573 - 1631 At the round earth's imagin'd corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls, and to your scatter'd bodies go; All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow, All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance hath slain, and you whose eyes Shall behold God and never taste death's woe. But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space, For if above all these my sins abound, 'Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace When we are there; here on this lowly ground Teach me how to repent; for that's as good As if thou'hadst seal'd my pardon with thy blood. __________ 17 The Good-Morrow by John Donne 1573 - 1631 I wonder by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we lov'd? Were we not wean'd till then, But suck'd on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the seven sleepers' den? 'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be. If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desir'd, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee. And now good morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear; For love, all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room, an everywhere. Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone, Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown, Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one. My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest; Where can we find two better hemispheres, Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally; If our two loves be one, or, thou and I Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die. __________ 18 The Sun Rising by John Donne 1573 - 1631 Busy old fool, unruly sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late school-boys and sour prentices, Go tell court-huntsmen, that the king will ride, Call country ants to harvest offices; Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time. Thy beams, so reverend, and strong Why shouldst thou think? I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, But that I would not lose her sight so long; If her eyes have not blinded thine, Look, and tomorrow late, tell me, Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me. Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay. She's all states, and all princes, I, Nothing else is. Princes do but play us; compared to this, All honour's mimic; all wealth alchemy. Thou sun art half as happy as we, In that the world's contracted thus; Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be To warm the world, that's done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere. __________ 19 A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning by John Donne 1573 - 1631 As virtuous men passe mildly away, And whisper to their soules, to goe, Whilst some of their sad friends do say, The breath goes now, and some say, no; So let us melt, and make no noise, No teare-floods, nor sigh-tempests move, T'were prophanation of our joyes To tell the layetie our love. Moving of th' earth brings harmes and feares, Men reckon what it did and meant, But trepidation of the speares, Though greater farre, is innocent. Dull sublunary lovers love (Whose soule is sense) cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove Those things which elemented it. But we by a love, so much refin'd, That our selves know not what it is, Inter-assured of the mind, Care lesse, eyes, lips, and hands to misse. Our two soules therefore, which are one, Though I must goe, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to ayery thinnesse beate. If they be two, they are two so As stiffe twin compasses are two, Thy soule the fixt foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if th' other doe. And though it in the center sit, Yet when the other far doth rome, It leanes, andhearkens after it, And growes erect, as that comes home. Such wilt thou be to mee, who must Like th' other foot, obliquely runne; Thy firmnes drawes my circle just, And makes me end, where I begunne. __________ 20 Go and Catch a Falling Star by John Donne 1573 - 1631 Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the devil's foot, Teach me to hear mermaids singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind. If thou be'st born to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights, Till age snow white hairs on thee, Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me, All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear, No where Lives a woman true, and fair. If thou find'st one, let me know, Such a pilgrimage were sweet; Yet do not, I would not go, Though at next door we might meet; Though she were true, when you met her, And last, till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two, or three. __________ 21 Love III by George Herbert 1593 - 1633 Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back, Guilty of dust and sin. But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, If I lacked anything. A guest, I answer'd, worthy to be here: Love said, You shall be he. I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear, I cannot look on thee. Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, Who made the eyes but I? Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them: let my shame Go where it doth deserve. And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame? My dear, then I will serve. You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat: So I did sit and eat. __________ 22 The Pulley by George Herbert 1593 - 1633 When God at first made man, Having a glass of blesings standing by; Let us (said he) pour on him all we can: Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span. So strength first made a way; The beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure: When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that alone of all his treasure Rest in the bottom lay. For if I should (said he) Bestow this jewel also on my creature, He would adore my gifts instead of me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature: So both should losers be. Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness: Let him be rish and weary, that at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to my breast. __________ 23 Virtue by George Herbert 1593 - 1633 Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright! The bridal of the earth and sky-- The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. __________ 24 A Song: Ask Me No More Where Jove Bestows by Thomas Carew 1594 - 1640 Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauty's orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. Ask me no more whither doth stray The golden atoms of the day; For in pure love heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair. Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale, when May is past; For in your sweet, dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note. Ask me no more where those stars light, That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere. Ask me no more if east or west The phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies. __________ 25 On My First Son by Ben Johnson 1572-1637 Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy; My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy. Seven years tho' wert lent to me, and I thee pay, Exacted by thy fate, on the just day. O, could I lose all father now! For why Will man lament the state he should envy? To have so soon 'scap'd world's and flesh's rage, And if no other misery, yet age? Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say, "Here doth lie Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry." For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such, As what he loves may never like too much. __________ 26 Song: To Celia by Ben Johnson 1572-1637 Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee As giving it a hope, that there It could not withered be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee. __________ 27 Still to Be Neat by Ben Johnson 1572-1637 Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd: Lady, it is to be presum'd, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: Such sweet neglect more taketh me han all th' adulteries of art; They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. __________ 28 To Meadows by Robert Herrick 1591-1674 Ye have been fresh and green, Ye have been fill'd with flowers, And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours. You have beheld how they With wicker arks did come To kiss and bear away The richer cowslips home. You've heard them sweetly sing, And seen them in a round: Each virgin like a spring, With honeysuckles crown'd. But now we see none here Whose silv'ry feet did tread And with dishevell'd hair Adorn'd this smoother mead. Like unthrifts, having spent Your stock and needy grown, You're left here to lament Your poor estates, alone. __________ 29 To Daffodills by Robert Herrick 1591-1674 Fair Daffodills, we weep to see You haste away so soon: As yet the early-rising Sun Has not attained his Noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the Even-song; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a Spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or any thing. We die, As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the Summer's rain; Or as the pearls of Morning's dew Ne'er to be found again. __________ 30 To the Virgins, To Make Much of Time by Robert Herrick 1591-1674 Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a-flying; And the same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And, while ye may, go marry; For, having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry. __________ 31 Upon Julia's Clothes by Robert Herrick 1591-1674 Whenas in silks my Julia goes Then, then, (methinks) how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free; Oh, how that glittering taketh me! __________ 32 Delight in Disorder by Robert Herrick 1591-1674 A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness. A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fair distraction; An erring lace which here and there Enthralls the crimson stomacher; A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbons to flow confusedly; A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat; A careless shoestring, in whose tie I see a wild civility; Do more bewitch me than when art Is too precise in every part. __________ 33 Go, Lovely Rose by Edmund Waller 1606-1687 Go, lovely Rose-- Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that 's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die--that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair! __________ 34 Why So Pale and Wan, Fond Lover? By Sir John Suckling 1609 - 1641 Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't? Prithee, why so mute? Quit, quit, for shame; this will not move, This cannot take her; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The devil take her! __________ 35 To Lucasta, Going to the Wars by Richard Lovelace 1618 - 1657 Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind That from nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly. True, a mew mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore; I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more. __________ 36 To Althea, from Prison by Richard Lovelace 1618 - 1657 When Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair, And fetter'd to her eye, The gods, that wanton in the air, Know no such liberty. When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes, that tipple in the deep, Know no such liberty. When (like committed linnets) I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my king; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage; If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone that soar above, Enjoy such liberty. __________ 37 The Retreat by Henry Vaughan 1621 - 1695 Happy those early days! when I Shin'd in my angel-infancy. Before I understood this place Appoint'd for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy ought But a white, celestial thought, When yet I had not walk'd above A mile, or two, from my first love, And looking back (at that short space,) Could see a glimpse of his bright face; When on some gild'd cloud or flower My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shodows of eternity; Before I taught my tongue to wound My conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispence A sev'ral sin to ev'ry sense, But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness. O how I long to travel back And tread again that ancient track! That I might once more reach that plain, Where first I left my glorious train, From whence th'enlightened spirit sees That shady city of palm trees; But (ah!) my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way. Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move, And when this dust falls to the urn In that state I came return. __________ 38 To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell 1621 - 1678 Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness Lady were no crime. We would sit down and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Times winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in thy marble vault shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honor turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust: The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapped power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run. __________ 39 The Garden by Andrew Marvell 1621 - 1678 How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their uncessant labours see Crown'd from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all flow'rs and all trees do close To weave the garlands of repose. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear! Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men; Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow. Society is all but rude, To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So am'rous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name; Little, alas, they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, that mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race: Apollo hunted Daphne so, Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wond'rous life in this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons as I pass, Ensnar'd with flow'rs, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find, Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide; There like a bird it sits and sings, Then whets, and combs its silver wings; And, till prepar'd for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walk'd without a mate; After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one To live in paradise alone. How well the skillful gard'ner drew Of flow'rs and herbs this dial new, Where from above the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run; And as it works, th' industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckon'd but with herbs and flow'rs! __________ 40 Lycidas by John Milton 1608 - 1674 A Lament for a friend drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637 Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear, I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude, And with forc'd fingers rude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due: For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not flote upon his watry bear Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of som melodious tear. Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse, So may som gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destin'd Urn, And as he passes turn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd. For we were nurst upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, We drove a field, and both together heard What time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev'ning, bright Toward Heav'ns descent had slop'd his westering wheel. Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to th'Oaten Flute; Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel, From the glad sound would not be absent long, And old Damaetas lov'd to hear our song. But O the heavy change, now thou art gon, Now thou art gon, and never must return! Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves, With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown, And all their echoes mourn. The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green, Shall now no more be seen, Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes. As killing as the Canker to the Rose, Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze, Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear, When first the White thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear. Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep Clos'd o're the head of your lov'd Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream: Ay me, I fondly dream! Had ye bin there--for what could that have don? What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore, The Muse her self, for her inchanting son Whom Universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar, His goary visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore. Alas! what boots it with uncessant care To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade, And strictly meditate the thankles Muse, Were it not better don as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of Noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes; But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears, And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise, Phoebus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears; Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes, And perfet witnes of all judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed. O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocall reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood: But now my Oate proceeds, And listens to the Herald of the Sea That came in Neptune's plea, He ask'd the Waves, and ask'd the Fellon winds, What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? And question'd every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked Promontory, They knew not of his story, And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd, The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine, Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. It was that fatall and perfidious Bark Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow, His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. Ah; Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? Last came, and last did go, The Pilot of the Galilean lake, Two massy Keyes he bore of metals twain, (The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain) He shook his Miter'd locks, and stern bespake, How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain, Anow of such as for their bellies sake, Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold? Of other care they little reck'ning make, Then how to scramble at the shearers feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest. Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to hold A Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the least That to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw, The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed, But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim Woolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing sed, But that two-handed engine at the door, Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past, That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse, And call the Vales, and bid them hither cast Their Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use, Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes, That on the green terf suck the honied showres, And purple all the ground with vernal flowres. Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies. The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine, The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat, The glowing Violet. The Musk-rose, and the well attir'd Woodbine. With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed, And every flower that sad embroidery wears: Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies. For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding Seas Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou to our moist vows deny'd, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great vision of the guarded Mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold; Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth. And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth. Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more, For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar, So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore, Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves Where other groves, and other streams along, With Nectar pure his oozy Lock's he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song, In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the Saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet Societies That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more; Hence forth thou art the Genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th'Okes and rills, While the still morn went out with Sandals gray, He touch'd the tender stops of various Quills, With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay: And now the Sun had stretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropt into the Western bay; At last he rose, and twitch'd his Mantle blew: To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new. __________ 41 Ode on the Death of a Favorite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes by Thomas Gray 1716-1771 'Twas on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima reclined, Gazed on the lake below. Her conscious tail her joy declared; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw; and purr'd applause. Still had she gazed; but 'midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue Thro' richest purple to the view Betray'd a golden gleam. The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize. What female heart can gold despise? What Cat's averse to fish? Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent Again she stretch'd, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between. (Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled.) The slipp'ry verge her feet beguiled, She tumbled headlong in. Eight times emerging from the flood She mew'd to ev'ry wat'ry god, Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd: Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard. A Fav'rite has not friend! From hence, ye Beauties undeceived, Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all that glisters, gold. __________ 42 Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray 1716-1771 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. "One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; "The next with dirges due in sad array Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." The Epitaph Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown. Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heav'n did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear, He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bosom of his Father and his God. __________ 43 A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns 1759 - 1796 O my Luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June: O my Luve's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune! As fair thou art, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am I: And I will love thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry: Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt with the sun; I will luve thee still my dear, When the sands of life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only Luve, And fare thee weel a while! And I will come again , my Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile. __________ 44 On Another's Sorrow by William Blake 1757-1827 Can I see another's woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another's grief, And not seek for kind relief? Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow's share? Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow filled? Can a mother sit and hear An infant groan, an infant fear? No, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be! And can He who smiles on all Hear the wren with sorrows small, Hear the small bird's grief and care, Hear the woes that infants bear - And not sit beside the nest, Pouring pity in their breast, And not sit the cradle near, Weeping tear on infant's tear? And not sit both night and day, Wiping all our tears away? O no! never can it be! Never, never can it be! He doth give His joy to all: He becomes an infant small, He becomes a man of woe, He doth feel the sorrow too. Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, And thy Maker is not by: Think not thou canst weep a tear, And thy Maker is not near. O He gives to us His joy, That our grief He may destroy: Till our grief is fled and gone He doth sit by us and moan. __________ 45 Night by William Blake 1757-1827The sun descending in the west, The evening star does shine;The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine.The moon, like a flower,In heaven's high bower, With silent delight, Sits and smiles on the night. Farewell, green fields and happy groves, Where flocks have took delight.Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves The feet of angels bright;Unseen, they pour out blessing,And joy without ceasing, On each bud and blossom, And each sleeping bosom. __________ 46 To Spring by William Blake 1757-1827 O thou, with dewy locks, who lookest down Thro' the clear windows of the morning; turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring! The hills tell each other, and the list'ning Vallies hear; all our longing eyes are turned Up to thy bright pavillions: issue forth, And let thy holy feet visit our clime. Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee. O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head, Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee! __________ 47 To Summer by William Blake 1757-1827 O thou, who passest thro' our vallies in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer, Oft pitched'st here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy, thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair. Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our springs Sit down, and in our mossy vallies, on Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream: Our vallies love the Summer in his pride. Our bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire: Our youth are bolder than the southern swains: Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance: We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy, Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven, Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat. __________ 48 To Autumn by William Blake 1757-1827 O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof, there thou may'st rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe; And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers. "The narrow bud opens her beauties to "The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins; "Blossoms hang round the brows of morning, and "Flourish down the bright cheek of modest eve, "Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing, "And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head. "The spirits of the air live on the smells "Of fruit; and joy, with pinions light, roves round "The gardens, or sits singing in the trees." Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat, Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load. __________ 49 To Winter by William Blake 1757-1827 O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors: The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car. He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep Rides heavy; his storms are unchain'd; sheathed In ribbed steel, I dare not lift mine eyes; For he hath rear'd his sceptre o'er the world. Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks: He withers all in silence, and his hand Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life. He takes his seat upon the cliffs, the mariner Cries in vain. Poor little wretch! that deal'st With storms; till heaven smiles, and the monster Is driv'n yelling to his caves beneath mount Hecla. __________ 50 Milton: And Did Those Feet in Ancient Timesby William Blake 1757-1827 And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England's mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England's pleasant pastures seen? And did the Countenance Divine Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here Among these dark Satanic mills? Bring me my bow of burning gold: Bring me my arrows of desire: Bring me my spear: O clouds unfold! Bring me my chariot of fire. I will not cease from mental fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand Till we have built Jerusalem In England's green and pleasant land. __________ 51 London by William Blake 1757-1827 I wander thro' each charter'd street, Near where the charter'd Thames does flow, And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every Man, In every Infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear. How the Chimney-sweeper's cry Every black'ning Church appalls; And the hapless Soldier's sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls. But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlot's curse Blasts the new born Infant's tear, And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse. __________ 52 Augeries of Innocence by William Blake 1757-1827 To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower, Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand And Eternity in an hour. A Robin Red breast in a Cage Puts all Heaven in a Rage. A dove house fill'd with doves and Pigeons Shudders Hell thro' all its regions. A dog starv'd at his Master's Gate Predicts the ruin of the State. A Horse misus'd upon the Road Calls to Heaven for Human blood. Each outcry of the hunted Hare A fibre from the Brain does tear. A Skylark wounded in the wing, A Cherubim does cease to sing. The Game Cock clipp'd and arm'd for fight Does the Rising Sun affright. Every Wolf's and Lion's howl Raises from Hell a Human Soul. The wild deer, wand'ring here and there, Keeps the Human Soul from Care. The Lamb misus'd breeds public strife And yet forgives the Butcher's Knife. The Bat that flits at close of Eve Has left the Brain that won't believe. The Owl that calls upon the Night Speaks the Unbeliever's fright. He who shall hurt the little Wren Shall never be belov'd by Men. He who the Ox to wrath has mov'd Shall never be by Woman lov'd. The wanton Boy that kills the Fly Shall feel the Spider's enmity. He who torments the Chafer's sprite Weaves a Bower in endless Night. The Catterpillar on the Leaf Repeats to thee thy Mother's grief. Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly, For the Last Judgement draweth nigh. He who shall train the Horse to War Shall never pass the Polar Bar. The Beggar's Dog and Widow's Cat, Feed them and thou wilt grow fat. The Gnat that sings his Summer's song Poison gets from Slander's tongue. The poison of the Snake and Newt Is the sweat of Envy's Foot. The poison of the Honey Bee Is the Artist's Jealousy. The Prince's Robes and Beggars' Rags Are Toadstools on the Miser's Bags. A truth that's told with bad intent Beats all the Lies you can invent. It is right it should be so; Man was made for Joy and Woe; And when this we rightly know Thro' the World we safely go. Joy and Woe are woven fine, A Clothing for the Soul divine; Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine. The Babe is more than swadling Bands; Throughout all these Human Lands Tools were made, and born were hands, Every Farmer Understands. Every Tear from Every Eye Becomes a Babe in Eternity. This is caught by Females bright And return'd to its own delight. The Bleat, the Bark, Bellow and Roar Are Waves that Beat on Heaven's Shore. The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath Writes Revenge in realms of death. The Beggar's Rags, fluttering in Air, Does to Rags the Heavens tear. The Soldier arm'd with Sword and Gun, Palsied strikes the Summer's Sun. The poor Man's Farthing is worth more Than all the Gold on Afric's Shore. One Mite wrung from the Labrer's hands Shall buy and sell the Miser's lands: Or, if protected from on high, Does that whole Nation sell and buy. He who mocks the Infant's Faith Shall be mock'd in Age and Death. He who shall teach the Child to Doubt The rotting Grave shall ne'er get out. He who respects the Infant's faith Triumph's over Hell and Death. The Child's Toys and the Old Man's Reasons Are the Fruits of the Two seasons. The Questioner, who sits so sly, Shall never know how to Reply. He who replies to words of Doubt Doth put the Light of Knowledge out. The Strongest Poison ever known Came from Caesar's Laurel Crown. Nought can deform the Human Race Like the Armour's iron brace. When Gold and Gems adorn the Plow To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow. A Riddle or the Cricket's Cry Is to Doubt a fit Reply. The Emmet's Inch and Eagle's Mile Make Lame Philosophy to smile. He who Doubts from what he sees Will ne'er believe, do what you Please. If the Sun and Moon should doubt They'd immediately Go out. To be in a Passion you Good may do, But no Good if a Passion is in you. The Whore and Gambler, by the State Licenc'd, build that Nation's Fate. The Harlot's cry from Street to Street Shall weave Old England's winding Sheet. The Winner's Shout, the Loser's Curse, Dance before dead England's Hearse. Every Night and every Morn Some to Misery are Born. Every Morn and every Night Some are Born to sweet Delight. Some ar Born to sweet Delight, Some are born to Endless Night. We are led to Believe a Lie When we see not Thro' the Eye Which was Born in a Night to Perish in a Night When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light. God Appears and God is Light To those poor Souls who dwell in the Night, But does a Human Form Display To those who Dwell in Realms of day. __________ 53 The Little Boy Black by William Blake 1757-1827 My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but O my soul is white! White as an angel is the English child, But I am black, as if bereaved of light. My mother taught me underneath a tree, And, sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kissed me, And, pointing to the East, began to say: 'Look on the rising sun: there God does live, And gives His light, and gives His heat away, And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday. 'And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 'For, when our souls have learned the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice, Saying, "Come out from the grove, my love and care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice."' Thus did my mother say, and kissed me, And thus I say to little English boy. When I from black, and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God like lambs we joy, I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me. __________ 54 Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge 1772 - 1834 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise. __________ 55 The Tear by George Gordon Lord Byron 1788 - 1824 When Friendship or Love Our sympathies move; When Truth, in a glance, should appear, The lips may beguile, With a dimple or smile, But the test of affection's a Tear: Too oft is a smile But the hypocrite's wile, To mask detestation, or fear; Give me the soft sigh, Whilst the soultelling eye Is dimm'd, for a time, with a Tear: Mild Charity's glow, To us mortals below, Shows the soul from barbarity clear; Compassion will melt, Where this virtue is felt, And its dew is diffused in a Tear: The man, doom'd to sail With the blast of the gale, Through billows Atlantic to steer, As he bends o'er the wave Which may soon be his grave, The green sparkles bright with a Tear; The Soldier braves death For a fanciful wreath In Glory's romantic career; But he raises the foe When in battle laid low, And bathes every wound with a Tear. If, with high-bounding pride, He return to his bride! Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear; All his toils are repaid When, embracing the maid, From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. Sweet scene of my youth! Seat of Friendship and Truth, Where Love chas'd each fast-fleeting year Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, For a last look I turn'd, But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear: Though my vows I can pour, To my Mary no more, My Mary, to Love once so dear, In the shade of her bow'r, I remember the hour, She rewarded those vows with a Tear. By another possest, May she live ever blest! Her name still my heart must revere: With a sigh I resign, What I once thought was mine, And forgive her deceit with a Tear. Ye friends of my heart, Ere from you I depart, This hope to my breast is most near: If again we shall meet, In this rural retreat, May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. When my soul wings her flight To the regions of night, And my corse shall recline on its bier; As ye pass by the tomb, Where my ashes consume, Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear. __________ 56 So, We'll Go No More a-Roving by George Gordon Lord Byron 1788 - 1824 So we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart still be as loving, And the moon still be as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul outwears the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon. __________ 57 She Walks in Beauty by Goerge Gordon Lord Byron 1788 - 1824 She walks in beauty like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to the tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One ray the more, one shade the less Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress Or softly lightens o'er her face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling place. And on that cheek and o'er that brow So soft, so calm yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow But tell of days in goodness spent A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent. __________ 58 On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer by John Keats 1795-1821 Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet never did I breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold. Then I felt like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes He star'd at the Pacific--and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-- Silent upon a peak in Darien. __________ 59 Ode to A Nightengale by John Keats 1795-1821 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness,-- That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain-- To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep? __________ 60 When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be by John Keats 1795-1821 When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, Before high piled books, in charact'ry, Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour! That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love!--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. __________ 61 Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats 1795-1821 Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal--yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea-shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.' __________ 62 I Stood Tiptoe upon a Little Hill by John Keats 1795-1821 I stood tiptoe upon a little hill;The air was cooling and so very still,That the sweet buds which with a modest pridePull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,Their scanty-leaved, and finely tapering stems,Had not yet lost their starry diademsCaught from the early sobbing of the morn.The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn,And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they sleptOn the blue fields of heaven, and then there creptA little noiseless noise among the leaves,Born of the very sigh that silences heaves;For not the faintest motion could be seenOf all the shades that slanted o'er the green. __________ 63 I Had a Dove by John Keats 1795 -1821 I had a dove and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving: O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied, With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving; Sweet little red feet! why should you die - Why should you leave me, sweet bird! why? You lived alone in the forest tree, Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me? I kissed you oft and gave you white peas: Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees? __________ 64 To Autumn by John Keats 1795-1821 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-- While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. __________ 65 A Thing of Beauty from Endymion by John Keats 1795-1821 A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its lovliness 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. Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep; and such are daffodils With the green world they live in; and clear rills That for themselves a cooling covert make 'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake, Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: And such too is the grandeur of the dooms We have imagined for the mighty dead; An endless fountain of immortal drink, Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. __________ 66 Happy is England by John Keats 1795-1821 Happy is England! I could be content To see no other verdure than its own; To feel no other breezes than are blown Through its tall woods with high romances blent: Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment For skies Italian, and an inward groan To sit upon an Alp as on a throne, And half forget what world or worldling meant. Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters; Enough their simple loveliness for me, Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging: Yet do I often warmly burn to see Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing, And float with them about the summer waters. __________ 67 La Belle Dame sans Merci by John Keats 1795-1821 O, what can ail thee, Knight at arms, Alone and palely loitering; The sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing. O, what can ail thee, Knight at arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too. I met a Lady in the Meads Full beautiful, a faery's child; Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. I made a Garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant Zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long; For sideways would she lean, and sing A faery's song. She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna dew; And sure in language strange she said, "I love thee true." She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore, And there I shut her wild sad eyes With kisses four. And there she lulled me asleep, And there I dream'd, Ah Woe betide, The latest dream I ever dreamt On the cold hill side. I saw pale Kings, and Princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; Who cry'd--"La belle Dame sans merci Hath thee in thrall!" I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke, and found me here On the cold hill side. And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering; Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing. __________ 68 Robin Hood by John Keats 1795-1821 No! those days are gone away, And their hours are old and gray, And their minutes buried all Under the down-trodden pall Ofthe leaves of many years: Many times have winter's shears, Frozen North, and chilling East, Sounded tempests to the feast Of the forest's whispering fleeces, Since men knew nor rent nor leases. No, the bugle sounds no more, And the twanging bow no more; Silent is the ivory shrill Past the heath and up the hill; There is no mid-forest laugh, Where lone Echo gives the half To some wight, amaz'd to hear Jesting, deep in forest drear. On the fairest time of June You may go, with sun or moon, Or the seven stars to light you, Or the polar ray to right you; But you never may behold Little John, or Robin bold; Never one, of all the clan, Thrumming on an empty can Some old hunting ditty, while He doth his green way beguile To fair hostess Merriment, Down beside the pasture Trent; For he left the merry tale, Messenger for spicy ale. Gone, the merry morris din; Gone, the song of Gamelyn; Gone, the tough-belted outlaw Idling in the "grene shawe"; All are gone away and past! And if Robin should be cast Sudden from his turfed grave, And if Marian should have Once again her forest days, She would weep, and he would craze: He would swear, for all his oaks, Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes, Have rotted on the briny seas; She would weep that her wild bees Sang not to her---strange! that honey Can't be got without hard money! So it is; yet let us sing Honour to the old bow-string! Honour to the bugle-horn! Honour to the woods unshorn! Honour to the Lincoln green! Honour to the archer keen! Honour to tight little John, And the horse he rode upon! Honour to bold Robin Hood, Sleeping in the underwood! Honour to maid Marian, And to all the Sherwood clan! Though their days have hurried by Let us two a burden try. __________ 69 The Cloud by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822 I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,From the seas and the streams;I bear light shade for the leaves when laidIn their noonday dreams.From my wings are shaken the dews that wakenThe sweet buds every one,When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,As she dances about the sun.I wield the flail of the lashing hail,And whiten the green plains under;And then again I dissolve it in rain,And laugh as I pass in thunder. __________ 70 To a Skylark by Percy Bysse Shelley 1792-1822 Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of Heaven, In the broad day-light Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight, Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awaken'd flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, Sprite or Bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow The world should listen then, as I am listening now. __________ 71 A Widow Bird Sat Mourning for Her Love by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792 - 1822 A widow bird sat mourning for her love Upon a wintry bough, The frozen wind crept on above; The freezing stream below. There was no leaf upon the forest bare, No flow'r upon the ground And little motion in the air, Except the mill-wheel's sound. __________ 72 Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822 I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which still survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed: And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Nothing else remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away. __________ 73 A Dirge by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822 Rough Wind, that moanest loud Grief too sad for song; Wild wind, when sullen cloud Knells all the night long; Sad storm, whose tears are vain, Bare woods, whose branches strain, Deep caves and dreary main, _ Wail, for the world's wrong! __________ 74 Ode to the West Wind by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822 I O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The wingéd seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odors plain and hill: Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear! II Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread On the blue surface of thine aery surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh, hear! III Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear! IV If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. V Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? __________ 75 Daffodils by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. __________ 76 To the Skylark William Wordsworth 1770-1850 Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still! Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; A privacy of glorious light is thine; Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine; Type of the wise who soar, but never roam; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home! __________ 77 She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love: A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! --Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me! __________ 78 The World is Too Much With Us by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn. __________ 79 The Solitary Reaper by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings?-- Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;-- I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more. __________ 80 Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802 by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still! __________ 81 A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 A slumber did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees. __________ 82 The Minstrel Boy Thomas Moore 1779-1852 The minstrel boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you'll find him, His father's sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him. "Land of song!" said the warrior bard, "Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee!" The minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain Could not bring his proud soul under; The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, For he tore its cords asunder, And said, "No chain shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery! Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery!" __________ 83 To a Waterfowl by William Cullen Bryant 1794-1878 Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sing On the chafed ocean side? There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast-- The desert and illimitable air-- Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. __________ 84 I Remember, I Remember by Thomas Hood 1799-1845 I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The vi'lets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,-- The tree is living yet! I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow! I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heav'n Than when I was a boy. __________ 85 Lochinvar, from Marmion by Sir Walter Scott 1771-1832 Oh! young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through the wide Border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword he weapons had none. He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone. So faithful in love and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He stayed not for brake and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none, But ere he alighted at Netherby gate The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, -- For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word, -- "Oh! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" -- "I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide -- And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine, There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar. The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, WIth a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar, -- "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridgroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, " 'Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before he he sprung! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran! There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? __________ 86 King John and the Abbot of Canterbury (Anonymous) An ancient story I'll tell you anon, Of a notable prince, that was called King John; He ruled over England with main and might, But he did great wrong, and maintained little right. And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry, Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury; How for his housekeeping and high renown, They rode post to bring him to London town. A hundred men, as the King heard say, The Abbot kept in his house every day; And fifty gold chains, without any doubt, In velvet coats waited the Abbot about. "How now, Father Abbot? I hear it of thee, Thou keepest a far better house than me; And for thy housekeeping and high renown, I fear thou work'st treason against my crown." "My liege," quoth the Abbot, "I would it were known, I am spending nothing but what is my own; And I trust your grace will not put me in fear, For spending my own true-gotten gear." "Yes, yes, Father Abbot, thy fault is high, And now for the same thou needest must die; And except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head struck off from thy body shall be." "Now first," quo' the King, "as I sit here, With my crown of gold on my head so fair, Among all my liegemen of noble birth, Thou must tell to one penny what I am worth." "Secondly, tell me, beyond all doubt, How quickly I may ride the whole world about; And at the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly, what do I think?" "O, these are deep questions for my shallow wit, And I cannot answer your Grace as yet; But if you will give me a fortnight's space, I'll do my endeavor to answer your Grace." "Now a fortnight's space to thee will I give, And that is the longest thou hast to live; For unless thou answer my questions three, Thy life and thy lands are forfeit to me." Away rode the Abbot all sad at this word; He rode to Cambridge and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could by his learning an answer devise. Then home rode the Abbot, with comfort so cold, And he met his shepherd, a-going to fold: "Now, good Lord Abbot, you are welcome home; What news do you bring us from great King John?" "Sad news, sad news, Shepherd, I must give; That I have but three days more to live. I must answer the King his questions three, Or my head struck off from my body shall be." "The first is to tell him, as he sits there, With his crown of gold on his head so fair Among all his liegemen of noble birth, To within one penny, what he is worth." "The second, to tell him, beyond all doubt, How quickly he may ride this whole world about; And at question the third, I must not shrink, But tell him there truly, what does he think?" "O, cheer up, my lord; did you never hear yet That a fool may teach a wise man wit? Lend me your serving-men, horse, and apparel, And I'll ride to London to answer your quarrel." "With your pardon, it oft has been told to me That I'm like your lordship as ever can be: And if you will but lend me your gown, There is none shall know us at London town." "Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, With sumptuous raiment gallant and brave; With crosier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope, Fit to draw near to our father, the pope." "Now welcome, Sir Abbot," the King he did say, "Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day; For if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall be." "And first, as thou seest me sitting here, With my crown of gold on my head so fair, Among my liegemen of noble birth, Tell to one penny what I am worth." "For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Among the false Jews as I have been told; And twenty-nine is the worth of thee; For I think thou are one penny worse than he." The King, he laughed, and swore by St. Bittle, "I did not think I was worth so little! Now secondly tell me, beyond all doubt, How quickly I may ride this world about." "You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth again; And then your Grace need never doubt But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about." The King he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, "I did not think I could do it so soon! Now from question the third thou must not shrink, But tell me truly, what do I think?" "Yea, that I shall do, and make your Grace merry: You think I'm the Abbot of Canterbury. But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for me." The King he laughed, and swore by the mass, "I'll make thee Lord Abbot this day in his place!" "Now nay, my Liege, be not in such speed; For alas! I can neither write nor read." "Four nobles a week, then I'll give to thee, For this merry jest thou has shown to me; And tell the old Abbot, when thou gettest home, Thou has brought a free pardon from good King John." __________ 87 Western Wind Anonymous Western wind, when will thou blow? The small rain down can rain. Christ, if my love were in my arms, And I in my bed again! __________ 88 Edward, Edward Anonymous 'Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude, Edward, Edward? Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude, And why sae sad gang ye, O?' 'O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude, Mither, mither; O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude, And I had nae mair but he, O.' 'Your hawk's blude was never sae red, Edward, Edward; Your hawk's blude was never sae red, My dear son, I tell thee, O.' 'O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed, Mither, mither; O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed, That erst was sae fair and free, O.' 'Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair, Edward, Edward; Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair; Some other dule ye dree, O.' 'O I hae kill'd my father dear, Mither, mither; O I hae kill'd my father dear, Alas, and wae is me, O!' 'And whatten penance will ye dree for that, Edward, Edward? Whatten penance will ye dree for that? My dear son, now tell me, O.' 'I'll set my feet in yonder boat, Mither, mither; I'll set my feet in yonder boat, And I'll fare over the sea, O.' 'And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha', Edward, Edward? And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha', That were sae fair to see, O?' 'I'll let them stand till they doun fa', Mither, mither; I'll let them stand till they doun fa', For here never mair maun I be, O.' 'And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, When ye gang owre the sea, O?' 'The warld's room: let them beg through life, Mither, mither; The warld's room: let them beg through life; For them never mair will I see, O.' 'And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear, My dear son, now tell me, O?' 'The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear, Mither, mither; The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear: Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!' dule ye dree] grief you suffer. __________ 89 Sir Patrick Spens Anonymous I. The Sailing THE king sits in Dunfermline town Drinking the blude-red wine; 'O whare will I get a skeely skipper To sail this new ship o' mine?' O up and spak an eldern knight, Sat at the king's right knee; 'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sail'd the sea.' Our king has written a braid letter, And seal'd it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand. 'To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem; The king's daughter o' Noroway, 'Tis thou must bring her hame.' The first word that Sir Patrick read So loud, loud laugh'd he; The neist word that Sir Patrick read The tear blinded his e'e. 'O wha is this has done this deed And tauld the king o' me, To send us out, at this time o' year, To sail upon the sea? 'Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter o' Noroway, 'Tis we must fetch her hame.' They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn Wi' a' the speed they may; They hae landed in Noroway Upon a Wodensday. II. The Return 'Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a'! Our gude ship sails the morn.' 'Now ever alack, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm. 'I saw the new moon late yestreen Wi' the auld moon in her arm; And if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm.' They hadna sail'd a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea. The ankers brak, and the topmast lap, It was sic a deadly storm: And the waves cam owre the broken ship Till a' her sides were torn. 'Go fetch a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And let nae the sea come in.' They fetch'd a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And they wapp'd them round that gude ship's side, But still the sea came in. O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords To wet their cork-heel'd shoon; But lang or a' the play was play'd They wat their hats aboon. And mony was the feather bed That flatter'd on the faem; And mony was the gude lord's son That never mair cam hame. O lang, lang may the ladies sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand! And lang, lang may the maidens sit Wi' their gowd kames in their hair, A-waiting for their ain dear loves! For them they'll see nae mair. Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour, 'Tis fifty fathoms deep; And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet! skeely] skilful. lift] sky. lap] sprang. flatter'd] tossed afloat. kames] combs. __________ 90 Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe 1809 - 1849 IT was many and many a year ago In this kingdom by the sea That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child, and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee, With a love that the winged seraphs in heaven Coveted her and me. And that was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee, So that her high-born kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulcher In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me-- Yes! that was the reason (as all men know In this kingdom by the sea) That a wind blew out of a cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those that were older than we, Of many far wiser than we, And neither the angels in heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. And so, all the night tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride, In her sepulcher there by the sea-- In her tomb by the sounding sea. __________ 91 The Bells by Edgar Allan Poe 1809 - 1849 Hear the sledges with the bells-- Silver bells-- What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells,-- From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding-bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight From the molten-golden notes! And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gust of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the Future! how it tells Of rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! Hear the loud alarum bells-- Brazen bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulancy tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire Leaping higher, higher, higher With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor, Now--now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear, it fully knows, By the twanging And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking of the swelling in the anger of the bells-- Of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells,-- In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! Hear the tolling of the bells-- Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In a silence of the night How we shiver with affright At the meloncholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats, Is a groan: And the people--ah, the people-- They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone-- They are neither man nor woman-- They are neither brute nor human-- They are Ghouls! And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, A paean from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells! And he dances and he yells; Keeping time, time, time In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells-- Of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells, To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells,-- Of the bells, bells, bells-- To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells,-- To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. __________ 92 The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe 1809 - 1849 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -- Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost Lenore -- For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -- Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me -- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -- This it is, and nothing more," Presently my heart grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you" -- here I opened wide the door; -- Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!" Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -- Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -- 'Tis the wind and nothing more!" Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -- Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -- Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore -- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning -- little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -- Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore." But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered -- not a feather then he fluttered -- Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before -- On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -- Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never-nevermore.'" But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -- What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet violet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from the memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! -- Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -- On this home by Horror haunted -- tell me truly, I implore -- Is there -- is there balm in Gilead? -- tell me -- tell me, I implore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!' said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore -- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked upstarting -- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted -- nevermore. __________ 93 To Helen by Edgar Allan Poe 1809 - 1849 Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome. Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand, Ah! Psyche, from the regions which Are holy land! __________ 94 Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold (1822-1888) The sea is calm to-night, The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; -- on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land, Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. The sea of faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night. __________ 95 The Latest Decalogue by Arthur Hugh Clough 1819 - 1861 Thou shalt have one God only; who Would be at the expense of two? No graven images may be Worshipp'd, except the currency: Swear not at all; for, for thy curse Thine enemy is none the worse: At church on Sunday to attend Will serve to keep the world thy friend: Honour thy parents; that is, all From whom advancement may befall: Thou shalt not kill; but need'st not strive Officiously to keep alive: Do not adultery commit; Advantage rarely comes of it: Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat, When it's so lucrative to cheat: Bear not false witness; let the lie Have time on its own wings to fly: Thou shalt not covert; but tradition Approves all forms of competition. __________ 96 A Book by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 There is no frigate like a book To take us lands away, Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry. This traverse may the poorest take Without oppress of toll; How frugal is the chariot That bears a human soul! __________ 97 The Grass by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 The grass so little has to do,-- A sphere of simple green, With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain, And stir all day to pretty tunes The breezes fetch along, And hold the sunshine in its lap And bow to everything; And thread the dews all night, like pearls, And make itself so fine,-- A duchess were too common For such a noticing. __________ 98 Certainty by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be. I never spoke with God, Nor visited in heaven; Yet certain am I of the spot As if the chart were given. __________ 99 Sunset by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 A sloop of amber slips away Upon an ether sea, And wrecks in peace a purple tar, The son of ecstasy. __________ 100 The Moon by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 The moon was but a chin of gold A night or two ago, And now she turns her perfect face Upon the world below. Her forehead is of amplest blond; Her cheek like beryl stone; Her eye unto the summer dew The likest I have known. Her lips of amber never part; But what must be the smile Upon her friend she could bestow Were such her silver will! And what a privilege to be But the remotest star! For certainly her way might pass Beside your twinkling door. Her bonnet is the firmament, The universe her shoe, The stars the trinkets at her belt, Her dimities of blue. __________ 101 Because I Could Not Stop For Death by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 Because I could not stop for Death-- He kindly stopped for me-- The Carriage held but just Ourselves-- And Immortality. We slowly drove--He knew no haste And I had put away My labour and my leisure too, For His Civility-- We passed the School, where Children strove At Recess--in the Ring-- We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain-- We passed the Setting Sun-- Or rather--He passed Us-- The Dews drew quivering and chill-- For only Gossamer, my Gown-- My Tippet--only Tulle-- We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground-- The Roof was scarcely visible-- The Cornice--in the Ground-- Since then--'tis Centuries--and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses Heads Were toward Eternity-- __________ 102 Success is Counted Sweetest by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 Success is counted sweetest By those who ne'er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need. Not one of all the purple host Who took the flag to-day Can tell the definition, So clear, of victory, As he, defeated, dying, On whose forbidden ear The distant strains of triumph Break, agonized and clear. __________ 103 I Heard a Fly Buzz by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 I heard a fly buzz when I died; The stillness round my form Was like the stillness in the air Between the heaves of storm. The eyes beside had wrung them dry, And breaths were gathering sure For that last onset, when the king Be witnessed in his power. I willed my keepsakes, signed away What portion of me I Could make assignable,--and then There interposed a fly, With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz, Between the light and me; And then the windows failed, and then I could not see to see. __________ 104 A Day by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 I'll tell you how the sun rose, A ribbon at a time. The steeples swam in amethyst, The news like squirrels ran. The hills untied their bonnets, The bobolinks begun. Then I said softly to myself, "That must have been the sun!" But how he set, I know not. There seemed a purple stile Which little yellow boys and girls Were climbing all the while Till when they reached the other side, A dominic in gray Put gently up the evening bars, And led the flock away. __________ 105 After Great Pain a Formal Feeling Comes by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 After great pain a formal feeling comes -- The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs; The stiff heart questions - was it He that bore? And yesterday - or centuries before? The feet mechanical go round A wooden way, Of ground or air of Ought, Regardless grown; A quartz contentment like a stone. This is the hour of lead Remembered if outlived As freezing persons recollect The snow -- First chill, then stupor, then The letting go. __________ 106 The Flowers by William Brighty Rands 1823-1882 When Love arose in heart and deed To wake the world to greater joy, 'What can she give me now?' said Greed, Who thought to win some costly toy. He rose, he ran, he stoop'd, he clutch'd; And soon the Flowers, that Love let fall, In Greed's hot grasp were fray'd and smutch'd, And Greed said, 'Flowers! Can this be all?' He flung them down and went his way, He cared no jot for thyme or rose; But boys and girls came out to play, And some took these and some took those- Red, blue, and white, and green and gold; And at their touch the dew return'd, And all the bloom a thousandfold- So red, so ripe, the roses burn'd! __________ 107 Great, Wide, Beautiful, Wonderful World by William Brighty Rands 1823-1882 Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World, With the wonderful water round you curled, And the wonderful grass upon your breast-- World, you are beautifully drest. The wonderful air is over me, And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree, It walks on the water, and whirls the mills, And talks to itself on the tops of the hills. You friendly Earth! how far do you go, With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow, With cities and gardens, and cliffs, and isles, And people upon you for thousands of miles? Ah, you are so great, and I am so small, I tremble to think of you, World, at all; And yet, when I said my prayers to-day, A whisper inside me seemed to say, "You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot: You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!" __________ 108 Hiawatha by Longfellow 1807-1882 By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. Dark behind it rose the forest, Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, Rose the firs with cones upon them; Bright before it beat the water, Beat the clear and sunny water, Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water. There the wrinkled old Nokomis Nursed the little Hiawatha, Rocked him in his linden cradle, Bedded soft in moss and rushes, Safely bound with reindeer sinews; Stilled his fretful wail by saying, "Hush! The Naked Bear will hear thee!" Lulled him into slumber, singing, "Ewa-yea! My little owlet! Who is this, that lights the wigwam? With his great eyes lights the wigwam? Ewa-yea, my little owlet!" Many things Nokomis taught him Of the stars that shine in heaven; Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses; Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits Warriors with their plumes and war-clubs, Flaring far away to northward In the frosty nights of Winter; Showed the broad white road in heaven, Pathways of the ghosts, the shadows, Running straight across the heavens, Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. At the door on summer evenings Sat the little Hiawatha; Heard the whispering of the pine-trees Heard the lapping of the waters, Sounds of music, words of wonder; "Minne-wawa!" said the pine-trees, "Mudway-aushka!" said the water. Saw the firefly, Wah-wah-taysee, Flitting through the dusk of evening, With the twinkle of its candle Lighting up the brakes and bushes, And he sang the song of children, Sang the song Nokomis taught him: "Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, Little, flitting, white-fire insect, Little, dancing, white-fire creature, Light me with your little candle, Ere upon my bed I lay me, Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!" Saw the moon rise from the water, Rippling, rounding from the water, Saw the flecks and shadows on it, Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?" And the good Nokomis answered, "Once a warrior, very angry, Seized his grandmother, and threw her Up into the sky at midnight; Right against the moon he threw her; 'Tis her body that you see there." Saw the rainbow in the heaven, In the eastern sky, the rainbow, Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?" And the good Nokomis answered: "'Tis the heaven of flowers you see there; All the wild-flowers of the forest, All the lilies of the prarie, When on earth they fade and perish, Blossom in that heaven above us. When he heard the owls at midnight, Hooting, laughing in the forest, "What is that?" he cried in terror, "What is that?" he said, "Nokomis?" And the good Nokomis answered: "That is but the oowl and owlet, Talking in their native language, Talking, scolding at each other." Then the little Hiawatha Learned of every bird its language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How they built their nests in Summer, Where they hid themselves in Winter, Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens." Of all the beasts he learned the language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How the beavers built their lodges, Where the squirrels hid their acorns, How the reindeer ran so swiftly, Why the rabbit was so timid, Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers." Ye who love a nation's legends, Love the ballads of a people, That the voices from afar off Call to us to come and listen, Speak in tones so plain and childlike, Scarcely can the ear distinguish Whether they are sung or spoken;- Listen to this Indian Legend, To this Song of Hiawatha! __________ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's Complete Poetical Works: http://sunsite.doc.ic.ac.uk/public/media/literary/collections/project_gutenberg/gutenberg/etext98/cphwl10.txt __________ 109 The Children's Hour by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-1882 Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour. I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper, and then a silence: Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall! By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall! They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine! Do you think, o blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for you all! I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart. And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away! __________ 110 The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám selections by Edward Fitzgerald 1809 - 1883 Wake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight: And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught The Sultán's Turret in a Noose of Light. Before the phantom of False morning died, Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried, "When all the Temple is prepared within, Why nods the drowsy Worshiper outside?" And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before The Tavern shouted--``Open then the Door! ``You know how little while we have to stay, ``And, once departed, may return no more.'' Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring The Winter Garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way To fly--and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing. A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread - and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness - O, Wilderness were Paradise enow! Some for the Glories of This World; and some Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come; Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum! Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie; Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End! Alike for those who for To-day prepare, And those that after some To-morrow stare, A Muezzín* from the Tower of Darkness cries ``Fools! Your Reward is neither Here nor There!'' Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd Of the Two Worlds so learnedly, are thrust Like foolish Prophets forth; their Works to Scorn Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust. Myself when young did eagerly frequent Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument About it and about; but evermore Came out by the same Door as in I went. With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow, And with my own hand labour'd it to grow: And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd-- ``I came like Water and like Wind I go.'' __________ 111 The Lotos-Eaters by Alfred Lord Tennyson 1809-1883 'Courage!' he said, and pointed toward the land, 'This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.' In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; And like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. The charmed sunset linger'd low adown In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale And meadow, set with slender galingale; A land where all things always seem'd the same! And round about the keel with faces pale, Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave To each, but who so did receive of them, And taste, to him the gushing of the wave Far far away did seem to mourn and rave On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, And music in his ears his beating heart did make. They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the shore; And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. Then some one said, 'We will return no more;' And all at once they sang, 'Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.' __________ 112 Charge of the Light Brigade by Alfred Lord Tennyson 1809-1883 Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!' he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Forward, the Light Brigade!' Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd: Their's not to make reply, Their's not to reason why, Their's but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wonder'd. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred! __________ 113 Break, Break, Break by Alfred Lord Tennyson 1809-1883 Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O, well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. __________ 114 Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson 1809-1883 It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honour'd of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades For ever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,-- Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labour, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me-- That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads--you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'T is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. __________ 115 September by Helen Hunt Jackson 1830-1885 The golden-rod is yellow; The corn is turning brown; The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down. The gentian's bluest fringes Are curling in the sun; In dusty pods the milkweed Its hidden silk has spun. The sedges flaunt their harvest, In every meadow nook; And asters by the brook-side Make asters in the brook, From dewy lanes at morning The grapes' sweet odors rise; At noon the roads all flutter With yellow butterflies. By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather, And autumn's best of cheer. But none of all this beauty Which floods the earth and air Is unto me the secret Which makes September fair. 'T is a thing which I remember; To name it thrills me yet: One day of one September I never can forget. __________ 116 How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806 - 1861) How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, -I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. __________ 117 My Last Duchess by Robert Browning (1812-1889) That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will 't please you to sit and look at her? I said ``Fra Pandolf'' by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to my self they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say, ``Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much,'' or ``Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat:'' such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad, Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 't was all one! My favor at her breast, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace--all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men,--good! but thanked Somehow,--I know not how--as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, ``Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark''--and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, --E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretence Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me! __________ 118 Home-Thoughts, from Abroad by Robert Browning (1812-1889) Oh, to be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England -- now! And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge-- That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower -- Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! __________ 119 Meeting at Night by Robert Browning (1812-1889) The gray sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed i' the slushy sand. Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; Three fields to cross till a farm appears; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each! __________ 120 Opportunity by Edward Roland Sill 1841 - 1887 This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:- There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. A craven hung along the battle's edge, And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel- That blue blade that the king's son bears,-but this Blunt thing-!" he snapt and flung it from his hand, And lowering crept away and left the field. Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead, And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down, And saved a great cause that heroic day. __________ 121 Summer Days by Christina Rossetti 1830-1894 Winter is cold-hearted; Spring is yea and nay; Autumn is a weathercock; Blown every way: Summer days for me When every leaf is on it's tree, When Robin's not a beggar, And Jenny Wren's a bride, And Larks hang, singing, singing, singing, Over the wheat-fields wide, And anchored lilies ride, And the pendulum spider, Swings from side to side, And blue-black beetles transact business, And gnats fly in a host, And furry caterpillars hasten That no time be lost, And moths grow fat and thrive, And lady birds arrive. Before green apples blush, Before green nuts embrown, Why one day in the country Is worth a month in town- Is worth a day and a year Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion That days drone elsewhere. __________ 122 All Things Wait Upon Thee by Christina Rossetti 1830-1894 Innocent eyes not ours And made to look on flowers, Eyes of small birds and insects small; Morn after summer morn The sweet rose on her thorn Opens her bosom to them all. The last and least of things, That soar on quivering wings, Or crawl among the grass blades out of sight Have just as clear a right To their appointed portion of delight As queens or kings. __________ 123 Up-Hill by Christina Rossetti 1830-1894 Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door. Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come. __________ 124 Spring Quiet by Christina Rossetti 1830-1894 Gone were but the Winter, Come were but the Spring, I would go to a covert Where the birds sing; Where in the whitethorn Singeth a thrush, And a robin sings In the holly-bush. Full of fresh scents Are the budding boughs Arching high over A cool green house: Full of sweet scents, And whispering air Which sayeth softly: "We spread no snare; "Here dwell in safety, Here dwell alone, With a clear stream And a mossy stone. "Here the sun shineth Most shadily; Here is heard an echo Of the far sea, Though far off it be." __________ 125 The Barefoot Boy by John Greenleaf Whittier 1807 - 1892 Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; From my heart I give thee joy,- I was once a barefoot boy! Prince thou art,- the grown-up man Only is republican. Let the million-dollared ride! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye,- Outward sunshine, inward joy: Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! Oh for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the round mole sinks his well How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the groundnut trails its vine, Where the wood grape's clusters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans!- For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy,- Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! Oh for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming birds and honeybees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides! Still, as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy! Oh for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread,- Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the doorstone, gray and rude! O're me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold; Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frog's orchestra; And to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on thebarefoot boy! Cheerily, then my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toi, Up and down in ceaseless moil: Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. Ah! that thou shouldst know thy joy Ere it passes, barefoot boy! __________ 126 O Captain, My Captain! by Walt Whitman 1819-1892 O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up -- for you the flag is flung -- for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths -- for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. __________ 127 When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer by Walt Whitman 1819 - 1892 When I heard the learn'd astronomer, When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me, When I was shown the charts, the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them, When I sitting heard the learned astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture room, How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick, Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself, In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time, Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars. __________ 128 My Garden by Thomas Edward Brown 1830-1897 A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot! Rose plot, Fringed pool, Fern'd grot- The veriest school Of peace; and yet the fool Contends that God is not- Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool? Nay, but I have a sign; 'Tis very sure God walks in mine. __________ 129 Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae sub Regno Cynarae by Ernest Dowson 1867 - 1900 (I am not as I was under the reign of the good Cynara - Horace) Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine; And I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat, Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay; Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, When I awoke and found the dawn was gray: I have been faithful to you, Cynara! in my fashion. I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind, Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng, Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, all the time, because the dance was long; I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. I cried for madder music and for stronger wine, But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire, Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine; And I am desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. __________ 130 Requiem by Robert Louis Stevenson 1850 - 1894 Under the wide and starry sky Dig the grave and let me lie: Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he long'd to be; Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill. _______ 131 Pied Beauty by Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844 - 1889 Glory be to God for dappled things-- For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings; Landscape plotted and pieced--fold, fallow, and plough; And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim. All things counter, original, spare, strange; Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise Him. __________ 132Spring and Fall by Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844 - 1889 Margaret, are you grieving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leaves, like the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? Ah! as the heart grows older It will come to such sights colder By and by, nor spare a sigh Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie. And yet you will weep and know why. Now no matter, child, the name: Sorrow's springs are the same. Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed What heart heard of, ghost guessed: It is the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for. __________ 133 The Windhover by Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844 - 1889 To Christ Our Lord I caught this morning morning's minion, king- dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird,--the achieve of, the mastery of the thing! Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion. __________ 134 Spring and Fall by Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844 - 1889 Margaret, are you grieving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leaves, like the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? Ah! as the heart grows older It will come to such sights colder By and by, nor spare a sigh Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie. And yet you will weep and know why. Now no matter, child, the name: Sorrow's springs are the same. Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed What heart heard of, ghost guessed: It is the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for. __________ 135 Binsey Poplars Felled 1879 by Gerald Manley Hopkins 1844 - 1889 My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled, Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun, All felled, felled, all are felled; Of a fresh and following folded rank Not spared, not one That dandled a sandalled Shadow that swam or sank On meadow and river and wind-wandering weed-winding bank. O if we knew but what we do When we delve or hew-- Hack and rack the growing green! Since country is so tender To touch her, being so slender, That, like this sleek and seeing ball But a prick will make no eye at all, Where we, even when we mean to mend her we end her, When we hew or delve: After-comers cannot guess the beauty been. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve Strokes of havoc unselve The sweet especial scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet especial rural scene. __________ 136 The Humble-Bee by Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803 - 1882 Burly, dozing humble-bee, Where thou art is clime for me. Let them sail for Porto Rique, Far-off heats through seas to seek; I will follow thee alone, Thou animated torrid-zone! Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, Let me chase thy waving lines; Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, Singing over shrubs and vines. Insect lover of the sun, Joy of thy dominion! Sailor of the atmosphere; Swimmer through the waves of air; Voyager of light and noon; Epicurean of June; Wait, I prithee, till I come Within earshot of thy hum,-- All without is martyrdom. When the south winds in May days, With a net of shining haze Silvers the horizon wall, And with softness touching all, Tints the human countenance With a color of romance, And infusing subtle heats, Turns the sod to violets, Thou, in sunny solitudes, Rover of the underwoods, The green silence dost displace With thy mellow, breezy bass. Hot midsummer's petted crone, Sweet to me thy drowsy tone Tells of countless sunny hours, Long days, and solid banks of flowers; Of gulfs of sweetness without bound In Indian wildernesses found; Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. Aught unsavory or unclean Hath my insect never seen; But violets and bilberry bells, Maple-sap and daffodels, Grass with green flag half-mast high, Succory to match the sky, Columbine with horn of honey, Scented fern, and agrimony, Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue And brier-roses, dwelt among; All beside was unknown waste, All was picture as he passed. Wiser far than human seer; Yellow-breeched philosopher! Seeing only what is fair, Sipping only what is sweet, Thou dost mock at fate and care, Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. When the fierce northwestern blast Cools sea and land so far and fast, Thou already slumberest deep; Woe and want thou canst outsleep; Want and woe, which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous. __________ 137 Andrew Lang 1844-1912 I'd leave all the hurry, the noise and the frayFor a house full of books and a garden of flowers. __________ 138 I Have a Rendevous with Death by Alan Seeger 1888-1916 I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air -- I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair. It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath -- It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear. God knows 'twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear . . . But I've a renvezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous. __________ 139 Invictus by William Ernest Henley 1849-1903 Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbow'd. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul. __________ 140 The Creation by James Weldon Johnson 1871 - 1938 And God stepped out on space, And he looked around and said: I'm lonely-- I'll make me a world. And far as the eye of God could see Darkness covered everything, Blacker than a hundred midnights Down in a cypress swamp. Then God smiled, And the light broke, And the darkness rolled up on one side, And the light stood shining on the other, And God said: That's good! Then God reached out and took the light in his hands, And God rolled the light around in his hands Until he made the sun; And he set that sun a-blazing in the heavens. And the light that was left from making the sun God gathered it up in a shining ball And flung it against the darkness, Spangling the night with the moon and stars. Then down between The darkness and the light He hurled the world; And God said: That's good! Then God himself stepped down-- And the sun was on his right hand, And the moon was on his left; The stars were clustered about his head, And the earth was under his feet. And God walked, and where he trod His footsteps hollowed the valleys out And bulged the mountains up. Then he stopped and looked and saw That the earth was hot and barren. So God stepped over to the edge of the world And he spat out the seven seas-- He batted his eyes, and the lightnings flashed-- He clapped his hands, and the thunders rolled-- And the waters above the earth came down, The cooling waters came down. Then the green grass sprouted, And the little red flowers blossomed, The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky, And the oak spread out his arms, The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground, And the rivers ran down to the sea; And God smiled again, And the rainbow appeared, And curled itself around his shoulder. Then God raised his arm and he waved his hand Over the sea and over the land, And he said: Bring forth! Bring forth! And quicker than God could drop his hand, Fishes and fowls And beasts and birds Swam the rivers and the seas, Roamed the forests and the woods, And split the air with their wings. And God said: That's good! Then God walked around, And God looked around On all that he had made. He looked at his sun, And he looked at his moon, And he looked at his little stars; He looked on his world With all its living things, And God said: I'm lonely still. Then God sat down-- On the side of a hill where he could think; By a deep, wide river he sat down; With his head in his hands, God thought and thought, Till he thought: I'll make me a man! Up from the bed of the river God scooped the clay; And by the bank of the river He kneeled him down; And there the great God Almighty Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky, Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night, Who rounded the earth in the middle of his hand; This great God, Like a mammy bending over her baby, Kneeled down in the dust Toiling over a lump of clay Till he shaped it in is his own image; Then into it he blew the breath of life, And man became a living soul. Amen. Amen. __________ 141 The Battle Hymn of the Republic by Julia Ward Howe 1819 - 1910 Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword, His truth is marching on. I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps, His day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on!" He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat; Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant at my feet! Our God is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me; As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on! __________ 142 The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy 1840 - 1928 I leant upon a coppice gate, When Frost was spectre-gray, And Winter's dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land's sharp features seemed to me The Century's corpse outleant, Its crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind its death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervorless as I. At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead, In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited. An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small, With blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew, And I was unaware. __________ 143 Loveliest of Trees by A. E. Housman 1859 - 1936 Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride, Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow. __________ 144 Bredon Hill by A.E. Housman 1859 - 1936 In summertime on Bredon The bells they sound so clear; Round both the shires the ring them In steeples far and near, A happy noise to hear. Here of a Sunday morning My love and I would lie, And see the coloured counties, And hear the larks so high About us in the sky. The bells would ring to call her In valleys miles away: "Come all to church, good people; Good people, come and pray." But here my love would stay. And I would turn and answer Among the springing thyme, "Oh, peal upon our wedding, And we will hear the chime, And come to church in time." But when the snows at Christmas On Bredon top were strown, My love rose up so early And stole out unbeknown And went to church alone. They tolled the one bell only, Groom there was none to see, The mourners followed after, And so to church went she, And would not wait for me. The bells they sound on Bredon And still the steeples hum. "Come all to church, good