Benchmark - Poems
The Song of a Comet
By: Clark Ashton Smith (1893-1961)
A plummet of the changing universe,
Far-cast, I flare
Through gulfs the sun's uncharted orbits bind,
And spaces bare
That intermediate darks immerse
By road of sun nor world confined.
Upon my star-undominated gyre
I mark the systems vanish one by one;
Among the swarming worlds I lunge,
And sudden plunge
Close to the zones of solar fire;
Or 'mid the mighty wrack of stars undone,
Flash, and with momentary rays
Compel the dark to yield
Their aimless forms, whose once far-potent blaze
In ashes chill is now inurned.
A space revealed,
I see their planets turned,
Where holders of the heritage of breath
Exultant rose, and sank to barren death
Beneath the stars' unheeding eyes.
Adown contiguous skies
I pass the thickening brume
Of systems yet unshaped, that hang immense[67]
Along mysterious shores of gloom;
Or see—unimplicated in their doom—
The final and disastrous gyre
Of blinded suns that meet,
And from their mingled heat,
And battle-clouds intense,
O'erspread the deep with fire.
Through stellar labyrinths I thrid
Mine orbit placed amid
The multiple and irised stars, or hid,
Unsolved and intricate,
In many a planet-swinging sun's estate.
Ofttimes I steal in solitary flight
Along the rim of the exterior night
That grips the universe;
And then return,
Past outer footholds of sidereal light,
To where the systems gather and disperse;
And dip again into the web of things,
To watch it shift and burn,
Hearted with stars. On peaceless wings
I pierce, where deep-outstripping all surmise,
The nether heavens drop unsunned,
By stars and planets shunned.
And then I rise
Through vaulting gloom, to watch the dark
Snatch at the flame of failing suns;
Or mark
The heavy-dusked and silent skies,[68]
Strewn thick with wrecked and broken stars,
Where many a fated orbit runs.
An arrow sped from some eternal bow,
Through change of firmaments and systems sent,
And finding bourn nor bars,
I flee, nor know
For what eternal mark my flight is meant.
Clark Ashton Smith was born on 13 January, 1893, in Long Valley, Placer County, California. Largely self-taught, he began writing at a very young age, acquiring an exceptionally large vocabulary by reading the dictionary from cover to cover. A protégé of the San Francisco poet George Sterling, Smith achieved recognition at the age of 19 for his collection of poems The Star Treader (1912), influenced by Baudelaire, Poe and Sterling. Smith always considered himself a poet first and foremost, however, following the Great Depression, he later turned to writing short stories for pulp magazines such as Weird Tales as this was a more lucrative source of income to support himself and his aging parents. He wrote more than 100 short stories between 1929 and 1934, and it is this, along with his friendship with fellow Weird Tales contributor H. P. Lovecraft, for which he is remembered today. Smith lived most of his life in Auburn, California, and passed away in his sleep on 14 August 1961, at the age of 68. In addition to his literary activities, he created a large number of drawings, paintings and sculptures which reflected the otherworldly atmosphere of his tales.
Clark Ashton Smith was born on 13 January, 1893, in Long Valley, Placer County, California. Largely self-taught, he began writing at a very young age, acquiring an exceptionally large vocabulary by reading the dictionary from cover to cover. A protégé of the San Francisco poet George Sterling, Smith achieved recognition at the age of 19 for his collection of poems The Star Treader (1912), influenced by Baudelaire, Poe and Sterling. Smith always considered himself a poet first and foremost, however, following the Great Depression, he later turned to writing short stories for pulp magazines such as Weird Tales as this was a more lucrative source of income to support himself and his aging parents. He wrote more than 100 short stories between 1929 and 1934, and it is this, along with his friendship with fellow Weird Tales contributor H. P. Lovecraft, for which he is remembered today. Smith lived most of his life in Auburn, California, and passed away in his sleep on 14 August 1961, at the age of 68. In addition to his literary activities, he created a large number of drawings, paintings and sculptures which reflected the otherworldly atmosphere of his tales.
Scatterbrain and The Shipwreck
By: E. H. Visiak (1878-1972)
Scatterbrain
He goes wool-gathering ‘neath the stars;
He hath a screw loose: Scatterbrain.
He hath a window loose that jars
Open to heaven, and falls shut again.
The Shipwreck
She lies in primal darkness crushed and frore,
Ground in the mill of the ocean’s threshing-floor;
And monstrous fish, with phosphorescent eyes,
Explore a ruined city fallen from the skies.
E. H. Visiak was the pseudonym of Edward Harold Physick. In his lifetime, he was primarily known as the editor of the Nonesuch Press edition of Milton’s works, however his posthumous fame is almost entirely due to his visionary novel Medusa (1929) and for his friendship with the fantasy writer David Lindsay, author of Voyage to Arcturus. Visiak was born in London on 20 July 1878 and worked in variety of jobs in London and Manchester. In WW1 he was a conscientious objector. Prior to that, he had begun publishing poetry in magazines such as The New Age and Freewoman, alongside writers such as Ezra Pound, Rebecca West, Hillaire Bellloc, H.G. Wells and G.K. Chesterton, and published several slim books of poetry, including Buccaneer Ballads (1910) and The Phantom Ship (1912), which, as the titles suggest, often concerned pirates and supernatural occurrences, with a pronounced taste for the macabre. In addition to Medusa, he also wrote what would now be considered a Young Adult novel, The Haunted Island (1910) and The Shadow (1936). He was also a highly respected scholar of Milton and in addition to editing his work, wrote several studies, as well as a study of the author Joseph Conrad. In later life he settled in Hove, and his final work was an evocation of his childhood, Life’s Morning Hour (1969). He died on 30 August 1972, at the age of 94.
By: E. H. Visiak (1878-1972)
Scatterbrain
He goes wool-gathering ‘neath the stars;
He hath a screw loose: Scatterbrain.
He hath a window loose that jars
Open to heaven, and falls shut again.
The Shipwreck
She lies in primal darkness crushed and frore,
Ground in the mill of the ocean’s threshing-floor;
And monstrous fish, with phosphorescent eyes,
Explore a ruined city fallen from the skies.
E. H. Visiak was the pseudonym of Edward Harold Physick. In his lifetime, he was primarily known as the editor of the Nonesuch Press edition of Milton’s works, however his posthumous fame is almost entirely due to his visionary novel Medusa (1929) and for his friendship with the fantasy writer David Lindsay, author of Voyage to Arcturus. Visiak was born in London on 20 July 1878 and worked in variety of jobs in London and Manchester. In WW1 he was a conscientious objector. Prior to that, he had begun publishing poetry in magazines such as The New Age and Freewoman, alongside writers such as Ezra Pound, Rebecca West, Hillaire Bellloc, H.G. Wells and G.K. Chesterton, and published several slim books of poetry, including Buccaneer Ballads (1910) and The Phantom Ship (1912), which, as the titles suggest, often concerned pirates and supernatural occurrences, with a pronounced taste for the macabre. In addition to Medusa, he also wrote what would now be considered a Young Adult novel, The Haunted Island (1910) and The Shadow (1936). He was also a highly respected scholar of Milton and in addition to editing his work, wrote several studies, as well as a study of the author Joseph Conrad. In later life he settled in Hove, and his final work was an evocation of his childhood, Life’s Morning Hour (1969). He died on 30 August 1972, at the age of 94.
Autumn Song
By: Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)
Autumn Song
When a sighing begins
In the violins
Of the autumn-song,
My heart is drowned
In the slow sound
Languorous and long
Pale as with pain,
Breath fails me when
The hours toll deep.
My thoughts recover
The days that are over,
And I weep.
And I go
Where the winds know,
Broken and brief,
To and fro,
As the winds blow
A dead leaf.
Chanson d’automne
Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l’automne
Blessent mon coeur
D’une langueur
Monotone.
Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l’heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure;
Et je m’en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m’emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte.
Paul-Marie Verlaine was born on 30 March 1844, in Metz France. He was the son of an army officer, and dearly loved by his mother. He attended the Lycée Bonaparte in Paris obtaining in 1962 the baccalaureate. He then worked as a clerk in an insurance company. At the age of 14 he sent his poem “La Mort” to Victor Hugo. His work was associated with the Decadent and Symbolist movements. He was influenced by Baudelaire and Rimbaud. Chanson D’Automne, first published in 1866, is a poem often studied in school in France. In 1940 Charles Trenet put the words of the poem to music. The first phrase of the poem by Verlaine was used by the BBC to announce to the French resistance that the Allies had landed at Normandy. Verlaine’s poetry collections include, with publication dates, Invectives (1896), Chair (1896), Confessions (1895), Femmes (1890), Les Poètes maudits (1884), and Sagesse (1880). Verlaine was incarcerated for two years in 1874 having shot Rimbaud during an argument in Brussels the preceding year. On his release in 1875 he stayed in a Trappist retreat, again found his Catholic faith, then moved to England, teaching French. He returned to France in 1877. In 1886 after the death of his mother, and failed attempts to reconcile with his wife whom he had earlier abandoned, he lapsed into alcoholism. He was repeatedly admitted to hospital and despite receipt of monies from admirers and from the state lived in poverty. Verlaine was greatly admired during his life in London and in France. He died on 8 January 1896 at the age of 51 in Paris, France.
Chanson D’Automne, set to music by Stanislav Surin
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F6p3_RxJbyc
Charles Trenet sings Chanson D’Automne
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cu5zpqC6hKE
By: Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)
Autumn Song
When a sighing begins
In the violins
Of the autumn-song,
My heart is drowned
In the slow sound
Languorous and long
Pale as with pain,
Breath fails me when
The hours toll deep.
My thoughts recover
The days that are over,
And I weep.
And I go
Where the winds know,
Broken and brief,
To and fro,
As the winds blow
A dead leaf.
Chanson d’automne
Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l’automne
Blessent mon coeur
D’une langueur
Monotone.
Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l’heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure;
Et je m’en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m’emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte.
Paul-Marie Verlaine was born on 30 March 1844, in Metz France. He was the son of an army officer, and dearly loved by his mother. He attended the Lycée Bonaparte in Paris obtaining in 1962 the baccalaureate. He then worked as a clerk in an insurance company. At the age of 14 he sent his poem “La Mort” to Victor Hugo. His work was associated with the Decadent and Symbolist movements. He was influenced by Baudelaire and Rimbaud. Chanson D’Automne, first published in 1866, is a poem often studied in school in France. In 1940 Charles Trenet put the words of the poem to music. The first phrase of the poem by Verlaine was used by the BBC to announce to the French resistance that the Allies had landed at Normandy. Verlaine’s poetry collections include, with publication dates, Invectives (1896), Chair (1896), Confessions (1895), Femmes (1890), Les Poètes maudits (1884), and Sagesse (1880). Verlaine was incarcerated for two years in 1874 having shot Rimbaud during an argument in Brussels the preceding year. On his release in 1875 he stayed in a Trappist retreat, again found his Catholic faith, then moved to England, teaching French. He returned to France in 1877. In 1886 after the death of his mother, and failed attempts to reconcile with his wife whom he had earlier abandoned, he lapsed into alcoholism. He was repeatedly admitted to hospital and despite receipt of monies from admirers and from the state lived in poverty. Verlaine was greatly admired during his life in London and in France. He died on 8 January 1896 at the age of 51 in Paris, France.
Chanson D’Automne, set to music by Stanislav Surin
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F6p3_RxJbyc
Charles Trenet sings Chanson D’Automne
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cu5zpqC6hKE
Do not go gentle into that good night
By: Dylan Marlais 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.
Dylan Marlaise Thomas, a Welsh poet and writer, was born in Swansea, Wales, on 27 October 1914. He had published poetry by the time he was in his teens. It is said of him that he was “obsessed with words—with their sound and rhythm and especially with their possibilities for multiple meanings”. He was an alcoholic and destitute at many times throughout his life and known for his erratic behaviour, particularly in his later years. His well-known works included And death shall have no dominion and Under Milk Wood, a play for voices. Dylan Thomas travelled to the USA in the 1950s, giving readings of his work. He is acknowledged as one of the great poets of the 20th century and as one of the most important Welsh poets. He died on 9 November 1953 in New York. Many of Dylan Thomas’ works moved into the public domain on 1 January 2024. His work has inspired films, musical adaptions, and opera. The words and themes from the poem Do not go gentle into that good night were used in the films Independence Day in 1996 and Interstellar in 2014.
Dylan Thomas reads Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1mRec3VbH3w
Michael Sheen, National Theatre, performs “Do not go gentle into that good night”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w-sM-t1KI_Y
By: Dylan Marlais 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.
Dylan Marlaise Thomas, a Welsh poet and writer, was born in Swansea, Wales, on 27 October 1914. He had published poetry by the time he was in his teens. It is said of him that he was “obsessed with words—with their sound and rhythm and especially with their possibilities for multiple meanings”. He was an alcoholic and destitute at many times throughout his life and known for his erratic behaviour, particularly in his later years. His well-known works included And death shall have no dominion and Under Milk Wood, a play for voices. Dylan Thomas travelled to the USA in the 1950s, giving readings of his work. He is acknowledged as one of the great poets of the 20th century and as one of the most important Welsh poets. He died on 9 November 1953 in New York. Many of Dylan Thomas’ works moved into the public domain on 1 January 2024. His work has inspired films, musical adaptions, and opera. The words and themes from the poem Do not go gentle into that good night were used in the films Independence Day in 1996 and Interstellar in 2014.
Dylan Thomas reads Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1mRec3VbH3w
Michael Sheen, National Theatre, performs “Do not go gentle into that good night”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w-sM-t1KI_Y
The Nightingale
By: Sara Coleridge (1802-1852)
In April comes the Nightingale,
That sings when day's departed;
The poets call her Philomel,
And vow she's broken-hearted.
To them her soft, sweet, ling'ring note
Is like the sound of sorrow;
But some aver, no need hath she
The voice of grief to borrow.
No, 'tis the merry Nightingale,
Her pipe is clear and thrilling;
No anxious care, no keen regret,
Her little breast is filling.
She grieves when boys have robb'd her nest,
But so would Stork or Starling;
What mother would not weep and cry
To lose her precious darling?
By: Sara Coleridge (1802-1852)
In April comes the Nightingale,
That sings when day's departed;
The poets call her Philomel,
And vow she's broken-hearted.
To them her soft, sweet, ling'ring note
Is like the sound of sorrow;
But some aver, no need hath she
The voice of grief to borrow.
No, 'tis the merry Nightingale,
Her pipe is clear and thrilling;
No anxious care, no keen regret,
Her little breast is filling.
She grieves when boys have robb'd her nest,
But so would Stork or Starling;
What mother would not weep and cry
To lose her precious darling?
Our Destiny
By: (Myee) Minnie Louisa Brackenreg (1858-1936)
Would we pierce that mystic curtain
That enshrouds our future years?
Would it please us to be certain
Of their joys, and pains, and tears?
Would life’s pathway be as pleasant
If we knew that we should fall
From the ideals of the present,
Losing, maybe, faith in all?
Would a rose bloom just as sweetly
If it knew a summer storm
Would its beauty spoil completely,
Leaving it all crushed and torn?
Better keep Hope’s bright star shining
With its clear celestial ray,
By no thoughts of our inclining
To lift the veil and spoil the day.
Minnie Louisa Brackenreg (“Myee”) was born in 1858 to George and Dorcus Owen in Sydney. She married George Brackenreg in Maitland in about 1978. They had eight children, three of whom died in infancy or at birth. Her husband was the founding member of the NSW Rugby Football League (NSWRFL). She wrote, under the pen name Myee, three volumes of poetry. She lived her later years in the Blue Mountains, west of Sydney, following separation from, and then the death of her husband. Gems from the Mountains published in 1922 is available online through the State Library of Victoria https://viewer.slv.vic.gov.au/?entity=IE1751931&mode=browse. Her work was often inspired by religious images and themes. Chaplain Major Colwell of Katoomba, a methodist minister, wrote of Minnie Brackenreg in the forward to one of her volumes: “She has a great love of nature, and can see the Hand of God in it all, also the many lessons God desires to teach us through His Beautiful gifts”. She had 11 poems published in her local newspaper The Blue Mountain Echo. She died in 1936 in Katoomba. Her gravestone bears only the words “Myee 1936”. She is one of the many forgotten Australian poets of the early 20th century.
By: (Myee) Minnie Louisa Brackenreg (1858-1936)
Would we pierce that mystic curtain
That enshrouds our future years?
Would it please us to be certain
Of their joys, and pains, and tears?
Would life’s pathway be as pleasant
If we knew that we should fall
From the ideals of the present,
Losing, maybe, faith in all?
Would a rose bloom just as sweetly
If it knew a summer storm
Would its beauty spoil completely,
Leaving it all crushed and torn?
Better keep Hope’s bright star shining
With its clear celestial ray,
By no thoughts of our inclining
To lift the veil and spoil the day.
Minnie Louisa Brackenreg (“Myee”) was born in 1858 to George and Dorcus Owen in Sydney. She married George Brackenreg in Maitland in about 1978. They had eight children, three of whom died in infancy or at birth. Her husband was the founding member of the NSW Rugby Football League (NSWRFL). She wrote, under the pen name Myee, three volumes of poetry. She lived her later years in the Blue Mountains, west of Sydney, following separation from, and then the death of her husband. Gems from the Mountains published in 1922 is available online through the State Library of Victoria https://viewer.slv.vic.gov.au/?entity=IE1751931&mode=browse. Her work was often inspired by religious images and themes. Chaplain Major Colwell of Katoomba, a methodist minister, wrote of Minnie Brackenreg in the forward to one of her volumes: “She has a great love of nature, and can see the Hand of God in it all, also the many lessons God desires to teach us through His Beautiful gifts”. She had 11 poems published in her local newspaper The Blue Mountain Echo. She died in 1936 in Katoomba. Her gravestone bears only the words “Myee 1936”. She is one of the many forgotten Australian poets of the early 20th century.
Near Avalon
By: William Morris (1834-1896)
A ship with shields before the sun,
Six maidens round the mast,
A red-gold crown on every one,
A green gown on the last.
The fluttering green banners there
Are wrought with ladies' heads most fair,
And a portraiture of Guenevere
The middle of each sail doth bear.
A ship with sails before the wind,
And round the helm six knights,
Their heaumes are on, whereby, half blind,
They pass by many sights.
The tatter'd scarlet banners there
Right soon will leave the spear-heads bare.
Those six knights sorrowfully bear
In all their heaumes some yellow hair.
By: William Morris (1834-1896)
A ship with shields before the sun,
Six maidens round the mast,
A red-gold crown on every one,
A green gown on the last.
The fluttering green banners there
Are wrought with ladies' heads most fair,
And a portraiture of Guenevere
The middle of each sail doth bear.
A ship with sails before the wind,
And round the helm six knights,
Their heaumes are on, whereby, half blind,
They pass by many sights.
The tatter'd scarlet banners there
Right soon will leave the spear-heads bare.
Those six knights sorrowfully bear
In all their heaumes some yellow hair.
Up the Country
By: Henry Lawson (1867-1922)
I am back from up the country — very sorry that I went -
Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent;
I have lost a lot of idols, which were broken on the track,
Burnt a lot of fancy verses, and I'm glad that I am back.
Further out may be the pleasant scenes of which our poets boast,
But I think the country's rather more inviting round the coast.
Anyway, I'll stay at present at a boarding-house in town,
Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down.
'Sunny plains'! Great Scott! — those burning wastes of barren soil and sand
With their everlasting fences stretching out across the land!
Desolation where the crow is! Desert where the eagle flies,
Paddocks where the luny bullock starts and stares with reddened eyes;
Where, in clouds of dust enveloped, roasted bullock-drivers creep
Slowly past the sun-dried shepherd dragged behind his crawling sheep.
Stunted peak of granite gleaming, glaring like a molten mass
Turned from some infernal furnace on a plain devoid of grass.
Miles and miles of thirsty gutters — strings of muddy water-holes
In the place of 'shining rivers' — 'walled by cliffs and forest boles.'
Barren ridges, gullies, ridges! where the ever-madd'ning flies —
Fiercer than the plagues of Egypt — swarm about your blighted eyes!
Bush! where there is no horizon! where the buried bushman sees
Nothing — Nothing! but the sameness of the ragged, stunted trees!
Lonely hut where drought's eternal, suffocating atmosphere
Where the God-forgotten hatter dreams of city life and beer.
Treacherous tracks that trap the stranger, endless roads that gleam and glare,
Dark and evil-looking gullies, hiding secrets here and there!
Dull dumb flats and stony rises, where the toiling bullocks bake,
And the sinister 'gohanna', and the lizard, and the snake.
Land of day and night — no morning freshness, and no afternoon,
When the great white sun in rising bringeth summer heat in June.
Dismal country for the exile, when the shades begin to fall
From the sad heart-breaking sunset, to the new-chum worst of all.
Dreary land in rainy weather, with the endless clouds that drift
O'er the bushman like a blanket that the Lord will never lift —
Dismal land when it is raining — growl of floods, and, oh! the woosh
Of the rain and wind together on the dark bed of the bush —
Ghastly fires in lonely humpies where the granite rocks are piled
In the rain-swept wildernesses that are wildest of the wild.
Land where gaunt and haggard women live alone and work like men,
Till their husbands, gone a-droving, will return to them again:
Homes of men! if home had ever such a God-forgotten place,
Where the wild selector's children fly before a stranger's face.
Home of tragedy applauded by the dingoes' dismal yell,
Heaven of the shanty-keeper — fitting fiend for such a hell —
And the wallaroos and wombats, and, of course, the curlew's call —
And the lone sundowner tramping ever onward through it all!
I am back from up the country, up the country where I went
Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent;
I have shattered many idols out along the dusty track,
Burnt a lot of fancy verses — and I'm glad that I am back.
I believe the Southern poets' dream will not be realised
Till the plains are irrigated and the land is humanised.
I intend to stay at present, as I said before, in town
Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down.
Henry Archibald Herzberg Lawson, Australian poet and writer, was born on 17 June 1867 in Grenfell, NSW, the son of Louisa Lawson, an Australian publisher and poet and Niels Herzberg, a miner, born in Norway. Louisa was the editor of The Dawn, a feminist paper. In about 1987, at 19 years of age, Henry Lawson moved to Sydney, joined his mother in publishing, went to night school to matriculate and worked, including as a painter, and later in Newcastle at Hudson Brothers Railway workshops. He had a relationship with Mary Gilmore in 1890.
Up the Country was first published in The Bulletin on 8 July 1892 under the title “Borderland”. His poems painted a picture of rural and bush life in Australia that was realistic rather than idealised. His work popularised the Australian vernacular. He married, had two children and then after an unhappy marriage, divorced in 1903 after a long separation.
He was an alcoholic who suffered episodes of severe depression and poverty. He was incarcerated in Darlinghurst Gaol seven times over 4 years for non-payment of child support, wife and child desertion and drunkenness. He called the gaol “Starvinghurst Gaol”.
From 1903 he boarded at Mrs Isabel Byers’ Coffee Palace in North Sydney, and she supported him, and championed his work for the rest of his life, writing letters and meeting publishers on his behalf and assisting him financially. Lawson died on 2 September 1922 at the home of Mrs Isabel Byers at Abbotsford in Sydney. He was given a state funeral attended by thousands, including Billy Hughes.
Paul J Mailath, actor, reads Up the Country by Henry Lawson
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SwPwrwHLPQQ
Libby Hathorn, Author and Poet, presents Poets of Australia: Henry Lawson, the story of the work and life of Henry Lawson, produced and published by the State Library of NSW
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XC-n_b0kV1c
By: Henry Lawson (1867-1922)
I am back from up the country — very sorry that I went -
Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent;
I have lost a lot of idols, which were broken on the track,
Burnt a lot of fancy verses, and I'm glad that I am back.
Further out may be the pleasant scenes of which our poets boast,
But I think the country's rather more inviting round the coast.
Anyway, I'll stay at present at a boarding-house in town,
Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down.
'Sunny plains'! Great Scott! — those burning wastes of barren soil and sand
With their everlasting fences stretching out across the land!
Desolation where the crow is! Desert where the eagle flies,
Paddocks where the luny bullock starts and stares with reddened eyes;
Where, in clouds of dust enveloped, roasted bullock-drivers creep
Slowly past the sun-dried shepherd dragged behind his crawling sheep.
Stunted peak of granite gleaming, glaring like a molten mass
Turned from some infernal furnace on a plain devoid of grass.
Miles and miles of thirsty gutters — strings of muddy water-holes
In the place of 'shining rivers' — 'walled by cliffs and forest boles.'
Barren ridges, gullies, ridges! where the ever-madd'ning flies —
Fiercer than the plagues of Egypt — swarm about your blighted eyes!
Bush! where there is no horizon! where the buried bushman sees
Nothing — Nothing! but the sameness of the ragged, stunted trees!
Lonely hut where drought's eternal, suffocating atmosphere
Where the God-forgotten hatter dreams of city life and beer.
Treacherous tracks that trap the stranger, endless roads that gleam and glare,
Dark and evil-looking gullies, hiding secrets here and there!
Dull dumb flats and stony rises, where the toiling bullocks bake,
And the sinister 'gohanna', and the lizard, and the snake.
Land of day and night — no morning freshness, and no afternoon,
When the great white sun in rising bringeth summer heat in June.
Dismal country for the exile, when the shades begin to fall
From the sad heart-breaking sunset, to the new-chum worst of all.
Dreary land in rainy weather, with the endless clouds that drift
O'er the bushman like a blanket that the Lord will never lift —
Dismal land when it is raining — growl of floods, and, oh! the woosh
Of the rain and wind together on the dark bed of the bush —
Ghastly fires in lonely humpies where the granite rocks are piled
In the rain-swept wildernesses that are wildest of the wild.
Land where gaunt and haggard women live alone and work like men,
Till their husbands, gone a-droving, will return to them again:
Homes of men! if home had ever such a God-forgotten place,
Where the wild selector's children fly before a stranger's face.
Home of tragedy applauded by the dingoes' dismal yell,
Heaven of the shanty-keeper — fitting fiend for such a hell —
And the wallaroos and wombats, and, of course, the curlew's call —
And the lone sundowner tramping ever onward through it all!
I am back from up the country, up the country where I went
Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent;
I have shattered many idols out along the dusty track,
Burnt a lot of fancy verses — and I'm glad that I am back.
I believe the Southern poets' dream will not be realised
Till the plains are irrigated and the land is humanised.
I intend to stay at present, as I said before, in town
Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down.
Henry Archibald Herzberg Lawson, Australian poet and writer, was born on 17 June 1867 in Grenfell, NSW, the son of Louisa Lawson, an Australian publisher and poet and Niels Herzberg, a miner, born in Norway. Louisa was the editor of The Dawn, a feminist paper. In about 1987, at 19 years of age, Henry Lawson moved to Sydney, joined his mother in publishing, went to night school to matriculate and worked, including as a painter, and later in Newcastle at Hudson Brothers Railway workshops. He had a relationship with Mary Gilmore in 1890.
Up the Country was first published in The Bulletin on 8 July 1892 under the title “Borderland”. His poems painted a picture of rural and bush life in Australia that was realistic rather than idealised. His work popularised the Australian vernacular. He married, had two children and then after an unhappy marriage, divorced in 1903 after a long separation.
He was an alcoholic who suffered episodes of severe depression and poverty. He was incarcerated in Darlinghurst Gaol seven times over 4 years for non-payment of child support, wife and child desertion and drunkenness. He called the gaol “Starvinghurst Gaol”.
From 1903 he boarded at Mrs Isabel Byers’ Coffee Palace in North Sydney, and she supported him, and championed his work for the rest of his life, writing letters and meeting publishers on his behalf and assisting him financially. Lawson died on 2 September 1922 at the home of Mrs Isabel Byers at Abbotsford in Sydney. He was given a state funeral attended by thousands, including Billy Hughes.
Paul J Mailath, actor, reads Up the Country by Henry Lawson
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SwPwrwHLPQQ
Libby Hathorn, Author and Poet, presents Poets of Australia: Henry Lawson, the story of the work and life of Henry Lawson, produced and published by the State Library of NSW
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XC-n_b0kV1c
The Song My Paddle Sings
By: (Emily) Pauline Johnson (1862-1913)
West wind, blow from your prairie nest,
Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.
The sail is idle, the sailor too;
O! wind of the west, we wait for you.
Blow, blow!
I have wooed you so,
But never a favour you bestow.
You rock your cradle the hills between,
But scorn to notice my white lateen.
I stow the sail, unship the mast:
I wooed you long but my wooing's past;
My paddle will lull you into rest.
O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west,
Sleep, sleep,
By your mountain steep,
Or down where the prairie grasses sweep!
Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,
For soft is the song my paddle sings.
August is laughing across the sky,
Laughing while paddle, canoe and I,
Drift, drift,
Where the hills uplift
On either side of the current swift.
The river rolls in its rocky bed;
My paddle is plying its way ahead;
Dip, dip,
While the waters flip
In foam as over their breast we slip.
And oh, the river runs swifter now;
The eddies circle about my bow.
Swirl, swirl!
How the ripples curl
In many a dangerous pool awhirl!
And forward far the rapids roar,
Fretting their margin for evermore.
Dash, dash,
With a mighty crash,
They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.
Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!
The reckless waves you must plunge into.
Reel, reel.
On your trembling keel,
But never a fear my craft will feel.
We've raced the rapid, we're far ahead!
The river slips through its silent bed.
Sway, sway,
As the bubbles spray
And fall in tinkling tunes away.
And up on the hills against the sky,
A fir tree rocking its lullaby,
Swings, swings,
Its emerald wings,
Swelling the song that my paddle sings.
Emily Pauline Johnson, a Canadian Indian poet was born on 10 March 1862. She was the daughter of a Mohawk chief. Her mother was English. Her poetry was first published when she was a teenager under the Indian name “Tekahionwake”. She toured the US and England giving recitals of her poetry, wearing a buckskin dress. The Song My Paddle Sings was one of her best-known poems and talks of the the determination required for every journey in life. She and her contemporaries started to define a new period of literature in Canada. Pauline Johnson died on 7 March 1913 in Vancouver, B.C.
The Song My Paddle Sings, sung by the choir of Western University, London, Ontario, Canada, the UWO Les Choristes
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k8WOEin1xng
By: (Emily) Pauline Johnson (1862-1913)
West wind, blow from your prairie nest,
Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.
The sail is idle, the sailor too;
O! wind of the west, we wait for you.
Blow, blow!
I have wooed you so,
But never a favour you bestow.
You rock your cradle the hills between,
But scorn to notice my white lateen.
I stow the sail, unship the mast:
I wooed you long but my wooing's past;
My paddle will lull you into rest.
O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west,
Sleep, sleep,
By your mountain steep,
Or down where the prairie grasses sweep!
Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,
For soft is the song my paddle sings.
August is laughing across the sky,
Laughing while paddle, canoe and I,
Drift, drift,
Where the hills uplift
On either side of the current swift.
The river rolls in its rocky bed;
My paddle is plying its way ahead;
Dip, dip,
While the waters flip
In foam as over their breast we slip.
And oh, the river runs swifter now;
The eddies circle about my bow.
Swirl, swirl!
How the ripples curl
In many a dangerous pool awhirl!
And forward far the rapids roar,
Fretting their margin for evermore.
Dash, dash,
With a mighty crash,
They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.
Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!
The reckless waves you must plunge into.
Reel, reel.
On your trembling keel,
But never a fear my craft will feel.
We've raced the rapid, we're far ahead!
The river slips through its silent bed.
Sway, sway,
As the bubbles spray
And fall in tinkling tunes away.
And up on the hills against the sky,
A fir tree rocking its lullaby,
Swings, swings,
Its emerald wings,
Swelling the song that my paddle sings.
Emily Pauline Johnson, a Canadian Indian poet was born on 10 March 1862. She was the daughter of a Mohawk chief. Her mother was English. Her poetry was first published when she was a teenager under the Indian name “Tekahionwake”. She toured the US and England giving recitals of her poetry, wearing a buckskin dress. The Song My Paddle Sings was one of her best-known poems and talks of the the determination required for every journey in life. She and her contemporaries started to define a new period of literature in Canada. Pauline Johnson died on 7 March 1913 in Vancouver, B.C.
The Song My Paddle Sings, sung by the choir of Western University, London, Ontario, Canada, the UWO Les Choristes
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k8WOEin1xng
A Shropshire Lad 2:
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
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.
Alfred Edward Housman, an English poet and academic, was born on 26 March 1859 in Bromsgrove, UK. His father was a solicitor. His mother died when he was 12 years old. Loveliest of trees, the cherry now, is the second poem in Housman’s well known collection A Shropshire Lad. Housman was not revealed to be the poet of the cycle of poems until 1896. He was the Professor of Latin at University College, London and later at Cambridge. His study of the classics, including his editions of Manilius, Lucan and Juvenal are authoritative works. Housman died on 30 April 1936 at Cambridge.
Dame Judi Dench recites Loveliest of trees, the cherry now, for The Queen’s Green Canopy launch
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AO4gcHaqrhg
George Williams sings, Loveliest of trees. Music by George Butterworth
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lchJ3h-4U4w
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.
Alfred Edward Housman, an English poet and academic, was born on 26 March 1859 in Bromsgrove, UK. His father was a solicitor. His mother died when he was 12 years old. Loveliest of trees, the cherry now, is the second poem in Housman’s well known collection A Shropshire Lad. Housman was not revealed to be the poet of the cycle of poems until 1896. He was the Professor of Latin at University College, London and later at Cambridge. His study of the classics, including his editions of Manilius, Lucan and Juvenal are authoritative works. Housman died on 30 April 1936 at Cambridge.
Dame Judi Dench recites Loveliest of trees, the cherry now, for The Queen’s Green Canopy launch
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AO4gcHaqrhg
George Williams sings, Loveliest of trees. Music by George Butterworth
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lchJ3h-4U4w
I wish I could
remember that first day
By: Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
I wish I could remember that first day,
First hour, first moment of your meeting me,
If bright or dim the season, it might be
Summer or Winter for aught I can say;
So unrecorded did it slip away,
So blind was I to see and to foresee,
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom for many a May.
If only I could recollect it, such
A day of days! I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much;
If only now I could recall that touch,
First touch of hand in hand—Did one but know!
Christina Rossetti was an English poet and author, born on 5 December, 1830 in London. She was the daughter of the poet and political exile from Italy, Gabriele Rossetti, who later taught at King’s College. She was the sister of the painter and poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti and sat for many of his well-known paintings. One of her best-known works was “In the Bleak Midwinter” which later became a Christmas carol. She wrote devotional prose, children’s books and novels. She was one of the first female stamp collectors commencing in 1847. The world’s first adhesive postage stamp, the Penny Black, was issued in the UK on 1 May 1840, only 7 years before Christina Rosetti started her stamp collection. Rossetti died on 29 December 1893 and was buried at Highgate Cemetery in the family grave.
Dame Judi Dench recites I wish I could remember that first day.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jYEOi-3PVkY
Kings College Choir sings In the bleak mid-winter, music by Gustav Holst, arranged by Mack Wilberg.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pTzqMi2AQF8
By: Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
I wish I could remember that first day,
First hour, first moment of your meeting me,
If bright or dim the season, it might be
Summer or Winter for aught I can say;
So unrecorded did it slip away,
So blind was I to see and to foresee,
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom for many a May.
If only I could recollect it, such
A day of days! I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much;
If only now I could recall that touch,
First touch of hand in hand—Did one but know!
Christina Rossetti was an English poet and author, born on 5 December, 1830 in London. She was the daughter of the poet and political exile from Italy, Gabriele Rossetti, who later taught at King’s College. She was the sister of the painter and poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti and sat for many of his well-known paintings. One of her best-known works was “In the Bleak Midwinter” which later became a Christmas carol. She wrote devotional prose, children’s books and novels. She was one of the first female stamp collectors commencing in 1847. The world’s first adhesive postage stamp, the Penny Black, was issued in the UK on 1 May 1840, only 7 years before Christina Rosetti started her stamp collection. Rossetti died on 29 December 1893 and was buried at Highgate Cemetery in the family grave.
Dame Judi Dench recites I wish I could remember that first day.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jYEOi-3PVkY
Kings College Choir sings In the bleak mid-winter, music by Gustav Holst, arranged by Mack Wilberg.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pTzqMi2AQF8
Sonnet 104: To
me, fair friend, you never can be old
By: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah, yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred:
Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.
Although his exact birth date is not known, Shakespeare was baptised in Stratford-upon-Avon on 26 April 1564. His mother’s first two children died in infancy. His father was at one time bailiff of Stratford. Shakespeare attended King’s New School. Scholars have suggested that Shakespeare had been a schoolteacher a law clerk and a soldier, although Shakespeare became known as an author, poet, playwright and actor. Records are sparse concerning some periods of his life. He married Anne Hathaway when he was 18 years of age, and they had a daughter and twins two years later in 1585. His work as an actor was affected by an outbreak of the plague in 1592 when all theatres were closed to prevent the spread of infection. Sonnet 14, is written in the form of Shakespeare’s other sonnet - 14 lines long, divided into quatrains, with the second and fourth lines of each quatrain rhyming. William Shakespeare died on 23 April 1616, on or about the date of his 52nd birthday.
Patrick Stewart reads Sonnet 104 by William Shakespeare
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=itC4NsqpDL0
Jessica Bell, actress recites Shakespear’s Sonnet 104
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pL1VGgZMMHU
Sir John Gielgud reads Sonnet 104
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XZXp8wJfucA
By: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah, yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred:
Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.
Although his exact birth date is not known, Shakespeare was baptised in Stratford-upon-Avon on 26 April 1564. His mother’s first two children died in infancy. His father was at one time bailiff of Stratford. Shakespeare attended King’s New School. Scholars have suggested that Shakespeare had been a schoolteacher a law clerk and a soldier, although Shakespeare became known as an author, poet, playwright and actor. Records are sparse concerning some periods of his life. He married Anne Hathaway when he was 18 years of age, and they had a daughter and twins two years later in 1585. His work as an actor was affected by an outbreak of the plague in 1592 when all theatres were closed to prevent the spread of infection. Sonnet 14, is written in the form of Shakespeare’s other sonnet - 14 lines long, divided into quatrains, with the second and fourth lines of each quatrain rhyming. William Shakespeare died on 23 April 1616, on or about the date of his 52nd birthday.
Patrick Stewart reads Sonnet 104 by William Shakespeare
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=itC4NsqpDL0
Jessica Bell, actress recites Shakespear’s Sonnet 104
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pL1VGgZMMHU
Sir John Gielgud reads Sonnet 104
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XZXp8wJfucA
The Flaming Heart
By: Richard Crashaw (c.1613-1649)
O heart, the equal poise of love’s both parts,
Big alike with wounds and darts,
Live in these conquering leaves; live all the same,
And walk through all tongues one triumphant flame;
Live here, great heart, and love and die and kill,
And bleed and wound, and yield and conquer still.
Let this immortal life, where’er it comes,
Walk in a crowd of loves and martyrdoms;
Let mystic deaths wait on ’t, and wise souls be
The love-slain witnesses of this life of thee.
O sweet incendiary! show here thy art,
Upon this carcass of a hard cold heart,
Let all thy scatter’d shafts of light, that play
Among the leaves of thy large books of day,
Combin’d against this breast, at once break in
And take away from me my self and sin;
This gracious robbery shall thy bounty be,
And my best fortunes such fair spoils of me.
O thou undaunted daughter of desires!
By all thy dow’r of lights and fires,
By all the eagle in thee, all the dove,
By all thy lives and deaths of love,
By thy large draughts of intellectual day,
And by thy thirsts of love more large than they,
By all thy brim-fill’d bowls of fierce desire,
By thy last morning’s draught of liquid fire,
By the full kingdom of that final kiss
That seiz’d thy parting soul and seal’d thee his,
By all the heav’ns thou hast in him,
Fair sister of the seraphim!
By all of him we have in thee,
Leave nothing of my self in me:
Let me so read thy life that I
Unto all life of mine may die.
Richard Crashaw’s exact date of birth is unknown; however, it is believed that he was born in late 1612 or early 1613 in London. Crashaw taught English poetry and was predominantly known in the 17th-century as a major metaphysical poet. In 1643 he fled first to France and then the Papal States as a refugee, as the Puritan General Oliver Cromwell gained control over England. He worked as Cardinal Giovanni Battista Maria Pallotta's attendant in Rome, converting from Anglicanism to Roman Catholicism. In April 1649, Richard Crashaw was canonized by Cardinal Pallotta at the Holy House Shrine in Loreto, where he passed away unexpectedly four months later.
By: Richard Crashaw (c.1613-1649)
O heart, the equal poise of love’s both parts,
Big alike with wounds and darts,
Live in these conquering leaves; live all the same,
And walk through all tongues one triumphant flame;
Live here, great heart, and love and die and kill,
And bleed and wound, and yield and conquer still.
Let this immortal life, where’er it comes,
Walk in a crowd of loves and martyrdoms;
Let mystic deaths wait on ’t, and wise souls be
The love-slain witnesses of this life of thee.
O sweet incendiary! show here thy art,
Upon this carcass of a hard cold heart,
Let all thy scatter’d shafts of light, that play
Among the leaves of thy large books of day,
Combin’d against this breast, at once break in
And take away from me my self and sin;
This gracious robbery shall thy bounty be,
And my best fortunes such fair spoils of me.
O thou undaunted daughter of desires!
By all thy dow’r of lights and fires,
By all the eagle in thee, all the dove,
By all thy lives and deaths of love,
By thy large draughts of intellectual day,
And by thy thirsts of love more large than they,
By all thy brim-fill’d bowls of fierce desire,
By thy last morning’s draught of liquid fire,
By the full kingdom of that final kiss
That seiz’d thy parting soul and seal’d thee his,
By all the heav’ns thou hast in him,
Fair sister of the seraphim!
By all of him we have in thee,
Leave nothing of my self in me:
Let me so read thy life that I
Unto all life of mine may die.
Richard Crashaw’s exact date of birth is unknown; however, it is believed that he was born in late 1612 or early 1613 in London. Crashaw taught English poetry and was predominantly known in the 17th-century as a major metaphysical poet. In 1643 he fled first to France and then the Papal States as a refugee, as the Puritan General Oliver Cromwell gained control over England. He worked as Cardinal Giovanni Battista Maria Pallotta's attendant in Rome, converting from Anglicanism to Roman Catholicism. In April 1649, Richard Crashaw was canonized by Cardinal Pallotta at the Holy House Shrine in Loreto, where he passed away unexpectedly four months later.
In Memoriam, (Ring out, wild bells)
By: Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson was born on 6 August 1809, in Somersby, Lincolnshire, England. Ring Out, Wild Bells, was part of In Memoriam, written to Arthur Henry Hallam, who died at 22. The poem was published in 1850, the year Tennyson was appointed Poet Laureate. The poem is inspired by the English custom to have the ring of bells, muffled to ring out the old year, and then, with muffles removed, to ring in the new year. Ring Out, Wild Bells, has been set to music including by Charles Gounod and Percy FletcherAlfred, Lord Tennyson died on 6 October 1892.
Ring Out, Wild Bells, Gounod, sung by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TVEAt8v7b_g
Ring Out, Wild Bells, from The Passing of the Year by Jonathan Dove, Andrew Hon, conductor, sung by the Yale Glee Club
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPIqqvOM8Og
Bell Ringing in the Belfry at Great St. Mary’s, Cambridge
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KNMFvNZIsCM
By: Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson was born on 6 August 1809, in Somersby, Lincolnshire, England. Ring Out, Wild Bells, was part of In Memoriam, written to Arthur Henry Hallam, who died at 22. The poem was published in 1850, the year Tennyson was appointed Poet Laureate. The poem is inspired by the English custom to have the ring of bells, muffled to ring out the old year, and then, with muffles removed, to ring in the new year. Ring Out, Wild Bells, has been set to music including by Charles Gounod and Percy FletcherAlfred, Lord Tennyson died on 6 October 1892.
Ring Out, Wild Bells, Gounod, sung by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TVEAt8v7b_g
Ring Out, Wild Bells, from The Passing of the Year by Jonathan Dove, Andrew Hon, conductor, sung by the Yale Glee Club
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPIqqvOM8Og
Bell Ringing in the Belfry at Great St. Mary’s, Cambridge
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KNMFvNZIsCM
Claribel
By: Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)
Where Claribel low-lieth
The breezes pause and die,
Letting the rose-leaves fall:
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth,
Thick-leaved, ambrosial,
With an ancient melody
Of an inward agony,
Where Claribel low-lieth.
At eve the beetle boometh
Athwart the thicket lone:
At noon the wild bee hummeth
About the moss'd headstone:
At midnight the moon cometh,
And looketh down alone.
Her song the lintwhite swelleth,
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth,
The callow throstle lispeth,
The slumbrous wave outwelleth,
The babbling runnel crispeth,
The hollow grot replieth
Where Claribel low-lieth.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson was born on 6 August 1809, in Somersby, Lincolnshire, England. His father, an Anglican priest, and the son of an MP, married Mary Turner an heiress, and was described as being a man of “superior abilities and varied attainments, who tried his hand with fair success in architecture, painting, music, and poetry”. Alfred, Lord Tennyson was educated at King Edward VI Grammar School and then Trinity College, Cambridge. He was Poet Laureate from 1850 to 1892, and was greatly admired by Queen Victoria and Albert, Prince Consort. He married Emily Sellwood in 1850 and they had two sons. Claribel was one of Tennyson's well-known poems, and included in his first collection Poems, Chiefly Lyrical published in 1830. His best-known poems include Ulysses and The Charge of the Light Brigade. One of his famous lines is “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”, from In Memoriam. Alfred, Lord Tennyson died on 6 October 1892.
By: Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)
Where Claribel low-lieth
The breezes pause and die,
Letting the rose-leaves fall:
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth,
Thick-leaved, ambrosial,
With an ancient melody
Of an inward agony,
Where Claribel low-lieth.
At eve the beetle boometh
Athwart the thicket lone:
At noon the wild bee hummeth
About the moss'd headstone:
At midnight the moon cometh,
And looketh down alone.
Her song the lintwhite swelleth,
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth,
The callow throstle lispeth,
The slumbrous wave outwelleth,
The babbling runnel crispeth,
The hollow grot replieth
Where Claribel low-lieth.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson was born on 6 August 1809, in Somersby, Lincolnshire, England. His father, an Anglican priest, and the son of an MP, married Mary Turner an heiress, and was described as being a man of “superior abilities and varied attainments, who tried his hand with fair success in architecture, painting, music, and poetry”. Alfred, Lord Tennyson was educated at King Edward VI Grammar School and then Trinity College, Cambridge. He was Poet Laureate from 1850 to 1892, and was greatly admired by Queen Victoria and Albert, Prince Consort. He married Emily Sellwood in 1850 and they had two sons. Claribel was one of Tennyson's well-known poems, and included in his first collection Poems, Chiefly Lyrical published in 1830. His best-known poems include Ulysses and The Charge of the Light Brigade. One of his famous lines is “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”, from In Memoriam. Alfred, Lord Tennyson died on 6 October 1892.
The Tenant-For-Life
By: Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
The sun said, watching my watering-pot
"Some morn you'll pass away;
These flowers and plants I parch up hot -
Who'll water them that day?
"Those banks and beds whose shape your eye
Has planned in line so true,
New hands will change, unreasoning why
Such shape seemed best to you.
"Within your house will strangers sit,
And wonder how first it came;
They'll talk of their schemes for improving it,
And will not mention your name.
"They'll care not how, or when, or at what
You sighed, laughed, suffered here,
Though you feel more in an hour of the spot
Than they will feel in a year
"As I look on at you here, now,
Shall I look on at these;
But as to our old times, avow
No knowledge - hold my peace! . . .
"O friend, it matters not, I say;
Bethink ye, I have shined
On nobler ones than you, and they
Are dead men out of mind!"
Thomas Hardy was born on 2 June 1840 in the United Kingdom. His father Thomas was a builder, and his mother Jemima educated Thomas until he started school at the age of 8. Thomas later was educated at Mr Last’s Academy for Young Gentlemen, where he excelled. He was an apprentice architect from age 16, but later studied at King’s College London. He was influenced, in the realist tradition by Charlotte Bronte, George Eliot and Charles Dickens. He championed the cause of rural workers, and was interested in social reform, rebelling against the class structure in the UK. He adapted novels, for theatre, wrote poetry and novels. He became involved in the protection of ancient buildings from developers. His novels include Far from the Madding Crowd (published 1874) and Tess of the D’Urbervilles (published in 1891). He died on 11 January 1928 from “cardiac syncope” and “old age” (as recorded on his death certificate). On 16 January 1928 Thomas Hardy’s ashes were buried in Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey, next to the grave of Charles Dickens.
Thomas Hardy’s Funeral (1928)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QWHQTyxGcY0
Alan Bates reads “the Going” by Thomas Hardy
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BRkpEC0nIi4
By: Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
The sun said, watching my watering-pot
"Some morn you'll pass away;
These flowers and plants I parch up hot -
Who'll water them that day?
"Those banks and beds whose shape your eye
Has planned in line so true,
New hands will change, unreasoning why
Such shape seemed best to you.
"Within your house will strangers sit,
And wonder how first it came;
They'll talk of their schemes for improving it,
And will not mention your name.
"They'll care not how, or when, or at what
You sighed, laughed, suffered here,
Though you feel more in an hour of the spot
Than they will feel in a year
"As I look on at you here, now,
Shall I look on at these;
But as to our old times, avow
No knowledge - hold my peace! . . .
"O friend, it matters not, I say;
Bethink ye, I have shined
On nobler ones than you, and they
Are dead men out of mind!"
Thomas Hardy was born on 2 June 1840 in the United Kingdom. His father Thomas was a builder, and his mother Jemima educated Thomas until he started school at the age of 8. Thomas later was educated at Mr Last’s Academy for Young Gentlemen, where he excelled. He was an apprentice architect from age 16, but later studied at King’s College London. He was influenced, in the realist tradition by Charlotte Bronte, George Eliot and Charles Dickens. He championed the cause of rural workers, and was interested in social reform, rebelling against the class structure in the UK. He adapted novels, for theatre, wrote poetry and novels. He became involved in the protection of ancient buildings from developers. His novels include Far from the Madding Crowd (published 1874) and Tess of the D’Urbervilles (published in 1891). He died on 11 January 1928 from “cardiac syncope” and “old age” (as recorded on his death certificate). On 16 January 1928 Thomas Hardy’s ashes were buried in Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey, next to the grave of Charles Dickens.
Thomas Hardy’s Funeral (1928)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QWHQTyxGcY0
Alan Bates reads “the Going” by Thomas Hardy
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BRkpEC0nIi4
Discipline
By: George Herbert (1593-1633)
Throw away thy rod,
Throw away thy wrath:
O my God,
Take the gentle path.
For my heart’s desire
Unto thine is bent:
I aspire
To a full consent.
Not a word or look
I affect to own,
But by book,
And thy book alone.
Though I fail, I weep:
Though I halt in pace,
Yet I creep
To the throne of grace.
Then let wrath remove;
Love will do the deed:
For with love
Stony hearts will bleed.
Love is swift of foot;
Love’s a man of war,
And can shoot,
And can hit from far.
Who can ’scape his bow?
That which wrought on thee,
Brought thee low,
Needs must work on me.
Throw away thy rod;
Though man frailties hath,
Thou art God:
Throw away thy wrath.
George Herbert was born on 3 April 1593 in Wales, into one of the oldest and most important families in Montgomeryshire. His mother was said to have been an extraordinary woman who managed the family’s complex finances, the education of their 10 children, and the home, moving to advance the interests and education of the children. She was a friend of the poet John Donne, who stood in as godfather to the children after the death of Herbert’s father in 1596. Herbert was said to have been deeply devoted to his mother. He was educated at home, but then attended Westminster School, and then Trinity College, Cambridge. After graduating, he remained as a lecturer and was made university orator at Cambridge. He wrote much of his poetry at this time, in English and Latin. He had a modest income and was concerned throughout his life about his finances, and concerned for his health, writing “I alwaies fear’d sickness more than death because sickness has made me unable to perform those Offices for which I came into the world.” By 1624 he was required to take holy orders to remain at Cambridge (usually required within seven years of obtaining a master’s degree). However he left Parliamend and Cambridge, and received ordination as a deacon. He became a priest of the small parish at Bemerton, having married in 1629, remaining there for his last three years. He died on 1 March 1633. He is known as one of the most important British devotional poets and lyricists.
By: George Herbert (1593-1633)
Throw away thy rod,
Throw away thy wrath:
O my God,
Take the gentle path.
For my heart’s desire
Unto thine is bent:
I aspire
To a full consent.
Not a word or look
I affect to own,
But by book,
And thy book alone.
Though I fail, I weep:
Though I halt in pace,
Yet I creep
To the throne of grace.
Then let wrath remove;
Love will do the deed:
For with love
Stony hearts will bleed.
Love is swift of foot;
Love’s a man of war,
And can shoot,
And can hit from far.
Who can ’scape his bow?
That which wrought on thee,
Brought thee low,
Needs must work on me.
Throw away thy rod;
Though man frailties hath,
Thou art God:
Throw away thy wrath.
George Herbert was born on 3 April 1593 in Wales, into one of the oldest and most important families in Montgomeryshire. His mother was said to have been an extraordinary woman who managed the family’s complex finances, the education of their 10 children, and the home, moving to advance the interests and education of the children. She was a friend of the poet John Donne, who stood in as godfather to the children after the death of Herbert’s father in 1596. Herbert was said to have been deeply devoted to his mother. He was educated at home, but then attended Westminster School, and then Trinity College, Cambridge. After graduating, he remained as a lecturer and was made university orator at Cambridge. He wrote much of his poetry at this time, in English and Latin. He had a modest income and was concerned throughout his life about his finances, and concerned for his health, writing “I alwaies fear’d sickness more than death because sickness has made me unable to perform those Offices for which I came into the world.” By 1624 he was required to take holy orders to remain at Cambridge (usually required within seven years of obtaining a master’s degree). However he left Parliamend and Cambridge, and received ordination as a deacon. He became a priest of the small parish at Bemerton, having married in 1629, remaining there for his last three years. He died on 1 March 1633. He is known as one of the most important British devotional poets and lyricists.
There may be chaos still around the world
By: George Santayana (1863-1952)
There may be chaos still around the world,
This little world that in my thinking lies;
For mine own bosom is the paradise
Where all my life’s fair visions are unfurled.
Within my nature’s shell I slumber curled,
Unmindful of the changing outer skies,
Where now, perchance, some new-born Eros flies,
Or some old Cronos from his throne is hurled.
I heed them not; or if the subtle night
Haunt me with deities I never saw,
I soon mine eyelid’s drowsy curtain draw
To hide their myriad faces from my sight.
They threat in vain; the whirlwind cannot awe
A happy snow-flake dancing in the flaw.
George Santayana was born Jorge Agustín Nicolás Ruiz de Santayana y Borrás on December 16, 1863, in Madrid, Spain. He was raised in the USA from the age of 8 and was educated at the Boston Latin School and Harvard College. He studied in Berlin, and was later a Professor of Philosophy at Harvard from 1889 to 1912. He was a novelist, poet, and philosopher. His books include The Sense of Beauty (1896) and his 5 volume The Life of Reason, and 4 volumes The Realms of Being. He was an atheist who described himself as an “aesthetic Catholic”. His aphorisms include his description of fanaticism as “redoubling your effort after you’ve forgotten your aim”, and phrases such as “Only the dead have seen the end of the war”, “Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it” and “A child educated only at school is an uneducated child”. His quoted words also include “The world is not respectable; it is mortal, tormented, confused, deluded forever; but it is shot through with beauty, with love, with glints of courage and laughter; and in these, the spirit blooms timidly, and struggles to the light amid the thorns.” He died on 26 September 1952.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Santayana
George Santayana on Meaning in Life
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s-o24oiQVvQ
By: George Santayana (1863-1952)
There may be chaos still around the world,
This little world that in my thinking lies;
For mine own bosom is the paradise
Where all my life’s fair visions are unfurled.
Within my nature’s shell I slumber curled,
Unmindful of the changing outer skies,
Where now, perchance, some new-born Eros flies,
Or some old Cronos from his throne is hurled.
I heed them not; or if the subtle night
Haunt me with deities I never saw,
I soon mine eyelid’s drowsy curtain draw
To hide their myriad faces from my sight.
They threat in vain; the whirlwind cannot awe
A happy snow-flake dancing in the flaw.
George Santayana was born Jorge Agustín Nicolás Ruiz de Santayana y Borrás on December 16, 1863, in Madrid, Spain. He was raised in the USA from the age of 8 and was educated at the Boston Latin School and Harvard College. He studied in Berlin, and was later a Professor of Philosophy at Harvard from 1889 to 1912. He was a novelist, poet, and philosopher. His books include The Sense of Beauty (1896) and his 5 volume The Life of Reason, and 4 volumes The Realms of Being. He was an atheist who described himself as an “aesthetic Catholic”. His aphorisms include his description of fanaticism as “redoubling your effort after you’ve forgotten your aim”, and phrases such as “Only the dead have seen the end of the war”, “Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it” and “A child educated only at school is an uneducated child”. His quoted words also include “The world is not respectable; it is mortal, tormented, confused, deluded forever; but it is shot through with beauty, with love, with glints of courage and laughter; and in these, the spirit blooms timidly, and struggles to the light amid the thorns.” He died on 26 September 1952.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Santayana
George Santayana on Meaning in Life
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s-o24oiQVvQ
Renouncement
By: Alice Meynell (1847-1922)
I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,
I shun the thought that lurks in all delight—
The thought of thee—and in the blue heaven’s height,
And in the sweetest passage of a song.
Oh, just beyond the fairest thoughts that throng
This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright;
But it must never, never come in sight;
I must stop short of thee the whole day long.
But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,
When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,
And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,
Must doff my will as raiment laid away,—
With the first dream that comes with the first sleep
I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart.
Alice Christiana Gertrude Meynell was born on 11 October 1847 in Barnes, London. The family lived mainly in Italy. Charles Dickens was a friend of her father. Alice married Wilfrid Meynell and had eight children, including Francis who became a poet and viola who was a writer. She was a British suffragist and poet, who also worked as an editor and a critic. Alice Meynell was frequently ill throughout her life. Her work was published in The Spectator, the Scots Observer, and the Saturday Review. She died on 27 November 1922 in London. She was twice considered for Poet Laureate of the UK. Elizabeth Barrett Browning was her third cousin.
By: Alice Meynell (1847-1922)
I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,
I shun the thought that lurks in all delight—
The thought of thee—and in the blue heaven’s height,
And in the sweetest passage of a song.
Oh, just beyond the fairest thoughts that throng
This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright;
But it must never, never come in sight;
I must stop short of thee the whole day long.
But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,
When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,
And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,
Must doff my will as raiment laid away,—
With the first dream that comes with the first sleep
I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart.
Alice Christiana Gertrude Meynell was born on 11 October 1847 in Barnes, London. The family lived mainly in Italy. Charles Dickens was a friend of her father. Alice married Wilfrid Meynell and had eight children, including Francis who became a poet and viola who was a writer. She was a British suffragist and poet, who also worked as an editor and a critic. Alice Meynell was frequently ill throughout her life. Her work was published in The Spectator, the Scots Observer, and the Saturday Review. She died on 27 November 1922 in London. She was twice considered for Poet Laureate of the UK. Elizabeth Barrett Browning was her third cousin.
My Childhood Home I See Again
By: Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865)
My childhood home I see again,
And sadden with the view;
And still, as memory crowds my brain,
There's pleasure in it too.
O Memory! thou midway world
'Twixt earth and paradise,
Where things decayed and loved ones lost
In dreamy shadows rise,
And, freed from all that's earthly vile,
Seem hallowed, pure, and bright,
Like scenes in some enchanted isle
All bathed in liquid light.
As dusky mountains please the eye
When twilight chases day;
As bugle-notes that, passing by,
In distance die away;
As leaving some grand waterfall,
We, lingering, list its roar—
So memory will hallow all
We've known, but know no more.
Near twenty years have passed away
Since here I bid farewell
To woods and fields, and scenes of play,
And playmates loved so well.
Where many were, but few remain
Of old familiar things;
But seeing them, to mind again
The lost and absent brings.
The friends I left that parting day,
How changed, as time has sped!
Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray,
And half of all are dead.
I hear the loved survivors tell
How nought from death could save,
Till every sound appears a knell,
And every spot a grave.
I range the fields with pensive tread,
And pace the hollow rooms,
And feel (companion of the dead)
I'm living in the tombs.
Abraham Lincoln was born on 12 February 1809, in Kentucky, in poverty, and raised on the frontier. His brother died at birth. His mother died of milk sickness, in 1818, when Abraham was 9 years old. His sister Sarah died 10 years later leaving Lincoln devastated, and an only child. He was self-educated and is believed to have had formal lessons for less than a year of his life until the age of 15. Until he was 21, he worked as a farm labourer, giving all his earnings to his father. He became a lawyer, in Springfield, handling “every kind of business that could come from a prairie lawyer”. Much of his work involved transportation, river barge and railroad conflicts. He appeared before the Illinois Supreme Court in 175 cases and appeared alone in 51 of those cases. His legal reputation was the origin of his nickname “Honest Abe”. He was a member of the legislature and was a congressman for Illinois. He wrote My Childhood Home I See Again in 1847. He was the 16th president of the United States from 1861 to 1865. He led the Union during the American Civil War. He spoke at the dedication of the Gettysburg Battlefield cemetery in 1863, giving the “Gettysburg Address”, beginning with the words “Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth, upon this continent, a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal”. On 14 April 1865, the day he had signed legislation to establish the US Secret Service, Lincoln was shot by John Wilkes Booth, at Ford’s Theatre. Lincoln died in Washington, D.C. on 15 April 1865.
My Childhood Home I see Again, music composed and sung by Julia Bloom, with photographs and paintings from the Civil War era.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2saL3seldPg
Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, read by President Obama, in 2013
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CHAyepp7ypY
By: Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865)
My childhood home I see again,
And sadden with the view;
And still, as memory crowds my brain,
There's pleasure in it too.
O Memory! thou midway world
'Twixt earth and paradise,
Where things decayed and loved ones lost
In dreamy shadows rise,
And, freed from all that's earthly vile,
Seem hallowed, pure, and bright,
Like scenes in some enchanted isle
All bathed in liquid light.
As dusky mountains please the eye
When twilight chases day;
As bugle-notes that, passing by,
In distance die away;
As leaving some grand waterfall,
We, lingering, list its roar—
So memory will hallow all
We've known, but know no more.
Near twenty years have passed away
Since here I bid farewell
To woods and fields, and scenes of play,
And playmates loved so well.
Where many were, but few remain
Of old familiar things;
But seeing them, to mind again
The lost and absent brings.
The friends I left that parting day,
How changed, as time has sped!
Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray,
And half of all are dead.
I hear the loved survivors tell
How nought from death could save,
Till every sound appears a knell,
And every spot a grave.
I range the fields with pensive tread,
And pace the hollow rooms,
And feel (companion of the dead)
I'm living in the tombs.
Abraham Lincoln was born on 12 February 1809, in Kentucky, in poverty, and raised on the frontier. His brother died at birth. His mother died of milk sickness, in 1818, when Abraham was 9 years old. His sister Sarah died 10 years later leaving Lincoln devastated, and an only child. He was self-educated and is believed to have had formal lessons for less than a year of his life until the age of 15. Until he was 21, he worked as a farm labourer, giving all his earnings to his father. He became a lawyer, in Springfield, handling “every kind of business that could come from a prairie lawyer”. Much of his work involved transportation, river barge and railroad conflicts. He appeared before the Illinois Supreme Court in 175 cases and appeared alone in 51 of those cases. His legal reputation was the origin of his nickname “Honest Abe”. He was a member of the legislature and was a congressman for Illinois. He wrote My Childhood Home I See Again in 1847. He was the 16th president of the United States from 1861 to 1865. He led the Union during the American Civil War. He spoke at the dedication of the Gettysburg Battlefield cemetery in 1863, giving the “Gettysburg Address”, beginning with the words “Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth, upon this continent, a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal”. On 14 April 1865, the day he had signed legislation to establish the US Secret Service, Lincoln was shot by John Wilkes Booth, at Ford’s Theatre. Lincoln died in Washington, D.C. on 15 April 1865.
My Childhood Home I see Again, music composed and sung by Julia Bloom, with photographs and paintings from the Civil War era.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2saL3seldPg
Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, read by President Obama, in 2013
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CHAyepp7ypY
Loves Poem
By: Theocritus (c.300 BC, to circa 260 BC)
'Sincerity comes with the wine-cup,' my dear:
Then now o'er our wine-cups let us be sincere.
My soul's treasured secret to you I'll impart;
It is this; that I never won fairly your heart.
One half of my life, I am conscious, has flown;
The residue lives on your image alone.
You are kind, and I dream I'm in paradise then;
You are angry, and lo! all is darkness again.
It is right to torment one who loves you? Obey
Your elder; 'twere best; and you'll thank me one day.
Settle down in one nest on one tree (taking care
That no cruel reptile can clamber up there):
As it is with your lovers you're fairly perplexed;
One day you choose one bough, another the next.
Whoe'er at all struck by your graces appears,
Is more to you straight than the comrade of years;
While he's like the friend of a day put aside;
For the breath of your nostrils, I think, is your pride.
Form a friendship, for life, with some likely young lad;
So doing, in honour your name shall be had.
Nor would Love use you hardly; though lightly can he
Bind strong men in chains, and has wrought upon me
Till the steel is as wax- but I'm longing to press
That exquisite mouth with a clinging caress.
No? Reflect that you're older each year than the last;
That we all must grow gray, and the wrinkles come fast.
Reflect, ere you spurn me, that youth at his sides
Wears wings; and once gone, all pursuit he derides:
Nor are men over keen to catch charms as they fly.
Think of this and be gentle, be loving as I:
When your years are maturer, we two shall be then
The pair in the Iliad over again.
But if you consign all my words to the wind
And say, 'Why annoy me? you're not to my mind,'
I- who lately in quest of the Gold Fruit had sped
For your sake, or of Cerberus guard of the dead-
Though you called me, would ne'er stir a foot from my door,
For my love and my sorrow thenceforth will be o'er.
Translated by C. S. Calverley
Theocritus (300BC to 260 BC) was a Greek Poet, the creator of Ancient Greek pastoral poetry, (termed “bucolics”). The pastorals introduced the setting of shepherds, and shepherdesses and nymphs and were the source of inspiration for much later poetry including John Milton, Percy Bysshe Shelley and Matthew Arnold. He is believed to have lived in Sicily as he refers to the Cyclops in the Odyssey as his “countryman”, however he may have been born in Syracuse. A number of works attributed to Theocritus are thought now to be of doubtful authenticity.
By: Theocritus (c.300 BC, to circa 260 BC)
'Sincerity comes with the wine-cup,' my dear:
Then now o'er our wine-cups let us be sincere.
My soul's treasured secret to you I'll impart;
It is this; that I never won fairly your heart.
One half of my life, I am conscious, has flown;
The residue lives on your image alone.
You are kind, and I dream I'm in paradise then;
You are angry, and lo! all is darkness again.
It is right to torment one who loves you? Obey
Your elder; 'twere best; and you'll thank me one day.
Settle down in one nest on one tree (taking care
That no cruel reptile can clamber up there):
As it is with your lovers you're fairly perplexed;
One day you choose one bough, another the next.
Whoe'er at all struck by your graces appears,
Is more to you straight than the comrade of years;
While he's like the friend of a day put aside;
For the breath of your nostrils, I think, is your pride.
Form a friendship, for life, with some likely young lad;
So doing, in honour your name shall be had.
Nor would Love use you hardly; though lightly can he
Bind strong men in chains, and has wrought upon me
Till the steel is as wax- but I'm longing to press
That exquisite mouth with a clinging caress.
No? Reflect that you're older each year than the last;
That we all must grow gray, and the wrinkles come fast.
Reflect, ere you spurn me, that youth at his sides
Wears wings; and once gone, all pursuit he derides:
Nor are men over keen to catch charms as they fly.
Think of this and be gentle, be loving as I:
When your years are maturer, we two shall be then
The pair in the Iliad over again.
But if you consign all my words to the wind
And say, 'Why annoy me? you're not to my mind,'
I- who lately in quest of the Gold Fruit had sped
For your sake, or of Cerberus guard of the dead-
Though you called me, would ne'er stir a foot from my door,
For my love and my sorrow thenceforth will be o'er.
Translated by C. S. Calverley
Theocritus (300BC to 260 BC) was a Greek Poet, the creator of Ancient Greek pastoral poetry, (termed “bucolics”). The pastorals introduced the setting of shepherds, and shepherdesses and nymphs and were the source of inspiration for much later poetry including John Milton, Percy Bysshe Shelley and Matthew Arnold. He is believed to have lived in Sicily as he refers to the Cyclops in the Odyssey as his “countryman”, however he may have been born in Syracuse. A number of works attributed to Theocritus are thought now to be of doubtful authenticity.
Sonnet 1: I thought once how Theocritus had sung
By: Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
I thought once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow across me. Straightaway I was ‘ware,
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;
And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,
“Guess now who holds thee?” – “Death,” I said, But, there,
The silver answer rang, — “Not Death, but Love.”
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (6 March 1806 to 29 June 1861), was of Victorian England’s best known poets. She grew up at Hope End, a 500-acre estate in Herefordshire which her father bought when Elizabeth was three years old. She lived there with her 10 surviving siblings and her parents. She wrote poetry from a very young age. Her family had lived in Jamaica for a generation, from 1655, deriving their wealth from the sugar cane plantations and slave labour. Elizabeth lived a life of freedom from the usual constraints of the time, riding and fishing. After the death of her brother Edward, by drowning she closed her small circle of friends to a handful of people only. Barrett- Browning wrote Sonnets from the Portuguese, a collection of 44 love sonnets, between 1845 and 1846. She married Robert Browning, secretly in 1846 when she was 40 and he was 34 years old. Consequently, her father disinherited her. From 1846 she and her husband lived in Italy. She suffered from a debilitating condition throughout her life with symptoms of general exhaustion and weakness, spinal pain and possibly tuberculosis. She wrote The Cry of the Children, condemning child labour and she campaigned for the abolition of slavery. She died in 1861 at the age of 55, in Florence, Italy
By: Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
I thought once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow across me. Straightaway I was ‘ware,
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;
And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,
“Guess now who holds thee?” – “Death,” I said, But, there,
The silver answer rang, — “Not Death, but Love.”
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (6 March 1806 to 29 June 1861), was of Victorian England’s best known poets. She grew up at Hope End, a 500-acre estate in Herefordshire which her father bought when Elizabeth was three years old. She lived there with her 10 surviving siblings and her parents. She wrote poetry from a very young age. Her family had lived in Jamaica for a generation, from 1655, deriving their wealth from the sugar cane plantations and slave labour. Elizabeth lived a life of freedom from the usual constraints of the time, riding and fishing. After the death of her brother Edward, by drowning she closed her small circle of friends to a handful of people only. Barrett- Browning wrote Sonnets from the Portuguese, a collection of 44 love sonnets, between 1845 and 1846. She married Robert Browning, secretly in 1846 when she was 40 and he was 34 years old. Consequently, her father disinherited her. From 1846 she and her husband lived in Italy. She suffered from a debilitating condition throughout her life with symptoms of general exhaustion and weakness, spinal pain and possibly tuberculosis. She wrote The Cry of the Children, condemning child labour and she campaigned for the abolition of slavery. She died in 1861 at the age of 55, in Florence, Italy
No Coward Soul Is Mine
By: Emily Bronte (1818-1848)
No coward soul is mine
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere
I see Heaven's glories shine
And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear
O God within my breast
Almighty ever-present Deity
Life, that in me hast rest,
As I Undying Life, have power in Thee
Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts, unutterably vain,
Worthless as withered weeds
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main
To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by thy infinity,
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of Immortality.
With wide-embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears
Though earth and moon were gone
And suns and universes ceased to be
And Thou wert left alone
Every Existence would exist in thee
There is not room for Death
Nor atom that his might could render void
Since thou art Being and Breath
And what thou art may never be destroyed.
Emily Bronte, an English poet and novelist, was born on 30 July 1818 in Yorkshire, UK. Her mother died when she was three years old. She and her sisters were educated at the Clergy Daughters’ School. She is best known for the novel Wuthering Heights. Her siblings included Charlotte Bronte, the author of the novel Jane Eyre. Only three Bronte girls survived into adulthood, after Elizabeth and Maria died of typhoid. Emily became a teacher, however she returned home, and thereafter kept house, while working on her literature and poetry, learning German and playing the piano. Emily was reclusive throughout her life. Constantin Heger wrote of her character “She should have been a man - a great navigator. Her powerful reason would have deduced new spheres of discovery from the knowledge of the old; and her strong imperious will would never have been daunted by opposition or difficulty, never have given way but with life. She had a head for logic, and a capability of argument unusual in a man and rarer indeed in a woman...impairing this gift was her stubborn tenacity of will which rendered her obtuse to all reasoning where her own wishes, or her own sense of right, was concerned“.
Her sister Charlotte Bronte wrote of her: “My sister's disposition was not naturally gregarious; circumstances favoured and fostered her tendency to seclusion; except to go to church or take a walk on the hills, she rarely crossed the threshold of home. Though her feeling for the people round was benevolent, intercourse with them she never sought; nor, with very few exceptions, ever experienced. And yet she knew them: knew their ways, their language, their family histories; she could hear of them with interest, and talk of them with detail, minute, graphic, and accurate; but WITH them, she rarely exchanged a word”. Emily Bronte died on 19 December 1848. The current president of the Bronte Society in the UK is Dame Judi Dench.
By: Emily Bronte (1818-1848)
No coward soul is mine
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere
I see Heaven's glories shine
And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear
O God within my breast
Almighty ever-present Deity
Life, that in me hast rest,
As I Undying Life, have power in Thee
Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts, unutterably vain,
Worthless as withered weeds
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main
To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by thy infinity,
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of Immortality.
With wide-embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears
Though earth and moon were gone
And suns and universes ceased to be
And Thou wert left alone
Every Existence would exist in thee
There is not room for Death
Nor atom that his might could render void
Since thou art Being and Breath
And what thou art may never be destroyed.
Emily Bronte, an English poet and novelist, was born on 30 July 1818 in Yorkshire, UK. Her mother died when she was three years old. She and her sisters were educated at the Clergy Daughters’ School. She is best known for the novel Wuthering Heights. Her siblings included Charlotte Bronte, the author of the novel Jane Eyre. Only three Bronte girls survived into adulthood, after Elizabeth and Maria died of typhoid. Emily became a teacher, however she returned home, and thereafter kept house, while working on her literature and poetry, learning German and playing the piano. Emily was reclusive throughout her life. Constantin Heger wrote of her character “She should have been a man - a great navigator. Her powerful reason would have deduced new spheres of discovery from the knowledge of the old; and her strong imperious will would never have been daunted by opposition or difficulty, never have given way but with life. She had a head for logic, and a capability of argument unusual in a man and rarer indeed in a woman...impairing this gift was her stubborn tenacity of will which rendered her obtuse to all reasoning where her own wishes, or her own sense of right, was concerned“.
Her sister Charlotte Bronte wrote of her: “My sister's disposition was not naturally gregarious; circumstances favoured and fostered her tendency to seclusion; except to go to church or take a walk on the hills, she rarely crossed the threshold of home. Though her feeling for the people round was benevolent, intercourse with them she never sought; nor, with very few exceptions, ever experienced. And yet she knew them: knew their ways, their language, their family histories; she could hear of them with interest, and talk of them with detail, minute, graphic, and accurate; but WITH them, she rarely exchanged a word”. Emily Bronte died on 19 December 1848. The current president of the Bronte Society in the UK is Dame Judi Dench.
Love is Not All (Sonnet XXX)
By: Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)
Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution’s power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.
Edna St. Vincent Millay, an American poet and playwright was born on 22 February 1892 in Maine. Her mother was a nurse and her father a schoolteacher. Her middle name is from St. Vincent’s Hospital, New York City, where her uncle had recovered from a serious illness just before she was born. Her parents separated when she was young. She won poetry competitions from an early age. Her first well known poem was Renascence, written while she was still a teenager. She was well known as a feminist in the 1920s in New York City. She won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1923. One of her best known collections of poetry is The Ballad of the Harp- Weaver. She died on 19 October 1950, aged 58, in Austerlitz, New York.
Jodie Foster reads Love is Not All by Edna St. Vincent Millay
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ZEIyGriOEo&list=PLTR8eXa0mGYb-t7MI17Lht6BdSbbFCMWp&index=23
Edna St. Vincent Millay, reads her poem Love is Not Al
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mvgDAOG8W6c
By: Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)
Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution’s power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.
Edna St. Vincent Millay, an American poet and playwright was born on 22 February 1892 in Maine. Her mother was a nurse and her father a schoolteacher. Her middle name is from St. Vincent’s Hospital, New York City, where her uncle had recovered from a serious illness just before she was born. Her parents separated when she was young. She won poetry competitions from an early age. Her first well known poem was Renascence, written while she was still a teenager. She was well known as a feminist in the 1920s in New York City. She won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1923. One of her best known collections of poetry is The Ballad of the Harp- Weaver. She died on 19 October 1950, aged 58, in Austerlitz, New York.
Jodie Foster reads Love is Not All by Edna St. Vincent Millay
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ZEIyGriOEo&list=PLTR8eXa0mGYb-t7MI17Lht6BdSbbFCMWp&index=23
Edna St. Vincent Millay, reads her poem Love is Not Al
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mvgDAOG8W6c
Lost Faith
By: Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
To lose one's faith surpasses
The loss of an estate,
Because estates can be
Replenished, -- faith cannot.
Inherited with life,
Belief but once can be;
Annihilate a single clause,
And Being's beggary.
Emily Dickinson, was born on 10 December 1830. Her father was a lawyer, and a trustee of Amherst College where Emily Dickinson was later educated. Her forebears had travelled to Massachusetts two hundred years earlier as part of the Great Puritan Migration. Although now regarded as one of America’s greatest poets, Emily was not well known as a writer while she was alive. She wrote 1800 poems but only 10 were published during her life. Emily lived a reclusive life for over 20 years, and there has been speculation as to whether her seclusion may have been because of a medical issue, such as epilepsy or autism. Emily Dickinson died on 15 May 1886. Although the cause of death is nominated as Bright’s Disease on the death certificate, her medical practitioner said that she had not permitted him to examine her or take her pulse for two years before her death. There is a suggestion that she died following a stroke. Although she had extracted from her sister Lavinia, a promise that after Emily’s death her poems would be burned, her sister Lavinia published her poems with the assistance of Thomas Wentworth Higginson and Mabel Loomis Todd. The poems were heavily edited to fit conventions of the day, and it was not until 1955 that Emily Dickinson’s poetry was published in the original form in which it had been written.
By: Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
To lose one's faith surpasses
The loss of an estate,
Because estates can be
Replenished, -- faith cannot.
Inherited with life,
Belief but once can be;
Annihilate a single clause,
And Being's beggary.
Emily Dickinson, was born on 10 December 1830. Her father was a lawyer, and a trustee of Amherst College where Emily Dickinson was later educated. Her forebears had travelled to Massachusetts two hundred years earlier as part of the Great Puritan Migration. Although now regarded as one of America’s greatest poets, Emily was not well known as a writer while she was alive. She wrote 1800 poems but only 10 were published during her life. Emily lived a reclusive life for over 20 years, and there has been speculation as to whether her seclusion may have been because of a medical issue, such as epilepsy or autism. Emily Dickinson died on 15 May 1886. Although the cause of death is nominated as Bright’s Disease on the death certificate, her medical practitioner said that she had not permitted him to examine her or take her pulse for two years before her death. There is a suggestion that she died following a stroke. Although she had extracted from her sister Lavinia, a promise that after Emily’s death her poems would be burned, her sister Lavinia published her poems with the assistance of Thomas Wentworth Higginson and Mabel Loomis Todd. The poems were heavily edited to fit conventions of the day, and it was not until 1955 that Emily Dickinson’s poetry was published in the original form in which it had been written.