people,"-- Oh, noisy bells, be dumb; I hear you, I will come. __________ 145 When I Was One-and-Twenty A.E. Housman 1859 - 1936 When I was one-and-twenty I heard a wise man say, "Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away; Give pearls away and rubies But keep your fancy free." But I was one-and-twenty, No use to talk to me. When I was one-and-twenty I heard him say again, "The heart out of the bosom Was never given in vain; 'Tis paid with sighs a plenty And sold for endless rue." And I am two-and-twenty And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true. __________ 146 To An Athelete Dying Young by A.E. Housman 1859 - 1936 The time you won your town the race We chaired you through the market-place; Man and boy stood cheering by, And home we brought you shoulder-high. To-day, the road all runners come, Shoulder-high we bring you home, And set you at your threshold down, Townsman of a stiller town. Smart lad, to slip betimes away From fields where glory does not stay, And early though the laurel grows It withers quicker than the rose. Eyes the shady night has shut Cannot see the record cut, And silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears: Now you will not swell the rout Of lads that wore their honors out, Runners whom reknown outran And the name died before the man. So set, before the echoes fade, The fleet foot on the sill of shade, And hold to the low lintel up The still-defended challenge-cup. And round that early-laurelled head Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead, And find unwithered on its curls The garland briefer than a girl's. __________ 147 I Did Not Lose My Heart In Summer's Even by A.E. Housman 1859 - 1936 I did not lose my heart in summer's even, When roses to the moonrise burst apart: When plumes were under heel and lead was flying, In blood and smoke and flame I lost my heart. I lost it to a soldier and a foeman, A chap that did not kill me, but he tried; That took the sabre straight and took it striking, And laughed and kissed his hand to me and died. __________ 148 My Dreams Are Of a Field Afar by A.E. Housman 1859 - 1936 My dreams are of a field afar And blood and smoke and shot. There in their graves my comrades are, In my grave I am not. I too was taught the trade of man And spelt the lesson plain; But they, when I forgot and ran, Remembered and remain. __________ 149 The Lads in Their Hundreds by A.E. Housman 1859 - 1936 The lads in their hundreds to Ludlow come in for the fair, There's men from the barn and the forge and the mill and the fold, The lads for the girls and the lads for the liquor are there, And there with the rest are the lads that will never be old. There's chaps from the town and the field and the till and the cart, And many to count are the stalwart, and many the brave, And many the handsome of face and the handsome of heart, And few that will carry their looks or their truth to the grave. I wish one could know them, I wish there were tokens to tell The fortunate fellows that now you can never discern; And then one could talk with them friendly and wish them farewell And watch them depart on the way that they will not return. But now you may stare as you like and there's nothing to scan; And brushing your elbow unguessed-at and not to be told They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man, The lads that will die in their glory and never be old. __________ 150 Oh, When I Was in Love With You by A.E. Housman Oh, when I was in love with you Then I was clean and brave, And miles around the wonder grew How well did I behave. And now the fancy passes by And nothing will remain, And miles around they'll say that I Am quite myself again. __________ 151 A Vagabond Song by Bliss Carman 1861-1929 There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood- Touch of manner, hint of mood; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry Of bugles going by. And my lonely spirit thrills To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir; We must rise and follow her, When from every hill of flame She calls and calls each vagabond by name. __________ 152 In Flanders Field by John McCrae 1872 - 1918 In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved, and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. __________ 153 Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer 1863 - 1940 The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day; The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play. And then when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same, A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game. A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast: They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that, They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat. But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake, And the former was a pudd'n, and the latter was a fake, So upon the stricken multitude grim melancholy sat, For there seemed but little hope of Casey's getting to the bat. But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all, And Blake, the much-despised, tore the cover off the ball, And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred, There was Jimmy safe on second, and Flynn a-hugging third. Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a mighty yell, It rumbled in the valley and it rattled on the dell, It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled on the flat, For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat. There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped up to his place, There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face, And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat. Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt, Five thousand tongues applauded as he wiped them on his shirt. And when the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye; a sneer curled Casey's lip. And now the leather-covered sphere comes hurtling through the air, And Casey stands a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-- "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said. From the benches, black with people, there arose a muffled roar, Like the beating of the storm-waves on some stern and distant shore. "Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone in the stand, And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand. With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone: He stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on, He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew, But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two." "Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud, But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed; They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again. The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate, He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate; And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow. Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright; The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light, And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout, But there is no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has struck out! __________ 154 The Lake Isle of Innisfree by Yeats 1865 - 1939 I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight 's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings. I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core. __________ 155 The Song of Wandering Aengus by William Butler Yeats 1865 - 1939 I went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream And caught a little silver trout. When I had laid it on the floor I went to blow the fire aflame, But something rustled on the floor, And some one called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl With apple blossom in her hair Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air. Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun. __________ 156 The Second Coming by William Butler Yeats 1865 - 1939 Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? __________ 157 Leda and the Swan by William Butler Yeats 1865 - 1939 A sudden blow: The great wings beating still Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed By the dark webs, her nape caught in the bill, He holds her helpless breast upon his breast. How can those terrified vague fingers push The feathered glory from her loosening thighs? And how can body, laid in that white rush, But feel the strange heart beating where it lies? A shudder in the loins engenders there The broken wall, the burning roof and tower And Agamemnon dead. Being so caught up, So mastered by the brute blood of the air, Did she put on his knowledge with his power Before the indifferent beak could let her drop? __________ 158 Sailing to Byzantium by William Butler Yeats 1865 - 1939 I That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees-- Those dying generations -- at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect. II An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the seas and come To the holy city of Byzantium. III O sages standing in God's holy fire As in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity. IV. Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come. __________ 159 The Wild Swans at Coole by William Butler Yeats 1865 - 1939 The trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky; Upon the brimming water among the stones Are nine-and-fifty Swans. The nineteenth autumn has come upon me Since I first made my count; I saw, before I had well finished, All suddenly mount And scatter wheeling in great broken rings Upon their clamorous wings. I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, And now my heart is sore. All's changed since I, hearing at twilight, The first time on this shore, The bell-beat of their wings above my head, Trod with a lighter tread. Unwearied still, lover by lover, They paddle in the cold Companionable streams or climb the air; Their hearts have not grown old; Passion or conquest, wander where they will, Attend upon them still. But now they drift on the still water, Mysterious, beautiful; Among what rushes will they build, By what lake's edge or pool Delight men's eyes when I awake some day To find they have flown away? __________ 160 Leisure by W.H. Davies 1870 - 1940 What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. No time to stand beneath the boughs And stare as long as sheep or cows. No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass. No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night. No time to turn at Beauty's glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance. No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began. A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. __________ 161 Patterns by Amy Lowell 1874 - 1925 I walk down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. I walk down the patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, I too am a rare Pattern. As I wander down The garden paths. My dress is richly figured, And the train Makes a pink and silver stain On the gravel, and the thrift Of the borders. Just a plate of current fashion, Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade. And I sink on a seat in the shade Of a lime tree. For my passion Wars against the stiff brocade. The daffodils and squills Flutter in the breeze As they please. And I weep; For the lime-tree is in blossom And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom. And the plashing of waterdrops In the marble fountain Comes down the garden-paths. The dripping never stops. Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her. What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground. I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, And he would stumble after, Bewildered by my laughter. I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes. I would choose To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, Till he caught me in the shade, And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, Aching, melting, unafraid. With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, And the plopping of the waterdrops, All about us in the open afternoon -- I am very like to swoon With the weight of this brocade, For the sun sifts through the shade. Underneath the fallen blossom In my bosom, Is a letter I have hid. It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke. "Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell Died in action Thursday se'nnight." As I read it in the white, morning sunlight, The letters squirmed like snakes. "Any answer, Madam," said my footman. "No," I told him. "See that the messenger takes some refreshment. No, no answer." And I walked into the garden, Up and down the patterned paths, In my stiff, correct brocade. The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, Each one. I stood upright too, Held rigid to the pattern By the stiffness of my gown. Up and down I walked, Up and down. In a month he would have been my husband. In a month, here, underneath this lime, We would have broke the pattern; He for me, and I for him, He as Colonel, I as Lady, On this shady seat. He had a whim That sunlight carried blessing. And I answered, "It shall be as you have said." Now he is dead. In Summer and in Winter I shall walk Up and down The patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. The squills and daffodils Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow. I shall go Up and down, In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed. And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace By each button, hook, and lace. For the man who should loose me is dead, Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, In a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for? __________ 162 Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen 1893 - 1918 It seemed that out of battle I escaped Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped Through caverns which titanic wars had groined, Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned, Too fast in sleep or death to be bestirred. Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared With piteous recognition in fixed eyes, Lifting distressful hands as if to bless. And by his smile I knew that sullen hall. By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell. With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained, Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground, And no guns whooped, or down the flues made moan. "Strange friend," I said, "here is no cause to mourn." "None," said the other, "save the undone years, The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours Was my hope also; I went hunting wild After the wildest beauty in the world, Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair, But mocks the steady running of the hour, And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here. For of my glee might many men have laughed, And of my weeping something had been left Which must die now. I mean the truth untold: The pity of war, the pity war distilled. Now men will go content with what we spoiled, Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled. They will be swift, with swiftness of the tigress. None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress. Courage was mine, and I had mystery; Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery To miss the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled. Then, when much blood had clogged their chariots wheels, I would go up and wash them from sweet wells. Even with truths that lie too deep for taint I would have poured my spirit without stint. But not through wounds; not on the cess of war. Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were. I am the enemy you killed, my friend. I knew you in this dark--for so you frowned Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed. I parried, but my hands were loath and cold. Let us sleep now..." __________ 163 Dulce Et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen 1893 - 1918 Bent double, like old beggars under sacks Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!---An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime... Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--- my friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. __________ 164 The Song of Elf by G. K. Chesterton 1874-1936 Blue-eyed was Elf the minstrel, With womanish hair and ring, Yet heavy was his hand on sword, Though light upon the string. And as he stirred the strings of the harp To notes but four or five, The heart of each man moved in him Like a babe buried alive. And they felt the land of the folk-songs Spread southward of the Dane And they heard the good Rhine flowing In the heart of all Allemagne. They felt the land of the folk-songs, Where the gifts hang on the tree, Where the girls give ale at morning And the tears come easily. The mighty people, womanlike, That have pleasure in their pain; As he sang of Balder beautiful, Whom the heavens loved in vain. As he sang of Balder beautiful, Whom the heavens could not save, Till the world was like a sea of tears And every soul a wave. 'There is always a thing forgotten When all the world goes well A thing forgotten, as long ago When the gods forgot the mistletoe, And soundless as an arrow of snow The arrow of anguish fell. 'The thing on the blind side of the heart, On the wrong side of the door; The green plant groweth, menacing Almighty lovers in the spring; There is always a forgotten thing, And love is not secure.' __________ 165 The Song of the Oak by G. K. Chesterton 1874-1936 The Druids waved their golden knives And danced around the Oak When they had sacrificed a man; But though the learned search and scan No single modern person can Entirely see the joke. But though they cut the throats of men They cut not down the tree, And from the blood the saplings spring Of oak-woods yet to be. But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, He rots the tree as ivy would, He clings and crawls as ivy would About the sacred tree. King Charles he fled from Worcester fight And hid him in the Oak; In convent schools no man of tact Would trace and praise his every act, Or argue that he was in fact A strict and sainted bloke. But not by him the sacred woods Have lost their fancies free, And though he was extremely big He did not break the tree. But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, He breaks the tree as ivy would, And eats the woods as ivy would Between us and the sea. Great Collingwood walked down the glade And flung the acorns free, That oaks might still be in the grove As oaken as the beams above, When the great Lover sailors love Was kissed by Death at aea. But though for him the oak-trees fell To build the oaken ships, The woodman worshipped what he smote And honoured even the chips. But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, He hates the tree as ivy would, As the dragon of the ivy would That has us in his grips. __________ 166 Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight by Vachel Lindsay 1879 - 1931 In Springfield, Illinois It is portentious, and a thing of state That here at midnight, in our little town A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, Near the old court-house, pacing up and down. Or by his homestead, or by shadowed yards He lingers where his children used to play, Or through the market, on the well-worn stones He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away. A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, A famous high top-hat, and plain worn shawl Make him the quaint, great figure that men love, The prairie-lawyer, master of us all. He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. He is among us:--as in times before! And we who toss or lie awake for long Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door. His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings. Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? Too many peasants fight, they know not why, Too many homesteads in black terror weep. The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now The bitterness, the folly and the pain. He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn Shall come:--the shining hope of Europe free: The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth, Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea. It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, That all his hours of travail here for men Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace That he may sleep upon his hill again? __________ 167 The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes 1880 - 1958 The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding-- Riding--riding-- The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door. He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin; He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin. They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh! And he rode with a jeweled twinkle-- His rapier hilt a-twinkle-- His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky. Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred, He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter-- Bess, the landlord's daughter-- Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim, the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked-- His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, But he loved the landlord's daughter-- The landlord's black-eyed daughter; Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say: "One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light. Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way." He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast, Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight (O sweet black waves in the moonlight!), And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west. He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon. And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon, When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor, The redcoat troops came marching-- Marching--marching-- King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door. They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed. Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side; There was Death at every window, And Hell at one dark window, For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride. They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest! They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! "Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say, "Look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way." She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, on the stroke of midnight, Cold on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers! The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest; Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast. She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again, For the road lay bare in the moonlight, Blank and bare in the moonlight, And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain. Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear; Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding-- Riding--riding-- The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still. Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight-- Her musket shattered the moonlight-- Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death. He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood! Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat When they shot him down in the highway, Down like a dog in the highway, And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat. And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor, The highwayman comes riding-- Riding--riding-- The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard, He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred, He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter-- Bess, the landlord's daughter-- Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. __________ 168 Stars by Sara Teasdale 1884-1933 Alone in the nightOn a dark hillWith pines around meSpicy and still,And a heaven full of starsOver my head,White and topazAnd a misty red;Myriads with beatingHearts of fire That aeons Cannot vex or tire; Up the dome of heaven Like a great hill, I watch them marching Stately and still, And I know that I Am honored to be Witness Of so much majesty. __________ 169 Barter by Sara Teasdale 1884-1933Life has loveliness to sell All beautiful and splendid things,Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings,And children's faces looking upHolding wonder like a cup.Life has loveliness to sell, Music like a curve of gold,Scent of pine trees in the rain, Eyes that love you, arms that hold,And for your spirit's still delight,Holy thoughts that star the night.Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the cost;For one white singing hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost, And for a breath of ecstasy Give all you have been, or could be. __________ 170 The Coin by Sara Teasdale 1884 1933 Into my heart's treasury I slipped a coin That time cannot take Nor a thief purloin, -- Oh, better than the minting Of a gold-crowned king Is the safe-kept memory Of a lovely thing. __________ 171 April by Sara Teasdale 1884 1933 The roofs are shining from the rain, The sparrows twitter as they fly, And with a windy April grace The little couds go by. Yet the back yards are bare and grown With only one unchanging tree- I could not be so sure of Spring Save that it sings in me. __________ 172 Night Song at Amalfi by Sara Teasdale 1884 - 1933 I asked the heaven of stars What I should give my love - It answered me with silence, Silence above. I asked the darkened sea Down where fishermen go - It answered me with silence, Silence below. Oh, I could give him weeping, Or I could give him song - But how can I give silence My whole life long? __________ 173 If by Rudyard Kipling 1865 - 1936 If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you But make allowance for their doubting too, If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream--and not make dreams your master, If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breath a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; If all men count with you, but none too much, If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son! __________ 174 Gunga Din by Rudyard Kipling 1865-1936 You may talk o' gin and beer When you're quartered safe out 'ere, An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it; But when it comes to slaughter You will do your work on water, An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it. Now in Injia's sunny clime, Where I used to spend my time A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen, Of all them blackfaced crew The finest man I knew Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din. He was "Din! Din! Din! You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din! Hi! slippery ~hitherao~! Water, get it! ~Panee lao~! You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din." The uniform 'e wore Was nothin' much before, An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, For a piece o' twisty rag An' a goatskin water-bag Was all the field-equipment 'e could find. When the sweatin' troop-train lay In a sidin' through the day, Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl, We shouted "Harry By!" [Mr. Atkins's equivalent for "O brother."] Till our throats were bricky-dry, Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all. It was "Din! Din! Din! You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been? You put some ~juldee~ in it Or I'll ~marrow~ you this minute If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!" 'E would dot an' carry one Till the longest day was done; An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear. If we charged or broke or cut, You could bet your bloomin' nut, 'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. With 'is ~mussick~ on 'is back, 'E would skip with our attack, An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire", An' for all 'is dirty 'ide 'E was white, clear white, inside When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire! It was "Din! Din! Din!" With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green. When the cartridges ran out, You could hear the front-files shout, "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!" I shan't forgit the night When I dropped be'ind the fight With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been. I was chokin' mad with thirst, An' the man that spied me first Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din. 'E lifted up my 'ead, An' he plugged me where I bled, An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green: It was crawlin' and it stunk, But of all the drinks I've drunk, I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din. It was "Din! Din! Din! 'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; 'E's chawin' up the ground, An' 'e's kickin' all around: For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!" 'E carried me away To where a dooli lay, An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean. 'E put me safe inside, An' just before 'e died, "I 'ope you liked your drink", sez Gunga Din. So I'll meet 'im later on At the place where 'e is gone -- Where it's always double drill and no canteen; 'E'll be squattin' on the coals Givin' drink to poor damned souls, An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din! Yes, Din! Din! Din! You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din! Though I've belted you and flayed you, By the livin' Gawd that made you, You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din! __________ 175 Reading Aloud by Christopher Morley 1890-1957 Once we read Tennyson aloud In our great fireside chair; Between the lines my lips could touch Her April-scented hair. How very fond I was, to think The printed poems fair, When close within my arms I held A living lyric there! __________ 176 The House with Nobody in It by Joyce Kilmer 1886 - 1918 Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black. I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it. I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things; That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings. I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do; For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two. This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass, And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass. It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied; But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside. If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade. I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free. Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door, Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store. But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone For the lack of something within it that it has never known. But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life, That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife, A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet, Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet. So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back, Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart, For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart. __________ 177 High Flight by John Gillespie Magee 1922-1941 Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there, I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air. Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace Where never lark, or even eagle flew - And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand and touched the face of God. __________ 178 Mr. Flood's Party by Edwin Arlington Robinson 1869 - 1935 Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night Over the hill between the town below And the forsaken upland hermitage That held as much as he should ever know On earth again of home, paused warily. The road was his with not a native near; And Eben, having leisure, said aloud, For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear: "Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon Again, and we may not have many more; The bird is on the wing, the poet says, And you and I have said it here before. Drink to the bird." He raised up to the light The jug that he had gone so far to fill, And answered huskily: "Well, Mr. Flood, Since you propose it, I believe I will." Alone, as if enduring to the end A valiant armor of scarred hopes outworn. He stood there in the middle of the road Like Roland's ghost winding a silent horn. Below him, in the town among the trees, Where friends of other days had honored him, A phantom salutation of the dead Rang thinly till old Eben's eyes were dim. Then, as a mother lays her sleeping child Down tenderly, fearing it may awake, He sat the jug down slowly at his feet With trembling care, knowing that most things break; And only when assured that on firm earth It stood, as the uncertain lives of men Assuredly did not, he paced away, And with his hand extended paused again: "Well, Mr. Flood, we have not met like this In a long time; and many a change has come To both of us, I fear, since last it was We had a drop together. Welcome home!" Convivially returning with himself, Again he raised the jug up to the light; And with an acquiescent quaver said: "Well, Mr. Flood, if you insist, I might. "Only a very little, Mr. Flood-- For auld lang syne. No more, sir; that will do." So, for the time, apparently it did And Eben apparently thouht so too; For soon among the silver loneliness Of night he lifted up his voice and sang, Secure, with only two moons listening, Until the whole harmonious landscape rang-- "For auld lang syne." The weary throat gave out, The last word wavered, and the song was done. He raised again the jug regretfully And shook his head, and was again alone. There was not much that was ahead of him, And there was nothing in the town below-- Where strangers would have shut the many doors That many friends had opened long ago. __________ 179 God's World by Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892-1950 O world, I cannot hold thee close enough! Thy winds, thy wide grey skies! Thy mists that roll and rise! Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! World, World, I cannot get thee close enough! Long have I known a glory in it all, But never knew I this; Here such a passion is As stretcheth me apart. Lord, I do fear Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year. My soul is all but out of me,-let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call. __________ 180 Travel by Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892 - 1950 The railroad track is miles away, And the day is loud with voices speaking, Yet there isn't a train goes by all day But I hear its whistle shrieking. All night there isn't a train goes by, Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming, But I see its cinders red on the sky, And hear its engine steaming. My heart is warm with friends I make, And better friends I not be knowing; Yet there isn't a train I'd rather take, No matter where it's going. __________ 181 Renascence by Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892 - 1950 All I could see from where I stood Was three long mountains and a wood; I turned and looked the other way, And saw three islands in a bay. So with my eyes I traced the line Of the horizon, thin and fine, Straight around till I was come Back to where I'd started from; And all I saw from where I stood Was three long mountains and a wood. Over these things I could not see: These were the things that bounded me; And I could touch them with my hand, Almost, I thought, from where I stand. And all at once things seemed so small My breath came short, and scarce at all. But, sure, the sky is big, I said; Miles and miles above my head; So here upon my back I'll lie And look my fill into the sky. And so I looked, and, after all, The sky was not so very tall. The sky, I said, must somewhere stop, And - sure enough! - I see the top! The sky, I thought, is not so grand; I 'most could touch it with my hand! And reaching up my hand to try, I screamed to feel it touch the sky. I screamed, and - lo! - Infinity Came down and settled over me; Forced back my scream into my chest, Bent back my arm upon my breast, And, pressing of the Undefined The definition on my mind, Held up before my eyes a glass Through which my shrinking sight did pass Until it seemed I must behold Immensity made manifold; Whispered to me a word whose sound Deafened the air for worlds around, And brought unmuffled to my ears The gossiping of friendly spheres, The creaking of the tented sky, The ticking of Eternity. I saw and heard and knew at last The How and Why of all things, past, And present, and forevermore. The Universe, cleft to the core, Lay open to my probing sense That, sick'ning, I would fain pluck thence But could not, - nay! But needs must suck At the great wound, and could not pluck My lips away till I had drawn All venom out. - Ah, fearful pawn! For my omniscience paid I toll In infinite remorse of soul. All sin was of my sinning, all Atoning mine, and mine the gall Of all regret. Mine was the weight Of every brooded wrong, the hate That stood behind each envious thrust, Mine every greed, mine every lust. And all the while for every grief, Each suffering, I craved relief With individual desire, Craved all in vain! And felt fierce fire About a thousand people crawl; Perished with each, - then mourned for all! A man was starving in Capri; He moved his eyes and looked at me; I felt his gaze, I heard his moan, And knew his hunger as my own. I saw at sea a great fog bank Between two ships that struck and sank; A thousand screams the heavens smote; And every scream tore through my throat. No hurt I did not feel, no death That was not mine; mine each last breath That, crying, met an answering cry From the compassion that was I. All suffering mine, and mine its rod; Mine, pity like the pity of God. Ah, awful weight! Infinity Pressed down upon the finite Me! My anguished spirit, like a bird, Beating against my lips I heard; Yet lay the weight so close about There was no room for it without. And so beneath the weight lay I And suffered death, but could not die. Long had I lain thus, craving death, When quietly the earth beneath Gave way, and inch by inch, so great At last had grown the crushing weight, Into the earth I sank till I Full six feet under ground did lie, And sank no more, - there is no weight Can follow here, however great. From off my breast I felt it roll, And as it went my tortured soul Burst forth and fled in such a gust That all about me swirled the dust. Deep in the earth I rested now; Cool is its hand upon the brow And soft its breast beneath the head Of one who is so gladly dead. And all at once, and over all The pitying rain began to fall; I lay and heard each pattering hoof Upon my lowly, thatchèd roof, And seemed to love the sound far more Than ever I had done before. For rain it hath a friendly sound To one who's six feet under ground; And scarce the friendly voice or face. A grave is such a quiet place. The rain, I said, is kind to come And speak to me in my new home. I would I were alive again To kiss the fingers of the rain, To drink into my eyes the shine Of every slanting silver line, To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze From drenched and dripping apple-trees. For soon the shower will be done, And then the broad face of the sun Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth Until the world with answering mirth Shakes joyously, and each round drop Rolls, twinkling, from its grass-blade top. How can I bear it; buried here, While overhead the sky grows clear And blue again after the storm? O, multi-colored, multiform, Beloved beauty over me, That I shall never, never see Again! Spring-silver, autumn-gold, That I shall never more behold! Sleeping your myriad magics through, Close-sepulchred away from you! O God, I cried, give me new birth, And put me back upon the earth! Upset each cloud's gigantic gourd And let the heavy rain, down-poured In one big torrent, set me free, Washing my grave away from me! I ceased; and through the breathless hush That answered me, the far-off rush Of herald wings came whispering Like music down the vibrant string Of my ascending prayer, and - crash! Before the wild wind's whistling lash The startled storm-clouds reared on high And plunged in terror down the sky, And the big rain in one black wave Fell from the sky and struck my grave. I know not how such things can be; I only know there came to me A fragrance such as never clings To aught save happy living things; A sound as of some joyous elf Singing sweet songs to please himself, And, through and over everything, A sense of glad awakening. The grass, a-tiptoe at my ear, Whispering to me I could hear; I felt the rain's cool finger-tips Brushed tenderly across my lips, Laid gently on my sealed sight, And all at