Study Nature
By: Gertrude Stein (1874-1946)
I do.
Victim.
Sales
Met
Wipe
Her
Less.
Was a disappointment
We say it.
Study nature.
Or
Who
Towering.
Mispronounced
Spelling.
She
Was
Astonishing
To
No
One
For
Fun
Study from nature.
I
Am
Pleased
Thoroughly
I
Am
Thoroughly
Pleased.
By.
It.
It is very likely.
They said so.
Oh.
I want.
To do.
What
Is
Later
To
Be
Refined.
By
Turning.
Of turning around.
I will wait.
Gertrude Stein, an American playwright, novelist, poet and art collector, was born on 3 February 1874 in Pennsylvania, the youngest of 5 children. Her family moved to Paris when she was three, returning to live in Oakland, California in 1878. Her mother died when she was 14, and her father died three years later. She attended Radcliffe College. In 1897 she enrolled in Johns Hopkins School of Medicine but left in her fourth year. She collected art throughout her life. She moved to Paris in 1903 where she remained for the rest of her life. She met her life partner Alice B. Toklas in 1907. She was an associate of Picasso, Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Matisse, who she often hosted in her famous Salons. In 1933 she published The Autobiography of Alice B Toklas, a bestselling autobiography, written by her in the voice of her partner. Although Jewish, In the Second World War she was a collaborator with Vichy, France, and wrote supporting Hitler and the Nazis. Some suggest that her support was expedient, however her writings praised the regime after the war hand ended. She died in 1946 in France following surgery for stomach cancer. Her last words before falling into a coma are said to have been “What is the answer?” and when she received no response “In that case, what is the question?”. Alice B. Toklas was later buried next to her.
Kathy Bates, actor, reads “If I Told Him, a completed portrait of Picasso ” by Gertrude Stein
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=52aasryN_Wc
A home move of the Stein home in 1927
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wX4NMuJGOsY
Gertrude Stein reads extracts from “The Making of Americans”, a novel completed by her in 1911, and first published in book form in 1925
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SKOo28Cvqi4
By: Gertrude Stein (1874-1946)
I do.
Victim.
Sales
Met
Wipe
Her
Less.
Was a disappointment
We say it.
Study nature.
Or
Who
Towering.
Mispronounced
Spelling.
She
Was
Astonishing
To
No
One
For
Fun
Study from nature.
I
Am
Pleased
Thoroughly
I
Am
Thoroughly
Pleased.
By.
It.
It is very likely.
They said so.
Oh.
I want.
To do.
What
Is
Later
To
Be
Refined.
By
Turning.
Of turning around.
I will wait.
Gertrude Stein, an American playwright, novelist, poet and art collector, was born on 3 February 1874 in Pennsylvania, the youngest of 5 children. Her family moved to Paris when she was three, returning to live in Oakland, California in 1878. Her mother died when she was 14, and her father died three years later. She attended Radcliffe College. In 1897 she enrolled in Johns Hopkins School of Medicine but left in her fourth year. She collected art throughout her life. She moved to Paris in 1903 where she remained for the rest of her life. She met her life partner Alice B. Toklas in 1907. She was an associate of Picasso, Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Matisse, who she often hosted in her famous Salons. In 1933 she published The Autobiography of Alice B Toklas, a bestselling autobiography, written by her in the voice of her partner. Although Jewish, In the Second World War she was a collaborator with Vichy, France, and wrote supporting Hitler and the Nazis. Some suggest that her support was expedient, however her writings praised the regime after the war hand ended. She died in 1946 in France following surgery for stomach cancer. Her last words before falling into a coma are said to have been “What is the answer?” and when she received no response “In that case, what is the question?”. Alice B. Toklas was later buried next to her.
Kathy Bates, actor, reads “If I Told Him, a completed portrait of Picasso ” by Gertrude Stein
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=52aasryN_Wc
A home move of the Stein home in 1927
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wX4NMuJGOsY
Gertrude Stein reads extracts from “The Making of Americans”, a novel completed by her in 1911, and first published in book form in 1925
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SKOo28Cvqi4
My Dead Dream
By: Sarojini Naidu (1879-1949)
Have you found me, at last, O my Dream? Seven eons ago
You died and I buried you deep under forests of snow.
Why have you come hither? Who bade you awake from your sleep
And track me beyond the cerulean foam of the deep?
Would you tear from my lintels these sacred green garlands of leaves?
Would you scare the white, nested, wild pigeons of joy from my eaves?
Would you touch and defile with dead fingers the robes of my priest?
Would you weave your dim moan with the chantings of love at my feast?
Go back to your grave, O my Dream, under forests of snow,
Where a heart-riven child hid you once, seven eons ago.
Who bade you arise from your darkness? I bid you depart!
Profane not the shrines I have raised in the clefts of my heart.
Dr. Sarojini Naidu, born Sarojini Chattopadhyaya, in Hyderabad, India on 13 February 1879, was a child prodigy, and considered to be brilliant intellectually as a poet, linguist, writer and political activist. She won a scholarship to Kings College, London where she studied from 1895, when she was 16 years of age, and later at Madras University and Girton College, Cambridge. She married in 1898, to Dr Naidu, a marriage supported by both their parents, although the inter-caste marriage was at that time in India considered to be against societal norms, and even criminal in some parts of society. They had five children. She spoke many languages fluently. In 1905 she joined the Indian Nationalist Movement, and met Mahatma Gandhi in 1916. She worked in the movement for freedom for India from British control, and for women’s rights and civil rights. For 3 years from 1915 she travelled throughout India giving political lectures. She was arrested and imprisoned for two years because of her political activism. In 1925 she became the President of the Indian National Congress and from 1947 she was Governor of the United Provinces (later Uttar Pradesh). She received the Hind Kesari medal in 1928. She wrote books, poetry and songs throughout her life. She died on 2 March 1949. As a poet, she was referred to as the “Nightingale of India”. Her birthday, 13 February, is celebrated as Women’s Day in India.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarojini_Naidu
Sarojini Naidu, gives a speech in the USA on her arrival in 1928
Sarojini Naidu, gives a speech in the USA on arrival
Dr Sarojini Naidu, 11 December 1946, Constituent Assembly Speech,
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wzf3dWo4EoE
By: Sarojini Naidu (1879-1949)
Have you found me, at last, O my Dream? Seven eons ago
You died and I buried you deep under forests of snow.
Why have you come hither? Who bade you awake from your sleep
And track me beyond the cerulean foam of the deep?
Would you tear from my lintels these sacred green garlands of leaves?
Would you scare the white, nested, wild pigeons of joy from my eaves?
Would you touch and defile with dead fingers the robes of my priest?
Would you weave your dim moan with the chantings of love at my feast?
Go back to your grave, O my Dream, under forests of snow,
Where a heart-riven child hid you once, seven eons ago.
Who bade you arise from your darkness? I bid you depart!
Profane not the shrines I have raised in the clefts of my heart.
Dr. Sarojini Naidu, born Sarojini Chattopadhyaya, in Hyderabad, India on 13 February 1879, was a child prodigy, and considered to be brilliant intellectually as a poet, linguist, writer and political activist. She won a scholarship to Kings College, London where she studied from 1895, when she was 16 years of age, and later at Madras University and Girton College, Cambridge. She married in 1898, to Dr Naidu, a marriage supported by both their parents, although the inter-caste marriage was at that time in India considered to be against societal norms, and even criminal in some parts of society. They had five children. She spoke many languages fluently. In 1905 she joined the Indian Nationalist Movement, and met Mahatma Gandhi in 1916. She worked in the movement for freedom for India from British control, and for women’s rights and civil rights. For 3 years from 1915 she travelled throughout India giving political lectures. She was arrested and imprisoned for two years because of her political activism. In 1925 she became the President of the Indian National Congress and from 1947 she was Governor of the United Provinces (later Uttar Pradesh). She received the Hind Kesari medal in 1928. She wrote books, poetry and songs throughout her life. She died on 2 March 1949. As a poet, she was referred to as the “Nightingale of India”. Her birthday, 13 February, is celebrated as Women’s Day in India.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarojini_Naidu
Sarojini Naidu, gives a speech in the USA on her arrival in 1928
Sarojini Naidu, gives a speech in the USA on arrival
Dr Sarojini Naidu, 11 December 1946, Constituent Assembly Speech,
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wzf3dWo4EoE
Sonnet 116
By: William 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 wand’ring 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.
Sonnet 116 was first published in 1609, (misnumbered in the 1609 Quatro as Sonnet 119). Shakespeare was born in Stratford-upon-Avon in April 1564. He was believed to have been educated by well versed masters. At the age of 18 he married Ann Hathaway of Stratford, who was eight years his senior. They had three children, Susanna and then twins Hamnet and Judith. Shakespeare joined an acting company, working in London. In 1592 Robert Greene a playwright referred to Shakespeare as “an upstart crow”. Shakespeare then joined the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, an acting company under the patronage of Henry Carey, Lord Husdon. With others, Shakespeare financed the building of the Globe Theatre, one of the most famous Elizabethan playhouses. By 1596 Shakespeare had been granted a coat of arms. He died on 23 April 1616, and is buried in Trinity Church Stratford.
Judi Dench, recites Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wzbro1tDuuA
Juliette Stevenson, reads Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cKyuzXwSolA
By: William 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 wand’ring 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.
Sonnet 116 was first published in 1609, (misnumbered in the 1609 Quatro as Sonnet 119). Shakespeare was born in Stratford-upon-Avon in April 1564. He was believed to have been educated by well versed masters. At the age of 18 he married Ann Hathaway of Stratford, who was eight years his senior. They had three children, Susanna and then twins Hamnet and Judith. Shakespeare joined an acting company, working in London. In 1592 Robert Greene a playwright referred to Shakespeare as “an upstart crow”. Shakespeare then joined the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, an acting company under the patronage of Henry Carey, Lord Husdon. With others, Shakespeare financed the building of the Globe Theatre, one of the most famous Elizabethan playhouses. By 1596 Shakespeare had been granted a coat of arms. He died on 23 April 1616, and is buried in Trinity Church Stratford.
Judi Dench, recites Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wzbro1tDuuA
Juliette Stevenson, reads Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cKyuzXwSolA
Vespers
By: A. A. Milne (1882-1956)
Little boy kneels at the foot of the bed,
Droops on the little hands little gold head,
Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!
Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.
God bless Mummy. I know that’s right
Wasn’t it fun in the bath tonight?
The cold’s so cold, and the hot’s so hot
Oh! God Bless Daddy—I quite forgot.
If I open my fingers a little bit more
I can see Nanny’s dressing gown on the floor
It’s a beautiful blue, but it hasn’t a hood
Oh! God bless Nanny and make her good.
Mine has a hood and if I lie in bed
And put the hood right over my head
And I shut my eyes and curl up small
And nobody knows I am there at all.
Oh! Thank you God, for a lovely day
And what was the other I had to say?
I said “Bless Daddy” so what can it be?
Oh! Now I remember it. God Bless me.
Little boy kneels at the foot of the bed,
Droops on the little hands little gold head,
Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!
Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.
Alan Alexander Milne, (18 January 1882 to 31 January 1956) was the British author of the Winnie-the-Pooh books and a playwright. He wrote the poem Vespers for his wife, about their son, Christopher Robin, who was then aged 2 or 3. She sold the poem to Vanity Fair, in New York for $50, and the poem was first published in January 1923, becoming an immediate success. Christopher Robin detested the poem, describing it as “a wretched poem” that caused him “toe-curling, fist-clenching, lip-biting embarrassment.” Christopher Robin said that he took up boxing at school to protect himself against the bullies who taunted him about the poem. While he was serving with the Royal Engineers in the Middle East, Vera Lynn’s famous song of the poem was popular throughout the United Kingdom. A. A. Milne stopped writing the series of Winnie-the-Pooh books because of his “disgust” at the treatment of his son who featured as a character in the books.
Vera Lynn sings Vespers
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NEfsSZM_5Yw&t=68s
By: A. A. Milne (1882-1956)
Little boy kneels at the foot of the bed,
Droops on the little hands little gold head,
Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!
Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.
God bless Mummy. I know that’s right
Wasn’t it fun in the bath tonight?
The cold’s so cold, and the hot’s so hot
Oh! God Bless Daddy—I quite forgot.
If I open my fingers a little bit more
I can see Nanny’s dressing gown on the floor
It’s a beautiful blue, but it hasn’t a hood
Oh! God bless Nanny and make her good.
Mine has a hood and if I lie in bed
And put the hood right over my head
And I shut my eyes and curl up small
And nobody knows I am there at all.
Oh! Thank you God, for a lovely day
And what was the other I had to say?
I said “Bless Daddy” so what can it be?
Oh! Now I remember it. God Bless me.
Little boy kneels at the foot of the bed,
Droops on the little hands little gold head,
Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!
Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.
Alan Alexander Milne, (18 January 1882 to 31 January 1956) was the British author of the Winnie-the-Pooh books and a playwright. He wrote the poem Vespers for his wife, about their son, Christopher Robin, who was then aged 2 or 3. She sold the poem to Vanity Fair, in New York for $50, and the poem was first published in January 1923, becoming an immediate success. Christopher Robin detested the poem, describing it as “a wretched poem” that caused him “toe-curling, fist-clenching, lip-biting embarrassment.” Christopher Robin said that he took up boxing at school to protect himself against the bullies who taunted him about the poem. While he was serving with the Royal Engineers in the Middle East, Vera Lynn’s famous song of the poem was popular throughout the United Kingdom. A. A. Milne stopped writing the series of Winnie-the-Pooh books because of his “disgust” at the treatment of his son who featured as a character in the books.
Vera Lynn sings Vespers
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NEfsSZM_5Yw&t=68s
An Incantation Founded on the Northern
Mythology from Runic Odes: Imitated from the Norse Tongue in the Manner of Mr
Gray (1781)
By: Thomas James Mathias (c.1754-1835)
Hear, ye Rulers of the North,
Spirits of exalted worth;
By the silence of the night,
By subtle magic’s secret rite;
By Peolphan murky King,
Master of th’ enchanted ring;
By all and each of hell’s grim host,
Howling demon, tortur’d ghost;
By each spell and potent word
Burst from lips of Glauron’s Lord;
By Coronzon’s awful power;
By the dread and solemn hour,
When Gual fierce, and Hamad strong,
Stride the blast that roars along;
Or, in fell descending swoop,
Bid the furious spirit stoop
O’er desolation’s gloomy plain,
Haunt of warriors battle slain.
Now the world in sleep is laid,
Thorbiorga calls your aid.
Mark the sable feline coat,
Spotted girdle velvet-wrought;
Mark the skin of glistening snake,
Sleeping seiz’d in forest brake;
Mark the radiant crystal stone,
On which days Sovereign never shone,
From the cavern dark and deep
Digg’d i’ th’ hour of mortal sleep;
Mark the cross, in mystic round
Meetly o’er the sandal bound,
And the symbols grav’d thereon,
Holiest Tetragrammaton!
Now while midnight torches gleam,
Rivals of the Moon’s pale beam,
On ocean’s unfrequented shore
Some moss-grown ruin silvering o’er.
While the flame of resinous fire
Mounts aloft in curling spire;
I scatter round this charmed room,
The fragrance of the myrrh’s perfume;
And, bending o’er this consecrated sword,
confirm each murmur’d spell, each inly-thrilling word.
Thomas James Mathias (c.1754 - August 1835) was a British writer, and Italian scholar, translator, and satirist. Runic Odes: Imitated from the Norse Tongue in the Manner of Mr. Gray (London: T. Payne et al., 1781) was his first publication. The Incantation Founded on the Northern Mythology is written in the voice of Thorbiorga, the prophetess, and includes the imagery from cosmology, magic incantations and chants from Norse mythology. Some references in the Odes such as the names of many of the demons are not referred to in Norse mythology. Mathias was a Sub-Treasurer in the Queens Household and the Treasurer of Queen Anne’s Bounty. He was the Librarian at Buckingham Palace from 1812. He was described as “The best English Scholar in Italian since Milton”. He was also the author of Pursuits of Literature, which was a satire on contemporary writers, including Thomas Paine, and William Godwin. Mathias lived in Italy from 1817 until his death in Naples in about August 1835. For further information on Mathias see:
https://romantic-circles.org/editions/norse/HTML/Mathias.html
By: Thomas James Mathias (c.1754-1835)
Hear, ye Rulers of the North,
Spirits of exalted worth;
By the silence of the night,
By subtle magic’s secret rite;
By Peolphan murky King,
Master of th’ enchanted ring;
By all and each of hell’s grim host,
Howling demon, tortur’d ghost;
By each spell and potent word
Burst from lips of Glauron’s Lord;
By Coronzon’s awful power;
By the dread and solemn hour,
When Gual fierce, and Hamad strong,
Stride the blast that roars along;
Or, in fell descending swoop,
Bid the furious spirit stoop
O’er desolation’s gloomy plain,
Haunt of warriors battle slain.
Now the world in sleep is laid,
Thorbiorga calls your aid.
Mark the sable feline coat,
Spotted girdle velvet-wrought;
Mark the skin of glistening snake,
Sleeping seiz’d in forest brake;
Mark the radiant crystal stone,
On which days Sovereign never shone,
From the cavern dark and deep
Digg’d i’ th’ hour of mortal sleep;
Mark the cross, in mystic round
Meetly o’er the sandal bound,
And the symbols grav’d thereon,
Holiest Tetragrammaton!
Now while midnight torches gleam,
Rivals of the Moon’s pale beam,
On ocean’s unfrequented shore
Some moss-grown ruin silvering o’er.
While the flame of resinous fire
Mounts aloft in curling spire;
I scatter round this charmed room,
The fragrance of the myrrh’s perfume;
And, bending o’er this consecrated sword,
confirm each murmur’d spell, each inly-thrilling word.
Thomas James Mathias (c.1754 - August 1835) was a British writer, and Italian scholar, translator, and satirist. Runic Odes: Imitated from the Norse Tongue in the Manner of Mr. Gray (London: T. Payne et al., 1781) was his first publication. The Incantation Founded on the Northern Mythology is written in the voice of Thorbiorga, the prophetess, and includes the imagery from cosmology, magic incantations and chants from Norse mythology. Some references in the Odes such as the names of many of the demons are not referred to in Norse mythology. Mathias was a Sub-Treasurer in the Queens Household and the Treasurer of Queen Anne’s Bounty. He was the Librarian at Buckingham Palace from 1812. He was described as “The best English Scholar in Italian since Milton”. He was also the author of Pursuits of Literature, which was a satire on contemporary writers, including Thomas Paine, and William Godwin. Mathias lived in Italy from 1817 until his death in Naples in about August 1835. For further information on Mathias see:
https://romantic-circles.org/editions/norse/HTML/Mathias.html
The Sorceress; or Wolfwold and Ulla
By: William Julius Mickle (1734-1788)
'Oh, how he lies; his cold pale cheek
Lies lifeless on the clay;
Yet struggling hope – O day spring break
And lead me on my way.
'On Denmark's cruel bands, O heaven!
Thy red-wing'd vengeance pour;
Before my Wolfwold's spear be driven –
O rise bright morning hour!'
Thus Ulla wail'd, the fairest maid,
Of all the Saxon race;
Thus Ulla wail'd, in nightly shade,
While tears bedew'd her face.
When sudden o'er the fir-crown'd hill,
The full orb'd moon arose;
And o'er the winding dale so still,
Her silver radiance flows.
No more could Ulla's fearful breast,
Her anxious care delay;
But deep with hope and fear imprest,
She holds the moonshine way.
She left the bower, and all alone
She traced the dale so still;
And sought the cave with rue o'ergrown,
Beneath the fir-crown'd hill.
Black knares of blasted oak, embound
With hemlock, fenc'd the cell:
The dreary mouth, half under ground,
Yawn'd like the gate of hell.
Soon as the gloomy den she spy'd,
Cold horror shook her knee;
And hear, O Prophetess, she cry'd,
A Princess sue to thee.
Aghast she stood! athwart the air,
The dismal screech-owl flew;
The fillet round her auburn hair
Asunder burst in two.
Her robe of softest yellow, glow'd
Beneath the moon's pale beam;
And o'er the ground with yew-boughs strew'd,
Effus'd a golden gleam.
The golden gleam the Sorceress spy'd,
As in her deepest cell,
At midnight's magic hour she try'd
A tomb o'erpowering spell.
When from the cavern's dreary womb,
Her groaning voice arose,
'O come, my daughter, fearless come,
And fearless tell thy woes.'
As shakes the bough of trembling leaf,
When whirlwinds sudden rise:
As stands aghast the warrior chief,
When his base army flies.
So shook, so stood, the beauteous maid,
When from the dreary den,
A wrinkled hag came forth, array'd
In matted rags obscene.
Around her brows, with hemlock bound,
Loose hung her ash grey hair;
As from two dreary caves profound
Her blue flamed eye-balls glare.
Her skin, of earthy red, appear'd
Clung round her shoulder bones;
Like wither'd bark, by light'ning fear'd
When loud the tempest groans.
A robe of squalid green and blue,
Her ghostly length array'd,
A gaping rent, full to the view
Her furrow'd ribs betray'd.
'And tell my daughter, fearless tell,
What sorrow brought thee here?
So may my power thy cares expel,
And give thee sweetest cheer.'
'O Mistress of the powerful spell,
King Edric's daughter see,
Northumbria to my father fell,
And sorrow fell to me.
'My virgin heart Lord Wolfwold won;
My father on him smil'd
Soon as he gain'd Northumbria's throne,
His pride the youth exil'd.
'Stern Denmark's ravens o'er the seas
Their gloomy blackwings spread,
And o'er Northumbria's hills and leas,
Their dreadful squadrons sped.
'Return brave Wolfwold, Edric cried,
O generous warrior hear,
My daughter's hand, thy willing bride,
Awaits thy conquering spear.
'The banish'd youth in Scotland's court,
Had past the weary year;
And soon he heard the glad report,
And soon he grasp'd his spear.
'He left the Scottish dames to weep,
And wing'd with true love speed;
Nor day, nor night, he stop'd to sleep,
And soon he cross'd the Tweed.
'With joyful voice, and raptur'd eyes,
He press'd my willing hand;
I go my Fair, my Love, he cries,
To guard thy father's land.
'By Edon's shore in deathful fray,
The daring foe we meet,
Ere three short days I trust to lay
My trophies at thy feet.
'Alas, alas, that time is o'er,
And three long days beside,
Yet not a word from Edon's shore,
Has cheer'd his fearful bride.
'O Mistress of the powerful spell,
His doubtful fate decide;' –
'And cease my child for all is well,'
The grizly witch replied.
'Approach my cave, and where I place
The magic circle, stand
And fear not ought of ghastly face,
That glides beneath my wand.'
The grizly witch's powerful charms,
Then reach'd the labouring moon,
And cloudless at the dire alarms,
She saw her brightest noon.
The pale beam struggles thro' the shade,
That black'd the cavern's womb,
And in the deepest nook betray'd
An altar and a tomb.
Around the tomb in mystic lore,
Were forms of various mien,
And efts, and foul wing'd serpents, bore
The altar's base obscene.
Eyeless, a huge and starv'd toad fat
In corner murk aloof,
And many a snake and famish'd bat
Clung to the crevic'd roof.
A fox and vultures' skeletons,
A yawning rift betray'd;
And grappling still each other's bones,
The strife of death display'd.
'And now my child, the Sorceress said,
Lord Wolfwold's father's grave,
To me shall render up the dead,
And send him to my cave.
'His skeleton shall hear my spell,
And to the figur'd walls
His hand of bone shall point and tell,
What fate his Son befalls.'
O cold down Ulla's snow like face,
The trembling sweat drops fell,
And borne by sprights of gliding pace,
The corse approach'd the cell.
And thrice the Witch her magic wand
Wav'd o'er the skeleton;
And slowly at the dream command,
Up rose the arm of bone.
A cloven shield and broken spear,
The finger wander'd o'er,
Then rested on a sable bier
Distain'd with drops of gore.
In ghastly writhes, her mouth so wide,
And black the Sorceress throws,
'And be those signs, my child,' she cries,
'Fulfill'd on Wolfwold's foes.
'A happier spell I now shall try;
Attend, my child, attend,
And mark what flames from altar high,
And lowly floor ascend.
'If of the rose's softest red,
The blaze shines forth to view,
Then Wolfwold lives – but Hell forbid
The glimmering flame of blue!'
The Witch then rais'd her haggard arm,
And wav'd her wand on high;
And while she spoke the mutter'd charm,
Dark lightning fill'd her eye.
Fair Ulla's knee swift smote the ground;
Her hands aloft were spread,
And every joint as marble bound,
Felt horrors darkest dread.
Her lips ere while so like the rose,
Were now as vi'let pale,
And tumbling in convulsive throes,
Exprest o'erwhelming wail.
Her eyes, ere while so starry bright,
Where living lustre shone,
Were now transform'd to sightless white,
Like eyes of lifeless stone.
And soon the dreadful spell was o'er,
And glimmering to the view,
The quivering flame rose thro' the floor
A flame of ghastly blue.
Behind the altar's livid fire,
Low from the inmost cave,
Young Wolfwold rose in pale attire,
The vestments of the grave.
His eye to Ulla's eye he rear'd,
His cheek was wan as clay,
And half cut thro' his hand appear'd
That beckon'd her away.
Fair Ulla saw the woeful shade
Her heart struck at her side
And burst – low bow'd her listless head,
And down she sunk and died.
William Julius Mickel (earlier Meikle) was born on 29 September 1734 in Langholm, in Dumfrieshire, Scotland, the son of a minister, Rev Alexander Meikle who had been employed in the translation of Baye’s Dictionary and was Williams’ first teacher. After his father’s early death he lived with an Aunt, and her husband, an eminent brewer in Edinburgh. William became a brewer, but after the business failed and William became bankrupt in 1763, he worked in England for the Clarendon Press at Oxford. His literary career was marked by failures and some minor recognition, until his translation from Portuguese to English of the poem Lusiad, by Luis de Camoes for which he became well known and which gave him an income. He travelled to Portugal in 1777 where he was well received. His best known poem is “There’s nae luck aboot the Hoose”, although it has also been suggested the song was written by Jean Adam (1704-1765). He died on 28 October 1788 in Forest Hill.
There’s Nae Luck about the House, arr. By Gordon Langford sung by The King’s Singers, 1985
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4nXEtJEAO84
By: William Julius Mickle (1734-1788)
'Oh, how he lies; his cold pale cheek
Lies lifeless on the clay;
Yet struggling hope – O day spring break
And lead me on my way.
'On Denmark's cruel bands, O heaven!
Thy red-wing'd vengeance pour;
Before my Wolfwold's spear be driven –
O rise bright morning hour!'
Thus Ulla wail'd, the fairest maid,
Of all the Saxon race;
Thus Ulla wail'd, in nightly shade,
While tears bedew'd her face.
When sudden o'er the fir-crown'd hill,
The full orb'd moon arose;
And o'er the winding dale so still,
Her silver radiance flows.
No more could Ulla's fearful breast,
Her anxious care delay;
But deep with hope and fear imprest,
She holds the moonshine way.
She left the bower, and all alone
She traced the dale so still;
And sought the cave with rue o'ergrown,
Beneath the fir-crown'd hill.
Black knares of blasted oak, embound
With hemlock, fenc'd the cell:
The dreary mouth, half under ground,
Yawn'd like the gate of hell.
Soon as the gloomy den she spy'd,
Cold horror shook her knee;
And hear, O Prophetess, she cry'd,
A Princess sue to thee.
Aghast she stood! athwart the air,
The dismal screech-owl flew;
The fillet round her auburn hair
Asunder burst in two.
Her robe of softest yellow, glow'd
Beneath the moon's pale beam;
And o'er the ground with yew-boughs strew'd,
Effus'd a golden gleam.
The golden gleam the Sorceress spy'd,
As in her deepest cell,
At midnight's magic hour she try'd
A tomb o'erpowering spell.
When from the cavern's dreary womb,
Her groaning voice arose,
'O come, my daughter, fearless come,
And fearless tell thy woes.'
As shakes the bough of trembling leaf,
When whirlwinds sudden rise:
As stands aghast the warrior chief,
When his base army flies.
So shook, so stood, the beauteous maid,
When from the dreary den,
A wrinkled hag came forth, array'd
In matted rags obscene.
Around her brows, with hemlock bound,
Loose hung her ash grey hair;
As from two dreary caves profound
Her blue flamed eye-balls glare.
Her skin, of earthy red, appear'd
Clung round her shoulder bones;
Like wither'd bark, by light'ning fear'd
When loud the tempest groans.
A robe of squalid green and blue,
Her ghostly length array'd,
A gaping rent, full to the view
Her furrow'd ribs betray'd.
'And tell my daughter, fearless tell,
What sorrow brought thee here?
So may my power thy cares expel,
And give thee sweetest cheer.'
'O Mistress of the powerful spell,
King Edric's daughter see,
Northumbria to my father fell,
And sorrow fell to me.
'My virgin heart Lord Wolfwold won;
My father on him smil'd
Soon as he gain'd Northumbria's throne,
His pride the youth exil'd.
'Stern Denmark's ravens o'er the seas
Their gloomy blackwings spread,
And o'er Northumbria's hills and leas,
Their dreadful squadrons sped.
'Return brave Wolfwold, Edric cried,
O generous warrior hear,
My daughter's hand, thy willing bride,
Awaits thy conquering spear.
'The banish'd youth in Scotland's court,
Had past the weary year;
And soon he heard the glad report,
And soon he grasp'd his spear.
'He left the Scottish dames to weep,
And wing'd with true love speed;
Nor day, nor night, he stop'd to sleep,
And soon he cross'd the Tweed.
'With joyful voice, and raptur'd eyes,
He press'd my willing hand;
I go my Fair, my Love, he cries,
To guard thy father's land.
'By Edon's shore in deathful fray,
The daring foe we meet,
Ere three short days I trust to lay
My trophies at thy feet.
'Alas, alas, that time is o'er,
And three long days beside,
Yet not a word from Edon's shore,
Has cheer'd his fearful bride.
'O Mistress of the powerful spell,
His doubtful fate decide;' –
'And cease my child for all is well,'
The grizly witch replied.
'Approach my cave, and where I place
The magic circle, stand
And fear not ought of ghastly face,
That glides beneath my wand.'
The grizly witch's powerful charms,
Then reach'd the labouring moon,
And cloudless at the dire alarms,
She saw her brightest noon.
The pale beam struggles thro' the shade,
That black'd the cavern's womb,
And in the deepest nook betray'd
An altar and a tomb.
Around the tomb in mystic lore,
Were forms of various mien,
And efts, and foul wing'd serpents, bore
The altar's base obscene.
Eyeless, a huge and starv'd toad fat
In corner murk aloof,
And many a snake and famish'd bat
Clung to the crevic'd roof.
A fox and vultures' skeletons,
A yawning rift betray'd;
And grappling still each other's bones,
The strife of death display'd.
'And now my child, the Sorceress said,
Lord Wolfwold's father's grave,
To me shall render up the dead,
And send him to my cave.
'His skeleton shall hear my spell,
And to the figur'd walls
His hand of bone shall point and tell,
What fate his Son befalls.'
O cold down Ulla's snow like face,
The trembling sweat drops fell,
And borne by sprights of gliding pace,
The corse approach'd the cell.
And thrice the Witch her magic wand
Wav'd o'er the skeleton;
And slowly at the dream command,
Up rose the arm of bone.
A cloven shield and broken spear,
The finger wander'd o'er,
Then rested on a sable bier
Distain'd with drops of gore.
In ghastly writhes, her mouth so wide,
And black the Sorceress throws,
'And be those signs, my child,' she cries,
'Fulfill'd on Wolfwold's foes.
'A happier spell I now shall try;
Attend, my child, attend,
And mark what flames from altar high,
And lowly floor ascend.
'If of the rose's softest red,
The blaze shines forth to view,
Then Wolfwold lives – but Hell forbid
The glimmering flame of blue!'
The Witch then rais'd her haggard arm,
And wav'd her wand on high;
And while she spoke the mutter'd charm,
Dark lightning fill'd her eye.
Fair Ulla's knee swift smote the ground;
Her hands aloft were spread,
And every joint as marble bound,
Felt horrors darkest dread.
Her lips ere while so like the rose,
Were now as vi'let pale,
And tumbling in convulsive throes,
Exprest o'erwhelming wail.
Her eyes, ere while so starry bright,
Where living lustre shone,
Were now transform'd to sightless white,
Like eyes of lifeless stone.
And soon the dreadful spell was o'er,
And glimmering to the view,
The quivering flame rose thro' the floor
A flame of ghastly blue.
Behind the altar's livid fire,
Low from the inmost cave,
Young Wolfwold rose in pale attire,
The vestments of the grave.
His eye to Ulla's eye he rear'd,
His cheek was wan as clay,
And half cut thro' his hand appear'd
That beckon'd her away.
Fair Ulla saw the woeful shade
Her heart struck at her side
And burst – low bow'd her listless head,
And down she sunk and died.
William Julius Mickel (earlier Meikle) was born on 29 September 1734 in Langholm, in Dumfrieshire, Scotland, the son of a minister, Rev Alexander Meikle who had been employed in the translation of Baye’s Dictionary and was Williams’ first teacher. After his father’s early death he lived with an Aunt, and her husband, an eminent brewer in Edinburgh. William became a brewer, but after the business failed and William became bankrupt in 1763, he worked in England for the Clarendon Press at Oxford. His literary career was marked by failures and some minor recognition, until his translation from Portuguese to English of the poem Lusiad, by Luis de Camoes for which he became well known and which gave him an income. He travelled to Portugal in 1777 where he was well received. His best known poem is “There’s nae luck aboot the Hoose”, although it has also been suggested the song was written by Jean Adam (1704-1765). He died on 28 October 1788 in Forest Hill.
There’s Nae Luck about the House, arr. By Gordon Langford sung by The King’s Singers, 1985
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4nXEtJEAO84
Night Scenes of Other Times
A Poem, in Three Parts
By: Joanna Baillie (1762-1851)
PART I.
"THE night winds bellow o'er my head
Dim grows the fading light;
Where shall I find some friendly shed
To screen me from the night?
"Ah! round me lies a desert vast,
No habitation near;
And dark and pathless is the waste
And fills my mind with fear.
"Thou distant tree, whose lonely top
Has bent to many a storm,
No more canst thou deceive my hope
And take my lover's form;
"For o'er thy head the dark cloud rolls,
Dark as thy blasted pride;
How deep the angry tempest growls
Along the mountain's side.
"Safely within the shaggy brake
Are couched the mountain deer;
A sound unbroken sleep they take;
No haunts of men are near.
"Beneath the fern the moorcock sleeps,
And twisted adders lie;
Back to his rock the night-bird creeps,
Nor gives his wonted cry.
"For angry spirits of the night
Ride on the troubled air,
And to their dens, in strange affright,
The beasts of prey repair.
"But thou, my love! where dost thou rest?
What shelter covers thee?
O may this cold and wintry blast
But only beat on me!
"Some friendly dwelling mayst thou find,
Where sleep may banish care
And thou feel not the chilly wind
That scatters Margaret's hair.
"Ah no! for thou didst give thy word
To meet me on the way:
Nor friendly roof nor social board
Will tempt a lover's stay.
"O raise thy voice if thou art near!
Its weakest sound were bliss;
What other sound my heart can cheer
In such a gloom as this?
"But from the hills with deafening roar
The dashing torrents fall,
And heavy beats the drifted shower,
And mock a lover's call.
"Ha! see, across the dreary waste,
A moving form appears,
It is my love, my cares are past;
How vain were all my fears!"
The form advanced, but sad and slow,
Not with a lover's tread;
And from his cheek the youthful glow
And greeting smile were fled.
Dim sadness sat upon his brow;
Fixed was his beamless eye;
His face was like a moon-light bow
Upon a wintry sky.
And fixed and ghastly to the sight
His strengthened features rose,
And bended was his graceful height,
And bloody were his clothes.
"My Margaret, calm thy troubled breast;
Thy sorrow now is vain;
Thy Edward from his peaceful rest
Shall ne'er return again.
"A treacherous friend has laid me low,
Has fixed my early doom,
And laid my corse with feigned woe
Beneath a vaunted tomb.
"To take thee to my home I sware,
And here we were to meet;
Wilt thou a narrow coffin share,
And part my winding sheet?
"But late the lord of many lands,
And now a grave is all:
My blood is warm upon his hands
Who revels in my hall.
"Yet think, thy father's hoary hair
Is watered with his tears;
He has but thee to soothe his care,
And prop his load of years.
"Remember Edward when he's gone
He only lived for thee;
And when thou art pensive and alone
Dear Margaret, call on me!
"Though deep beneath the mouldering clod
I rest my wounded head,
And terrible that call and loud
Which shall awake the dead!"
"No, Edward; I will follow thee,
And share thy hapless doom;
Companions shall our spirits be,
Though distant is thy tomb.
"O! never to my father's tower
Will I return again;
A bleeding heart has little power
To ease another's pain.
"Upon the wing my spirit flies,
I feel my course is run;
Nor shall these dim and weary eyes
Behold to-morrow's sun."
Like early dew, or hoary frost
Spent with the beaming day,
So shrunk the pale and watery ghost,
And dimly wore away.
No longer Margaret felt the storm,
She bowed her lovely head,
And, with her lover's fleeting form,
Her gentle spirit fled.
PART II.
"LOUD roars the wind that shakes the wall,
It is no common blast;
Deep hollow sounds pass through my hall:
O would the night were past!
"Methinks the demons of the air
Upon the turrets growl,
While down the empty winding stair
Their deepening murmurs roll.
"The glimmering fire cheers not the gloom,
Blue burns the quivering ray,
And, like a taper in a tomb,
But spreads the more dismay.
"Athwart its melancholy light
The lengthened shadow falls;
My grandsires to my troubled sight
Lower on me from these walls.
"Methinks yon angry warrior's head
Doth in its panel frown,
And dart a look, as if it said,
'Where hast thou laid my son?'
"But will these fancies never cease?
O would the night were run!
My troubled soul can find no peace
But with the morning sun,
"Vain hope! the guilty never rest;
Dismay is always near;
There is a midnight in the breast
No morn shall ever cheer.
"Now soundly sleeps the weary hind,
Though lowly lies his head;
An easy lair the guiltless find
Upon the hardest bed.
"The beggar, in his wretched haunt,
May now a monarch be;
Forget his woe, forget his want,
For all can sleep but me.
"I've dared whate'er the boldest can,
Then why this childish dread?
I never feared a living man,
And shall I fear the dead?
"No; whistling blasts may shake my tower,
And passing spirits scream:
Their shadowy arms are void of power,
And but a gloomy dream.
"But, lo! a form advancing slow
Across the dusky hall,
Art thou a friend? — art thou a foe?
O answer to my call!"
Still nearer to the glimmering light
The stately figure strode,
Till full, and horrid to the sight,
The murthered Edward stood.
A broken shaft his right hand swayed,
Like Time's dark, threatening dart,
And pointed to a rugged blade
That quivered in his heart.
The blood still trickled from his head,
And clotted was his hair;
His severed vesture stained and red;
His mangled breast was bare.
His face was like a muddy sky
Before the coming snow;
And dark and dreadful was his eye,
And cloudy was his brow.
Pale Conrad shrunk, but drew his sword —
Fear thrilled in every vein;
His quivering lips gave out no word;
He paused, and shrunk again.
Then utterance came — "At this dread hour
Why dost thou haunt the night?
Has the deep gloomy vault no power
To keep thee from my sight?
"Why dost thou glare and slowly wave
That fatal shaft of strife?
The deed is done, and from the grave
Who can recall to life?
"Why roll thine eyes beneath thy brow
Dark as the midnight storm?
What dost thou want? O let me know,
But hide thy dreadful form.
"I'd give the life-blood from my heart
To wash my crime away:
If thou a spirit art, depart,
Nor haunt a wretch of clay!
"Say, dost thou with the blessed dwell? —
Return and blessed be!
Or comest thou from the lowest hell? —
I am more cursed than thee."
The form advanced with solemn steps
As if it meant to speak,
And seemed to move its pallid lips,
But silence did not break.
Then sternly stalked with heavy pace
Which shook the floor and wall,
And turned away its fearful face,
And vanished from the hall.
Transfixed and powerless, Conrad stood;
Ears ring, and eyeballs swell;
Back to his heart runs the cold blood;
Into a trance he fell.
Night fled, and through the windows 'gan
The early light to play;
But on a more unhappy man
Ne'er shone the dawning day.
The gladsome sun all nature cheers,
But cannot charm his cares;
Still dwells his mind with gloomy fears,
And murdered Edward glares.
PART III.
"No rest nor comfort can I find:
I watch the midnight hour;
I sit and listen to the wind
That beats upon my tower.
"Methinks low voices from the ground
Break mournful on my ear,
And through these empty chambers sound
So dismal and so drear!
"The ghost of some departed friend
Doth in my sorrows share;
Or is it but the rushing wind
That mocketh my despair?
"Sad through the hall the pale lamp gleams
Upon my father's arms;
My soul is filled with gloomy dreams,
I fear unknown alarms.
"O, I have known this lonely place
With every blessing stored,
And many a friend with cheerful face
Sit smiling at my board!
"While round the hearth, in early bloom,
My harmless children played,
Who now within the narrow tomb
Are with their mother laid.
"Now sadly bends my wretched head,
And those I loved are gone:
My friends, my family, all are fled,
And I am left alone.
"Oft as the cheerless fire declines,
In it I sadly trace,
As lone I sit, the half-formed lines
Of many a much-loved face.
"But chiefly, Margaret, to my mind,
Thy lovely features rise;
I strive to think thee less unkind,
And wipe my streaming eyes.
"For only thee I had to vaunt,
Thou wert thy mother's pride;
She left thee like a shooting plant,
To screen my widowed side.
"But thou forsakest me, weak, forlorn,
And chilled with age's frost,
To count my weary days and mourn
The comforts I have lost.
"Unkindly child! why didst thou go?
O, had I known the truth!
Though Edward's father was my foe,
I would have blessed the youth.
"Could I but see that face again,
Whose smile calmed every strife,
And hear that voice which soothed my pain,
And made me wish for life!
"Thy harp hangs silent by the wall:
My nights are sad and long,
And thou art in a distant hall,
Where strangers raise the song.
"Ha! some delusion of the mind
My senses doth confound!
It is the harp, and not the wind,
That did so sweetly sound."
Old Arno rose all wan as death,
And turned his eager ear,
And checked the while his quickened breath
The sound again to hear.
When like a full, but distant choir,
The swelling notes returned;
And with the softly trembling wire
Surrounding echoes mourned;
Then softly whispered o'er the song
That Margaret loved to play,
Its well-known measure lingered long,
And faintly died away.
His dim-worn eyes to heaven he cast,
Where all his griefs were known,
And smote upon his troubled breast,
And heaved a heavy groan.
"I know it is my daughter's hand,
But 'tis no hand of clay;
And here a lonely wretch I stand,
All childless, bent, and grey.
"And art thou low, my lovely child,
And hast thou met thy doom,
And has thy flattering morning smiled,
To lead but to the tomb?
"O let me see thee ere we part,
For souls like thine are blest;
O let me fold thee to my heart,
If aught of form thou hast!
"This passing mist conceals thy shape,
But it is shrunk or flown;
Why dost thou from mine arms escape,
Art thou not still mine own?
"Thou'rt fled like the low evening breath,
That sighs upon the hill:
O stay! though in thy weeds of death, —
Thou art my daughter still."
Loud waked the sound, then fainter grew,
And long and sadly mourned,
And softly sighed a long adieu,
And never more returned.
Old Arno stretched him on the ground;
Thick as the gloom of night,
Death's misty shadows gathered round,
And swam before his sight.
He heaved a deep and deadly groan,
That rent his labouring breast,
And long before the morning shone,
His spirit was at rest.
Joanna Baillie was born on 11 September 1762 in Bothwell, Scotland. Her twin died at the time of her birth. Her father was a Presbyterian minister. Her uncles on her mother’s side were the Scottish physicians William and John Hunter. She was the niece of the poet Anne Home Hunter. She learned to read only from age 10, when she attended Miss McDonald’s boarding school. She was talented in mathematics and the arts. Her father died when she was 16 and the family’s financial position became critical. Her first publication was “Poems: Wherein it is Attempted to Describe Certain Views of Nature and of Rustic Manners” in 1790. She managed her brother’s household until 1791 when he married. She and her sister, who also never married, lived together for over 50 years. She wrote and published 27 plays and many poems, during her career. Once her identity as a writer became known in about 1800 she was introduced by her aunt to the London literary set. Joanne Baillie died on 23 February 1851 at Hampstead, in London.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/joanna-baillie
“Witchcraft” by Joanna Baillie, produced as an online production by the Bay Area Women’s Theatre Festival, 15 March 2022 (during covid)
“Witchcraft”
“Sweet Power of Song”, a poem by Joanna Baillie, performed to the Traditional Irish Air arranged by Beethoven, Julian Stocker (Tenor) and Gwion Thomas (Baritone), in an online performance 2022
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AbyJGYbAQXA and performed in full on SoundCloud
https://soundcloud.com/electricvoicetheatre/sweet-power-of-song-ludwig-van-beethoven-joanna-baillie
A Poem, in Three Parts
By: Joanna Baillie (1762-1851)
PART I.
"THE night winds bellow o'er my head
Dim grows the fading light;
Where shall I find some friendly shed
To screen me from the night?
"Ah! round me lies a desert vast,
No habitation near;
And dark and pathless is the waste
And fills my mind with fear.
"Thou distant tree, whose lonely top
Has bent to many a storm,
No more canst thou deceive my hope
And take my lover's form;
"For o'er thy head the dark cloud rolls,
Dark as thy blasted pride;
How deep the angry tempest growls
Along the mountain's side.
"Safely within the shaggy brake
Are couched the mountain deer;
A sound unbroken sleep they take;
No haunts of men are near.
"Beneath the fern the moorcock sleeps,
And twisted adders lie;
Back to his rock the night-bird creeps,
Nor gives his wonted cry.
"For angry spirits of the night
Ride on the troubled air,
And to their dens, in strange affright,
The beasts of prey repair.
"But thou, my love! where dost thou rest?
What shelter covers thee?
O may this cold and wintry blast
But only beat on me!
"Some friendly dwelling mayst thou find,
Where sleep may banish care
And thou feel not the chilly wind
That scatters Margaret's hair.
"Ah no! for thou didst give thy word
To meet me on the way:
Nor friendly roof nor social board
Will tempt a lover's stay.
"O raise thy voice if thou art near!
Its weakest sound were bliss;
What other sound my heart can cheer
In such a gloom as this?
"But from the hills with deafening roar
The dashing torrents fall,
And heavy beats the drifted shower,
And mock a lover's call.
"Ha! see, across the dreary waste,
A moving form appears,
It is my love, my cares are past;
How vain were all my fears!"
The form advanced, but sad and slow,
Not with a lover's tread;
And from his cheek the youthful glow
And greeting smile were fled.
Dim sadness sat upon his brow;
Fixed was his beamless eye;
His face was like a moon-light bow
Upon a wintry sky.
And fixed and ghastly to the sight
His strengthened features rose,
And bended was his graceful height,
And bloody were his clothes.
"My Margaret, calm thy troubled breast;
Thy sorrow now is vain;
Thy Edward from his peaceful rest
Shall ne'er return again.
"A treacherous friend has laid me low,
Has fixed my early doom,
And laid my corse with feigned woe
Beneath a vaunted tomb.
"To take thee to my home I sware,
And here we were to meet;
Wilt thou a narrow coffin share,
And part my winding sheet?
"But late the lord of many lands,
And now a grave is all:
My blood is warm upon his hands
Who revels in my hall.
"Yet think, thy father's hoary hair
Is watered with his tears;
He has but thee to soothe his care,
And prop his load of years.
"Remember Edward when he's gone
He only lived for thee;
And when thou art pensive and alone
Dear Margaret, call on me!
"Though deep beneath the mouldering clod
I rest my wounded head,
And terrible that call and loud
Which shall awake the dead!"
"No, Edward; I will follow thee,
And share thy hapless doom;
Companions shall our spirits be,
Though distant is thy tomb.
"O! never to my father's tower
Will I return again;
A bleeding heart has little power
To ease another's pain.
"Upon the wing my spirit flies,
I feel my course is run;
Nor shall these dim and weary eyes
Behold to-morrow's sun."
Like early dew, or hoary frost
Spent with the beaming day,
So shrunk the pale and watery ghost,
And dimly wore away.
No longer Margaret felt the storm,
She bowed her lovely head,
And, with her lover's fleeting form,
Her gentle spirit fled.
PART II.
"LOUD roars the wind that shakes the wall,
It is no common blast;
Deep hollow sounds pass through my hall:
O would the night were past!
"Methinks the demons of the air
Upon the turrets growl,
While down the empty winding stair
Their deepening murmurs roll.
"The glimmering fire cheers not the gloom,
Blue burns the quivering ray,
And, like a taper in a tomb,
But spreads the more dismay.
"Athwart its melancholy light
The lengthened shadow falls;
My grandsires to my troubled sight
Lower on me from these walls.
"Methinks yon angry warrior's head
Doth in its panel frown,
And dart a look, as if it said,
'Where hast thou laid my son?'
"But will these fancies never cease?
O would the night were run!
My troubled soul can find no peace
But with the morning sun,
"Vain hope! the guilty never rest;
Dismay is always near;
There is a midnight in the breast
No morn shall ever cheer.
"Now soundly sleeps the weary hind,
Though lowly lies his head;
An easy lair the guiltless find
Upon the hardest bed.
"The beggar, in his wretched haunt,
May now a monarch be;
Forget his woe, forget his want,
For all can sleep but me.
"I've dared whate'er the boldest can,
Then why this childish dread?
I never feared a living man,
And shall I fear the dead?
"No; whistling blasts may shake my tower,
And passing spirits scream:
Their shadowy arms are void of power,
And but a gloomy dream.
"But, lo! a form advancing slow
Across the dusky hall,
Art thou a friend? — art thou a foe?
O answer to my call!"
Still nearer to the glimmering light
The stately figure strode,
Till full, and horrid to the sight,
The murthered Edward stood.
A broken shaft his right hand swayed,
Like Time's dark, threatening dart,
And pointed to a rugged blade
That quivered in his heart.
The blood still trickled from his head,
And clotted was his hair;
His severed vesture stained and red;
His mangled breast was bare.
His face was like a muddy sky
Before the coming snow;
And dark and dreadful was his eye,
And cloudy was his brow.
Pale Conrad shrunk, but drew his sword —
Fear thrilled in every vein;
His quivering lips gave out no word;
He paused, and shrunk again.
Then utterance came — "At this dread hour
Why dost thou haunt the night?
Has the deep gloomy vault no power
To keep thee from my sight?
"Why dost thou glare and slowly wave
That fatal shaft of strife?
The deed is done, and from the grave
Who can recall to life?
"Why roll thine eyes beneath thy brow
Dark as the midnight storm?
What dost thou want? O let me know,
But hide thy dreadful form.
"I'd give the life-blood from my heart
To wash my crime away:
If thou a spirit art, depart,
Nor haunt a wretch of clay!
"Say, dost thou with the blessed dwell? —
Return and blessed be!
Or comest thou from the lowest hell? —
I am more cursed than thee."
The form advanced with solemn steps
As if it meant to speak,
And seemed to move its pallid lips,
But silence did not break.
Then sternly stalked with heavy pace
Which shook the floor and wall,
And turned away its fearful face,
And vanished from the hall.
Transfixed and powerless, Conrad stood;
Ears ring, and eyeballs swell;
Back to his heart runs the cold blood;
Into a trance he fell.
Night fled, and through the windows 'gan
The early light to play;
But on a more unhappy man
Ne'er shone the dawning day.
The gladsome sun all nature cheers,
But cannot charm his cares;
Still dwells his mind with gloomy fears,
And murdered Edward glares.
PART III.
"No rest nor comfort can I find:
I watch the midnight hour;
I sit and listen to the wind
That beats upon my tower.
"Methinks low voices from the ground
Break mournful on my ear,
And through these empty chambers sound
So dismal and so drear!
"The ghost of some departed friend
Doth in my sorrows share;
Or is it but the rushing wind
That mocketh my despair?
"Sad through the hall the pale lamp gleams
Upon my father's arms;
My soul is filled with gloomy dreams,
I fear unknown alarms.
"O, I have known this lonely place
With every blessing stored,
And many a friend with cheerful face
Sit smiling at my board!
"While round the hearth, in early bloom,
My harmless children played,
Who now within the narrow tomb
Are with their mother laid.
"Now sadly bends my wretched head,
And those I loved are gone:
My friends, my family, all are fled,
And I am left alone.
"Oft as the cheerless fire declines,
In it I sadly trace,
As lone I sit, the half-formed lines
Of many a much-loved face.
"But chiefly, Margaret, to my mind,
Thy lovely features rise;
I strive to think thee less unkind,
And wipe my streaming eyes.
"For only thee I had to vaunt,
Thou wert thy mother's pride;
She left thee like a shooting plant,
To screen my widowed side.
"But thou forsakest me, weak, forlorn,
And chilled with age's frost,
To count my weary days and mourn
The comforts I have lost.
"Unkindly child! why didst thou go?
O, had I known the truth!
Though Edward's father was my foe,
I would have blessed the youth.
"Could I but see that face again,
Whose smile calmed every strife,
And hear that voice which soothed my pain,
And made me wish for life!
"Thy harp hangs silent by the wall:
My nights are sad and long,
And thou art in a distant hall,
Where strangers raise the song.
"Ha! some delusion of the mind
My senses doth confound!
It is the harp, and not the wind,
That did so sweetly sound."
Old Arno rose all wan as death,
And turned his eager ear,
And checked the while his quickened breath
The sound again to hear.
When like a full, but distant choir,
The swelling notes returned;
And with the softly trembling wire
Surrounding echoes mourned;
Then softly whispered o'er the song
That Margaret loved to play,
Its well-known measure lingered long,
And faintly died away.
His dim-worn eyes to heaven he cast,
Where all his griefs were known,
And smote upon his troubled breast,
And heaved a heavy groan.
"I know it is my daughter's hand,
But 'tis no hand of clay;
And here a lonely wretch I stand,
All childless, bent, and grey.
"And art thou low, my lovely child,
And hast thou met thy doom,
And has thy flattering morning smiled,
To lead but to the tomb?
"O let me see thee ere we part,
For souls like thine are blest;
O let me fold thee to my heart,
If aught of form thou hast!
"This passing mist conceals thy shape,
But it is shrunk or flown;
Why dost thou from mine arms escape,
Art thou not still mine own?
"Thou'rt fled like the low evening breath,
That sighs upon the hill:
O stay! though in thy weeds of death, —
Thou art my daughter still."
Loud waked the sound, then fainter grew,
And long and sadly mourned,
And softly sighed a long adieu,
And never more returned.
Old Arno stretched him on the ground;
Thick as the gloom of night,
Death's misty shadows gathered round,
And swam before his sight.
He heaved a deep and deadly groan,
That rent his labouring breast,
And long before the morning shone,
His spirit was at rest.
Joanna Baillie was born on 11 September 1762 in Bothwell, Scotland. Her twin died at the time of her birth. Her father was a Presbyterian minister. Her uncles on her mother’s side were the Scottish physicians William and John Hunter. She was the niece of the poet Anne Home Hunter. She learned to read only from age 10, when she attended Miss McDonald’s boarding school. She was talented in mathematics and the arts. Her father died when she was 16 and the family’s financial position became critical. Her first publication was “Poems: Wherein it is Attempted to Describe Certain Views of Nature and of Rustic Manners” in 1790. She managed her brother’s household until 1791 when he married. She and her sister, who also never married, lived together for over 50 years. She wrote and published 27 plays and many poems, during her career. Once her identity as a writer became known in about 1800 she was introduced by her aunt to the London literary set. Joanne Baillie died on 23 February 1851 at Hampstead, in London.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/joanna-baillie
“Witchcraft” by Joanna Baillie, produced as an online production by the Bay Area Women’s Theatre Festival, 15 March 2022 (during covid)
“Witchcraft”
“Sweet Power of Song”, a poem by Joanna Baillie, performed to the Traditional Irish Air arranged by Beethoven, Julian Stocker (Tenor) and Gwion Thomas (Baritone), in an online performance 2022
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AbyJGYbAQXA and performed in full on SoundCloud
https://soundcloud.com/electricvoicetheatre/sweet-power-of-song-ludwig-van-beethoven-joanna-baillie
Sonnet XVIII: Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s
Day
By: William 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 ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
William Shakespeare (1564-1616), was an English playwright and poet. He was baptised in Holy Trinity Church in Stratford- upon-Avon on 26 April, 1564. He attended the King’s New School. He married Anne Hathaway at age 18. William Shakespeare is speculated to have worked as a country schoolmaster, law clerk, and soldier, although he was known as an actor and writer. In 1692 the public theatres in London were closed by order of the Privy Council due to a threat of plague, disrupting his work, however he continued to write. When the theatres reopened Shakespeare was working with the theatre troupe the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, later the King’s Men. He also sought patronage from the aristocracy, although he continued his work commercially as a professional writer. Shakespeare died on 23 April 1616 aged 52.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
Sonnet 18, read by Sir John Gielgud
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GVtObfiCXVA
Sonnet 18, recited by Peter O’Toole, in the movie Venus (2006)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=igy6cQM1DIs
Sonnet 18, read by Sir Patrick Stewart
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VYnj7ZutTgI
By: William 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 ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
William Shakespeare (1564-1616), was an English playwright and poet. He was baptised in Holy Trinity Church in Stratford- upon-Avon on 26 April, 1564. He attended the King’s New School. He married Anne Hathaway at age 18. William Shakespeare is speculated to have worked as a country schoolmaster, law clerk, and soldier, although he was known as an actor and writer. In 1692 the public theatres in London were closed by order of the Privy Council due to a threat of plague, disrupting his work, however he continued to write. When the theatres reopened Shakespeare was working with the theatre troupe the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, later the King’s Men. He also sought patronage from the aristocracy, although he continued his work commercially as a professional writer. Shakespeare died on 23 April 1616 aged 52.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
Sonnet 18, read by Sir John Gielgud
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GVtObfiCXVA
Sonnet 18, recited by Peter O’Toole, in the movie Venus (2006)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=igy6cQM1DIs
Sonnet 18, read by Sir Patrick Stewart
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VYnj7ZutTgI
Holy Sonnet X: Death, Be Not proud
By: John Donne (c. 1572-1631)
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.
John Donne, was born in 1571 or 1572. His family was Roman Catholic, a religion illegal in England, and they suffered great persecution. His father died when he was four years old. His mother was the daughter of a play- write, the sister of a Jesuit priest, and the great niece of Thomas More. From the age of 11 Donne studied at Oxford, and after three years, he was admitted to the University of Cambridge. As he refused to take the Oath of Supremacy he was not awarded a degree. He later converted to Protestantism in the 1590s given that advancement in society was dependant on adherence to the Church of England. Donne was an English poet, statesman, politician, soldier and priest. In 1601 he was briefly imprisoned, after secretly marrying 16 year old Lady Egerton, without the approval of his future father- in- law. In 1602 Donne was elected as an MP for Brackley. He had wealthy patrons and friends who supported him as a poet. In 1615 on the urging of King James he became an ordained priest of the Church of England. He was from 1621 the Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral, London, and well known for his sermons. He was known for his great love poems. He had 12 children, the last still-born, 5 days before the death of his wife. His poetry is described as metaphysical (from the Greek meta ta physika meaning “after the things of nature”). For Donne poetry was a means of exploring and expressing ideas experienced outside of ordinary human physical perception. He died on 31 March 1631 in London and is buried in St Paul’s Cathedral.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Donne
Sir John Gielgud reads Holy Sonnet X: Death, Be Not Proud.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-A8mojwHjzU
By: John Donne (c. 1572-1631)
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.
John Donne, was born in 1571 or 1572. His family was Roman Catholic, a religion illegal in England, and they suffered great persecution. His father died when he was four years old. His mother was the daughter of a play- write, the sister of a Jesuit priest, and the great niece of Thomas More. From the age of 11 Donne studied at Oxford, and after three years, he was admitted to the University of Cambridge. As he refused to take the Oath of Supremacy he was not awarded a degree. He later converted to Protestantism in the 1590s given that advancement in society was dependant on adherence to the Church of England. Donne was an English poet, statesman, politician, soldier and priest. In 1601 he was briefly imprisoned, after secretly marrying 16 year old Lady Egerton, without the approval of his future father- in- law. In 1602 Donne was elected as an MP for Brackley. He had wealthy patrons and friends who supported him as a poet. In 1615 on the urging of King James he became an ordained priest of the Church of England. He was from 1621 the Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral, London, and well known for his sermons. He was known for his great love poems. He had 12 children, the last still-born, 5 days before the death of his wife. His poetry is described as metaphysical (from the Greek meta ta physika meaning “after the things of nature”). For Donne poetry was a means of exploring and expressing ideas experienced outside of ordinary human physical perception. He died on 31 March 1631 in London and is buried in St Paul’s Cathedral.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Donne
Sir John Gielgud reads Holy Sonnet X: Death, Be Not Proud.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-A8mojwHjzU
Come, Rest Awhile
By: Lucy Maud Montgomery (1874-1942)
Come, rest awhile, and let us idly stray
In glimmering valleys, cool and far away.
Come from the greedy mart, the troubled street,
And listen to the music, faint and sweet,
That echoes ever to a listening ear,
Unheard by those who will not pause to hear
The wayward chimes of memory's pensive bells,
Wind-blown o'er misty hills and curtained dells.
One step aside and dewy buds unclose
The sweetness of the violet and the rose;
Song and romance still linger in the green,
Emblossomed ways by you so seldom seen,
And near at hand, would you but see them, lie
All lovely things beloved in days gone by.
You have forgotten what it is to smile
In your too busy lifecome, rest awhile.
Lucy Maud (L.M.) Montgomery, a much loved Canadian poet and writer, was the author of Anne of Green Gables. She was born on 30 November 1874 in Clifton, Prince Edward Island, Canada. Her parents ran the local post office out of their house. Her mother Clara died of tuberculosis at 23 years of age, before Maud turned two years of age. From the age of 10 she was cared for by her grandparents, and then aged 15, left school to care for her step-siblings when her father remarried. She submitted Anne of Green Gables to four publishers by 1904, when she was 30, and all rejected the work. She later married Rev. Ewen MacDonald, continuing writing poetry and articles. In 1908 Anne of Green Gables was published. She published her collection of poems, The Watchman and Other Poems in 1916, and published three small biographies Courageous Women in 1934. She is said to have written over one million works in her private journals during her life. She died on 24 April 1942 in Toronto, Ontario, and was buried in the Cavendish cemetery on Prince Edward Island.
Read the Journal of L.M. Montgomery Studies, a collection of material from the L M Montgomery Institute’s 13th Biennial Conference in 2018, at:
https://journaloflmmontgomerystudies.ca/lmm-reading
By: Lucy Maud Montgomery (1874-1942)
Come, rest awhile, and let us idly stray
In glimmering valleys, cool and far away.
Come from the greedy mart, the troubled street,
And listen to the music, faint and sweet,
That echoes ever to a listening ear,
Unheard by those who will not pause to hear
The wayward chimes of memory's pensive bells,
Wind-blown o'er misty hills and curtained dells.
One step aside and dewy buds unclose
The sweetness of the violet and the rose;
Song and romance still linger in the green,
Emblossomed ways by you so seldom seen,
And near at hand, would you but see them, lie
All lovely things beloved in days gone by.
You have forgotten what it is to smile
In your too busy lifecome, rest awhile.
Lucy Maud (L.M.) Montgomery, a much loved Canadian poet and writer, was the author of Anne of Green Gables. She was born on 30 November 1874 in Clifton, Prince Edward Island, Canada. Her parents ran the local post office out of their house. Her mother Clara died of tuberculosis at 23 years of age, before Maud turned two years of age. From the age of 10 she was cared for by her grandparents, and then aged 15, left school to care for her step-siblings when her father remarried. She submitted Anne of Green Gables to four publishers by 1904, when she was 30, and all rejected the work. She later married Rev. Ewen MacDonald, continuing writing poetry and articles. In 1908 Anne of Green Gables was published. She published her collection of poems, The Watchman and Other Poems in 1916, and published three small biographies Courageous Women in 1934. She is said to have written over one million works in her private journals during her life. She died on 24 April 1942 in Toronto, Ontario, and was buried in the Cavendish cemetery on Prince Edward Island.
Read the Journal of L.M. Montgomery Studies, a collection of material from the L M Montgomery Institute’s 13th Biennial Conference in 2018, at:
https://journaloflmmontgomerystudies.ca/lmm-reading
Break of Day in the Trenches
By: Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918)
The darkness crumbles away.
It is the same old druid Time as ever,
Only a live thing leaps my hand,
A queer sardonic rat,
As I pull the parapet’s poppy
To stick behind my ear.
Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew
Your cosmopolitan sympathies.
Now you have touched this English hand
You will do the same to a German
Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure
To cross the sleeping green between.
It seems you inwardly grin as you pass
Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes,
Less chanced than you for life,
Bonds to the whims of murder,
Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,
The torn fields of France.
What do you see in our eyes
At the shrieking iron and flame
Hurled through still heavens?
What quaver—what heart aghast?
Poppies whose roots are in man’s veins
Drop, and are ever dropping;
But mine in my ear is safe-
Just a little white with the dust.
Isaac Rosenberg was born in Bristol, England in 1890. His family, which had fled Lithuania, then settled in Stepney, London in 1897. His family’s financial situation was described by Rosenberg’s biographer, Jan Wilson as “an existence on the edge of destitution”. At school he was noticed to be a skilled writer and artist. Much of his early artwork was drawn in chalk on the pavements of the East End. He was made to leave school at 14 to be an apprentice engraver, work he described as being “chained to this fiendish mangling- machine when my days are full of vigour and my hands and soul craving for self – expression”. He was later noticed drawing at the National Gallery and benefactors paid then for his education. He suffered from feelings of great inadequacy although he was described by some as self-reliant, modest, independent and sensitive. His first poems were published as “Night and Day.” In October 1915 he joined the army, taking with him a copy of John Donne’s poems, and not telling his family that he had enlisted. He endured great deprivation in extreme conditions, and anti-semitism. He wrote on scraps of paper his poems which he sent home to his sister to type. His greatest poems were considered to be Dead Man’s Dump and Break of Day in the Trenches, first published in Poetry magazine. Rosenberg was killed in April 1918 while on patrol, on the western front, during the German spring offensive in the closing months of the First World War. Isaac Rosenberg is remembered with a plaque in Poets’ Corner, Westminster Abbey, where other revered writers such as Shakespeare, Dickens and Emily Bronte are commemorated. Prof. Bergonzi rated Rosenberg as “undoubtedly one of the finest poets that the Great War produced”.
Jeremy Vine, British TV and radio presenter, reads Isaac Rosenberg’s Break of Day in the Trenches
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dPakEd0Ul3Q
By: Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918)
The darkness crumbles away.
It is the same old druid Time as ever,
Only a live thing leaps my hand,
A queer sardonic rat,
As I pull the parapet’s poppy
To stick behind my ear.
Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew
Your cosmopolitan sympathies.
Now you have touched this English hand
You will do the same to a German
Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure
To cross the sleeping green between.
It seems you inwardly grin as you pass
Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes,
Less chanced than you for life,
Bonds to the whims of murder,
Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,
The torn fields of France.
What do you see in our eyes
At the shrieking iron and flame
Hurled through still heavens?
What quaver—what heart aghast?
Poppies whose roots are in man’s veins
Drop, and are ever dropping;
But mine in my ear is safe-
Just a little white with the dust.
Isaac Rosenberg was born in Bristol, England in 1890. His family, which had fled Lithuania, then settled in Stepney, London in 1897. His family’s financial situation was described by Rosenberg’s biographer, Jan Wilson as “an existence on the edge of destitution”. At school he was noticed to be a skilled writer and artist. Much of his early artwork was drawn in chalk on the pavements of the East End. He was made to leave school at 14 to be an apprentice engraver, work he described as being “chained to this fiendish mangling- machine when my days are full of vigour and my hands and soul craving for self – expression”. He was later noticed drawing at the National Gallery and benefactors paid then for his education. He suffered from feelings of great inadequacy although he was described by some as self-reliant, modest, independent and sensitive. His first poems were published as “Night and Day.” In October 1915 he joined the army, taking with him a copy of John Donne’s poems, and not telling his family that he had enlisted. He endured great deprivation in extreme conditions, and anti-semitism. He wrote on scraps of paper his poems which he sent home to his sister to type. His greatest poems were considered to be Dead Man’s Dump and Break of Day in the Trenches, first published in Poetry magazine. Rosenberg was killed in April 1918 while on patrol, on the western front, during the German spring offensive in the closing months of the First World War. Isaac Rosenberg is remembered with a plaque in Poets’ Corner, Westminster Abbey, where other revered writers such as Shakespeare, Dickens and Emily Bronte are commemorated. Prof. Bergonzi rated Rosenberg as “undoubtedly one of the finest poets that the Great War produced”.
Jeremy Vine, British TV and radio presenter, reads Isaac Rosenberg’s Break of Day in the Trenches
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dPakEd0Ul3Q
If We Must Die
By: Claude McKay (1890-1948)
If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursèd lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!
Festus Claudius “Claude” McKay, (September 15, 1890 - May 22, 1948) was an American poet, born in Jamaica, West Indies. He was the son of landed farmers, brought up in the Baptist church. From the age of 9 he was sent to live with his brother, a teacher, who advanced Claude’s education. McKay wrote poetry from the age of 10. He was an apprentice carpenter. Encouraged to continue his writing, he studied in the USA, from 1912, at Tuskefee University in South Carolina, where he was shocked by segregation and the discrimination he experienced. In early 1919 McKay travelled to London, in 1922 to Russia, and in 1937 to Morocco. He was one of the central writers in the Harlem Renaissance Movement, when black music, writing, politics, intellectual thought and art flourished in Harlem. McKay wrote poetry that explored racial pride and black identity in an era of huge discrimination. Alain Lock described the era as “a spiritual coming of age”. If We Must Die was written in response to the riots and lynchings in southern USA after the First World War and was a call to rise up against the oppression and murder of blacks. McKay wrote five novels and four collections of poetry. He died in Chicago, USA in 1948.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Claude_McKay
Kevin Young, editor of the Library of America Anthology “African American Poetry: 250 Years of Struggle and Song” reads Claude McKay’s “If We Must Die”.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ovjB8VIMuvc
Claude McKay, recites his poem “If We Must Die”.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3nrbwagWcrs
By: Claude McKay (1890-1948)
If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursèd lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!
Festus Claudius “Claude” McKay, (September 15, 1890 - May 22, 1948) was an American poet, born in Jamaica, West Indies. He was the son of landed farmers, brought up in the Baptist church. From the age of 9 he was sent to live with his brother, a teacher, who advanced Claude’s education. McKay wrote poetry from the age of 10. He was an apprentice carpenter. Encouraged to continue his writing, he studied in the USA, from 1912, at Tuskefee University in South Carolina, where he was shocked by segregation and the discrimination he experienced. In early 1919 McKay travelled to London, in 1922 to Russia, and in 1937 to Morocco. He was one of the central writers in the Harlem Renaissance Movement, when black music, writing, politics, intellectual thought and art flourished in Harlem. McKay wrote poetry that explored racial pride and black identity in an era of huge discrimination. Alain Lock described the era as “a spiritual coming of age”. If We Must Die was written in response to the riots and lynchings in southern USA after the First World War and was a call to rise up against the oppression and murder of blacks. McKay wrote five novels and four collections of poetry. He died in Chicago, USA in 1948.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Claude_McKay
Kevin Young, editor of the Library of America Anthology “African American Poetry: 250 Years of Struggle and Song” reads Claude McKay’s “If We Must Die”.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ovjB8VIMuvc
Claude McKay, recites his poem “If We Must Die”.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3nrbwagWcrs
A Maori Love Song
By: Rakapa of Otaki, Rotorua (Mid-19th century)
See yonder curling clouds ascend
From Hinemutu's springs—
Like those soft mists
Arise my loving sighs for thee!
My soul springs forth in tears
That dim my eyes
And rolling flood my cheeks;
Like gushing water-founts they come,
And in my lonely sleep
The choking sobs are loosed
And all my heart goes forth to thee.
What parts us twain?
Is it the tapu's spell?
'Tis but an empty name,
Light as the western breeze.
My love will pass all bounds,
Time, space and thought;
My heart flies forth to thee—
And yet 'tis all in vain!
We dwell apart!
Written from the oral tradition of the original Maori and English translation.
Rakapa composed poetry and song in the mid-19th century. Two famous pieces are waiata-aroha composed for her distant lover Petera whom she later married. Maori culture developed a wealth and depth of poetry, recited and sung, including scared charms, canoe- chants, ritual chants and poems with themes of love, tradition, folk-lore, war, death, history, including recitation of genealogical links, and nature.
Maori poetry - Wikipedia.
An Encyclopaedia of New Zealand 1966 has further information:
Literary Forms – 1966 Encyclopaedia of New Zealand – Te Ara
An example of Maori poetry in song and chant, see Te Rangiura o Wairarapa, Te Matatini, 2023, Whakaeke,
Te Rangiura o Wairarapa | Te Matatini 2023 | Whakaeke - YouTube
For an example of modern Maori poetry and song watch “Mareikura” a modern Maori Quartet perform their own composition in 2017:
Modern Maori Quartet - 'Mareikura' live at RNZ - YouTube
By: Rakapa of Otaki, Rotorua (Mid-19th century)
See yonder curling clouds ascend
From Hinemutu's springs—
Like those soft mists
Arise my loving sighs for thee!
My soul springs forth in tears
That dim my eyes
And rolling flood my cheeks;
Like gushing water-founts they come,
And in my lonely sleep
The choking sobs are loosed
And all my heart goes forth to thee.
What parts us twain?
Is it the tapu's spell?
'Tis but an empty name,
Light as the western breeze.
My love will pass all bounds,
Time, space and thought;
My heart flies forth to thee—
And yet 'tis all in vain!
We dwell apart!
Written from the oral tradition of the original Maori and English translation.
Rakapa composed poetry and song in the mid-19th century. Two famous pieces are waiata-aroha composed for her distant lover Petera whom she later married. Maori culture developed a wealth and depth of poetry, recited and sung, including scared charms, canoe- chants, ritual chants and poems with themes of love, tradition, folk-lore, war, death, history, including recitation of genealogical links, and nature.
Maori poetry - Wikipedia.
An Encyclopaedia of New Zealand 1966 has further information:
Literary Forms – 1966 Encyclopaedia of New Zealand – Te Ara
An example of Maori poetry in song and chant, see Te Rangiura o Wairarapa, Te Matatini, 2023, Whakaeke,
Te Rangiura o Wairarapa | Te Matatini 2023 | Whakaeke - YouTube
For an example of modern Maori poetry and song watch “Mareikura” a modern Maori Quartet perform their own composition in 2017:
Modern Maori Quartet - 'Mareikura' live at RNZ - YouTube
Oh, my love is like a red red rose
By: Robert Burns (1759-1796)
O my Luve is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve is like the melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.
(Oh) My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose, is a song curated by Robbie Burns, as part of a Scotts anthology, Original Scottish Airs, published in 1794, based on a traditional Scottish song. Burns wrote of the song, and of a disagreement with the publisher, "What to me appears to be the simple and the wild, to him, and I suspect to you likewise, will be looked on as the ludicrous and the absurd." The poem was set to music by Robert Schumann. It was sung by Carly Simon, Pat Boone and many others. Bob Dylan referred to the lyrics of Red Red Rose by Robert Burns as the most important and inspirational to him in his music.
Robbie Burns (25 January 1759 - 21 July 1796) is regarded as the national poet of Scotland and an icon of Scotts culture. He was born in Ayr, Alloway, the eldest of seven children to a tenant farmer and his wife Agnes, the daughter of a tenant farmer. The family lived in poverty, doing heavy manual labour on the tenanted farms. Burns’ father educated the children. Robbie Burns also attended some irregular formal schooling, which was disrupted by work on the tenanted farms, such as returning home for harvest. He was a poet and lyricist, and collector of Scottish folk songs. Burns died at the age of 37. The descendants of Robbie Burns are said to number over 900 people (as at 2019).
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Burns
The King’s Singers, 2015, perform Oh my love is like a red, red rose
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XBE1y7u_dBs
Bryn Terfel, with the London Symphony orchestra, sings My love is Like a Red, Red Rose
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fykWcBWgsTE
By: Robert Burns (1759-1796)
O my Luve is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve is like the melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.
(Oh) My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose, is a song curated by Robbie Burns, as part of a Scotts anthology, Original Scottish Airs, published in 1794, based on a traditional Scottish song. Burns wrote of the song, and of a disagreement with the publisher, "What to me appears to be the simple and the wild, to him, and I suspect to you likewise, will be looked on as the ludicrous and the absurd." The poem was set to music by Robert Schumann. It was sung by Carly Simon, Pat Boone and many others. Bob Dylan referred to the lyrics of Red Red Rose by Robert Burns as the most important and inspirational to him in his music.
Robbie Burns (25 January 1759 - 21 July 1796) is regarded as the national poet of Scotland and an icon of Scotts culture. He was born in Ayr, Alloway, the eldest of seven children to a tenant farmer and his wife Agnes, the daughter of a tenant farmer. The family lived in poverty, doing heavy manual labour on the tenanted farms. Burns’ father educated the children. Robbie Burns also attended some irregular formal schooling, which was disrupted by work on the tenanted farms, such as returning home for harvest. He was a poet and lyricist, and collector of Scottish folk songs. Burns died at the age of 37. The descendants of Robbie Burns are said to number over 900 people (as at 2019).
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Burns
The King’s Singers, 2015, perform Oh my love is like a red, red rose
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XBE1y7u_dBs
Bryn Terfel, with the London Symphony orchestra, sings My love is Like a Red, Red Rose
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fykWcBWgsTE
a small leaf
By: Catherine Vidler (1973-2023)
a small leaf :: water-baubles sweetly
trembling :: just there :: like liquid glass
on veined-foundation :: one two threely ::
more :: space surrounds :: lively :: quiesc-
ent :: behind my sheer transfixed eyelid ::
reaching clear-through the dark & turbid ::
such shining :: curvaceous & full
under a breeze’s push & pull ::
so robust & so delicately ::
light & dark :: also in between ::
a teeming like I’ve never seen
within clear membrane :: intricately
world-full & otherworldly too ::
so tiny :: ancient & brand new
:::
I’ve lost my way :: the sky is greyly ::
slight smears upon the looking glass ::
this separation from the daily
trajectory :: it comes :: it pass-
es :: where are you :: sweet jacaranda
shedding of blossom :: sea & sand are
making their own map over there ::
or closer still :: this charged-up air
alights upon my naked flesh :: so
briefly tender :: it flits & flies
between the lowlies & the highs ::
trembling before the burning threshold ::
close me my eyes & search the light-
streaked darkness here :: inside-of sight
Catherine Vidler, (1973-2023), was the editor of Benchmark from August 2012 to November 2021, returning in early 2023 as a contributing editor. Catherine is a published poet whose work has appeared in literary magazines in Australia, New Zealand, the US and the UK. She was a co-founder and editor, from 2005, of Snorkel, a trans- Tasman literary magazine. Her works include Matchstick Poems (2022), Wings (2021), Lost Sonnets (2018), 78 composite lost sonnets (2018), Table sets (2017), Chaingrass, (2016), Chaingrass errata slips (2017), Furious Triangle (2011), Cloud Theory (2007), and Canberra Poems. Catherine was talented and intelligent, interesting, encouraging, always surprising and our beautiful friend and colleague. She was brave and resilient during her long illness.