once the heavy night Fell from my eyes and I could see, A drenched and dripping apple-tree, A last long line of silver rain, A sky grown clear and blue again. And as I looked a quickening gust Of wind blew up to me and thrust Into my face a miracle Of orchard-breath, and with the smell, I know not how such things can be! I breathed my soul back into me. Ah! Up then from the ground sprang I And hailed the earth with such a cry As is not heard save from a man Who has been dead, and lives again. About the trees my arms I wound; Like one gone mad I hugged the ground; I raised my quivering arms on high; I laughed and laughed into the sky, Till at my throat a strangling sob Caught fiercely, and a great heart-throb Sent instant tears into my eyes; O God, I cried, no dark disguise Can e'er hereafter hide from me Thy radiant identity! Thou canst not move across the grass But my quick eyes will see Thee pass, Nor speak, however silently, But my hushed voice will answer Thee. I know the path that tells Thy way Through the cool eve of every day; God, I can push the grass apart And lay my finger on Thy heart! The world stands out on either side No wider than the heart is wide; Above the world is stretched the sky, No higher than the soul is high. The heart can push the sea and land Farther away on either hand; The soul can split the sky in two, And let the face of God shine through. But East and West will pinch the heart That can not keep them pushed apart; And he whose soul is flat - the sky Will cave in on him by and by. __________ 182 Recuerdo by Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892 - 1950 We were very tired, we were very merry-- We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable-- But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table, We lay on a hilltop underneath the moon; And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon. We were very tired, we were very merry-- We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry, And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear, From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere; And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold, And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold. We were very tired, we were very merry, We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry, We hailed "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head, And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read; And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears, And we gave her all our money but our subway fares. __________ 183 Spring by Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892 - 1950 To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. __________ 184 The Man With the Hoe by Edwin Markham 1852 - 1940 [Written after Millet's world-famous painting] Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, The emptiness of ages in his face, And on his back the burden of the world. Who made him dead to rapture and despair, A thing that grieves not, and that never hopes, Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow? Whose breath blew out the light within this brain? Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave To have dominion over sea and land; To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; To feel the passion of eternity? Is this the dream He dreamed who shaped the suns And marked their ways upon the ancient deep? Down all the caverns of Hell to their last gulf There is no shape more terrible than this-- More tounged with censure of the world's blind greed-- More filled with signs and portents for the soul-- More packed with danger to the universe. What gulfs between him and the seraphim! Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him Are Plato and swing of the Pleiades? What the long reaches of the peaks of song, The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop; Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, Plundered, profaned, and disinherited, Cries protest to the Judges of the World, A protest that is also prophecy. O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, Is this the handiwork you give to God, This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched? How will you ever straighten up this shape; Touch it again with immortality; Give back the upward looking and the light; Rebuild in it the music and the dream; Make right the immemorial infamies, Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes? O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, How will the Future reckon with this man? How answer his brute question in that hour When whirlwinds of rebellion shake all shores? How will it be with kingdoms and with kings-- With those who shaped him to the thing he is-- When this dumb terror shall rise to judge the world, After the silence of the centuries? __________ 185 Silver by Walter de la Mare 1873-1956 Slowly, silently, now the moonWalks the night in her silver shoon:This way, and that, she peers and seesSilver fruit upon silver trees;One by one the casements catchHer beams beneath the silvery thatch;Couched in his kennel, like a log,With paws of silver sleeps the dogFrom their shadowy cote the white breasts peepOf doves in a silver-feathered sleep;A harvest mouse goes scampering by,With silver claws and silver eye;And moveless fish in the water gleamBy silver reeds in a silver stream. __________ 186 The Listeners by Walter de la Mare 1873-1956 "Is anybody there?" said the Traveler, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence chomped the grasses Of the forest's ferny floor. And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the traveler's head: And he smote upon the door a second time; "Is there anybody there?" he said. But no one descended to the Traveler; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his gray eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveler's call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:-- "Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word," he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Aye, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone. __________ 187 The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost 1874-1963 Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. __________ 188 Stopping By Woods on A Snowy Evening by Robert Frost 1874-1963 Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. __________ 189 Mending Wall by Robert Frost 1874-1963 Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbour know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: "Stay where you are until our backs are turned!" We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours." Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: "Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours." __________ 190 Design by Robert Frost 1874-1963 I found a dimpled spider, fat and white, On a white heal-all, holding up a moth Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth-- Assorted characters of death and blight Mixed ready to begin the morning right, Like the ingredients of a witches' broth-- A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth, And dead wings carried like a paper kite. What had that flower to do with being white, The wayside blue and innocent heal-all? What brought the kindred spider to that height, Then steered the white moth thither in the night? What but design of darkness to appall?-- If design govern in a thing so small. __________ 191 Chicago by Carl Sandburg 1878 - 1967 Hog Butcher for the World, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of the Big Shoulders: They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, For I have seen your painted women Under the gas lamps luring the farm boys. And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again. And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger. And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, And I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city With lifted head singing so proud to be alive And coarse and strong and cunning. Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, Here is a tall bold slugger Set vivid against the little soft cities; Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, Cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness, Bareheaded, Shoveling, Wrecking, Planning, Building, breaking, rebuilding, Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, Laughing with white teeth, Under the terrible burden of destiny Laughing as a young man laughs, Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs Who has never lost a battle, Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse. And under his ribs the heart of the people, Laughing! Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, Half-naked, sweating, Proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads And Freight Handler to the Nation. __________ 192 Sea Fever by John Masefield 1878- 1967 I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking. I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. __________ 193 Cargoes by John Masefield 1878 -1967 Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus, Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores, With a cargo of diamonds, Emeralds, amythysts, Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores. Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack, Butting through the Channel in the mad March days, With a cargo of Tyne coal, Road-rails, pig-lead, Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays. __________ 194 Tewkesbury Road by John Masefield 1878- 1967 It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where, Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither or why; Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush of the air, Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky. And to halt at the chattering brook, in a tall green fern at the brink Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and white; Where the shifty-eyed delicate deer troop down to the brook to drink When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night. O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth, Is a tune for the blood to jig to, and joy past power of words; And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirth At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry of the birds. __________ 195 Janet Waking by John Crowe Ransom 1888 - 1974 Beautifully Janet slept Till it was deeply morning. She woke them And thought about her dainty-feathered hen, To see how it had kept. One kiss she gave her mother, Only a small one gave she to her daddy Who would have kissed each curl of his shining baby; No kiss at all for her brother. "Old Chucky, old Chucky!" she cried, Running on little pink feet upon the grass To Chucky's house, and listening. But alas, Her Chucky had died. It was a transmogrifying bee Came droning down on Chucky's bald old head And sat and put the poison. It scarcely bled, But how exceedingly And purply did the knot Swell with the venom and communicate Its rigor. Now the poor comb stood up straight. But Chucky did not. So there was Janet Kneeling on the wet grass, crying her brown hen (Translated far beyond the prayers of men) To rise and walk upon it. And weeping fast as she had breath Janet implored us, "Wake her from her sleep!" And would not be instructed in how deep Was the forgetful kingdom of Death. __________ 196 Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas 1914 - 1953 Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. __________ 197 Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas 1914 - 1953 Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green, The night above the dingle starry, Time let me hail and climb Golden in the heydeys of his eyes, And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves Trail with daises and barley Down the rivers of the windfall light. And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home, In the sun that is young once only, Time let me play and be Golden in the mercy of his means, And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold, And the sabbath rang slowly In the pebbles of the holy streams. All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay- Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air And playing, lovely and watery And fire green as grass. And nightly under the simple stars As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away, All the moon long I heard, blessed among the stables, the nightjars Flying with the ricks, and the horses Flashing into the dark. And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all Shining, it was Adam and maiden, The sky gathered again And the sun grew round that very day. So it must have been after the birth of the simple light In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm Out of the whinnying green stable On to the fields of praise. And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long, In the sun born over and over, I ran my heedless ways, My wishes raced through the house-high hay And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows In all his tuneful turnings so few and such morning songs Before the children green and golden Follow him out of grace, Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand, In the moon that is always rising, Nor that riding to sleep I should hear him fly with the high fields And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land. Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea. __________ 198 A Refusal to Mourn the Death, By Fire, of a Child in London by Dylan Thomas 1914 - 1953 Never until the mankind making Bird beast and flower Fathering and all humbling darkness Tells with silence the last light breaking And the still hour Is come of the sea tumbling in harness And I must enter again the round Zion of the water bead And the synagogue of the ear of corn Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound Or sow my salt seed In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn The majesty and burning of the child's death. I shall not murder the mankind of her going with a grave truth Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath With any further Elegy of innocence and youth. Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter, Robed in the long friends, The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother, Secret by the unmourning water Of the riding Thames. After the first death, there is no other. __________ 199 The Force That Through the Green Fuse Drives by Dylan Thomas 1914 - 1953 The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees Is my destroyer. And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose My youth is bent by the same wintry fever. The force that drives the water through the rocks Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams Turns mine to wax. And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks. The hand that whirls the water in the pool Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind Hauls my shroud sail. And I am dumb to tell the hanging man How of my clay is made the hangman's lime. The lips of time leech to the fountain head; Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood Shall calm her sores. And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind How time has ticked a heaven round the stars And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm. __________ 200 Character Building by Edward Anthony Spanking is something that must go Say some psychologists, although Character building is a feat Sometimes accomplished through the seat. __________ 201 Résumé by Dorothy Parker 1893-1967 Razors pain you; Rivers are damp; Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp. Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You might as well live. __________ 202 Musee des Beaux Arts by W.H. Auden 1907-1973 About suffering they were never wrong, The Old Masters: how well, they understood Its human position; how it takes place While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along; How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting For the miraculous birth, there always must be Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating On a pond at the edge of the wood: They never forgot That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse Scratches its innocent behind on a tree. In Brueghel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry, But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on. __________ 203 Song: Stop All The Clocks by W.H. Auden 1907-1973 Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead Put crepe bows around the white necks of the public doves Let traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my north, my south, my east and west My working week and my Sunday rest My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods; For nothing now can ever come to any good. __________ 204 Admonition by Herman Bitterman 1914-1944 Close not your door on life. Life is the bright outside, The sun and hapiness, The giddy laughter of a frivolous brook, The din of waterfalls, The happy imperfection of a thornéd rose, An echo from a mountainside. Within dark portals Dingy walls of dread Confine but selfishness. Lock not your door on life: Keys are too easily lost. __________ 205 Prayer Before Birth by Louis MacNeice 1907 - 1963 I am not yet born; O hear me. Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the club-footed ghoul come near me. I am not yet born, console me. I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me, with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me, on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me. I am not yet born; provide me With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk to me, sky to sing to me, birds and a white light in the back of my mind to guide me. I am not yet born; forgive me For the sins that in me the world shall commit, my words when they speak me, my thoughts when they think me, my treason engendered by traitors beyond me, my life when they murder by means of my hands, my death when they live me. I am not yet born; rehearse me In the parts I must play and the cues I must take when old men lecture me, bureaucrats hector me, mountains frown at me, lovers laugh at me, the white waves call me to folly and the desert calls me to doom and the beggar refuses my gift and my children curse me. I am not yet born; O hear me, Let not the man who is beast or who thinks he is God come near me. I am not yet born; O fill me With strength against those who would freeze my humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automaton, would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with one face, a thing, and against all those who would dissipate my entirety, would blow me like thistledown hither and thither or hither and thither like water held in the hands would spill me. Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me. Otherwise kill me. __________ 206 The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner by Randall Jarrell (1969?) From my mother's sleep I fell into the State, And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze. Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life, I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters. When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose. __________ 207 How To Eat a Poem by Eve Merriam 1916-1992 http://www.newtrix.com/poems/em2-eat.htm Don't be polite. Bite in. Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that may run down your chin. It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are. You do not need a knife or fork or spoon or plate or napkin or tablecloth. For there is no core or stem or rind or pit or seed or skin to throw away. __________ 208 The Thought-Fox by Ted Hughes 1930-1998 http://www.newtrix.com/poems/th-fox.htm I imagine this midnight moment's forest: Something else is alive Beside the clock's loneliness And this blank page where my fingers move. Through the window I see no star: Something more near Though deeper within darkness Is entering the loneliness: Cold, delicately as the dark snow, A fox's nose touches twig, leaf; Two eyes serve a movement, that now And again now, and now, and now Sets neat prints into the snow Between trees, and warily a lame Shadow lags by stump and in hollow Of a body that is bold to come Across clearings, an eye, A widening deepening greenness, Brilliantly, concentratedly, Coming about its own business Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox It enters the dark hole of the head. The window is starless still; the clock ticks, The page is printed. The End 1