By: Catherine Vidler (1973-2023)
a small leaf :: water-baubles sweetly
trembling :: just there :: like liquid glass
on veined-foundation :: one two threely ::
more :: space surrounds :: lively :: quiesc-
ent :: behind my sheer transfixed eyelid ::
reaching clear-through the dark & turbid ::
such shining :: curvaceous & full
under a breeze’s push & pull ::
so robust & so delicately ::
light & dark :: also in between ::
a teeming like I’ve never seen
within clear membrane :: intricately
world-full & otherworldly too ::
so tiny :: ancient & brand new
:::
I’ve lost my way :: the sky is greyly ::
slight smears upon the looking glass ::
this separation from the daily
trajectory :: it comes :: it pass-
es :: where are you :: sweet jacaranda
shedding of blossom :: sea & sand are
making their own map over there ::
or closer still :: this charged-up air
alights upon my naked flesh :: so
briefly tender :: it flits & flies
between the lowlies & the highs ::
trembling before the burning threshold ::
close me my eyes & search the light-
streaked darkness here :: inside-of sight
Catherine Vidler, (1973-2023), was the editor of Benchmark from August 2012 to November 2021, returning in early 2023 as a contributing editor. Catherine is a published poet whose work has appeared in literary magazines in Australia, New Zealand, the US and the UK. She was a co-founder and editor, from 2005, of Snorkel, a trans- Tasman literary magazine. Her works include Matchstick Poems (2022), Wings (2021), Lost Sonnets (2018), 78 composite lost sonnets (2018), Table sets (2017), Chaingrass, (2016), Chaingrass errata slips (2017), Furious Triangle (2011), Cloud Theory (2007), and Canberra Poems. Catherine was talented and intelligent, interesting, encouraging, always surprising and our beautiful friend and colleague. She was brave and resilient during her long illness.
A selection of
poems
By: Murasaki Shikibu (c.978-c.1014)
My place in the world:
why should it bring me grief?
mountain cherry
blossom in my sight,
were it ever so…
***
If I were to vanish away,
would you come
seeking my name
even unto
the grave?
***
As life flows on,
who will ever read it--
this keepsake to her
whose memory
will never die?
Murasaki Shikibu, (possibly born Fuijwara No Kaoriko), born c.978, in Kyoto, Japan, during the Heian Period. She is believed to have lived at court after the death of her husband, as an imperial lady in waiting to Empress Shoshi, who she entertained with her poetry and stories. Murasaki Shikibu was fluent in the Chinese classics. She wrote The Tale of Genji between 1000 and 1012, considered to be the world’s first full novel. Tale of Genji is considered the greatest work of Japanese literature and has inspired art and theatre. She also wrote The Diary of Lady Murasaki. Her work of 128 poems Poetic Memories, considered generally biographical have been passed down over the centuries. She wrote poetry in the waka form, which preceded the Japanese form of haiku. Waka form is 5 lines with the sounds or syllables in the pattern by line of 5, 7, 5, 7, 7. The haiku pattern by comparison is three lines of 5, 7, 5 syllables or sounds. Murasaki Shikibu died between about 1014 and 1031.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Murasaki_Shikibu
Listen to The Tale of Genji, translated by Suematsu Kencho (1855-1920), and read by Moira Fogarty, over 9 hours, a LibriVox Audiobook, which is in the public domain
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NR58kLrp88o
By: Murasaki Shikibu (c.978-c.1014)
My place in the world:
why should it bring me grief?
mountain cherry
blossom in my sight,
were it ever so…
***
If I were to vanish away,
would you come
seeking my name
even unto
the grave?
***
As life flows on,
who will ever read it--
this keepsake to her
whose memory
will never die?
Murasaki Shikibu, (possibly born Fuijwara No Kaoriko), born c.978, in Kyoto, Japan, during the Heian Period. She is believed to have lived at court after the death of her husband, as an imperial lady in waiting to Empress Shoshi, who she entertained with her poetry and stories. Murasaki Shikibu was fluent in the Chinese classics. She wrote The Tale of Genji between 1000 and 1012, considered to be the world’s first full novel. Tale of Genji is considered the greatest work of Japanese literature and has inspired art and theatre. She also wrote The Diary of Lady Murasaki. Her work of 128 poems Poetic Memories, considered generally biographical have been passed down over the centuries. She wrote poetry in the waka form, which preceded the Japanese form of haiku. Waka form is 5 lines with the sounds or syllables in the pattern by line of 5, 7, 5, 7, 7. The haiku pattern by comparison is three lines of 5, 7, 5 syllables or sounds. Murasaki Shikibu died between about 1014 and 1031.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Murasaki_Shikibu
Listen to The Tale of Genji, translated by Suematsu Kencho (1855-1920), and read by Moira Fogarty, over 9 hours, a LibriVox Audiobook, which is in the public domain
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NR58kLrp88o
Requiescat
By: Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)
Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.
All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.
Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone
She is at rest.
Peace, Peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life’s buried here,
Heap earth upon it.
Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde was born on 16 October 1854 and died, aged 46 of meningitis on 30 November 1900. He was an Irish novelist and playwright, a great wit, essayist and poet. The poem Requiescat was written for his sister Isola Wilde, who died of a fever when she was just nine years old. Wilde was 12 years old at the time and his diaries show that he was greatly affected by her death. Wilde studied at Trinity College Dublin and Magdalen College Oxford. He then moved to London. He toured North America in 1882 and France in 1883. He was one of the best-known writers in 1890s London. Wilde’s well known novels include The Picture of Dorian Gray, and The Importance of Being Earnest. He famously sued the Marquess of Queensberry for libel, and having lost that case, was himself charged. The transcript of the trial is at https://www.famous-trials.com/wilde/330-libel. Oscar Wilde was imprisoned from 1895 to 1897 and during that time he wrote De Profundis. After his release from prison, he moved to France, and did not return to Britain or Ireland again. His poem The Ballad of Reading Gaol, reflected on capital punishment and prison. Oscar Wilde’s last words were said to have been: “My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or the other of us has to go”.
Requiescat, sung by the quartet of Grover, Menter, Bishop and Tharaldson.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4eoJKvyJxkI
Stephen Fry, as Oscar Wilde, in Wilde, (1997)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UwhYn-P7hLg
Stephen Fry, reciting the Ballad of Reading Gaol, in Wilde, (1997)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QMQK0aWpAPY
By: Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)
Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.
All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.
Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone
She is at rest.
Peace, Peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life’s buried here,
Heap earth upon it.
Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde was born on 16 October 1854 and died, aged 46 of meningitis on 30 November 1900. He was an Irish novelist and playwright, a great wit, essayist and poet. The poem Requiescat was written for his sister Isola Wilde, who died of a fever when she was just nine years old. Wilde was 12 years old at the time and his diaries show that he was greatly affected by her death. Wilde studied at Trinity College Dublin and Magdalen College Oxford. He then moved to London. He toured North America in 1882 and France in 1883. He was one of the best-known writers in 1890s London. Wilde’s well known novels include The Picture of Dorian Gray, and The Importance of Being Earnest. He famously sued the Marquess of Queensberry for libel, and having lost that case, was himself charged. The transcript of the trial is at https://www.famous-trials.com/wilde/330-libel. Oscar Wilde was imprisoned from 1895 to 1897 and during that time he wrote De Profundis. After his release from prison, he moved to France, and did not return to Britain or Ireland again. His poem The Ballad of Reading Gaol, reflected on capital punishment and prison. Oscar Wilde’s last words were said to have been: “My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or the other of us has to go”.
Requiescat, sung by the quartet of Grover, Menter, Bishop and Tharaldson.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4eoJKvyJxkI
Stephen Fry, as Oscar Wilde, in Wilde, (1997)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UwhYn-P7hLg
Stephen Fry, reciting the Ballad of Reading Gaol, in Wilde, (1997)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QMQK0aWpAPY
Jabberwocky
By: Lewis Carroll (1832-1898)
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Jabberwocky, a nonsense poem, was included in Lewis Carroll’s 1871 novel Through the Looking- Glass, the story of Alice’s adventures in Looking-glass World. Nonsense verse, usually included words that are made up, and verse which is light-hearted and amusing, with fantasy characters, and not restrained by common views of what is rational expression. GK Chesterton described nonsense verse as “lawless and innocent”. Jabberwocky included the made-up word “chortle”, since then absorbed into daily speech.
Jabberwocky
Lewis Carroll is the pen name of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, an English poet, author, academic and mathematician born on 27 January 1832. His education was at home until being enrolled at Rugby School. He with other young boys was bullied at Rugby, a school which he found to be a torture. Charles’ nephew later wrote about his protection of other young boys at Rugby that “even though it is hard for those who have only known him as the gentle and retiring don to believe it, it is nevertheless true that long after he left school, his name was remembered as that of a boy who knew well how to use his fists in defence of a righteous cause”. He spent most of his life at Christ Church College, Oxford. He excelled at mathematics and wrote 11 books on mathematics during his life. Throughout his life he had health problems, including epilepsy, deafness and migraines. His most famous work is Alice in Wonderland. His published work included 12 books of fiction. He died on 14 January 1898.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lewis_Carroll
Benedict Cumberbatch reads Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q_Um3787fSY
Sir John Gielgud reads Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KjOj970ZJC8
By: Lewis Carroll (1832-1898)
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Jabberwocky, a nonsense poem, was included in Lewis Carroll’s 1871 novel Through the Looking- Glass, the story of Alice’s adventures in Looking-glass World. Nonsense verse, usually included words that are made up, and verse which is light-hearted and amusing, with fantasy characters, and not restrained by common views of what is rational expression. GK Chesterton described nonsense verse as “lawless and innocent”. Jabberwocky included the made-up word “chortle”, since then absorbed into daily speech.
Jabberwocky
Lewis Carroll is the pen name of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, an English poet, author, academic and mathematician born on 27 January 1832. His education was at home until being enrolled at Rugby School. He with other young boys was bullied at Rugby, a school which he found to be a torture. Charles’ nephew later wrote about his protection of other young boys at Rugby that “even though it is hard for those who have only known him as the gentle and retiring don to believe it, it is nevertheless true that long after he left school, his name was remembered as that of a boy who knew well how to use his fists in defence of a righteous cause”. He spent most of his life at Christ Church College, Oxford. He excelled at mathematics and wrote 11 books on mathematics during his life. Throughout his life he had health problems, including epilepsy, deafness and migraines. His most famous work is Alice in Wonderland. His published work included 12 books of fiction. He died on 14 January 1898.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lewis_Carroll
Benedict Cumberbatch reads Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q_Um3787fSY
Sir John Gielgud reads Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KjOj970ZJC8
A Great Yogi
By: Mirabai (1498-1547)
In my travels I spent time with a great yogi.
Once he said to me
“Become so still you hear the blood flowing
through your veins.”
One night as I sat in quiet,
I seemed on the verge of entering a world inside so vast
I know it is the source of
all of
us.
Mirabai, also known as Meera, and later Sant Meerabai, was a Hindu poet from the 1500s. She was born in 1498 in Kurki, (Rajasthan) India into the Rajput royal family. She was a devoted follower of Sri Krishna and wrote devotional songs, known as bhajans. Her devotion led to friction within her family. It is said that her family attempted to murder her many times to silence her, although biographies during the century after her death make no mention of those attempts, and the reports may be untrue. She became famous across northern India. She was considered a saint. It is said that the Moghul Emperor Akbar, visited her, disguised as a beggar, so as to avoid conflict with Mirabai’s Rajput royal family who were his enemies. Mirabai died in 1547 in Dwarka, India. Her life has been the subject of films and literature.
Mirabai devotional songs, sung by Lata Mangeshkar, “Gadh Se To Meerabai Utri”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KN64AQXupKw
By: Mirabai (1498-1547)
In my travels I spent time with a great yogi.
Once he said to me
“Become so still you hear the blood flowing
through your veins.”
One night as I sat in quiet,
I seemed on the verge of entering a world inside so vast
I know it is the source of
all of
us.
Mirabai, also known as Meera, and later Sant Meerabai, was a Hindu poet from the 1500s. She was born in 1498 in Kurki, (Rajasthan) India into the Rajput royal family. She was a devoted follower of Sri Krishna and wrote devotional songs, known as bhajans. Her devotion led to friction within her family. It is said that her family attempted to murder her many times to silence her, although biographies during the century after her death make no mention of those attempts, and the reports may be untrue. She became famous across northern India. She was considered a saint. It is said that the Moghul Emperor Akbar, visited her, disguised as a beggar, so as to avoid conflict with Mirabai’s Rajput royal family who were his enemies. Mirabai died in 1547 in Dwarka, India. Her life has been the subject of films and literature.
Mirabai devotional songs, sung by Lata Mangeshkar, “Gadh Se To Meerabai Utri”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KN64AQXupKw
Inferno Canto 26 - Ulysses’ Last Voyage
from The Divine Comedy --
The Vision; or Hell,
Purgatory, and Paradise,
By: Dante Alghieri (1265-1321) - translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Rejoice, O Florence, since thou art so great,
That over sea and land thou beatest thy wings,
And throughout Hell thy name is spread abroad!
Among the thieves five citizens of thine
Like these I found, whence shame comes unto me,
And thou thereby to no great honour risest.
But if when morn is near our dreams are true,
Feel shalt thou in a little time from now
What Prato, if none other, craves for thee.
And if it now were, it were not too soon;
Would that it were, seeing it needs must be,
For ’twill aggrieve me more the more I age.
We went our way, and up along the stairs
The bourns had made us to descend before,
Remounted my Conductor and drew me.
And following the solitary path
Among the rocks and ridges of the crag,
The foot without the hand sped not at all.
Then sorrowed I, and sorrow now again,
When I direct my mind to what I saw,
And more my genius curb than I am wont,
That it may run not unless virtue guide it;
So that if some good star, or better thing,
Have given me good, I may myself not grudge it.
As many as the hind (who on the hill
Rests at the time when he who lights the world
His countenance keeps least concealed from us,
While as the fly gives place unto the gnat)
Seeth the glow-worms down along the valley,
Perchance there where he ploughs and makes his vintage;
With flames as manifold resplendent all
Was the eighth Bolgia, as I grew aware
As soon as I was where the depth appeared.
And such as he who with the bears avenged him
Beheld Elijah’s chariot at departing,
What time the steeds to heaven erect uprose,
For with his eye he could not follow it
So as to see aught else than flame alone,
Even as a little cloud ascending upward,
Thus each along the gorge of the intrenchment
Was moving; for not one reveals the theft,
And every flame a sinner steals away.
I stood upon the bridge uprisen to see,
So that, if I had seized not on a rock,
Down had I fallen without being pushed.
And the Leader, who beheld me so attent,
Exclaimed: “Within the fires the spirits are;
Each swathes himself with that wherewith he burns.”
“My Master,” I replied, “by hearing thee
I am more sure; but I surmised already
It might be so, and already wished to ask thee
Who is within that fire, which comes so cleft
At top, it seems uprising from the pyre
Where was Eteocles with his brother placed.”
He answered me: “Within there are tormented
Ulysses and Diomed, and thus together
They unto vengeance run as unto wrath.
And there within their flame do they lament
The ambush of the horse, which made the door
Whence issued forth the Romans’ gentle seed;
Therein is wept the craft, for which being dead
Deidamia still deplores Achilles,
And pain for the Palladium there is borne.”
“If they within those sparks possess the power
To speak,” I said, “thee, Master, much I pray,
And re-pray, that the prayer be worth a thousand,
That thou make no denial of awaiting
Until the horned flame shall hither come;
Thou seest that with desire I lean towards it.”
And he to me: “Worthy is thy entreaty
Of much applause, and therefore I accept it;
But take heed that thy tongue restrain itself.
Leave me to speak, because I have conceived
That which thou wishest; for they might disdain
Perchance, since they were Greeks, discourse of thine.”
When now the flame had come unto that point,
Where to my Leader it seemed time and place,
After this fashion did I hear him speak:
“O ye, who are twofold within one fire,
If I deserved of you, while I was living,
If I deserved of you or much or little
When in the world I wrote the lofty verses,
Do not move on, but one of you declare
Whither, being lost, he went away to die.”
Then of the antique flame the greater horn,
Murmuring, began to wave itself about
Even as a flame doth which the wind fatigues.
Thereafterward, the summit to and fro
Moving as if it were the tongue that spake,
It uttered forth a voice, and said: “When I
From Circe had departed, who concealed me
More than a year there near unto Gaeta,
Or ever yet Aeneas named it so,
Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence
For my old father, nor the due affection
Which joyous should have made Penelope,
Could overcome within me the desire
I had to be experienced of the world,
And of the vice and virtue of mankind;
But I put forth on the high open sea
With one sole ship, and that small company
By which I never had deserted been.
Both of the shores I saw as far as Spain,
Far as Morocco, and the isle of Sardes,
And the others which that sea bathes round about.
I and my company were old and slow
When at that narrow passage we arrived
Where Hercules his landmarks set as signals,
That man no farther onward should adventure.
On the right hand behind me left I Seville,
And on the other already had left Ceuta.
‘O brothers, who amid a hundred thousand
Perils,’ I said, ‘have come unto the West,
To this so inconsiderable vigil
Which is remaining of your senses still
Be ye unwilling to deny the knowledge,
Following the sun, of the unpeopled world.
Consider ye the seed from which ye sprang;
Ye were not made to live like unto brutes,
But for pursuit of virtue and of knowledge.’
So eager did I render my companions,
With this brief exhortation, for the voyage,
That then I hardly could have held them back.
And having turned our stern unto the morning,
We of the oars made wings for our mad flight,
Evermore gaining on the larboard side.
Already all the stars of the other pole
The night beheld, and ours so very low
It did not rise above the ocean floor.
Five times rekindled and as many quenched
Had been the splendour underneath the moon,
Since we had entered into the deep pass,
When there appeared to us a mountain, dim
From distance, and it seemed to me so high
As I had never any one beheld.
Joyful were we, and soon it turned to weeping;
For out of the new land a whirlwind rose,
And smote upon the fore part of the ship.
Three times it made her whirl with all the waters,
At the fourth time it made the stern uplift,
And the prow downward go, as pleased Another,
Until the sea above us closed again.”
Dante Alighieri, was born around 1265, in Florence, in the then Republic of Florence (now Italy). His mother died when he was 10 years old. He was an Italian poet, political activist, pharmacist, admitted to the Apothecaries’ Guild, and a philosopher. His political actions involved fighting in disputes, usually turning around the role of the Papacy, and between warring families. He became the prior of Florence in 1302. He was exiled from Florence for two years, from March 1302, but then after not paying the fine, condemned to be in perpetual exile. Had he entered Florence the punishment may have been burning at the stage. Dante wrote the Divine Comedy beginning at around the age of 35 years, which described his travels through Hell, Purgatory, and then to Paradise. The Divine Comedy is considered one of the most prominent works of the Middle Ages, and one of the works that established the use of a type of modern Italian language, breaking away from the tradition to write only in Latin. His aim was that his poetry might be read by the common person. Dante died in Ravena on 14 September 1321, aged 56, while still in exile.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dante_Alighieri
Dante’s Inferno, from the Divine Comedy, Silent film, 1911,
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VszV6gEkgHk
Dante’s Inferno Canto XXVI, recited by Italian Actor and comedian Roberto Benigni,
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UOkgT1iEp0A
Roberto Benigni, won Oscars for Best Actor and Best Foreign Language Film at the 1999 Academy Awards for the movie Life is Beautiful.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8cTR6fk8frs and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ybgg4H4zTHo
Dr Brendan Case, of the Harvard University Flourishing Project, speaks about Canto 26 of Dante’s Inferno,
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kys-6X2AkKk
from The Divine Comedy --
The Vision; or Hell,
Purgatory, and Paradise,
By: Dante Alghieri (1265-1321) - translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Rejoice, O Florence, since thou art so great,
That over sea and land thou beatest thy wings,
And throughout Hell thy name is spread abroad!
Among the thieves five citizens of thine
Like these I found, whence shame comes unto me,
And thou thereby to no great honour risest.
But if when morn is near our dreams are true,
Feel shalt thou in a little time from now
What Prato, if none other, craves for thee.
And if it now were, it were not too soon;
Would that it were, seeing it needs must be,
For ’twill aggrieve me more the more I age.
We went our way, and up along the stairs
The bourns had made us to descend before,
Remounted my Conductor and drew me.
And following the solitary path
Among the rocks and ridges of the crag,
The foot without the hand sped not at all.
Then sorrowed I, and sorrow now again,
When I direct my mind to what I saw,
And more my genius curb than I am wont,
That it may run not unless virtue guide it;
So that if some good star, or better thing,
Have given me good, I may myself not grudge it.
As many as the hind (who on the hill
Rests at the time when he who lights the world
His countenance keeps least concealed from us,
While as the fly gives place unto the gnat)
Seeth the glow-worms down along the valley,
Perchance there where he ploughs and makes his vintage;
With flames as manifold resplendent all
Was the eighth Bolgia, as I grew aware
As soon as I was where the depth appeared.
And such as he who with the bears avenged him
Beheld Elijah’s chariot at departing,
What time the steeds to heaven erect uprose,
For with his eye he could not follow it
So as to see aught else than flame alone,
Even as a little cloud ascending upward,
Thus each along the gorge of the intrenchment
Was moving; for not one reveals the theft,
And every flame a sinner steals away.
I stood upon the bridge uprisen to see,
So that, if I had seized not on a rock,
Down had I fallen without being pushed.
And the Leader, who beheld me so attent,
Exclaimed: “Within the fires the spirits are;
Each swathes himself with that wherewith he burns.”
“My Master,” I replied, “by hearing thee
I am more sure; but I surmised already
It might be so, and already wished to ask thee
Who is within that fire, which comes so cleft
At top, it seems uprising from the pyre
Where was Eteocles with his brother placed.”
He answered me: “Within there are tormented
Ulysses and Diomed, and thus together
They unto vengeance run as unto wrath.
And there within their flame do they lament
The ambush of the horse, which made the door
Whence issued forth the Romans’ gentle seed;
Therein is wept the craft, for which being dead
Deidamia still deplores Achilles,
And pain for the Palladium there is borne.”
“If they within those sparks possess the power
To speak,” I said, “thee, Master, much I pray,
And re-pray, that the prayer be worth a thousand,
That thou make no denial of awaiting
Until the horned flame shall hither come;
Thou seest that with desire I lean towards it.”
And he to me: “Worthy is thy entreaty
Of much applause, and therefore I accept it;
But take heed that thy tongue restrain itself.
Leave me to speak, because I have conceived
That which thou wishest; for they might disdain
Perchance, since they were Greeks, discourse of thine.”
When now the flame had come unto that point,
Where to my Leader it seemed time and place,
After this fashion did I hear him speak:
“O ye, who are twofold within one fire,
If I deserved of you, while I was living,
If I deserved of you or much or little
When in the world I wrote the lofty verses,
Do not move on, but one of you declare
Whither, being lost, he went away to die.”
Then of the antique flame the greater horn,
Murmuring, began to wave itself about
Even as a flame doth which the wind fatigues.
Thereafterward, the summit to and fro
Moving as if it were the tongue that spake,
It uttered forth a voice, and said: “When I
From Circe had departed, who concealed me
More than a year there near unto Gaeta,
Or ever yet Aeneas named it so,
Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence
For my old father, nor the due affection
Which joyous should have made Penelope,
Could overcome within me the desire
I had to be experienced of the world,
And of the vice and virtue of mankind;
But I put forth on the high open sea
With one sole ship, and that small company
By which I never had deserted been.
Both of the shores I saw as far as Spain,
Far as Morocco, and the isle of Sardes,
And the others which that sea bathes round about.
I and my company were old and slow
When at that narrow passage we arrived
Where Hercules his landmarks set as signals,
That man no farther onward should adventure.
On the right hand behind me left I Seville,
And on the other already had left Ceuta.
‘O brothers, who amid a hundred thousand
Perils,’ I said, ‘have come unto the West,
To this so inconsiderable vigil
Which is remaining of your senses still
Be ye unwilling to deny the knowledge,
Following the sun, of the unpeopled world.
Consider ye the seed from which ye sprang;
Ye were not made to live like unto brutes,
But for pursuit of virtue and of knowledge.’
So eager did I render my companions,
With this brief exhortation, for the voyage,
That then I hardly could have held them back.
And having turned our stern unto the morning,
We of the oars made wings for our mad flight,
Evermore gaining on the larboard side.
Already all the stars of the other pole
The night beheld, and ours so very low
It did not rise above the ocean floor.
Five times rekindled and as many quenched
Had been the splendour underneath the moon,
Since we had entered into the deep pass,
When there appeared to us a mountain, dim
From distance, and it seemed to me so high
As I had never any one beheld.
Joyful were we, and soon it turned to weeping;
For out of the new land a whirlwind rose,
And smote upon the fore part of the ship.
Three times it made her whirl with all the waters,
At the fourth time it made the stern uplift,
And the prow downward go, as pleased Another,
Until the sea above us closed again.”
Dante Alighieri, was born around 1265, in Florence, in the then Republic of Florence (now Italy). His mother died when he was 10 years old. He was an Italian poet, political activist, pharmacist, admitted to the Apothecaries’ Guild, and a philosopher. His political actions involved fighting in disputes, usually turning around the role of the Papacy, and between warring families. He became the prior of Florence in 1302. He was exiled from Florence for two years, from March 1302, but then after not paying the fine, condemned to be in perpetual exile. Had he entered Florence the punishment may have been burning at the stage. Dante wrote the Divine Comedy beginning at around the age of 35 years, which described his travels through Hell, Purgatory, and then to Paradise. The Divine Comedy is considered one of the most prominent works of the Middle Ages, and one of the works that established the use of a type of modern Italian language, breaking away from the tradition to write only in Latin. His aim was that his poetry might be read by the common person. Dante died in Ravena on 14 September 1321, aged 56, while still in exile.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dante_Alighieri
Dante’s Inferno, from the Divine Comedy, Silent film, 1911,
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VszV6gEkgHk
Dante’s Inferno Canto XXVI, recited by Italian Actor and comedian Roberto Benigni,
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UOkgT1iEp0A
Roberto Benigni, won Oscars for Best Actor and Best Foreign Language Film at the 1999 Academy Awards for the movie Life is Beautiful.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8cTR6fk8frs and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ybgg4H4zTHo
Dr Brendan Case, of the Harvard University Flourishing Project, speaks about Canto 26 of Dante’s Inferno,
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kys-6X2AkKk
In memory of Dr Brian McDonald, who died on 6 April 2023, aged 71 years. Dr McDonald was a renowned molecular geneticist and DNA expert.
He was a scientist of great courage, intelligence, insight and humour. We doubt that Dr McDonald would have suffered the same conflicts as Edgar Allan Poe expresses in Sonnet-To Science.
Sonnet-To Science
By: Edgar Allan Poe (1809 - 1849)
Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car,
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
Edgar Allan Poe (19 January 1809 – 7 October 1849) was an American poet, literary critic and writer of short stories. He is said to have invented the genre of the detective story. He also wrote works in the genre of Gothic horror. His work was intended to appeal to the mass- market. He attended the University of Virginia. He had a career in the military and graduated from West Point. Sonnet to Science was published in 1829. After his death his reputation was tarnished by Rufus Girswold, a literary rival, who, became Poe’s literary executor. Letters which Griswold relied on to destroy Poe’s reputation were later found to be forgeries.
He was a scientist of great courage, intelligence, insight and humour. We doubt that Dr McDonald would have suffered the same conflicts as Edgar Allan Poe expresses in Sonnet-To Science.
Sonnet-To Science
By: Edgar Allan Poe (1809 - 1849)
Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car,
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
Edgar Allan Poe (19 January 1809 – 7 October 1849) was an American poet, literary critic and writer of short stories. He is said to have invented the genre of the detective story. He also wrote works in the genre of Gothic horror. His work was intended to appeal to the mass- market. He attended the University of Virginia. He had a career in the military and graduated from West Point. Sonnet to Science was published in 1829. After his death his reputation was tarnished by Rufus Girswold, a literary rival, who, became Poe’s literary executor. Letters which Griswold relied on to destroy Poe’s reputation were later found to be forgeries.
Where Cotter Died
By: Major Oliver Hogue, “Trooper Bluegum” (1880-1919)
Comrade of knapsack or bandolier,
Tread light, we pray when you pass this way;
For sake of the brave ones slumbering here
Nameless in death till the Judgment Day
Tread light, lest the tramp of your martial host
Or the rattle of rifle or bayonet blade
Should ring down the night to their silent post,
And rouse them too soon for the Grand Parade.
Oliver Hogue, was born on 29 April 1880 in Sydney. He attended Forest Lodge Public School. He cycled around the eastern and northern areas of Australia, riding his bike for thousands of kilometres. He was a journalist for the Sydney Morning Herald from 1907. He enlisted in 1914 in the Australian Imperial Force, and served in Gallipoli with the Light Horse Regiment. He also served with the Camel Corps from November 1916. He published poetry, usually under the pseudonym “Trooper Bluegum”, in the Sydney Morning Herald. He left a book of poetry and writings written during the campaigns in Egypt and Palestine. This poem, Where Cotter Died, relates to the death of soldier Tibby/Tibbie Cotter. Hogue wrote “It was round Beersheba that Tibbie Cotter was killed, with many more Light Horsemen and Cameliers. There are rough wooden crosses dotting the land… some bear the names of comrades; some are nameless”. The book “The Cameliers” by Oliver Hogue was also published after the First World War. Major Oliver Hogue survived the war, but died of influenza on 3 March 1919 at London General Hospital. His twin sister predeceased him in 1918. Bertram Stevens wrote of Hogue’s letters that they “conveyed a good deal of the happy-go-lucky spirit of the Australians, their indifference to danger, and laughter when in difficulties or in pain”.
https://www.awm.gov.au/collection/P11013263
Albert (Tibby/Tibbie) Cotter had attended Forest Lodge Public School and Sydney Grammar. He had, as a cricketer, played against England. He served at Gallipoli. He survived the Light Horse charge to capture the wells of Beersheba. He died on 31 October 1917 when he was a mounted stretcher-bearer at the Battle of Gaza.
https://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/cotter-albert-tibby-5785
By: Major Oliver Hogue, “Trooper Bluegum” (1880-1919)
Comrade of knapsack or bandolier,
Tread light, we pray when you pass this way;
For sake of the brave ones slumbering here
Nameless in death till the Judgment Day
Tread light, lest the tramp of your martial host
Or the rattle of rifle or bayonet blade
Should ring down the night to their silent post,
And rouse them too soon for the Grand Parade.
Oliver Hogue, was born on 29 April 1880 in Sydney. He attended Forest Lodge Public School. He cycled around the eastern and northern areas of Australia, riding his bike for thousands of kilometres. He was a journalist for the Sydney Morning Herald from 1907. He enlisted in 1914 in the Australian Imperial Force, and served in Gallipoli with the Light Horse Regiment. He also served with the Camel Corps from November 1916. He published poetry, usually under the pseudonym “Trooper Bluegum”, in the Sydney Morning Herald. He left a book of poetry and writings written during the campaigns in Egypt and Palestine. This poem, Where Cotter Died, relates to the death of soldier Tibby/Tibbie Cotter. Hogue wrote “It was round Beersheba that Tibbie Cotter was killed, with many more Light Horsemen and Cameliers. There are rough wooden crosses dotting the land… some bear the names of comrades; some are nameless”. The book “The Cameliers” by Oliver Hogue was also published after the First World War. Major Oliver Hogue survived the war, but died of influenza on 3 March 1919 at London General Hospital. His twin sister predeceased him in 1918. Bertram Stevens wrote of Hogue’s letters that they “conveyed a good deal of the happy-go-lucky spirit of the Australians, their indifference to danger, and laughter when in difficulties or in pain”.
https://www.awm.gov.au/collection/P11013263
Albert (Tibby/Tibbie) Cotter had attended Forest Lodge Public School and Sydney Grammar. He had, as a cricketer, played against England. He served at Gallipoli. He survived the Light Horse charge to capture the wells of Beersheba. He died on 31 October 1917 when he was a mounted stretcher-bearer at the Battle of Gaza.
https://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/cotter-albert-tibby-5785
To My Dear and Loving Husband
By: Anne Dudley Bradstreet (1612-1672)
If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,
Of all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay;
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let’s so persever.
That when we live no more, we may live ever.
Anne Dudley Bradstreet, born 8 March 1612, in Northampton England, was the first English poet to be published in the New World (North America). She was well educated by her father Thomas, who was described as a “devourer of books”. He was the steward to the Earl of Lincoln from 1619 to 1630 and Anne Bradstreet read in the Earl’s library. She studied languages, theology, politics, philosophy, history, medicine, and literature. In the Elizabethan Era education for women was valued. She married at 16 to Simon Bradstreet. She immigrated to the New World with her parents and husband in 1630 and had 8 children. The Bradstreets were one of the most prominent Puritan families in the New World. Her father and husband were at different times governors of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Her poetry suggests that she rebelled somewhat against the Puritan life in New England and questioned her faith. Her poetry deals with the issues of death, her role in the world, salvation, and eternal life, while living in a time when her compatriots in the frontier towns of the New England area were experiencing great poverty, hunger, disease, and early death, including in childbirth. Anne Bradstreet also wrote poems to her husband, describing their great love. She and other female Puritan writers faced opposition from some members of the clergy.
King George III was said to have had a copy of Anne Bradstreet’s book of poetry, The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung up in America, published in 1650, in his library. The book was included in 1658 in the Catalogue of the Most Vendible Books in England. Anne Dudley Bradstreet died on 16 September 1672, in Andover, Massachusetts Bay Colony. In 1692, her son, Dudley Bradstreet, a Justice of the Peace for the Essex County, refused to issue any further warrants for the arrest of “witches” during the Salem witch trials, and as a result was himself accused of witchcraft and murder, with his wife Anne. After going into hiding, for a period, he later returned and was a Justice of the General Court of Boston.
Alyssa Milano, actress, reads “To My Dear and Loving Husband”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HbQRMbJmx5g
Dame Helen Mirren reads “To My Dear and Loving Husband
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qU82qY6etWw
By: Anne Dudley Bradstreet (1612-1672)
If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,
Of all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay;
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let’s so persever.
That when we live no more, we may live ever.
Anne Dudley Bradstreet, born 8 March 1612, in Northampton England, was the first English poet to be published in the New World (North America). She was well educated by her father Thomas, who was described as a “devourer of books”. He was the steward to the Earl of Lincoln from 1619 to 1630 and Anne Bradstreet read in the Earl’s library. She studied languages, theology, politics, philosophy, history, medicine, and literature. In the Elizabethan Era education for women was valued. She married at 16 to Simon Bradstreet. She immigrated to the New World with her parents and husband in 1630 and had 8 children. The Bradstreets were one of the most prominent Puritan families in the New World. Her father and husband were at different times governors of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Her poetry suggests that she rebelled somewhat against the Puritan life in New England and questioned her faith. Her poetry deals with the issues of death, her role in the world, salvation, and eternal life, while living in a time when her compatriots in the frontier towns of the New England area were experiencing great poverty, hunger, disease, and early death, including in childbirth. Anne Bradstreet also wrote poems to her husband, describing their great love. She and other female Puritan writers faced opposition from some members of the clergy.
King George III was said to have had a copy of Anne Bradstreet’s book of poetry, The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung up in America, published in 1650, in his library. The book was included in 1658 in the Catalogue of the Most Vendible Books in England. Anne Dudley Bradstreet died on 16 September 1672, in Andover, Massachusetts Bay Colony. In 1692, her son, Dudley Bradstreet, a Justice of the Peace for the Essex County, refused to issue any further warrants for the arrest of “witches” during the Salem witch trials, and as a result was himself accused of witchcraft and murder, with his wife Anne. After going into hiding, for a period, he later returned and was a Justice of the General Court of Boston.
Alyssa Milano, actress, reads “To My Dear and Loving Husband”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HbQRMbJmx5g
Dame Helen Mirren reads “To My Dear and Loving Husband
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qU82qY6etWw
Ode to a Nightingale
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?
John Keats, an English poet, was born 31 October 1795, in Moorgate, London, and died of tuberculosis, at the age of 25 on 23 February 1821 in Rome, Papal States (Italy). His father died in 1804 after an accident when his horse faltered and he fell suffering a head injury. His mother died of tuberculosis when Keats was only 14. His brother also died of tuberculosis. After his father’s death the family lost most of its inheritance to the actions of a trustee, who only after Keats’s death, came to a settlement with his sister Fanny. Keats trained to be a surgeon. He was considered later to have been a poet of the later Romantic period. He only published 54 poems. His most famous were the Odes, including Ode on a Grecian Urn. Ode to a Nightingale represents the cycle of nature and death. The poem was written by Keats in only a couple of hours. He was subject to criticism by some of his contemporaries for his style of writing, and perhaps due to his background. Of his death, his friend Joseph Severn, an English painter, who remained by his side wrote: "He told me not to tremble for he did not think he would be convulsed – he said. Did you see anyone die ? no ? well then I pity you poor Severn ? what trouble you have got into for me. Now you must be firm for it will not last long ? I shall soon be laid in a quiet grave."
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Keats
Stephen Fry reads Ode to a Nightingale
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKVNJH0SbUM
Benedict Cumberbatch recites Ode to a Nightingale
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_pkQYLVqBms
Mathew Coulton recites Ode to a Nightingale
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S1KH60CenMM
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?
John Keats, an English poet, was born 31 October 1795, in Moorgate, London, and died of tuberculosis, at the age of 25 on 23 February 1821 in Rome, Papal States (Italy). His father died in 1804 after an accident when his horse faltered and he fell suffering a head injury. His mother died of tuberculosis when Keats was only 14. His brother also died of tuberculosis. After his father’s death the family lost most of its inheritance to the actions of a trustee, who only after Keats’s death, came to a settlement with his sister Fanny. Keats trained to be a surgeon. He was considered later to have been a poet of the later Romantic period. He only published 54 poems. His most famous were the Odes, including Ode on a Grecian Urn. Ode to a Nightingale represents the cycle of nature and death. The poem was written by Keats in only a couple of hours. He was subject to criticism by some of his contemporaries for his style of writing, and perhaps due to his background. Of his death, his friend Joseph Severn, an English painter, who remained by his side wrote: "He told me not to tremble for he did not think he would be convulsed – he said. Did you see anyone die ? no ? well then I pity you poor Severn ? what trouble you have got into for me. Now you must be firm for it will not last long ? I shall soon be laid in a quiet grave."
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Keats
Stephen Fry reads Ode to a Nightingale
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKVNJH0SbUM
Benedict Cumberbatch recites Ode to a Nightingale
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_pkQYLVqBms
Mathew Coulton recites Ode to a Nightingale
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S1KH60CenMM
Annabel Lee
By: Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1848)
It was many and many a year ago,
In a 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 wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this 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 highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
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 the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who 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 sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Edgar Allan Poe, was born on 19 January 1809, in Boston, the son of two actors. His father left the family in 1810, and his mother died in 1811. He was taken in by a couple who raised him. He was an American author and poet, and literary journal writer. He was a writer of crime stories, mysteries, and is said to have inspired many, including for example, Alfred Hitchcock in the making of suspense films. He was one of the first American writers whose works became popular on the European continent, and more particularly in France. His literary reviews earned him the name “tomahawk man”. His first poetry volume under the pseudonym “the Bostonian” was published in 1827. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle said of Poe’s detective stories that each story “Is a root from which a whole literature developed” and said: “Where was the detective story until Poe Breathed the beath of life into it”. His poem “The Raven” was received well when published in January 1845. Poe wrote “Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality”. In his letter to George W. Evelath on 4 January 1848 he wrote “I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity”. Poe died 7 October 1849. His attending doctor reported that Poe’s final words were “Lord help my poor soul”. The cause of death is not clearly known, however there were many suggestions, including a possibly physical attack on him, or alcoholism, or cholera or various other diseases.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edgar_Allan_Poe
Joan Baez, sings Annabel Lee
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AIGj3CZ3uPQ
The Raven, read by James Earl Jones
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WcqPQXqQXzI
By: Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1848)
It was many and many a year ago,
In a 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 wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this 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 highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
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 the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who 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 sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Edgar Allan Poe, was born on 19 January 1809, in Boston, the son of two actors. His father left the family in 1810, and his mother died in 1811. He was taken in by a couple who raised him. He was an American author and poet, and literary journal writer. He was a writer of crime stories, mysteries, and is said to have inspired many, including for example, Alfred Hitchcock in the making of suspense films. He was one of the first American writers whose works became popular on the European continent, and more particularly in France. His literary reviews earned him the name “tomahawk man”. His first poetry volume under the pseudonym “the Bostonian” was published in 1827. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle said of Poe’s detective stories that each story “Is a root from which a whole literature developed” and said: “Where was the detective story until Poe Breathed the beath of life into it”. His poem “The Raven” was received well when published in January 1845. Poe wrote “Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality”. In his letter to George W. Evelath on 4 January 1848 he wrote “I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity”. Poe died 7 October 1849. His attending doctor reported that Poe’s final words were “Lord help my poor soul”. The cause of death is not clearly known, however there were many suggestions, including a possibly physical attack on him, or alcoholism, or cholera or various other diseases.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edgar_Allan_Poe
Joan Baez, sings Annabel Lee
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AIGj3CZ3uPQ
The Raven, read by James Earl Jones
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WcqPQXqQXzI
An Hymn To
The Morning
By: Harriet Tubman (1820-1913)
Attend my lays, ye ever honour'd nine,
Assist my labours, and my strains refine;
In smoothest numbers pour the notes along,
For bright Aurora now demands my song.
Aurora hail, and all the thousand dies,
Which deck thy progress through the vaulted skies:
The morn awakes, and wide extends her rays,
On ev'ry leaf the gentle zephyr plays;
Harmonious lays the feather'd race resume,
Dart the bright eye, and shake the painted plume.
Ye shady groves, your verdant gloom display
To shield your poet from the burning day:
Calliope awake the sacred lyre,
While thy fair sisters fan the pleasing fire:
The bow'rs, the gales, the variegated skies
In all their pleasures in my bosom rise.
See in the east th' illustrious king of day!
His rising radiance drives the shades away-
But Oh! I feel his fervid beams too strong,
And scarce begun, concludes th' abortive song.
Harriet Tubman, was born Araminta Ross, in 1820 or 1822, in Maryland and died in 1915. Her grandparents in 1745 had been captured in west Africa and transported to America to work as slaves. She was born a slave, and sent out as a domestic servant at the age of 5. Even as a child she fought back against the abuse she suffered. In protecting another slave from a beating when she was 12 years old, she suffered a significant head injury from a 2 pound metal weight which hit her head, leaving her with severe headaches throughout her life. It also led, she believed, to her seeing visions She married John Tubman, a free black man, in 1844. She became ill in September 1849 and was to be sold by her master. She prayed for weeks to not be sold, but then said "I changed my prayer. First of March I began to Pay "Oh Lord, if you aint never going to change that man’s heart, kill him, Lord, and take him out of the way”. A week later the master died. Harriet Tubman and her two brothers tried to escape north, returning the first time to the South, but with her then travelling alone on a second journey using the Underground Railroad in 1849. Her husband refused to travel north. She said "I had reasoned out this in my mind; there was one of two things I had a right to, liberty or death; if I could not have one, I would have de other". As she was leaving, she sang this song, to say goodbye to the others remaining on the plantation:
When dat ole’ chariot comes
I’m gwine to leave you
I’m bound for the Promised Land
Friends, I’m gwine to leave you.
I’m sorry, friends, to leave you,
Farewell! Oh farewell,
But I’ll meet you in de morning
Farewell, oh farewell.
Harriet returned several times to the south and it is believed that she helped around 80 slaves travel to freedom. She was called "the Moses of Her People" She had a $40,000 reward on her head. She established the Harriet Tubman Home for the Aged. She received from Queen Victoria a Silver Jubilee medal, after Queen Victoria read her biography. Harriet Tubman died in 1913 at the age of 93. She was buried at Fort Hill cemetery in Auburn, New York, with full military honours.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harriet_Tubman
By: Harriet Tubman (1820-1913)
Attend my lays, ye ever honour'd nine,
Assist my labours, and my strains refine;
In smoothest numbers pour the notes along,
For bright Aurora now demands my song.
Aurora hail, and all the thousand dies,
Which deck thy progress through the vaulted skies:
The morn awakes, and wide extends her rays,
On ev'ry leaf the gentle zephyr plays;
Harmonious lays the feather'd race resume,
Dart the bright eye, and shake the painted plume.
Ye shady groves, your verdant gloom display
To shield your poet from the burning day:
Calliope awake the sacred lyre,
While thy fair sisters fan the pleasing fire:
The bow'rs, the gales, the variegated skies
In all their pleasures in my bosom rise.
See in the east th' illustrious king of day!
His rising radiance drives the shades away-
But Oh! I feel his fervid beams too strong,
And scarce begun, concludes th' abortive song.
Harriet Tubman, was born Araminta Ross, in 1820 or 1822, in Maryland and died in 1915. Her grandparents in 1745 had been captured in west Africa and transported to America to work as slaves. She was born a slave, and sent out as a domestic servant at the age of 5. Even as a child she fought back against the abuse she suffered. In protecting another slave from a beating when she was 12 years old, she suffered a significant head injury from a 2 pound metal weight which hit her head, leaving her with severe headaches throughout her life. It also led, she believed, to her seeing visions She married John Tubman, a free black man, in 1844. She became ill in September 1849 and was to be sold by her master. She prayed for weeks to not be sold, but then said "I changed my prayer. First of March I began to Pay "Oh Lord, if you aint never going to change that man’s heart, kill him, Lord, and take him out of the way”. A week later the master died. Harriet Tubman and her two brothers tried to escape north, returning the first time to the South, but with her then travelling alone on a second journey using the Underground Railroad in 1849. Her husband refused to travel north. She said "I had reasoned out this in my mind; there was one of two things I had a right to, liberty or death; if I could not have one, I would have de other". As she was leaving, she sang this song, to say goodbye to the others remaining on the plantation:
When dat ole’ chariot comes
I’m gwine to leave you
I’m bound for the Promised Land
Friends, I’m gwine to leave you.
I’m sorry, friends, to leave you,
Farewell! Oh farewell,
But I’ll meet you in de morning
Farewell, oh farewell.
Harriet returned several times to the south and it is believed that she helped around 80 slaves travel to freedom. She was called "the Moses of Her People" She had a $40,000 reward on her head. She established the Harriet Tubman Home for the Aged. She received from Queen Victoria a Silver Jubilee medal, after Queen Victoria read her biography. Harriet Tubman died in 1913 at the age of 93. She was buried at Fort Hill cemetery in Auburn, New York, with full military honours.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harriet_Tubman
Brumby’s Run
By: A.B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson (1864-1941), published 13 January 1894 in The Bulletin.
It lies beyond the Western Pines
Towards the sinking sun,
And not a survey mark defines
The bounds of “Brumby’s Run”.
On odds and ends of mountain land,
On tracks of range and rock
Where no one else can make a stand,
Old Brumby rears his stock.
A wild, unhandled lot they are
Of every shape and breed.
They venture out ‘neath moon and star
Along the flats to feed;
But when the dawn makes pink the sky
And steals along the plain,
The Brumby horses turn and fly
Towards the hills again.
The traveller by the mountain-track
May hear their hoof-beats pass,
And catch a glimpse of brown and black
Dim shadows on the grass.
The eager stockhorse pricks his ears
And lifts his head on high
In wild excitement when he hears
The Brumby mob go by.
Old Brumby asks no price or fee
O’er all his wide domains:
The man who yards his stock is free
To keep them for his pains.
So, off to scour the mountain-side
With eager eyes aglow,
To strongholds where the wild mobs hide
The gully-rakers go.
A rush of horses through the trees,
A red shirt making play;
A sound of stockwhips on the breeze,
They vanish far away!
Ah, me! before our day is done
To ride once more on Brumby’s Run
And yard his mob again.
We long with bitter pain
Andrew Barton ‘Banjo’ Paterson, was born on 17 February 1864, near Orange. He died on 5 February 1941, in Sydney. A.B. Paterson was a journalist, bush poet, lawyer and author. His early years were spent living on properties in NSW and he was familiar with the scenes that he later described in his bush ballads. He attended Sydney Grammar School, for a couple of years, leaving when he was 16. The library at that school was later named after him. Paterson was a law clerk at the firm Herbert Salwey and admitted to practise in 1886. His earliest poems were published in the Bulletin from when he was 21 years of age. Paterson often wrote using the pseudonym “the Banjo.” In the Second Boer War he was a war correspondent for the Sydney Morning Herald and the Age. He was the editor of the Sydney Evening News and the Sydney Sportsman. He was an ambulance driver, horse trainer, and commissioned as a Captain, and later promoted to Major during World War 1. He served in Egypt. later farmed 40,000 acres near Yass. His image is on the $10 note. In 1983 a recording by Slim Dusty of Paterson’s bush ballad, Waltzing Matilda, was beamed from the spaceship Columbia as it passed over Australia. His other best-known poems include Clancy of the Overflow and The Man from Snowy River.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banjo_Paterson
Johnny Cash sings Waltzing Matilda, words by A.B. Paterson,
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KL4v7UrqcF4
“Brumby’s Run, read by Alwyn Kurts, in “Banjo’s Australia - The Poems of A.B. Paterson”, 1987, narrated by Charles “Bud” Tingwell
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6FFShQpC11s
Tom Burlinson, reciting The Man from Snowy River by Banjo Paterson
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9YCa7YuYty0
Jack Thompson reciting Clancy of the Overflow by A.B. Paterson
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-s27QP0QGv0
Legal Diary, 1892, contained in the Papers of Andrew Barton ‘Banjo’ Paterson, 1807-1950, held at the National Library
https://nla.gov.au/nla.cat-vn8047102
By: A.B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson (1864-1941), published 13 January 1894 in The Bulletin.
It lies beyond the Western Pines
Towards the sinking sun,
And not a survey mark defines
The bounds of “Brumby’s Run”.
On odds and ends of mountain land,
On tracks of range and rock
Where no one else can make a stand,
Old Brumby rears his stock.
A wild, unhandled lot they are
Of every shape and breed.
They venture out ‘neath moon and star
Along the flats to feed;
But when the dawn makes pink the sky
And steals along the plain,
The Brumby horses turn and fly
Towards the hills again.
The traveller by the mountain-track
May hear their hoof-beats pass,
And catch a glimpse of brown and black
Dim shadows on the grass.
The eager stockhorse pricks his ears
And lifts his head on high
In wild excitement when he hears
The Brumby mob go by.
Old Brumby asks no price or fee
O’er all his wide domains:
The man who yards his stock is free
To keep them for his pains.
So, off to scour the mountain-side
With eager eyes aglow,
To strongholds where the wild mobs hide
The gully-rakers go.
A rush of horses through the trees,
A red shirt making play;
A sound of stockwhips on the breeze,
They vanish far away!
Ah, me! before our day is done
To ride once more on Brumby’s Run
And yard his mob again.
We long with bitter pain
Andrew Barton ‘Banjo’ Paterson, was born on 17 February 1864, near Orange. He died on 5 February 1941, in Sydney. A.B. Paterson was a journalist, bush poet, lawyer and author. His early years were spent living on properties in NSW and he was familiar with the scenes that he later described in his bush ballads. He attended Sydney Grammar School, for a couple of years, leaving when he was 16. The library at that school was later named after him. Paterson was a law clerk at the firm Herbert Salwey and admitted to practise in 1886. His earliest poems were published in the Bulletin from when he was 21 years of age. Paterson often wrote using the pseudonym “the Banjo.” In the Second Boer War he was a war correspondent for the Sydney Morning Herald and the Age. He was the editor of the Sydney Evening News and the Sydney Sportsman. He was an ambulance driver, horse trainer, and commissioned as a Captain, and later promoted to Major during World War 1. He served in Egypt. later farmed 40,000 acres near Yass. His image is on the $10 note. In 1983 a recording by Slim Dusty of Paterson’s bush ballad, Waltzing Matilda, was beamed from the spaceship Columbia as it passed over Australia. His other best-known poems include Clancy of the Overflow and The Man from Snowy River.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banjo_Paterson
Johnny Cash sings Waltzing Matilda, words by A.B. Paterson,
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KL4v7UrqcF4
“Brumby’s Run, read by Alwyn Kurts, in “Banjo’s Australia - The Poems of A.B. Paterson”, 1987, narrated by Charles “Bud” Tingwell
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6FFShQpC11s
Tom Burlinson, reciting The Man from Snowy River by Banjo Paterson
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9YCa7YuYty0
Jack Thompson reciting Clancy of the Overflow by A.B. Paterson
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-s27QP0QGv0
Legal Diary, 1892, contained in the Papers of Andrew Barton ‘Banjo’ Paterson, 1807-1950, held at the National Library
https://nla.gov.au/nla.cat-vn8047102
Winchester
(“Venta”)
By: Jane Austen (1775-1817)
When Winchester races first took their beginning
It is said the good people forgot their old Saint
Not applying at all for the leave of Saint. Swithin
And that William of Wykeham's approval was faint.
The races however were fix'd and determined
The company met & the weather was charming
The Lords & the Ladies were sattin'd & ermin'd
And nobody saw any future alarming.
But when the old Saint was inform'd of these doings
He made but one spring from his shrine to the roof
Of the Palace which now lies so sadly in ruins
And thus he address'd them all standing aloof.
Oh subject rebellious, Oh Venta depraved!
When once we are buried you think we are dead
But behold me Immortal. — By vice you're enslaved
You have sinn'd and must suffer. — Then further he said
These races & revels & dissolute measures
With which you're debasing a neighbourly Plain
Let them stand — you shall meet with a curse in your pleasures
Set off for your course, I'll pursue with my rain.
Ye cannot but know my command in July.
Henceforward I'll triumph in shewing my powers,
Shift your race as you will it shall never be dry
The curse upon Venta is July in showers.
Venta is the old Roman name for Winchester. St Swithin was the bishop of Winchester, who died in 862. William of Wykeham (1320 to 1404) was the founder of Winchester College and New College Oxford.
Jane Austen, an English novelist, was born on 16 December 1775 and died on 18 July 1817, three days after writing the Winchester poem, on St Swithin’s Day, which was also the day of the Winchester Races. When she wrote the poem she knew that she did not have long to live. She was the daughter of Rev. George Austin, and his wife Cassandra. Outside her family she was taught briefly at Abbey Boarding school in Reading, and in the home of Mrs Cawley. She wrote about 3,000 letters during her life, few of which survive. Between 1795 and 1799 she began writing Sense and Sensibility, (published 1811), Pride and Prejudice, (1813) and Northanger Abbey, (published posthumously in 1818). Her novels included Mansfield Park, (1814), Emma, (1815) and Persuasion, (1818). Jane Austen’s novels were perceptive, humorous, and insightful works of social realism and commentary. Sir Walter Scott wrote in 1826 that he 'Also read again and for the third time at least Miss Austen's very finely written novel of Pride and Prejudice”. His positive review of Emma had been published in 1816. https://www.jstor.org/stable/457636 Jane Austen’s books have remained in publication, translated into 35 languages, and inspired many adaptions, popular films and series. Jane Austin died in 1817, aged 41, after a year of ill health. She is buried at Winchester Cathedral. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jane_Austen
Emma Corrin, from The Crown, reads a letter from 13 year old Jane Austen, to the Editors of the magazine, The Loiterer.
The Crown's Emma Corrin reads a 13-year-old Jane Austen's letter - YouTube
Pride and Prejudice, radio play, NBC University Theatre, Broadcast 20 February 1949, starring Angela Lansbury as Elizabeth Bennet.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KigkdzujC74
Emma Thompson’s acceptance speech for Best Screenplay, for Sense and Sensibility, at the Golden Globes 1996, reading a letter, as if written by Jane Austen.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m-zuF_AWvN4
By: Jane Austen (1775-1817)
When Winchester races first took their beginning
It is said the good people forgot their old Saint
Not applying at all for the leave of Saint. Swithin
And that William of Wykeham's approval was faint.
The races however were fix'd and determined
The company met & the weather was charming
The Lords & the Ladies were sattin'd & ermin'd
And nobody saw any future alarming.
But when the old Saint was inform'd of these doings
He made but one spring from his shrine to the roof
Of the Palace which now lies so sadly in ruins
And thus he address'd them all standing aloof.
Oh subject rebellious, Oh Venta depraved!
When once we are buried you think we are dead
But behold me Immortal. — By vice you're enslaved
You have sinn'd and must suffer. — Then further he said
These races & revels & dissolute measures
With which you're debasing a neighbourly Plain
Let them stand — you shall meet with a curse in your pleasures
Set off for your course, I'll pursue with my rain.
Ye cannot but know my command in July.
Henceforward I'll triumph in shewing my powers,
Shift your race as you will it shall never be dry
The curse upon Venta is July in showers.
Venta is the old Roman name for Winchester. St Swithin was the bishop of Winchester, who died in 862. William of Wykeham (1320 to 1404) was the founder of Winchester College and New College Oxford.
Jane Austen, an English novelist, was born on 16 December 1775 and died on 18 July 1817, three days after writing the Winchester poem, on St Swithin’s Day, which was also the day of the Winchester Races. When she wrote the poem she knew that she did not have long to live. She was the daughter of Rev. George Austin, and his wife Cassandra. Outside her family she was taught briefly at Abbey Boarding school in Reading, and in the home of Mrs Cawley. She wrote about 3,000 letters during her life, few of which survive. Between 1795 and 1799 she began writing Sense and Sensibility, (published 1811), Pride and Prejudice, (1813) and Northanger Abbey, (published posthumously in 1818). Her novels included Mansfield Park, (1814), Emma, (1815) and Persuasion, (1818). Jane Austen’s novels were perceptive, humorous, and insightful works of social realism and commentary. Sir Walter Scott wrote in 1826 that he 'Also read again and for the third time at least Miss Austen's very finely written novel of Pride and Prejudice”. His positive review of Emma had been published in 1816. https://www.jstor.org/stable/457636 Jane Austen’s books have remained in publication, translated into 35 languages, and inspired many adaptions, popular films and series. Jane Austin died in 1817, aged 41, after a year of ill health. She is buried at Winchester Cathedral. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jane_Austen
Emma Corrin, from The Crown, reads a letter from 13 year old Jane Austen, to the Editors of the magazine, The Loiterer.
The Crown's Emma Corrin reads a 13-year-old Jane Austen's letter - YouTube
Pride and Prejudice, radio play, NBC University Theatre, Broadcast 20 February 1949, starring Angela Lansbury as Elizabeth Bennet.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KigkdzujC74
Emma Thompson’s acceptance speech for Best Screenplay, for Sense and Sensibility, at the Golden Globes 1996, reading a letter, as if written by Jane Austen.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m-zuF_AWvN4
The Waves (Extracts)
By: Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)
Heaven be praised for solitude! I am alone now.
That almost unknown person has gone,
to catch some train, to take some cab,
to go to some place or person whom I do not know.
The face looking at me has gone.
The pressure is removed.
Here are empty coffee-cups.
Here are chairs turned but nobody sits on them.
Here are empty tables and nobody any more coming to dine at them to-night.
Let me now raise my song of glory.
Heaven be praised for solitude.
Let me be alone.
Let me cast and throw away this veil of being,
this cloud that changes with the least breath, night and day, and all night and all day.
While I sat here I have been changing.
I have watched the sky change.
I have seen clouds cover the stars,
then free the stars, then cover the stars again.
Now I look at their changing no more.
Now no one sees me and I change no more.
Heaven be praised for solitude that has
removed the pressure of the eye,
the solicitation of the body,
and all need of lies and phrases.
My book, stuffed with phrases, has dropped to the floor.
It lies under the table, to be swept up by the
charwoman when she comes wearily at dawn
looking for scraps of paper, old tram tickets,
and here and there a note screwed into a ball
and left with the litter to be swept up.
What is the phrase for the moon? And the phrase for love?
By what name are we to call death? I do not know.
I need a little language such as lovers use,
words of one syllable such as children speak
when they come into the room and find their mother sewing and pick up some scrap of bright wool, a feather, or a shred of chintz.
I need a howl; a cry.
When the storm crosses the marsh and
sweeps over me where I
lie in the ditch unregarded I need no words.
Nothing neat.
Nothing that comes down with all its feet on the floor.
None of those resonances and lovely echoes
that break and chime from nerve to nerve in our breasts,
making wild music, false phrases.
I have done with phrases.
How much better is silence;
the coffee-cup, the table.
How much better to sit by myself
like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake.
Let me sit here for ever with bare things,
this coffee-cup, this knife, this fork,
things in themselves,
myself being myself.
Do not come and worry me with your hints
that it is time to shut the shop and be gone.
I would willingly give all my money that you should
not disturb me but will let me sit on and on,
silent, alone.
Adeline Virginia Woolf, was born 25 January 1882, in London, and died 28 March 1941, at Lewes, England. She was one of the greatest writers of modern times. Woolf was home schooled, and then attended the Ladies’ Department of Kings College, London. She worked as a professional writer from 1900. With her husband Leonard Woolf, they formed the Hogarth Press. She was a member of the Bloomsbury Group. Woof’s famous works included the novels Mrs Dalloway, published in 1925, To the Lighthouse, published in 1927, Orlando published in 1928, and her work, A Room of One's Own, published in 1929. She was affected by mental illness, episodically throughout her life, and died aged 59 by drowning herself in the River Ouse at Lewes.
Joanna Lumley reads Vita Sackville-West’s letter to Virginia Woolf.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_7-7tGMMzdc
Juliet Stevenson reads the suicide note of Virginia Woolf
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ze0p4kDqHE
Royal Ballet, Woolf Works
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=otgRonIR1Ic
By: Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)
Heaven be praised for solitude! I am alone now.
That almost unknown person has gone,
to catch some train, to take some cab,
to go to some place or person whom I do not know.
The face looking at me has gone.
The pressure is removed.
Here are empty coffee-cups.
Here are chairs turned but nobody sits on them.
Here are empty tables and nobody any more coming to dine at them to-night.
Let me now raise my song of glory.
Heaven be praised for solitude.
Let me be alone.
Let me cast and throw away this veil of being,
this cloud that changes with the least breath, night and day, and all night and all day.
While I sat here I have been changing.
I have watched the sky change.
I have seen clouds cover the stars,
then free the stars, then cover the stars again.
Now I look at their changing no more.
Now no one sees me and I change no more.
Heaven be praised for solitude that has
removed the pressure of the eye,
the solicitation of the body,
and all need of lies and phrases.
My book, stuffed with phrases, has dropped to the floor.
It lies under the table, to be swept up by the
charwoman when she comes wearily at dawn
looking for scraps of paper, old tram tickets,
and here and there a note screwed into a ball
and left with the litter to be swept up.
What is the phrase for the moon? And the phrase for love?
By what name are we to call death? I do not know.
I need a little language such as lovers use,
words of one syllable such as children speak
when they come into the room and find their mother sewing and pick up some scrap of bright wool, a feather, or a shred of chintz.
I need a howl; a cry.
When the storm crosses the marsh and
sweeps over me where I
lie in the ditch unregarded I need no words.
Nothing neat.
Nothing that comes down with all its feet on the floor.
None of those resonances and lovely echoes
that break and chime from nerve to nerve in our breasts,
making wild music, false phrases.
I have done with phrases.
How much better is silence;
the coffee-cup, the table.
How much better to sit by myself
like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake.
Let me sit here for ever with bare things,
this coffee-cup, this knife, this fork,
things in themselves,
myself being myself.
Do not come and worry me with your hints
that it is time to shut the shop and be gone.
I would willingly give all my money that you should
not disturb me but will let me sit on and on,
silent, alone.
Adeline Virginia Woolf, was born 25 January 1882, in London, and died 28 March 1941, at Lewes, England. She was one of the greatest writers of modern times. Woolf was home schooled, and then attended the Ladies’ Department of Kings College, London. She worked as a professional writer from 1900. With her husband Leonard Woolf, they formed the Hogarth Press. She was a member of the Bloomsbury Group. Woof’s famous works included the novels Mrs Dalloway, published in 1925, To the Lighthouse, published in 1927, Orlando published in 1928, and her work, A Room of One's Own, published in 1929. She was affected by mental illness, episodically throughout her life, and died aged 59 by drowning herself in the River Ouse at Lewes.
Joanna Lumley reads Vita Sackville-West’s letter to Virginia Woolf.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_7-7tGMMzdc
Juliet Stevenson reads the suicide note of Virginia Woolf
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ze0p4kDqHE
Royal Ballet, Woolf Works
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=otgRonIR1Ic
Untitled (a poem from prison)
By: Manwel Dimech (1860 – 1921)
Ease me of this burden, Lord;
Bid this body leave me free.
Why should I be pained and bored?
Why should I be far from thee?
Flesh and bones I left behind me,
Then why say you that I’m dead?
When I left that heavy burden
From the land of death I fled.
Manwel Dimech (born 25 December 1860, Valletta, Malta, died 17 April, 1921, Alexandria, Egypt) was a Maltese writer, political activist, philosopher. He had no formal education and lived on the streets from an early age. He was first arrested at age 13, for theft, within days of his father’s death. Dimech served nine further prison sentences, including 12 years, commencing in 1878 from the age of 17 for involuntary murder, and a further 7 years commencing in 1890 for forgery of currency. By the age of 36 he had spent 20 years of his life in gaol. He learned to read and write in gaol. His periods of incarceration included 7 years when the Commission of Prisons was the Marquis Giorgio Barbaro, (serving from 1890 to 1897), known as a psychopath, who tortured prisoners and was responsible for the murder of prisoners, two of whom were hung, on the basis of the perjured evidence of Barbaro. This experience deeply influenced Dimech. Dimech was an avid reader, self-taught in gaol, and was also self-taught in English, French, Italian and Maltese, languages which he later taught for a living. He was a philosopher, and was well travelled. He was deported from Malta in 1914, and accused of being a spy. His last years were spent incarcerated in prisons and concentration camps in Cairo and Alexandria. He was buried in an unmarked grave. Much of his work was lost, including his volumes of poetry. However, in the 1960s and 1970s there was renewed interest in his life and he received national recognition by the President of Malta in November 2012.
By: Manwel Dimech (1860 – 1921)
Ease me of this burden, Lord;
Bid this body leave me free.
Why should I be pained and bored?
Why should I be far from thee?
Flesh and bones I left behind me,
Then why say you that I’m dead?
When I left that heavy burden
From the land of death I fled.
Manwel Dimech (born 25 December 1860, Valletta, Malta, died 17 April, 1921, Alexandria, Egypt) was a Maltese writer, political activist, philosopher. He had no formal education and lived on the streets from an early age. He was first arrested at age 13, for theft, within days of his father’s death. Dimech served nine further prison sentences, including 12 years, commencing in 1878 from the age of 17 for involuntary murder, and a further 7 years commencing in 1890 for forgery of currency. By the age of 36 he had spent 20 years of his life in gaol. He learned to read and write in gaol. His periods of incarceration included 7 years when the Commission of Prisons was the Marquis Giorgio Barbaro, (serving from 1890 to 1897), known as a psychopath, who tortured prisoners and was responsible for the murder of prisoners, two of whom were hung, on the basis of the perjured evidence of Barbaro. This experience deeply influenced Dimech. Dimech was an avid reader, self-taught in gaol, and was also self-taught in English, French, Italian and Maltese, languages which he later taught for a living. He was a philosopher, and was well travelled. He was deported from Malta in 1914, and accused of being a spy. His last years were spent incarcerated in prisons and concentration camps in Cairo and Alexandria. He was buried in an unmarked grave. Much of his work was lost, including his volumes of poetry. However, in the 1960s and 1970s there was renewed interest in his life and he received national recognition by the President of Malta in November 2012.
If you love for
beauty
(Liebst du um Schönheit)
By: Friedrich Ruckert (1788 – 1866)
If you love for beauty,
Oh, do not love me!
Love the sun,
She has golden hair!
If you love for youth,
Oh, do not love me!
Love the spring;
It is young every year!
If you love for treasure,
Oh, do not love me!
Love the mermaid;
She has many clear pearls!
If you love for love,
Oh yes, do love me!
Love me ever,
I'll love you evermore!
***
Liebst du um Schönheit,
O nicht mich liebe!
Liebe die Sonne,
Sie trägt ein gold'nes Haar!
Liebst du um Jugend,
O nicht mich liebe!
Liebe den Frühling,
Der jung ist jedes Jahr!
Liebst du um Schätze,
O nicht mich liebe.
Liebe die Meerfrau,
Sie hat viel Perlen klar.
Liebst du um Liebe,
O ja, mich liebe!
Liebe mich immer,
Dich lieb' ich immerdar.
(translation by David Kenneth Smith)
Dame Janet Baker, mezzo-soprano, born 21 August 1933, sings Mahler: Ruckert-Lieder, “Liebst du um Schonheit”, with the New Philharmonia, 1969, conductor John Barbirolli, orchestral arrangement by Max Puttman https://youtu.be/UnAcHqOIFLM at 10:14. Janet Baker - Wikipedia
Jessye Norman, 15 September 1945 – 30 September 2019, American opera singer, sings Gustav Mahler, “Liebst du um Schonheit”, Ruckert Lieder, 1969 https://youtu.be/lERHv70QJ1A Jessye Norman - Wikipedia
Paul Rowe Barritone sings Mahler: Ruckert-Lieder- “Liebst du um Schonheit”, Kenneth Woods conductor, UW-Madison Symphony Mahler- Ruckert Lieder. Um Mittrernacht. Paul Rowe, baritone, Kenneth Woods, conductor - YouTube
Joann Michael Friedrich Ruckert, born 16 May 1788, at Schweinfurt, died 31 January 1866, at Neuses, now part of Coburg, Germany. He was the eldest son of a lawyer. He was a gifted, largely self-taught linguist and translator and poet, and Professor. He mastered 30 languages. His poetic work inspired composers. There are 121 musical settings of his works, including from Mahler, Schubert, Clara and Robert Schumann, Bartok, Brahms and Strauss. Mahler composed the lieder “Liebst du um Schonheit” for his bride Alma Schindler, his sole love song. In 1834, on the death of his two children he wrote Kindertotenlieder “Songs on the Deaths of Children”, which, in 1902, was set to music by Gustav Mahler.
(Liebst du um Schönheit)
By: Friedrich Ruckert (1788 – 1866)
If you love for beauty,
Oh, do not love me!
Love the sun,
She has golden hair!
If you love for youth,
Oh, do not love me!
Love the spring;
It is young every year!
If you love for treasure,
Oh, do not love me!
Love the mermaid;
She has many clear pearls!
If you love for love,
Oh yes, do love me!
Love me ever,
I'll love you evermore!
***
Liebst du um Schönheit,
O nicht mich liebe!
Liebe die Sonne,
Sie trägt ein gold'nes Haar!
Liebst du um Jugend,
O nicht mich liebe!
Liebe den Frühling,
Der jung ist jedes Jahr!
Liebst du um Schätze,
O nicht mich liebe.
Liebe die Meerfrau,
Sie hat viel Perlen klar.
Liebst du um Liebe,
O ja, mich liebe!
Liebe mich immer,
Dich lieb' ich immerdar.
(translation by David Kenneth Smith)
Dame Janet Baker, mezzo-soprano, born 21 August 1933, sings Mahler: Ruckert-Lieder, “Liebst du um Schonheit”, with the New Philharmonia, 1969, conductor John Barbirolli, orchestral arrangement by Max Puttman https://youtu.be/UnAcHqOIFLM at 10:14. Janet Baker - Wikipedia
Jessye Norman, 15 September 1945 – 30 September 2019, American opera singer, sings Gustav Mahler, “Liebst du um Schonheit”, Ruckert Lieder, 1969 https://youtu.be/lERHv70QJ1A Jessye Norman - Wikipedia
Paul Rowe Barritone sings Mahler: Ruckert-Lieder- “Liebst du um Schonheit”, Kenneth Woods conductor, UW-Madison Symphony Mahler- Ruckert Lieder. Um Mittrernacht. Paul Rowe, baritone, Kenneth Woods, conductor - YouTube
Joann Michael Friedrich Ruckert, born 16 May 1788, at Schweinfurt, died 31 January 1866, at Neuses, now part of Coburg, Germany. He was the eldest son of a lawyer. He was a gifted, largely self-taught linguist and translator and poet, and Professor. He mastered 30 languages. His poetic work inspired composers. There are 121 musical settings of his works, including from Mahler, Schubert, Clara and Robert Schumann, Bartok, Brahms and Strauss. Mahler composed the lieder “Liebst du um Schonheit” for his bride Alma Schindler, his sole love song. In 1834, on the death of his two children he wrote Kindertotenlieder “Songs on the Deaths of Children”, which, in 1902, was set to music by Gustav Mahler.
We never
know how high we are (1176)
By: Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886)
We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skies—
The Heroism we recite
Would be a daily thing,
Did not ourselves the Cubits warp
For fear to be a King—
Emily Dickson (10 December 1830 - 15 May 1886), one of America’s greatest poets, grew up in Massachusetts, in a Calvinist household, the daughter of a US Senator. She was reclusive, and eventually would only speak to guests through a closed door. She isolated herself, opening her mind to her inner experiences, without the disturbances and interference of usual social interactions. She once described her life as “still- Volcano- Life”. Only 10 of her poems were published during her lifetime. “We never know how high we are” was said to have been written in about 1871 on the back of a milk bill. Her last words, written to her niece, before her death were: “I must go in, the fog is rising”. After her death, her sister Vinnie, instructed to burn her letters, came across a box of 1,700 poems which she later gave to a family friend. The poems were published with assistance from Emily Dickinson’s lifelong friend, Terrence Higginson.
We never know how high we are, sung by Studentvenvrouwenkoor https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PHxdpDP8qMs commencing at 2:09
By: Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886)
We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skies—
The Heroism we recite
Would be a daily thing,
Did not ourselves the Cubits warp
For fear to be a King—
Emily Dickson (10 December 1830 - 15 May 1886), one of America’s greatest poets, grew up in Massachusetts, in a Calvinist household, the daughter of a US Senator. She was reclusive, and eventually would only speak to guests through a closed door. She isolated herself, opening her mind to her inner experiences, without the disturbances and interference of usual social interactions. She once described her life as “still- Volcano- Life”. Only 10 of her poems were published during her lifetime. “We never know how high we are” was said to have been written in about 1871 on the back of a milk bill. Her last words, written to her niece, before her death were: “I must go in, the fog is rising”. After her death, her sister Vinnie, instructed to burn her letters, came across a box of 1,700 poems which she later gave to a family friend. The poems were published with assistance from Emily Dickinson’s lifelong friend, Terrence Higginson.
We never know how high we are, sung by Studentvenvrouwenkoor https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PHxdpDP8qMs commencing at 2:09
Fantasy
By: Gérard De Nerval
Translated by Toru Dutt, 1876
There is an air for which I'd freely change
All Weber's, Mozart's, and Rossini's spells:
An old, old air, that of some sorrow tells -
Sad, fascinating, endless, weird, and strange,
Each time I hear that air my soul is borne
Back through the vista of two hundred years:
Reigns 'Louis Treize' - and in my sight appears
A hill-side green, where fading sunbeams mourn.
Then suddenly a noble castle towers -
Brick, with stone fretwork, and red glass that glows,
Girt by a park, through which a river flows,
Bent over by innumerable ferns and flowers.
And then a lady at a window high,
Fair, with dark eyes, in which a tear I trace -
Oh, is it in my dreams I've seen that face?
Or have I ever lived in times gone by?
Gérard de Nerval was the pen name of the French writer, poet, and translator Gérard Labrunie, a major figure of French romanticism, best known for his novellas and poems, especially the collection Les Filles du feu (The Daughters of Fire), which included the novella Sylvie and the poem "El Desdichado". Through his translations, Nerval played a major role in introducing French readers to the works of German Romantic authors, including Klopstock, Schiller, Bürger and Goethe. His later work merged poetry and journalism in a fictional context and influenced Marcel Proust. His last novella, Aurélia, influenced André Breton and Surrealism.
By: Gérard De Nerval
Translated by Toru Dutt, 1876
There is an air for which I'd freely change
All Weber's, Mozart's, and Rossini's spells:
An old, old air, that of some sorrow tells -
Sad, fascinating, endless, weird, and strange,
Each time I hear that air my soul is borne
Back through the vista of two hundred years:
Reigns 'Louis Treize' - and in my sight appears
A hill-side green, where fading sunbeams mourn.
Then suddenly a noble castle towers -
Brick, with stone fretwork, and red glass that glows,
Girt by a park, through which a river flows,
Bent over by innumerable ferns and flowers.
And then a lady at a window high,
Fair, with dark eyes, in which a tear I trace -
Oh, is it in my dreams I've seen that face?
Or have I ever lived in times gone by?
Gérard de Nerval was the pen name of the French writer, poet, and translator Gérard Labrunie, a major figure of French romanticism, best known for his novellas and poems, especially the collection Les Filles du feu (The Daughters of Fire), which included the novella Sylvie and the poem "El Desdichado". Through his translations, Nerval played a major role in introducing French readers to the works of German Romantic authors, including Klopstock, Schiller, Bürger and Goethe. His later work merged poetry and journalism in a fictional context and influenced Marcel Proust. His last novella, Aurélia, influenced André Breton and Surrealism.
Lay of the Harper
from the tomb of King Intef (c 2000 B.C.E.)
Fortunate is this prince,
For happy was his fate, and happy his ending.
One generation passes away and the next remains,
Ever since the time of those of old.
The gods who existed before me rest now in their tombs,
And the blessed nobles also are buried in their tombs.
But as for these builders of tombs,
Their places are no more.
What has become of them?
I have heard the words of Imhotep and Hardedef
Whose maxims are repeated intact as proverbs.
But what of their places?
Their walls are in ruins,
And their places are no more,
As if they had never existed.
There is no one who returns from beyond
That he may tell of their state,
That he may tell of their lot,
That he may set our hearts at ease
Until we make our journey
To the place where they have gone.
So rejoice your heart!
Absence of care is good for you;
Follow your heart as long as you live.
Put myrrh on your head,
Dress yourself in fine linen,
Anoint yourself with exquisite oils
Which are only for the gods.
Let your pleasures increase,
And let not your heart grow weary.
Follow your heart and your happiness,
Conduct your affairs on earth as your heart dictates,
For that day of mourning will surely come for you.
The Weary-Hearted does not hear their lamentations,
And their weeping does not rescue a man's heart from the grave.
Enjoy pleasant times,
And do not weary thereof.
Behold, it is not given to any man to take his belongings with him,
Behold, there is no one departed who will return again.
Harper’s Songs, are Egyptian Tomb Songs, inscribed on the walls of the Egyptian tombs, usually next to an image or effigy of a blind may playing a harp. They were recorded in a plain form as early as the Old Kingdom, (c. 2613-2181 BCE), but developed during the Middle Kingdom (c.2040-1782 BCE). The Harper was to sing the lyrics at funeral feasts in the tomb to honour the dead. The Lay of the Harper, in the tomb of King Intef, encouraged people to enjoy life, and was sceptical of an afterlife. The traditional view of death was that it was merely a transition of the soul on its journey to the next stage of an eternal life. These later Harper’s Songs, particularly from the period of the Middle Kingdom, spoke of death as being a new beginning.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harper%27s_Songs
Harper's song sung in Spanish by Macarena Fajardo Vicente-Ortega, https://soundcloud.com/macarena-fajardo-vicente-ortega/papiro-harris-500
from the tomb of King Intef (c 2000 B.C.E.)
Fortunate is this prince,
For happy was his fate, and happy his ending.
One generation passes away and the next remains,
Ever since the time of those of old.
The gods who existed before me rest now in their tombs,
And the blessed nobles also are buried in their tombs.
But as for these builders of tombs,
Their places are no more.
What has become of them?
I have heard the words of Imhotep and Hardedef
Whose maxims are repeated intact as proverbs.
But what of their places?
Their walls are in ruins,
And their places are no more,
As if they had never existed.
There is no one who returns from beyond
That he may tell of their state,
That he may tell of their lot,
That he may set our hearts at ease
Until we make our journey
To the place where they have gone.
So rejoice your heart!
Absence of care is good for you;
Follow your heart as long as you live.
Put myrrh on your head,
Dress yourself in fine linen,
Anoint yourself with exquisite oils
Which are only for the gods.
Let your pleasures increase,
And let not your heart grow weary.
Follow your heart and your happiness,
Conduct your affairs on earth as your heart dictates,
For that day of mourning will surely come for you.
The Weary-Hearted does not hear their lamentations,
And their weeping does not rescue a man's heart from the grave.
Enjoy pleasant times,
And do not weary thereof.
Behold, it is not given to any man to take his belongings with him,
Behold, there is no one departed who will return again.
Harper’s Songs, are Egyptian Tomb Songs, inscribed on the walls of the Egyptian tombs, usually next to an image or effigy of a blind may playing a harp. They were recorded in a plain form as early as the Old Kingdom, (c. 2613-2181 BCE), but developed during the Middle Kingdom (c.2040-1782 BCE). The Harper was to sing the lyrics at funeral feasts in the tomb to honour the dead. The Lay of the Harper, in the tomb of King Intef, encouraged people to enjoy life, and was sceptical of an afterlife. The traditional view of death was that it was merely a transition of the soul on its journey to the next stage of an eternal life. These later Harper’s Songs, particularly from the period of the Middle Kingdom, spoke of death as being a new beginning.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harper%27s_Songs
Harper's song sung in Spanish by Macarena Fajardo Vicente-Ortega, https://soundcloud.com/macarena-fajardo-vicente-ortega/papiro-harris-500
What Will the New Year Bring?
By: Cui Tu (born ca.854)
Farther and farther from the three Ba Roads,
I have come three thousand miles, anxious and watchful,
Through pale snow-patches in the jagged night-mountains -
A stranger with a lonely lantern shaken in the wind.
. . . Separation from my kin
Binds me closer to my servants -
Yet how I dread, so far adrift,
New Year's Day, tomorrow morning!
Cui Tu, was born ca.854 towards the end of the Tang Dynasty. There is very little information on his life. It is suggested that Cui Tu was born south of the Yangtze River, in Jiangna, and that he passed the civil service exam in 888. “Thoughts on New Years Eve” or “What Will the New Year Bring?” was one of two poems, written by Cui Tu, included in the anthology Three Hundred Tang Poems, first compiled around 1763. The State of Ba was east of the Sichuan area in this period. The road to Ba was considered a long and difficult road of travel into exile.
By: Cui Tu (born ca.854)
Farther and farther from the three Ba Roads,
I have come three thousand miles, anxious and watchful,
Through pale snow-patches in the jagged night-mountains -
A stranger with a lonely lantern shaken in the wind.
. . . Separation from my kin
Binds me closer to my servants -
Yet how I dread, so far adrift,
New Year's Day, tomorrow morning!
Cui Tu, was born ca.854 towards the end of the Tang Dynasty. There is very little information on his life. It is suggested that Cui Tu was born south of the Yangtze River, in Jiangna, and that he passed the civil service exam in 888. “Thoughts on New Years Eve” or “What Will the New Year Bring?” was one of two poems, written by Cui Tu, included in the anthology Three Hundred Tang Poems, first compiled around 1763. The State of Ba was east of the Sichuan area in this period. The road to Ba was considered a long and difficult road of travel into exile.
The Oxen
By: Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
“Now they are all on their knees,â€
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.
We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.
So fair a fancy few would weave
In these years! Yet, I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
“Come; see the oxen kneel,
“In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,â€
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.
Thomas Hardy OM (2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928) was an English novelist and poet. His well-known novels include Far from the Madding Crowd, and Tess of the d’Urbervilles. His poetry has been set to music by Ralph Vaughan Williams and Benjamin Britten and other notable composers. Hardy’s wavering and changing beliefs in God, faith, an after-life, supernatural forces, and the powers of spiritualists have been the subject of much debate. When asked, by Dr Grosart, how he could reconcile the horrors experienced by humans and animals with the absolute goodness of an all-powerful God, Hardy responded: “Mr. Hardy regrets that he is unable to offer any hypothesis which would reconcile the existence of such evils as Dr.Grosart describes with the idea of omnipotent goodness. Perhaps Dr.Grosart might be helped to a provisional view of the universe by the recently published Life of Darwin and the works of Herbert Spencer and other agnostics.â€
The poem, The Oxen, was published Christmas Eve, 1915, in The Times, during the First World War. The poem refers, in part, to an early belief, that on Christmas eve, each year, stock would kneel in reverence and homage to Jesus. A “barton†is a reference to a farm building, and a “coomb†is a word used to describe a small valley.
Winter Words, Op 52, (1953) composed by Benjamin Britten, sets eight poems by Thomas Hardy, to the composition for tenor voice and piano. “Winter Wordsâ€, played by Benjamin Britten and sung by Peter Pears
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3PSrFPLGwlU
By: Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
“Now they are all on their knees,â€
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.
We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.
So fair a fancy few would weave
In these years! Yet, I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
“Come; see the oxen kneel,
“In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,â€
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.
Thomas Hardy OM (2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928) was an English novelist and poet. His well-known novels include Far from the Madding Crowd, and Tess of the d’Urbervilles. His poetry has been set to music by Ralph Vaughan Williams and Benjamin Britten and other notable composers. Hardy’s wavering and changing beliefs in God, faith, an after-life, supernatural forces, and the powers of spiritualists have been the subject of much debate. When asked, by Dr Grosart, how he could reconcile the horrors experienced by humans and animals with the absolute goodness of an all-powerful God, Hardy responded: “Mr. Hardy regrets that he is unable to offer any hypothesis which would reconcile the existence of such evils as Dr.Grosart describes with the idea of omnipotent goodness. Perhaps Dr.Grosart might be helped to a provisional view of the universe by the recently published Life of Darwin and the works of Herbert Spencer and other agnostics.â€
The poem, The Oxen, was published Christmas Eve, 1915, in The Times, during the First World War. The poem refers, in part, to an early belief, that on Christmas eve, each year, stock would kneel in reverence and homage to Jesus. A “barton†is a reference to a farm building, and a “coomb†is a word used to describe a small valley.
Winter Words, Op 52, (1953) composed by Benjamin Britten, sets eight poems by Thomas Hardy, to the composition for tenor voice and piano. “Winter Wordsâ€, played by Benjamin Britten and sung by Peter Pears
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3PSrFPLGwlU
The Image
By: Anna de Noailles (1876-1933), translated by Jethro Bithell
Poor fawn in a dying trance,
In thy glazing eye-balls reflect me,
And make my memory dance
With the wraiths that now expect thee. Say to the dead that muse
On the days when they were sprightly,
I sit and dream of them nightly
In the shadow of the yews. Praise my forehead wimpled,
And narrow mouth as well;
Tell them my fingers are dimpled,
And of grass and privet smell; That my movements are unencumbered
As the shadows never at ease,
Which the living leaves unnumbered
Poise in the apple-trees. Tell them my eyelids grow heavy
At times with a pain that hurts,
That I dance at eve with a bevy
Of maidens with wind-lifted skirts. Tell them I sleep with my head on
My naked arms that I fold,
That my veins are a violet thread on
A cushion of flesh and gold. Tell them how blue my hair is,
Like plums that will tumble soon,
That my feet are mirrors for fairies,
That my eyes have the colours of the moon, And say that in nights of yearning,
By fountains as I pace,
For their tender love I am burning,
And their futile ghosts embrace.
Anna de Noailles, born Princess Anna Elisabeth Bibesco-Bassaraba De Brancovan (15 November 1876 – 30 April 1933) was a French writer, poet, socialist and feminist. She was of Romanian and Greek descent. With her brother Constantin and sister Helene she was brought up in privilege and educated at home. Her father died when she was 10 years old. She was a contemporary and friend of Marcel Proust, Colette, Jean Cocteau, Max Jacob and the literary elite of the period. Due to lifelong ill health she was confined mainly to her bedroom from about 1911, receiving her guests and writing in her small room. In 1921 she received the Grand Prix de Littérature of the Academie Francaise. De Noaille was the first woman to be received into the Royal Belgian Academy of French Language and Literature in 1922. In 1931, she was the first woman to become a Commander of the Legion of Honor. https://www.annadenoailles.org/
The Image, read by Richard Mitchley
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_NUTbyhOoOw
By: Anna de Noailles (1876-1933), translated by Jethro Bithell
Poor fawn in a dying trance,
In thy glazing eye-balls reflect me,
And make my memory dance
With the wraiths that now expect thee. Say to the dead that muse
On the days when they were sprightly,
I sit and dream of them nightly
In the shadow of the yews. Praise my forehead wimpled,
And narrow mouth as well;
Tell them my fingers are dimpled,
And of grass and privet smell; That my movements are unencumbered
As the shadows never at ease,
Which the living leaves unnumbered
Poise in the apple-trees. Tell them my eyelids grow heavy
At times with a pain that hurts,
That I dance at eve with a bevy
Of maidens with wind-lifted skirts. Tell them I sleep with my head on
My naked arms that I fold,
That my veins are a violet thread on
A cushion of flesh and gold. Tell them how blue my hair is,
Like plums that will tumble soon,
That my feet are mirrors for fairies,
That my eyes have the colours of the moon, And say that in nights of yearning,
By fountains as I pace,
For their tender love I am burning,
And their futile ghosts embrace.
Anna de Noailles, born Princess Anna Elisabeth Bibesco-Bassaraba De Brancovan (15 November 1876 – 30 April 1933) was a French writer, poet, socialist and feminist. She was of Romanian and Greek descent. With her brother Constantin and sister Helene she was brought up in privilege and educated at home. Her father died when she was 10 years old. She was a contemporary and friend of Marcel Proust, Colette, Jean Cocteau, Max Jacob and the literary elite of the period. Due to lifelong ill health she was confined mainly to her bedroom from about 1911, receiving her guests and writing in her small room. In 1921 she received the Grand Prix de Littérature of the Academie Francaise. De Noaille was the first woman to be received into the Royal Belgian Academy of French Language and Literature in 1922. In 1931, she was the first woman to become a Commander of the Legion of Honor. https://www.annadenoailles.org/
The Image, read by Richard Mitchley
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_NUTbyhOoOw
The Instinct
of Hope
By: John Clare (1793 - 1864)
Is there another world for this frail dust
To warm with life and be itself again?
Something about me daily speaks there must,
And why should instinct nourish hopes in vain?
’Tis nature’s prophesy that such will be,
And everything seems struggling to explain
The close sealed volume of its mystery.
Time wandering onward keeps its usual pace
As seeming anxious of eternity,
To meet that calm and find a resting place.
E’en the small violet feels a future power
And waits each year renewing blooms to bring,
And surely man is no inferior flower
To die unworthy of a second spring?
John Clare, (13 July 1793 – 20 May 1864, Northamptonshire, England), the son of an illiterate farm labourer, grew up in poverty, and malnutrition, attending school for a few months each year until the age of 12. He worked as a farm labourer as a child, and then as a potboy at a public house, gardener, plougher, member of the militia, and lime burner. He was inspired by reading James Thomson’s The Seasons to write poems and sonnets. His favourite books were Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe, and Izaak Walton’s The Compleat Angler. His first book, Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery was published in 1820. Despite his early success, supported by benefactors, he fell back into depression, poverty, and alcoholism, and was voluntarily admitted to High Beach Asylum, where he continued to write and publish poetry, until his death, following a stroke, on 20 May 1886. He was described as a “poetical geniusâ€. His gravestone bears these inscriptions: “The Northamptonshire Peasant Poet†and “a Poet is Born not Madeâ€. His work became widely read from the mid 20th century.
John Clare - Wikipedia
“First Love’s Recollectionsâ€, by John Clare, read by Toby Jones
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n9DjKQ0vI-g
“Shepherds almost wonder†by John Clare, read by Toby Jones
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U5EIyY9TXqE
By: John Clare (1793 - 1864)
Is there another world for this frail dust
To warm with life and be itself again?
Something about me daily speaks there must,
And why should instinct nourish hopes in vain?
’Tis nature’s prophesy that such will be,
And everything seems struggling to explain
The close sealed volume of its mystery.
Time wandering onward keeps its usual pace
As seeming anxious of eternity,
To meet that calm and find a resting place.
E’en the small violet feels a future power
And waits each year renewing blooms to bring,
And surely man is no inferior flower
To die unworthy of a second spring?
John Clare, (13 July 1793 – 20 May 1864, Northamptonshire, England), the son of an illiterate farm labourer, grew up in poverty, and malnutrition, attending school for a few months each year until the age of 12. He worked as a farm labourer as a child, and then as a potboy at a public house, gardener, plougher, member of the militia, and lime burner. He was inspired by reading James Thomson’s The Seasons to write poems and sonnets. His favourite books were Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe, and Izaak Walton’s The Compleat Angler. His first book, Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery was published in 1820. Despite his early success, supported by benefactors, he fell back into depression, poverty, and alcoholism, and was voluntarily admitted to High Beach Asylum, where he continued to write and publish poetry, until his death, following a stroke, on 20 May 1886. He was described as a “poetical geniusâ€. His gravestone bears these inscriptions: “The Northamptonshire Peasant Poet†and “a Poet is Born not Madeâ€. His work became widely read from the mid 20th century.
John Clare - Wikipedia
“First Love’s Recollectionsâ€, by John Clare, read by Toby Jones
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n9DjKQ0vI-g
“Shepherds almost wonder†by John Clare, read by Toby Jones
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U5EIyY9TXqE
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 Infants cry of fear,
In every voice: in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear
How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackning Church appalls,
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls
But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
William Blake, (28 November 1757-12 August 1827) was an English print maker, painter and poet of the Pre-Romantic and Romantic Age. He claimed to see visions from the age of four. From the age of 15 he was apprenticed as an engraver for seven years. Blake became a student of the Royal Academy in 1779. He was considered to be mentally unstable by some of his contemporaries, however his idiosyncrasies can be seen as a reflection of his rebellion, radical views, creativity, and his complex mythological symbolism, particularly in his later works of art and poetry. Blake illustrations and engravings included John Milton’s Paradise Lost in 1808, John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress, from 1824 -1827, and Dante’s Divine Comedy, from 1825 to his death.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Blake
Idris Elba reading “London†by William Blake
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AcmWSKqcJro
Sir Ralph Richardson, reading “London†by William Blake
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ztypINpLsMY
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 Infants cry of fear,
In every voice: in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear
How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackning Church appalls,
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls
But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
William Blake, (28 November 1757-12 August 1827) was an English print maker, painter and poet of the Pre-Romantic and Romantic Age. He claimed to see visions from the age of four. From the age of 15 he was apprenticed as an engraver for seven years. Blake became a student of the Royal Academy in 1779. He was considered to be mentally unstable by some of his contemporaries, however his idiosyncrasies can be seen as a reflection of his rebellion, radical views, creativity, and his complex mythological symbolism, particularly in his later works of art and poetry. Blake illustrations and engravings included John Milton’s Paradise Lost in 1808, John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress, from 1824 -1827, and Dante’s Divine Comedy, from 1825 to his death.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Blake
Idris Elba reading “London†by William Blake
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AcmWSKqcJro
Sir Ralph Richardson, reading “London†by William Blake
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ztypINpLsMY
A Gallop of Fire
By: Marie E J Pitt 1869 (Bullumwaal, Victoria) - 1948 (Kew, Victoria)
When the north wind moans thro' the blind creek courses
And revels with harsh, hot sand,
I loose the horses, the wild red horses,
I loose the horses, the mad, red horses,
And terror is on the land.
With prophetic murmer the hills are humming,
The forest-kings bend and blow;
With hoofs of brass on the baked earth strumming,
O brave red horses, they hear us coming,
And the legions of death lean low.
O'er the wooded height, and the sandy hollow
Where the boles to the axe have rung,
Tho' they fly the foreman as flies the swallow,
The fierce red horses, my horses, follow
With flanks to the faint earth flung.
Or with frenzied hieroglyphs, fear embossing
Night's sable horizon bars,
Thro' tangled mazes of death-darts crossing,
I swing my leaders and watch them tossing
Their red manes against the stars.
But when South winds sob in the drowned creek courses
And whisper to hard wet sand,
I hold the horses, the spent red horses,
I hold the horses, the tired red horses,
And silence is on the land.
Yea, the South wind sobs among the drowned creek courses
For sorrows no man shall bind---
Ah, God! For the horses, the black plumed horses,
Dear God! For the horses, Death's own pale horses,
That raced in the tracks behind.
Marie Elizabeth Josephine Pitt (1869 – 1948), was an Australian poet, socialist, activist and journalist. She was born into a poor family. He father was a goldminer, and her early years were spent living in a rough slab hut with a bark roof at Doherty’s Corner in East Gippsland. Her first verse was published when she was 14, in a local newspaper. She was first published in the Bulletin in 1900. She was the winner in 1902 of the Good Words competition for a song for the Empire. She supported her family with her writing after the death, in 1905 of her husband William from miners’ phthisis. Her publications included “Bairnsdale†(1922), “The poems of Marie E J Pitt†(1925) and “Selected poems ((1944). She became famous in 1944 when her song lyrics “Ave, Australia†won the ABC’s national song lyric competition. Her lyrics were set to music composed by Sir Robert Garran and Sir Ernest MacMillan.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marie_Pitt
By: Marie E J Pitt 1869 (Bullumwaal, Victoria) - 1948 (Kew, Victoria)
When the north wind moans thro' the blind creek courses
And revels with harsh, hot sand,
I loose the horses, the wild red horses,
I loose the horses, the mad, red horses,
And terror is on the land.
With prophetic murmer the hills are humming,
The forest-kings bend and blow;
With hoofs of brass on the baked earth strumming,
O brave red horses, they hear us coming,
And the legions of death lean low.
O'er the wooded height, and the sandy hollow
Where the boles to the axe have rung,
Tho' they fly the foreman as flies the swallow,
The fierce red horses, my horses, follow
With flanks to the faint earth flung.
Or with frenzied hieroglyphs, fear embossing
Night's sable horizon bars,
Thro' tangled mazes of death-darts crossing,
I swing my leaders and watch them tossing
Their red manes against the stars.
But when South winds sob in the drowned creek courses
And whisper to hard wet sand,
I hold the horses, the spent red horses,
I hold the horses, the tired red horses,
And silence is on the land.
Yea, the South wind sobs among the drowned creek courses
For sorrows no man shall bind---
Ah, God! For the horses, the black plumed horses,
Dear God! For the horses, Death's own pale horses,
That raced in the tracks behind.
Marie Elizabeth Josephine Pitt (1869 – 1948), was an Australian poet, socialist, activist and journalist. She was born into a poor family. He father was a goldminer, and her early years were spent living in a rough slab hut with a bark roof at Doherty’s Corner in East Gippsland. Her first verse was published when she was 14, in a local newspaper. She was first published in the Bulletin in 1900. She was the winner in 1902 of the Good Words competition for a song for the Empire. She supported her family with her writing after the death, in 1905 of her husband William from miners’ phthisis. Her publications included “Bairnsdale†(1922), “The poems of Marie E J Pitt†(1925) and “Selected poems ((1944). She became famous in 1944 when her song lyrics “Ave, Australia†won the ABC’s national song lyric competition. Her lyrics were set to music composed by Sir Robert Garran and Sir Ernest MacMillan.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marie_Pitt
The Floods
By: (Joseph) Rudyard Kipling (1865 - 1936)
I
The rain it rains without a stay
In the hills above us, in the hills;
And presently the floods break way
Whose strength is in the hills.
The trees they suck from every cloud,
The valley brooks they roar aloud--
Bank-high for the lowlands, lowlands,
Lowlands under the hills!
The first wood down is sere and small,
From the hills--the brishings off the hills;
And then come by the bats and all
We cut last year in the hills;
And then the roots we tried to cleave
But found too tough and had to leave--
Polting through the lowlands, lowlands,
Lowlands under the hills!
The eye shall look, the ear shall hark
To the hills, the doings in the hills,
And rivers mating in the dark
With tokens from the hills.
Now what is weak will! surely go,
And what is strong must prove it so--
Stand Fast in the lowlands, lowlands,
Lowlands under the hills!
The floods they shall not be afraid--
Nor the hills above 'em, nor the hills--
Of any fence which man has made
Betwixt him and the hills.
The waters shall not reckon twice
For any work of man's device,
But bid it down to the lowlands, lowlands,
Lowlands under the hills!
The floods shall sweep corruption clean--
By the hills, the blessing of the hills--
That more the meadows may be green
New-mended from the hills.
The crops and cattle shall increase,
Nor little children shall not cease.
Go--plough the lowlands, lowlands,
Lowlands under the hills!
(Joseph) Rudyard Kipling, was born in Mumbai India, on 30 December 1865, and died in London, UK, on 18 January 1936. He was an English poet, journalist, author and nobel laureate. His notable works include the novel The Jungle Book and the poem If.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudyard_Kipling
His famous observations about life include “Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankindâ€, “We're all islands shouting lies to each other across seas of misunderstanding,†"A man can never have too much red wine, too many books, or too much ammunition," and “I always prefer to believe the best of everybody; it saves so much trouble.â€
By: (Joseph) Rudyard Kipling (1865 - 1936)
I
The rain it rains without a stay
In the hills above us, in the hills;
And presently the floods break way
Whose strength is in the hills.
The trees they suck from every cloud,
The valley brooks they roar aloud--
Bank-high for the lowlands, lowlands,
Lowlands under the hills!
The first wood down is sere and small,
From the hills--the brishings off the hills;
And then come by the bats and all
We cut last year in the hills;
And then the roots we tried to cleave
But found too tough and had to leave--
Polting through the lowlands, lowlands,
Lowlands under the hills!
The eye shall look, the ear shall hark
To the hills, the doings in the hills,
And rivers mating in the dark
With tokens from the hills.
Now what is weak will! surely go,
And what is strong must prove it so--
Stand Fast in the lowlands, lowlands,
Lowlands under the hills!
The floods they shall not be afraid--
Nor the hills above 'em, nor the hills--
Of any fence which man has made
Betwixt him and the hills.
The waters shall not reckon twice
For any work of man's device,
But bid it down to the lowlands, lowlands,
Lowlands under the hills!
The floods shall sweep corruption clean--
By the hills, the blessing of the hills--
That more the meadows may be green
New-mended from the hills.
The crops and cattle shall increase,
Nor little children shall not cease.
Go--plough the lowlands, lowlands,
Lowlands under the hills!
(Joseph) Rudyard Kipling, was born in Mumbai India, on 30 December 1865, and died in London, UK, on 18 January 1936. He was an English poet, journalist, author and nobel laureate. His notable works include the novel The Jungle Book and the poem If.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudyard_Kipling
His famous observations about life include “Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankindâ€, “We're all islands shouting lies to each other across seas of misunderstanding,†"A man can never have too much red wine, too many books, or too much ammunition," and “I always prefer to believe the best of everybody; it saves so much trouble.â€
For the Fallen
By: Laurence Binyon (1869 – 1943)
I
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
For Remembrance Day, Friday 11 November 2022 commemorating the end of the First World War “at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11 month†of 1918, in accordance with the Armistice signed that morning.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Remembrance_Day
“For the Fallen†is recited at Remembrance Day services throughout the UK, Australia, Canada and New Zealand.
Laurence Binyon, (10 August 1869 – 10 March 1943) was a poet, playwright and art historian. He was a volunteer in the First World War, working as a hospital orderly in France and England, taking care of the wounded. He worked at the British Museum from 1893 until 1933. He was the Norton Professor of Poetry at Harvard University, in 1933. He translated Dante’s Divine Comedy.
https://www.britannica.com/biography/Laurence-Binyon
For the Fallen, read by Sir John Gielgud
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2I7mhWg7PTI
For the Fallen: The Choir of Westminster Abbey sings on Remembrance Day, “For the Fallenâ€, to a setting by Douglas Guest. The service commemorated the passing of the last British veterans of World War One
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qOpnRAOxpLE
Edward Elgar, Solemn Prelude “For the Fallen†(Op.80, no. 3 ) performed by Adam Wilson.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ljzZdaaJBv8
By: Laurence Binyon (1869 – 1943)
I
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
For Remembrance Day, Friday 11 November 2022 commemorating the end of the First World War “at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11 month†of 1918, in accordance with the Armistice signed that morning.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Remembrance_Day
“For the Fallen†is recited at Remembrance Day services throughout the UK, Australia, Canada and New Zealand.
Laurence Binyon, (10 August 1869 – 10 March 1943) was a poet, playwright and art historian. He was a volunteer in the First World War, working as a hospital orderly in France and England, taking care of the wounded. He worked at the British Museum from 1893 until 1933. He was the Norton Professor of Poetry at Harvard University, in 1933. He translated Dante’s Divine Comedy.
https://www.britannica.com/biography/Laurence-Binyon
For the Fallen, read by Sir John Gielgud
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2I7mhWg7PTI
For the Fallen: The Choir of Westminster Abbey sings on Remembrance Day, “For the Fallenâ€, to a setting by Douglas Guest. The service commemorated the passing of the last British veterans of World War One
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qOpnRAOxpLE
Edward Elgar, Solemn Prelude “For the Fallen†(Op.80, no. 3 ) performed by Adam Wilson.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ljzZdaaJBv8
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat
By: Edward Lear (1812-1888)
I
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"
II
Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-Tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
III
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
Edward Lear (born 12 May 1812, London, died 29 January 1988, Italy) was an English poet, author, artist and musician. From the age of 4, he was raised and cared for by his elder sister Ann, 21 years his senior.
He suffered from grand mal epilepsy, which in his childhood was not well understood, and caused him feelings of shame and increasing disability throughout his life.
His father, a stockbroker, was sent to debtor’s prison when Lear was 13, and Edward then earned a living as an illustrator.
He worked for the London Zoological Society as an illustrator of birds from 1832. He illustrated some of Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s poems. Lear created the metre and form of the modern limerick.
Although he suffered from “the Morbidsâ€, as he called the depression that came on from his early childhood, his writing is irreverent, witty, and devoted to poking fun at the world around him.
The Owl and the Pussycat, published in 1871, in Lear’s “Nonsense Songs, Stories, Botany and Alphabets†is his most famous poem, and a wonderful example of Victorian nonsense verse.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Owl_and_the_Pussy-Cat
The poem has inspired music, film, books and plays.
Dame Judy Dench reads The Owl and the Pussycat
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dgVmFa7WP4M and
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1MtIJsxHMzw
Mark Padmore and Roderick Williams, accompanied by Julius Drake, perform The Owl and the Pussycat, Leeds Lieder Festival
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rRohDL7ZmuM
Mark Heazlet and Toby Andrews at Lulu’s Café, Mullumbimby perform The Owl and the Pussycat,
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uSQZIVWhi1U
John Rutter and The Cambridge Singers, perform The Owl and the Pussy-cat, from the album “A Double Celebrationâ€
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NLcqkbJs6co
By: Edward Lear (1812-1888)
I
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"
II
Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-Tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
III
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
Edward Lear (born 12 May 1812, London, died 29 January 1988, Italy) was an English poet, author, artist and musician. From the age of 4, he was raised and cared for by his elder sister Ann, 21 years his senior.
He suffered from grand mal epilepsy, which in his childhood was not well understood, and caused him feelings of shame and increasing disability throughout his life.
His father, a stockbroker, was sent to debtor’s prison when Lear was 13, and Edward then earned a living as an illustrator.
He worked for the London Zoological Society as an illustrator of birds from 1832. He illustrated some of Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s poems. Lear created the metre and form of the modern limerick.
Although he suffered from “the Morbidsâ€, as he called the depression that came on from his early childhood, his writing is irreverent, witty, and devoted to poking fun at the world around him.
The Owl and the Pussycat, published in 1871, in Lear’s “Nonsense Songs, Stories, Botany and Alphabets†is his most famous poem, and a wonderful example of Victorian nonsense verse.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Owl_and_the_Pussy-Cat
The poem has inspired music, film, books and plays.
Dame Judy Dench reads The Owl and the Pussycat
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dgVmFa7WP4M and
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1MtIJsxHMzw
Mark Padmore and Roderick Williams, accompanied by Julius Drake, perform The Owl and the Pussycat, Leeds Lieder Festival
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rRohDL7ZmuM
Mark Heazlet and Toby Andrews at Lulu’s Café, Mullumbimby perform The Owl and the Pussycat,
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uSQZIVWhi1U
John Rutter and The Cambridge Singers, perform The Owl and the Pussy-cat, from the album “A Double Celebrationâ€
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NLcqkbJs6co
Tomorrow, at Dawn
(Demain, dès l'aube)
By: Victor Hugo (1802 - 1885)
(Demain, dès l'aube)
By: Victor Hugo (1802 - 1885)
Tomorrow, at dawn, at the hour when the countryside whitens,
I will depart. You see, I know you wait for me.
I will go through the forest and over the mountains.
I cannot stay far from you any longer.
I will trudge on, my eyes fixed on my thoughts,
Ignoring everything around me, without hearing a sound,
Alone, unknown, back stooped, hands crossed,
Saddened, and the day will be like night for me.
I will neither see the golden glow of the falling evening,
Nor the sails going down to Harfleur in the distance,
And when I arrive, I will place on your tomb
A bouquet of green holly and flowering heather.
Demain, dès l'aube
Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.
J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.
Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.
Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.
Anne Sila and Magnetic Orchestra, perform Demain des Láube
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E28o1HDT9Gc
Victor-Marie Hugo (26 February 1802 – 22 May 1885) was a French politician and writer of the French Romantic period. He is considered one of France’s greatest poets and authors. He is known for his novels including The Hunchback of Notre-Dame and Les Misérables (1862).
He opposed the death penalty and supported democracy in 19th century France. Hugo wrote one of his most famous poems “Tomorrow, at Dawnâ€, about his visit to his daughter Leopoldine’s grave four years after her death. The poem was first published in 1856 in Les Contemplations, a collection of 156 poems, in six books.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victor_Hugo
Well known quotes from Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables include: “It is nothing to die. It is frightful not to live,†“What Is Love? I have met in the streets a very poor young man who was in love. His hat was old, his coat worn, the water passed through his shoes and the stars through his soul†and “Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.â€
I will depart. You see, I know you wait for me.
I will go through the forest and over the mountains.
I cannot stay far from you any longer.
I will trudge on, my eyes fixed on my thoughts,
Ignoring everything around me, without hearing a sound,
Alone, unknown, back stooped, hands crossed,
Saddened, and the day will be like night for me.
I will neither see the golden glow of the falling evening,
Nor the sails going down to Harfleur in the distance,
And when I arrive, I will place on your tomb
A bouquet of green holly and flowering heather.
Demain, dès l'aube
Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.
J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.
Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.
Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.
Anne Sila and Magnetic Orchestra, perform Demain des Láube
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E28o1HDT9Gc
Victor-Marie Hugo (26 February 1802 – 22 May 1885) was a French politician and writer of the French Romantic period. He is considered one of France’s greatest poets and authors. He is known for his novels including The Hunchback of Notre-Dame and Les Misérables (1862).
He opposed the death penalty and supported democracy in 19th century France. Hugo wrote one of his most famous poems “Tomorrow, at Dawnâ€, about his visit to his daughter Leopoldine’s grave four years after her death. The poem was first published in 1856 in Les Contemplations, a collection of 156 poems, in six books.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victor_Hugo
Well known quotes from Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables include: “It is nothing to die. It is frightful not to live,†“What Is Love? I have met in the streets a very poor young man who was in love. His hat was old, his coat worn, the water passed through his shoes and the stars through his soul†and “Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.â€
This Not All
is Over
By: Harriet Beecher Stowe (1811-1896)
Think not, when the wailing winds of autumn
Drive the shivering leaflets from the tree,—
Think not all is over: spring returneth,
Buds and leaves and blossoms thou shalt see.
Think not, when the earth lies cold and sealed,
And the weary birds above her mourn,—
Think not all is over: God still liveth,
Songs and sunshine shall again return.
Think not, when thy heart is waste and dreary,
When thy cherished hopes lie chill and sere,—
Think not all is over: God still loveth,
He will wipe away thy every tear.
Weeping for a night alone endureth,
God at last shall bring a morning hour;
In the frozen buds of every winter
Sleep the blossoms of a future flower.
Harriett Beecher Stowe, a Congregationalist minister, author, poet and abolitionist, was the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, one of the most translated books and one of the 19th century’s bestselling novels. She was born in Connecticut. President Lincoln said about Stowe, that she was “the little woman who wrote the book that started this Great Warâ€.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harriet_Beecher_Stowe
Harriet Beecher Stowe’s words include: “When you get into a tight place and everything goes against you until it seems that you cannot hold on for a minute longer, never give up then, for that is just the place and time when the tide will turn.â€
By: Harriet Beecher Stowe (1811-1896)
Think not, when the wailing winds of autumn
Drive the shivering leaflets from the tree,—
Think not all is over: spring returneth,
Buds and leaves and blossoms thou shalt see.
Think not, when the earth lies cold and sealed,
And the weary birds above her mourn,—
Think not all is over: God still liveth,
Songs and sunshine shall again return.
Think not, when thy heart is waste and dreary,
When thy cherished hopes lie chill and sere,—
Think not all is over: God still loveth,
He will wipe away thy every tear.
Weeping for a night alone endureth,
God at last shall bring a morning hour;
In the frozen buds of every winter
Sleep the blossoms of a future flower.
Harriett Beecher Stowe, a Congregationalist minister, author, poet and abolitionist, was the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, one of the most translated books and one of the 19th century’s bestselling novels. She was born in Connecticut. President Lincoln said about Stowe, that she was “the little woman who wrote the book that started this Great Warâ€.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harriet_Beecher_Stowe
Harriet Beecher Stowe’s words include: “When you get into a tight place and everything goes against you until it seems that you cannot hold on for a minute longer, never give up then, for that is just the place and time when the tide will turn.â€
Now is the Winter of our Discontent
Richard III, Scene 3, Spoken by Gloucester
By William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the king
In deadly hate the one against the other:
And if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up,
About a prophecy, which says that 'G'
Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here
Clarence comes.
William Shakespeare https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
“The Winter of our Discontentâ€
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Winter_of_Our_Discontent
Now is the Winter of our Discontent, Laurence Olivier, 1955 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jmWtynh2Xwc
Now is the Winter of our Discontent, Ian McKellen https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pjJEXkbeL-o
Richard III, Benedict Cumberbatch
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=51Ji5DOIwDw
Richard III, Scene 3, Spoken by Gloucester
By William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the king
In deadly hate the one against the other:
And if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up,
About a prophecy, which says that 'G'
Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here
Clarence comes.
William Shakespeare https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
“The Winter of our Discontentâ€
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Winter_of_Our_Discontent
Now is the Winter of our Discontent, Laurence Olivier, 1955 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jmWtynh2Xwc
Now is the Winter of our Discontent, Ian McKellen https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pjJEXkbeL-o
Richard III, Benedict Cumberbatch
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=51Ji5DOIwDw
Time Is
By: Henry Van Dyke (1852 - 1933)
Time Is
Too Slow for those who Wait,
Too Swift for those who Fear,
Too Long for those who Grieve,
Too Short for those who Rejoice;
But for those who Love,
Time is not.
Henry van Dyke, American diplomat, clergyman, author and teacher.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_van_Dyke_Jr
By: Henry Van Dyke (1852 - 1933)
Time Is
Too Slow for those who Wait,
Too Swift for those who Fear,
Too Long for those who Grieve,
Too Short for those who Rejoice;
But for those who Love,
Time is not.
Henry van Dyke, American diplomat, clergyman, author and teacher.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_van_Dyke_Jr
There is a Lady Sweet and Kind
By: Thomas Ford (1580 - 1648)
There is a lady sweet and kind,
Was never face so pleas'd my mind;
I did but see her passing by,
And yet I love her till I die.
Her gesture, motion, and her smiles,
Her wit, her voice, my heart beguiles,
Beguiles my heart, I know not why,
And yet I love her till I die.
Her free behaviour, winning looks,
Will make a lawyer burn his books;
I touch'd her not, alas! not I,
And yet I love her till I die.
Had I her fast betwixt mine arms,
Judge you that think such sports were harms,
Were't any harm? no, no, fie, fie,
For I will love her till I die.
Should I remain confined there
So long as Phœbus in his sphere,
I to request, she to deny,
Yet would I love her till I die.
Cupid is winged and doth range,
Her country so my love doth change:
But change she earth, or change she sky,
Yet will I love her till I die.
Prime Minister Robert Menzies recited part of this poem in his welcome remarks to Queen Elizabeth II in Canberra in 1963.
Thomas Ford, composer and poet
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Ford_(composer)
Paul Robeson sings “There is a lady sweet and kindâ€
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zp301zFqiQc
The state funeral of HM Queen Elizabeth II, Monday 19 September 2022
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V_gy9DFtw5U
By: Thomas Ford (1580 - 1648)
There is a lady sweet and kind,
Was never face so pleas'd my mind;
I did but see her passing by,
And yet I love her till I die.
Her gesture, motion, and her smiles,
Her wit, her voice, my heart beguiles,
Beguiles my heart, I know not why,
And yet I love her till I die.
Her free behaviour, winning looks,
Will make a lawyer burn his books;
I touch'd her not, alas! not I,
And yet I love her till I die.
Had I her fast betwixt mine arms,
Judge you that think such sports were harms,
Were't any harm? no, no, fie, fie,
For I will love her till I die.
Should I remain confined there
So long as Phœbus in his sphere,
I to request, she to deny,
Yet would I love her till I die.
Cupid is winged and doth range,
Her country so my love doth change:
But change she earth, or change she sky,
Yet will I love her till I die.
Prime Minister Robert Menzies recited part of this poem in his welcome remarks to Queen Elizabeth II in Canberra in 1963.
Thomas Ford, composer and poet
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Ford_(composer)
Paul Robeson sings “There is a lady sweet and kindâ€
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zp301zFqiQc
The state funeral of HM Queen Elizabeth II, Monday 19 September 2022
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V_gy9DFtw5U
I Wandered Lonely as a
Cloud ("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.
William Wordsworth, was a poet of the English Romantic period, and Poet Laureate:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Wordsworth
“I Wandered Lonely as a Cloudâ€
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Wandered_Lonely_as_a_Cloud
“Daffodils†read by Ralph Fiennes
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ewsS1BOuwss
“I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud†read by Dame Helen Mirren
;https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aldxol58J2I
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.
William Wordsworth, was a poet of the English Romantic period, and Poet Laureate:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Wordsworth
“I Wandered Lonely as a Cloudâ€
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Wandered_Lonely_as_a_Cloud
“Daffodils†read by Ralph Fiennes
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ewsS1BOuwss
“I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud†read by Dame Helen Mirren
;https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aldxol58J2I
Immortality
By: Clare Harner 1934 (1909-1977)
Do not stand
By my grave, and weep.
I am not there,
I do not sleep—
I am the thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints in snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle, autumn rain.
As you awake with morning’s hush,
I am the swift, up-flinging rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight,
I am the day transcending night.
Do not stand
By my grave, and cry—
I am not there,
I did not die.
Clare Harner, of Kansas, held a degree in journalism. The poem was attributed to her when published in 1934. The origins of the words in the poem have been in dispute.
Libera in Leiden- Do not Stand at my Grave and Weep performed January 2011
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lHZ1cuYSRh4
Mary Elizabeth Frye (1905-2004) maintained that she wrote the poem Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep in 1932. In an interview she said “I thought it belonged to the world- it didn’t belong to me. I still feel that way. It was written out of love, for comfort- if I took money for it, it would lose it’s value.â€
http://www.toallmylovedones.com/article.pdf
John Wayne, contributed to the widespread knowledge of the poem after he read “Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep†at the funeral of Hollywood actor Ward Bond in 1960, and at Hollywood director Howard Winchester Hawks’ funeral in 1977. The poem was recited at John Wayne’s funeral in 1979.
Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep
By Mary Elizabeth Frye (1905-2004)
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
By: Clare Harner 1934 (1909-1977)
Do not stand
By my grave, and weep.
I am not there,
I do not sleep—
I am the thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints in snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle, autumn rain.
As you awake with morning’s hush,
I am the swift, up-flinging rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight,
I am the day transcending night.
Do not stand
By my grave, and cry—
I am not there,
I did not die.
Clare Harner, of Kansas, held a degree in journalism. The poem was attributed to her when published in 1934. The origins of the words in the poem have been in dispute.
Libera in Leiden- Do not Stand at my Grave and Weep performed January 2011
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lHZ1cuYSRh4
Mary Elizabeth Frye (1905-2004) maintained that she wrote the poem Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep in 1932. In an interview she said “I thought it belonged to the world- it didn’t belong to me. I still feel that way. It was written out of love, for comfort- if I took money for it, it would lose it’s value.â€
http://www.toallmylovedones.com/article.pdf
John Wayne, contributed to the widespread knowledge of the poem after he read “Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep†at the funeral of Hollywood actor Ward Bond in 1960, and at Hollywood director Howard Winchester Hawks’ funeral in 1977. The poem was recited at John Wayne’s funeral in 1979.
Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep
By Mary Elizabeth Frye (1905-2004)
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend
me your ears
Julius Caesar, Act II, Scene ii
Monologue spoken by Marc Antony
By: William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest–
For Brutus is an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men–
Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.
William Shakespeare, English playwright and poet, considered to be the world’s greatest dramatist and writer in the English Language. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
"Friends, Romans, Countrymen" Julius Caesar at the Chicago Shakespeare Theatre (2013) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P8slDtT-Hhg
Marlon Brandon, as Mark Antony (1953)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=101sKhH-lMQ
Damian Lewis, as Mark Antony (2016)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q89MLuLSJgk
Friends, Romans Countrymen, lend me your ears https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Friends,_Romans,_countrymen,_lend_me_your_ears
Julius Caesar, Act II, Scene ii
Monologue spoken by Marc Antony
By: William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest–
For Brutus is an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men–
Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.
William Shakespeare, English playwright and poet, considered to be the world’s greatest dramatist and writer in the English Language. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
"Friends, Romans, Countrymen" Julius Caesar at the Chicago Shakespeare Theatre (2013) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P8slDtT-Hhg
Marlon Brandon, as Mark Antony (1953)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=101sKhH-lMQ
Damian Lewis, as Mark Antony (2016)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q89MLuLSJgk
Friends, Romans Countrymen, lend me your ears https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Friends,_Romans,_countrymen,_lend_me_your_ears
Sonnets from the Portuguese 14: If thou
must love me, let it be for nought
By: ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING (1806 - 1861)
If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say
I love her for her smile ... her look ... her way
Of speaking gently, ... for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'—
For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may
Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,—
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_Barrett_Browning
Sonnets from the Portuguese was published in 1850- a collection of 44 love sonnets.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sonnets_from_the_Portuguese?text=Sonnets_from_the_Portuguese,_written,lifetime_and_it_remains_so
By: ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING (1806 - 1861)
If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say
I love her for her smile ... her look ... her way
Of speaking gently, ... for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'—
For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may
Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,—
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_Barrett_Browning
Sonnets from the Portuguese was published in 1850- a collection of 44 love sonnets.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sonnets_from_the_Portuguese?text=Sonnets_from_the_Portuguese,_written,lifetime_and_it_remains_so
Auld Lang Syne
By: Robert Burns (1759-1796)
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne
For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak’ a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
And surely ye'll be your pint stowp!
And surely I'll be mine!
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak’ a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou'd the gowans fine;
But we've wander'd mony a weary fit,
Sin' auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak’ a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidl'd in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin' auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak’ a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
And there's a hand, my trusty fere!
And gie's a hand o' thine!
And we'll tak a right gude-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak’ a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
Auld Lang Syne was written by Robbie Burns in 1788, based on an older Scottish folk song. The title may be translated as “for old times’ sakeâ€. It is traditionally sung at farewells, and at the end of New Years gatherings.
Robbie Burns, is the national poet of Scotland
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Burns (Wikipedia)
https://sco.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Burns (Scots Wiki)
Auld Lang Syne was played by the bagpiper at the funeral of Singapore’s prime minister Lee Kuan Yew on 25 March 2015.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tES24D44OBc
It was sung by members of the European Parliament when the Brexit agreement was passed on 29 January 2020
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TZmSBFMnIuc
Auld Lang Syne, played by the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=to1xT93IlUI
By: Robert Burns (1759-1796)
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne
For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak’ a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
And surely ye'll be your pint stowp!
And surely I'll be mine!
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak’ a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou'd the gowans fine;
But we've wander'd mony a weary fit,
Sin' auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak’ a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidl'd in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin' auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak’ a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
And there's a hand, my trusty fere!
And gie's a hand o' thine!
And we'll tak a right gude-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak’ a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
Auld Lang Syne was written by Robbie Burns in 1788, based on an older Scottish folk song. The title may be translated as “for old times’ sakeâ€. It is traditionally sung at farewells, and at the end of New Years gatherings.
Robbie Burns, is the national poet of Scotland
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Burns (Wikipedia)
https://sco.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Burns (Scots Wiki)
Auld Lang Syne was played by the bagpiper at the funeral of Singapore’s prime minister Lee Kuan Yew on 25 March 2015.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tES24D44OBc
It was sung by members of the European Parliament when the Brexit agreement was passed on 29 January 2020
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TZmSBFMnIuc
Auld Lang Syne, played by the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=to1xT93IlUI
To the tune
"Drunk in Blossom's Shadows"
By: Li Qingzhao (1084 - ca. 1155)
Light mist, thick vapors, sad through an endless morning.
Camphor incense turns to ash inside the golden beast.
Again it’s Double Ninth Festival,
to the precious pillow, within the gauze netting,
a chill enters at midnight.
Holding wine after sunset by the eastern fence,
a subtle fragrance fills the sleeves.
Don’t say she’s not heartbroken—
as the west wind lifts the blinds,
she’s more withered than the yellow flowers.
Li Qingzhao, published under the names Yi’an Jushi, and Li Yi’an. She is considered one of China’s greatest poets and essayists. She was born into a family of great literary knowledge. She was writing poetry at least from the age of 17. She lived during the Northern Song dynasty, which fell during her life time. Although she produced six volumes of poetry, and volumes of prose, and essays her work survives only in fragments.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Li_Qingzhao
Singing of Drunken Flower Shades, from the Song Cycle “Love and Loseâ€
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3uT4HxQRjdk
Singing of Li Quingzhao’s Drunk in Blossom shade.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8JUK3gW0GPc
Li Quingzhao wrote as an Afterward in one of her husband, Zhao Mingcheng’s collected works:
“It happens that I have a good memory, and in the evenings after dinner we would sit in our hall named Returning Home and brew tea.
We’d point to a pile of books and, choosing a particular event, try to say in which book, which chapter, which page, and which line it was recorded.
The winner of our little contest got to drink first. When I guessed right, I’d hold the cup high and burst out laughing until the tea splattered the front of my gown.
I’d have to get up without even taking a sip. Oh, how I wished we could grow old living like that!â€
The above translations are from The Works of Li Quingzhao, translated by Ronald Egan, and published by DeGruyter
https://library.oapen.org/bitstream/id/4f210ef9-3d96-49ba-926c-cab1bc502e33/1006618.pdf
Ronald Egan’s Li Qingzhao Memorial Lecture, 2014, is on youtube at:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OB8NZNFppvA
Ronald Egan is the Confucius Institute Professor of Sinology, Department of East Asian Languages and Cultures, Stanford University.
By: Li Qingzhao (1084 - ca. 1155)
Light mist, thick vapors, sad through an endless morning.
Camphor incense turns to ash inside the golden beast.
Again it’s Double Ninth Festival,
to the precious pillow, within the gauze netting,
a chill enters at midnight.
Holding wine after sunset by the eastern fence,
a subtle fragrance fills the sleeves.
Don’t say she’s not heartbroken—
as the west wind lifts the blinds,
she’s more withered than the yellow flowers.
Li Qingzhao, published under the names Yi’an Jushi, and Li Yi’an. She is considered one of China’s greatest poets and essayists. She was born into a family of great literary knowledge. She was writing poetry at least from the age of 17. She lived during the Northern Song dynasty, which fell during her life time. Although she produced six volumes of poetry, and volumes of prose, and essays her work survives only in fragments.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Li_Qingzhao
Singing of Drunken Flower Shades, from the Song Cycle “Love and Loseâ€
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3uT4HxQRjdk
Singing of Li Quingzhao’s Drunk in Blossom shade.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8JUK3gW0GPc
Li Quingzhao wrote as an Afterward in one of her husband, Zhao Mingcheng’s collected works:
“It happens that I have a good memory, and in the evenings after dinner we would sit in our hall named Returning Home and brew tea.
We’d point to a pile of books and, choosing a particular event, try to say in which book, which chapter, which page, and which line it was recorded.
The winner of our little contest got to drink first. When I guessed right, I’d hold the cup high and burst out laughing until the tea splattered the front of my gown.
I’d have to get up without even taking a sip. Oh, how I wished we could grow old living like that!â€
The above translations are from The Works of Li Quingzhao, translated by Ronald Egan, and published by DeGruyter
https://library.oapen.org/bitstream/id/4f210ef9-3d96-49ba-926c-cab1bc502e33/1006618.pdf
Ronald Egan’s Li Qingzhao Memorial Lecture, 2014, is on youtube at:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OB8NZNFppvA
Ronald Egan is the Confucius Institute Professor of Sinology, Department of East Asian Languages and Cultures, Stanford University.
LAMENT FOR A BROTHER
By: Al-Khansa (circa 575-646)
What have we done to you death
that you treat us so, with always another catch,
one day a warrior
the next a head of state
charmed by the loyal
you choose the best
iniquitous, unequalling death
I would not complain
if you were just
but you take the worthy
leaving fools for us.
Al-Khansa aka Tumadir bint Amru al-Harith bint al-Sharid was born in Najid of Arabia (now Saudi Arabia), was one of the most celebrated poets of the pre-Islamic and early Islamic age, and one of the greatest Arab women poets of all ages. Her poems included lamentations or elegies called “marthiya†to the deaths of her brother and half-brother, killed in tribal battles, in 612 and 615, and to the death of her father and four of her sons. She met the Prophet Muhammed, in her mid- 50’s, in about 630, when with her tribe she accepted Islam. She was descried as the “finest poet among humans and jinnâ€. Across the Arab world many learning institutions and hospitals bear her name.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Al-Khansa
Medieval Arabic female poets.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Medieval_Arabic_female_poets
By: Al-Khansa (circa 575-646)
What have we done to you death
that you treat us so, with always another catch,
one day a warrior
the next a head of state
charmed by the loyal
you choose the best
iniquitous, unequalling death
I would not complain
if you were just
but you take the worthy
leaving fools for us.
Al-Khansa aka Tumadir bint Amru al-Harith bint al-Sharid was born in Najid of Arabia (now Saudi Arabia), was one of the most celebrated poets of the pre-Islamic and early Islamic age, and one of the greatest Arab women poets of all ages. Her poems included lamentations or elegies called “marthiya†to the deaths of her brother and half-brother, killed in tribal battles, in 612 and 615, and to the death of her father and four of her sons. She met the Prophet Muhammed, in her mid- 50’s, in about 630, when with her tribe she accepted Islam. She was descried as the “finest poet among humans and jinnâ€. Across the Arab world many learning institutions and hospitals bear her name.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Al-Khansa
Medieval Arabic female poets.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Medieval_Arabic_female_poets
The Tyger
By: William Blake (1757-1827)
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
The Tyger by Wililam Blake read by Dame Helen Mirren
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aHRJwIYexKY
The Tyger, read by Sir Ralph Richardson
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c5uBmL0HhaQ
William Blake, English poet, print maker and painter.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Blake
The Tyger, first published in 1794 from Songs of Experience,
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Tyger
By: William Blake (1757-1827)
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
The Tyger by Wililam Blake read by Dame Helen Mirren
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aHRJwIYexKY
The Tyger, read by Sir Ralph Richardson
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c5uBmL0HhaQ
William Blake, English poet, print maker and painter.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Blake
The Tyger, first published in 1794 from Songs of Experience,
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Tyger
The Rime of
the Ancient Mariner
By: Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1797-1798)
Part I
It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?
The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
May'st hear the merry din.'
He holds him with his skinny hand,
'There was a ship,' quoth he.
'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!'
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.
He holds him with his glittering eye—
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
And listens like a three years' child:
The Mariner hath his will.
The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
He cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.
'The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse top.
The Sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he!
And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.
Higher and higher every day,
Till over the mast at noon—'
The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,
For he heard the loud bassoon.
The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.
The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.
And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong:
He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
And chased us south along.
With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe,
And forward bends his head,
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
And southward aye we fled.
And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold:
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.
And through the drifts the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen:
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken—
The ice was all between.
The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around:
It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound!
At length did cross an Albatross,
Thorough the fog it came;
As if it had been a Christian soul,
We hailed it in God's name.
It ate the food it ne'er had eat,
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
The helmsman steered us through!
And a good south wind sprung up behind;
The Albatross did follow,
And every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariner's hollo!
In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perched for vespers nine;
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
Glimmered the white Moon-shine.'
'God save thee, ancient Mariner!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—
Why look'st thou so?'—With my cross-bow
I shot the ALBATROSS.
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, published 1798
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Rime_of_the_Ancient_Mariner
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samuel_Taylor_Coleridge
Sir Richard Burton reads “The Rime of the Ancient Marinerâ€
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RGH4p4z4s5A
Sir Ian McKellen reads “The Rime of the Ancient Marinerâ€
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1raSUYAr0s0
By: Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1797-1798)
Part I
It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?
The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
May'st hear the merry din.'
He holds him with his skinny hand,
'There was a ship,' quoth he.
'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!'
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.
He holds him with his glittering eye—
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
And listens like a three years' child:
The Mariner hath his will.
The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
He cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.
'The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse top.
The Sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he!
And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.
Higher and higher every day,
Till over the mast at noon—'
The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,
For he heard the loud bassoon.
The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.
The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.
And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong:
He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
And chased us south along.
With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe,
And forward bends his head,
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
And southward aye we fled.
And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold:
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.
And through the drifts the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen:
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken—
The ice was all between.
The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around:
It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound!
At length did cross an Albatross,
Thorough the fog it came;
As if it had been a Christian soul,
We hailed it in God's name.
It ate the food it ne'er had eat,
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
The helmsman steered us through!
And a good south wind sprung up behind;
The Albatross did follow,
And every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariner's hollo!
In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perched for vespers nine;
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
Glimmered the white Moon-shine.'
'God save thee, ancient Mariner!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—
Why look'st thou so?'—With my cross-bow
I shot the ALBATROSS.
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, published 1798
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Rime_of_the_Ancient_Mariner
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samuel_Taylor_Coleridge
Sir Richard Burton reads “The Rime of the Ancient Marinerâ€
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RGH4p4z4s5A
Sir Ian McKellen reads “The Rime of the Ancient Marinerâ€
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1raSUYAr0s0
Casabianca
By: Felicia Dorothea Hemans (1793-1835)
The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though child-like form.
The flames rolled on–he would not go
Without his Father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud–'say, Father, say
If yet my task is done?'
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
'Speak, father!' once again he cried,
'If I may yet be gone!'
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death
In still yet brave despair.
And shouted but once more aloud,
'My father! must I stay?'
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound–
The boy–oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea!–
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part–
But the noblest thing which perished there
Was that young faithful heart.
Casabianca, first published 1826
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Casabianca_(poem)
Felicia Dorothea Hemans
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Felicia_Hemans
A poem often recited at school and much parodied, including by Spike Milligan
https://www.semicolonblog.com/?p=7063
By: Felicia Dorothea Hemans (1793-1835)
The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though child-like form.
The flames rolled on–he would not go
Without his Father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud–'say, Father, say
If yet my task is done?'
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
'Speak, father!' once again he cried,
'If I may yet be gone!'
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death
In still yet brave despair.
And shouted but once more aloud,
'My father! must I stay?'
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound–
The boy–oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea!–
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part–
But the noblest thing which perished there
Was that young faithful heart.
Casabianca, first published 1826
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Casabianca_(poem)
Felicia Dorothea Hemans
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Felicia_Hemans
A poem often recited at school and much parodied, including by Spike Milligan
https://www.semicolonblog.com/?p=7063
Pied Beauty
By: Gerard Manly 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 áll trádes, 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.
Gerard Manley Hopkins, English poet, Jesuit priest.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gerard_Manley_Hopkins
Pied Beauty written in 1877.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pied_Beauty
By: Gerard Manly 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 áll trádes, 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.
Gerard Manley Hopkins, English poet, Jesuit priest.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gerard_Manley_Hopkins
Pied Beauty written in 1877.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pied_Beauty
The Lake Isle of Innisfree
By: William Butler Yeats (13 June 1865 – 28 January 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 grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
William Butler Yeats, Irish poet and writer, Nobel Laureate and a Senator of the Irish Free State,
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/W._B._Yeats &
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/william-butler-yeats
Anthony Hopkins recites Yeats, The Lake Isle of Innisfree
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lNeq7Dakv_k
WB Yeats reads The Lake Isle of Innisfree
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QLlcvQg9i6c
By: William Butler Yeats (13 June 1865 – 28 January 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 grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
William Butler Yeats, Irish poet and writer, Nobel Laureate and a Senator of the Irish Free State,
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/W._B._Yeats &
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/william-butler-yeats
Anthony Hopkins recites Yeats, The Lake Isle of Innisfree
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lNeq7Dakv_k
WB Yeats reads The Lake Isle of Innisfree
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QLlcvQg9i6c
"Hope"
is the thing with feathers (314)
By: Emily Dickinson (10 December, 1830-15 May, 1886)
Hope†is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Emily Dickinson https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson
Emily Dickinson Museum https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson_Museum
“Hope†is the thing with feathers, sung by Nazareth College Treble Choir, Linehan Chapel, Nazareth College https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gDlSo4hEzmE
By: Emily Dickinson (10 December, 1830-15 May, 1886)
Hope†is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Emily Dickinson https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson
Emily Dickinson Museum https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson_Museum
“Hope†is the thing with feathers, sung by Nazareth College Treble Choir, Linehan Chapel, Nazareth College https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gDlSo4hEzmE
Where The Mind Is Without Fear
by Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore [7 May1861-7 August 1941]) (2022-06-17)
by Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore [7 May1861-7 August 1941]) (2022-06-17)
Where The Mind Is Without Fear
From Gitanjali - 35
By: Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore [7 May 1861-7 August 1941])
Bengali painter, philosopher, writer, composer, social reformer and the first non-European to win the
Nobel Prize in Literature for his book of poems Gitanjali.
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
Rabindranath Tagore https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rabindranath_Tagore
Rabindranath Tagore on World Politics, Paris, 1930 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DWgtdnvN6M8
“Where the Mind is Without Fearâ€, recited by Martin Sheen
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-vM4_wI0jDk
Memories of India, and recitation of Where there is without Fear, by Rev Frank Whyte, who lived in
India for many decades
From Gitanjali - 35
By: Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore [7 May 1861-7 August 1941])
Bengali painter, philosopher, writer, composer, social reformer and the first non-European to win the
Nobel Prize in Literature for his book of poems Gitanjali.
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
Rabindranath Tagore https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rabindranath_Tagore
Rabindranath Tagore on World Politics, Paris, 1930 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DWgtdnvN6M8
“Where the Mind is Without Fearâ€, recited by Martin Sheen
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-vM4_wI0jDk
Memories of India, and recitation of Where there is without Fear, by Rev Frank Whyte, who lived in
India for many decades
ODE TO
APHRODITE
By: Sappho (C.630 - C.570 BC)
Aphrodite, subtle of soul and deathless,
Daughter of God, weaver of wiles, I pray thee
Neither with care, dread Mistress, nor with anguish,
Slay thou my spirit!
But in pity hasten, come now if ever
From afar of old when my voice implored thee,
Thou hast deigned to listen, leaving the golden
House of thy father
With thy chariot yoked; and with doves that drew thee,
Fair and fleet around the dark earth from heaven,
Dipping vibrant wings down he azure distance,
Through the mid-ether;
Very swift they came; and thou, gracious Vision,
Leaned with face that smiled in immortal beauty,
Leaned to me and asked, "What misfortune threatened?
Why I had called thee?"
"What my frenzied heart craved in utter yearning,
Whom its wild desire would persuade to passion?
What disdainful charms, madly worshipped, slight thee?
Who wrongs thee, Sappho?"
"She that fain would fly, she shall quickly follow,
She that now rejects, yet with gifts shall woo thee,
She that heeds thee not, soon shall love to madness,
Love thee, the loth one!"
Come to me now thus, Goddess, and release me
From distress and pain; and all my distracted
Heart would seek, do thou, once again fulfilling,
Still be my ally!
Sappho https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sappho
Aphrodite https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aphrodite
By: Sappho (C.630 - C.570 BC)
Aphrodite, subtle of soul and deathless,
Daughter of God, weaver of wiles, I pray thee
Neither with care, dread Mistress, nor with anguish,
Slay thou my spirit!
But in pity hasten, come now if ever
From afar of old when my voice implored thee,
Thou hast deigned to listen, leaving the golden
House of thy father
With thy chariot yoked; and with doves that drew thee,
Fair and fleet around the dark earth from heaven,
Dipping vibrant wings down he azure distance,
Through the mid-ether;
Very swift they came; and thou, gracious Vision,
Leaned with face that smiled in immortal beauty,
Leaned to me and asked, "What misfortune threatened?
Why I had called thee?"
"What my frenzied heart craved in utter yearning,
Whom its wild desire would persuade to passion?
What disdainful charms, madly worshipped, slight thee?
Who wrongs thee, Sappho?"
"She that fain would fly, she shall quickly follow,
She that now rejects, yet with gifts shall woo thee,
She that heeds thee not, soon shall love to madness,
Love thee, the loth one!"
Come to me now thus, Goddess, and release me
From distress and pain; and all my distracted
Heart would seek, do thou, once again fulfilling,
Still be my ally!
Sappho https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sappho
Aphrodite https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aphrodite
Wanderer's Nightsong (Wandrers
Nachtlied) I & II
By: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832),
Lawyer, poet, playwright, scientist, novelist, theatre director.
(translation by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
I
Thou that from the heavens art,
Every pain and sorrow stillest,
And the doubly wretched heart
Doubly with refreshment fillest,
I am weary with contending!
Why this rapture and unrest?
Peace descending
Come, ah, come into my breast!
Der du von dem Himmel bist,
Alles Leid und Schmerzen stillest,
Den, der doppelt elend ist,
Doppelt mit Erquickung füllest;
Ach, ich bin des Treibens müde!
Was soll all der Schmerz und Lust?
Süßer Friede,
Komm, ach komm in meine Brust!
II
O'er all the hilltops
Is quiet now,
In all the treetops
Hearest thou
Hardly a breath;
The birds are asleep in the trees:
Wait, soon like these
Thou too shalt rest.
Ãœber allen Gipfeln
Ist Ruh,
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch;
Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
Warte nur, balde
Ruhest du auch.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johann_Wolfgang_von_Goethe
Wanderer’s Nightsong https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wanderer%27s_Nightsong
Wanderer’s Nightsong II, Lieder by Franz Schubert, sung by Hans Hotter https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nfEcVkO9bHo
By: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832),
Lawyer, poet, playwright, scientist, novelist, theatre director.
(translation by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
I
Thou that from the heavens art,
Every pain and sorrow stillest,
And the doubly wretched heart
Doubly with refreshment fillest,
I am weary with contending!
Why this rapture and unrest?
Peace descending
Come, ah, come into my breast!
Der du von dem Himmel bist,
Alles Leid und Schmerzen stillest,
Den, der doppelt elend ist,
Doppelt mit Erquickung füllest;
Ach, ich bin des Treibens müde!
Was soll all der Schmerz und Lust?
Süßer Friede,
Komm, ach komm in meine Brust!
II
O'er all the hilltops
Is quiet now,
In all the treetops
Hearest thou
Hardly a breath;
The birds are asleep in the trees:
Wait, soon like these
Thou too shalt rest.
Ãœber allen Gipfeln
Ist Ruh,
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch;
Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
Warte nur, balde
Ruhest du auch.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johann_Wolfgang_von_Goethe
Wanderer’s Nightsong https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wanderer%27s_Nightsong
Wanderer’s Nightsong II, Lieder by Franz Schubert, sung by Hans Hotter https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nfEcVkO9bHo
A SWELTERING DAY IN
AUSTRALIA
By: Mark Twain
(written on 19 December 1895 on the train from Newcastle to Scone)
The Bombola faints in the hot Bowral tree,
Where fierce Mullengudgery’s smothering fires
Far from the breezes of Coolgardie
Burn ghastly and blue as the day expires;
And Murriwillumba complaineth in song
For the garlanded bowers of Woolloomooloo,
And the Ballarat Fly and the lone Wollongong
They dream of the gardens of Jamberoo;
The wallabi sighs for the Murrubidgee,
For the velvety sod of the Munno Parah,
Where the waters of healing from Muloowurtie
Flow dim in the gloaming by Yaranyackah;
The Koppio sorrows for lost Wolloway,
And sigheth in secret for Murrurundi,
The Whangeroo wombat lamenteth the day
That made him an exile from Jerrilderie;
The Teawamute Tumut from Wirrega’s glade,
The Nangkita swallow, the Wallaroo swan,
They long for the peace of the Timaru shade
And thy balmy soft airs, O sweet Mittagong!
The Kooringa buffalo pants in the sun,
The Kondoparinga lies gaping for breath,
The Kongorong Camaum to the shadow has won,
But the Goomeroo sinks in the slumber of death;
In the weltering hell of the Moorooroo plain
The Yatala Wangary withers and dies,
And the Worrow Wanilla, demented with pain,
To the Woolgoolga woodlands despairingly flies;
Sweet Nangwarry’s desolate, Coonamble wails,
And Tungkillo Kuito in sables is drest,
For the Whangerei winds fall asleep in the sails
And the Booleroo life-breeze is dead in the west.
Mypongo, Kapunda, O slumber no more
Yankalilla, Parawirra, be warned
There’s death in the air!
Killanoola, wherefore
Shall the prayer of Penola be scorned?
Cootamundra, and Takee, and Wakatipu,
Toowoomba, Kaikoura are lost
From Onkaparinga to far Oamaru
All burn in this hell’s holocaust!
Paramatta and Binnum are gone to their rest
In the vale of Tapanni Taroom,
Kawakawa, Deniliquin—all that was best
In the earth are but graves and a tomb!
Narrandera mourns, Cameron answers not
When the roll of the scathless we cry
Tongariro, Goondiwindi, Woolundunga, the spot
Is mute and forlorn where ye lie.
Mark Twain https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_Twain
Mark Twain in Scone http://scone.com.au/history/historical-people/mark-twain-1835-1910/
By: Mark Twain
(written on 19 December 1895 on the train from Newcastle to Scone)
The Bombola faints in the hot Bowral tree,
Where fierce Mullengudgery’s smothering fires
Far from the breezes of Coolgardie
Burn ghastly and blue as the day expires;
And Murriwillumba complaineth in song
For the garlanded bowers of Woolloomooloo,
And the Ballarat Fly and the lone Wollongong
They dream of the gardens of Jamberoo;
The wallabi sighs for the Murrubidgee,
For the velvety sod of the Munno Parah,
Where the waters of healing from Muloowurtie
Flow dim in the gloaming by Yaranyackah;
The Koppio sorrows for lost Wolloway,
And sigheth in secret for Murrurundi,
The Whangeroo wombat lamenteth the day
That made him an exile from Jerrilderie;
The Teawamute Tumut from Wirrega’s glade,
The Nangkita swallow, the Wallaroo swan,
They long for the peace of the Timaru shade
And thy balmy soft airs, O sweet Mittagong!
The Kooringa buffalo pants in the sun,
The Kondoparinga lies gaping for breath,
The Kongorong Camaum to the shadow has won,
But the Goomeroo sinks in the slumber of death;
In the weltering hell of the Moorooroo plain
The Yatala Wangary withers and dies,
And the Worrow Wanilla, demented with pain,
To the Woolgoolga woodlands despairingly flies;
Sweet Nangwarry’s desolate, Coonamble wails,
And Tungkillo Kuito in sables is drest,
For the Whangerei winds fall asleep in the sails
And the Booleroo life-breeze is dead in the west.
Mypongo, Kapunda, O slumber no more
Yankalilla, Parawirra, be warned
There’s death in the air!
Killanoola, wherefore
Shall the prayer of Penola be scorned?
Cootamundra, and Takee, and Wakatipu,
Toowoomba, Kaikoura are lost
From Onkaparinga to far Oamaru
All burn in this hell’s holocaust!
Paramatta and Binnum are gone to their rest
In the vale of Tapanni Taroom,
Kawakawa, Deniliquin—all that was best
In the earth are but graves and a tomb!
Narrandera mourns, Cameron answers not
When the roll of the scathless we cry
Tongariro, Goondiwindi, Woolundunga, the spot
Is mute and forlorn where ye lie.
Mark Twain https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_Twain
Mark Twain in Scone http://scone.com.au/history/historical-people/mark-twain-1835-1910/
The words of Hazrat Noor Inayat - Khan
By: Noor Inayat - Khan
Folklorist, writer, poet, spy, follower of the Sufi path
1 January 1914 (Moscow) – 13 September 1944 (Dachau Concentration Camp)
Among all the valuable things of this world,
the word is the most precious.
For in the word one can find a light
which gems and jewels do not possess;
a word may contain so much life
that it can heal the wounds of the heart.
Therefore, poetry in which the soul is expressed is as living as a human being.
The greatest reward that God bestows on man is eloquence and poetry.
This is not an exaggeration,
for it is the gift of the poet that culminates,
in time,
Assistant Sectional Officer Inayat-Khan was a British resistance agent, and the first woman sent behind enemy lines in France, working as a radio operator. She received posthumously the George Cross on 5 April 1949. The Sufi Order in London was founded by her father Hazrat Inayat Khan. The family was living in Paris in 1940.
Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Noor_Inayat_Khan
Biographies:
https://www.nytimes.com/2018/11/28/obituaries/noor-inayat-khan-overlooked.html
https://omegapub.com/author/noor-inayat-khan
By: Noor Inayat - Khan
Folklorist, writer, poet, spy, follower of the Sufi path
1 January 1914 (Moscow) – 13 September 1944 (Dachau Concentration Camp)
Among all the valuable things of this world,
the word is the most precious.
For in the word one can find a light
which gems and jewels do not possess;
a word may contain so much life
that it can heal the wounds of the heart.
Therefore, poetry in which the soul is expressed is as living as a human being.
The greatest reward that God bestows on man is eloquence and poetry.
This is not an exaggeration,
for it is the gift of the poet that culminates,
in time,
Assistant Sectional Officer Inayat-Khan was a British resistance agent, and the first woman sent behind enemy lines in France, working as a radio operator. She received posthumously the George Cross on 5 April 1949. The Sufi Order in London was founded by her father Hazrat Inayat Khan. The family was living in Paris in 1940.
Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Noor_Inayat_Khan
Biographies:
https://www.nytimes.com/2018/11/28/obituaries/noor-inayat-khan-overlooked.html
https://omegapub.com/author/noor-inayat-khan
Our
Casuarina Tree
By: Toru Dutt (1856-1877)
Published: 1881
LIKE a huge Python, winding round and round
The rugged trunk, indented deep with scars,
Up to its very summit near the stars,
A creeper climbs, in whose embraces bound
No other tree could live. But gallantly
The giant wears the scarf, and flowers are hung
In crimson clusters all the boughs among,
Whereon all day are gathered bird and bee;
And oft at nights the garden overflows
With one sweet song that seems to have no close,
Sung darkling from our tree, while men repose.
When first my casement is wide open thrown
At dawn, my eyes delighted on it rest;
Sometimes, and most in winter,—on its crest
A gray baboon sits statue-like alone
Watching the sunrise; while on lower boughs
His puny offspring leap about and play;
And far and near kokilas hail the day;
And to their pastures wend our sleepy cows;
And in the shadow, on the broad tank cast
By that hoar tree, so beautiful and vast,
The water-lilies spring, like snow enmassed.
But not because of its magnificence
Dear is the Casuarina to my soul:
Beneath it we have played; though years may roll,
O sweet companions, loved with love intense,
For your sakes, shall the tree be ever dear.
Blent with your images, it shall arise
In memory, till the hot tears blind mine eyes!
What is that dirge-like murmur that I hear
Like the sea breaking on a shingle-beach?
It is the tree’s lament, an eerie speech,
That haply to the unknown land may reach.
Unknown, yet well-known to the eye of faith!
Ah, I have heard that wail far, far away
In distant lands, by many a sheltered bay,
When slumbered in his cave the water-wraith
And the waves gently kissed the classic shore
Of France or Italy, beneath the moon,
When earth lay trancèd in a dreamless swoon:
And every time the music rose,—before
Mine inner vision rose a form sublime,
Thy form, O Tree, as in my happy prime
I saw thee, in my own loved native clime.
Therefore I fain would consecrate a lay
Unto thy honor, Tree, beloved of those
Who now in blessed sleep for aye repose,—
Dearer than life to me, alas, were they!
Mayst thou be numbered when my days are done
With deathless trees—like those in Borrowdale,
Under whose awful branches lingered pale
“Fear, trembling Hope, and Death, the skeleton,
And Time the shadow;†and though weak the verse
That would thy beauty fain, oh, fain rehearse,
May Love defend thee from Oblivion’s curse.
****
Toru Dutt, a Bengali poet, novelist and translator, born in 1856 has been referred to as “the Keats of Indiaâ€. She travelled with her family to Europe in 1869, and lived for a time at Cambridge, attending “Lectures for Ladiesâ€, at what later became Newnham College (1871). She returned to Calcutta in 1873 and died in 1877 at the age of 21. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toru_Dutt
By: Toru Dutt (1856-1877)
Published: 1881
LIKE a huge Python, winding round and round
The rugged trunk, indented deep with scars,
Up to its very summit near the stars,
A creeper climbs, in whose embraces bound
No other tree could live. But gallantly
The giant wears the scarf, and flowers are hung
In crimson clusters all the boughs among,
Whereon all day are gathered bird and bee;
And oft at nights the garden overflows
With one sweet song that seems to have no close,
Sung darkling from our tree, while men repose.
When first my casement is wide open thrown
At dawn, my eyes delighted on it rest;
Sometimes, and most in winter,—on its crest
A gray baboon sits statue-like alone
Watching the sunrise; while on lower boughs
His puny offspring leap about and play;
And far and near kokilas hail the day;
And to their pastures wend our sleepy cows;
And in the shadow, on the broad tank cast
By that hoar tree, so beautiful and vast,
The water-lilies spring, like snow enmassed.
But not because of its magnificence
Dear is the Casuarina to my soul:
Beneath it we have played; though years may roll,
O sweet companions, loved with love intense,
For your sakes, shall the tree be ever dear.
Blent with your images, it shall arise
In memory, till the hot tears blind mine eyes!
What is that dirge-like murmur that I hear
Like the sea breaking on a shingle-beach?
It is the tree’s lament, an eerie speech,
That haply to the unknown land may reach.
Unknown, yet well-known to the eye of faith!
Ah, I have heard that wail far, far away
In distant lands, by many a sheltered bay,
When slumbered in his cave the water-wraith
And the waves gently kissed the classic shore
Of France or Italy, beneath the moon,
When earth lay trancèd in a dreamless swoon:
And every time the music rose,—before
Mine inner vision rose a form sublime,
Thy form, O Tree, as in my happy prime
I saw thee, in my own loved native clime.
Therefore I fain would consecrate a lay
Unto thy honor, Tree, beloved of those
Who now in blessed sleep for aye repose,—
Dearer than life to me, alas, were they!
Mayst thou be numbered when my days are done
With deathless trees—like those in Borrowdale,
Under whose awful branches lingered pale
“Fear, trembling Hope, and Death, the skeleton,
And Time the shadow;†and though weak the verse
That would thy beauty fain, oh, fain rehearse,
May Love defend thee from Oblivion’s curse.
****
Toru Dutt, a Bengali poet, novelist and translator, born in 1856 has been referred to as “the Keats of Indiaâ€. She travelled with her family to Europe in 1869, and lived for a time at Cambridge, attending “Lectures for Ladiesâ€, at what later became Newnham College (1871). She returned to Calcutta in 1873 and died in 1877 at the age of 21. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toru_Dutt
If
By: Rudyard Kipling (written 1895, published 1910)
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 on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe 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!
Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudyard_Kipling (Rudyard Kiping)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/If%E2%80%94 (“Ifâ€)
If, read by Sir Michael Caine https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sqOgyNfHl1U
If, recited by Dennis Hopper on the Johnny Cash Show https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T2LUbk_7uKg
By: Rudyard Kipling (written 1895, published 1910)
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 on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe 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!
Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudyard_Kipling (Rudyard Kiping)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/If%E2%80%94 (“Ifâ€)
If, read by Sir Michael Caine https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sqOgyNfHl1U
If, recited by Dennis Hopper on the Johnny Cash Show https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T2LUbk_7uKg
O Captain! My Captain!
From Leaves of Grass (1867)
By: Walt Whitman (1819 to 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.
Published 1865 following the death of US President Abraham Lincoln
Walt Whitman https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walt_Whitman
O Captain! My Captain! https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/O_Captain!_My_Captain!
From Leaves of Grass (1867)
By: Walt Whitman (1819 to 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.
Published 1865 following the death of US President Abraham Lincoln
Walt Whitman https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walt_Whitman
O Captain! My Captain! https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/O_Captain!_My_Captain!
For The Fallen
(first published in The Times, September 1914)
By: Laurence Binyon (1869-1943)
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England’s foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
For the Fallen, read by Sir John Gielgud https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2I7mhWg7PTI
For the Fallen, music by Elgar, sung by the Choir of Waltham Abbey https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jcp9iNKPOP0
Laurence Binyon https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laurence_Binyon
https://www.britannica.com/biography/Laurence-Binyon
For the Fallen https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/For_the_Fallen
(first published in The Times, September 1914)
By: Laurence Binyon (1869-1943)
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England’s foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
For the Fallen, read by Sir John Gielgud https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2I7mhWg7PTI
For the Fallen, music by Elgar, sung by the Choir of Waltham Abbey https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jcp9iNKPOP0
Laurence Binyon https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laurence_Binyon
https://www.britannica.com/biography/Laurence-Binyon
For the Fallen https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/For_the_Fallen
Ithaka
By: Constantine P. Cavafy, 1911 (1863-1933)
When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,
pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the angry Poseidon - do not fear them:
You will never find such as these on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your spirit and your body.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your soul does not set them up before you.
Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of all kinds,
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
visit many Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from scholars.
Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.
Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would have never set out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you.
And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what Ithaca means
Constantine P. Cavafy https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Constantine_P._Cavafy
Ithaka read by Sean Connery, music by Vangelis https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sl3uKXU6VLI &
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-uoKzLGQiqo
By: Constantine P. Cavafy, 1911 (1863-1933)
When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,
pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the angry Poseidon - do not fear them:
You will never find such as these on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your spirit and your body.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your soul does not set them up before you.
Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of all kinds,
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
visit many Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from scholars.
Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.
Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would have never set out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you.
And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what Ithaca means
Constantine P. Cavafy https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Constantine_P._Cavafy
Ithaka read by Sean Connery, music by Vangelis https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sl3uKXU6VLI &
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-uoKzLGQiqo
"Spring"
By: Edna St. Vincent Millay (22.2.1892- 19.10. 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 underground 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.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edna_St._Vincent_Millay
Edna St Vincent Millay won the Pullitzer Prize in 1923, and was awarded the Robert Frost Medal in 1943 for her lifetime contribution to American poetry.
She was a co-founder of the Cherry Lane Theatre in Greenwich Village, New York City in 1923.
Millay was commissioned by the Writer’s War Board to write a poem for the village of Lidice in the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia (now the Czech Republic) which was completely destroyed, and its people murdered on 10 June 1942. Her poem “The Murder of Lidice†includes these lines:
“The whole world holds in its arms today
The murdered village of Lidice,
Like the murdered body of a little childâ€.
http://www.tenhumbergreinhard.de/taeter-und-mitlaeufer/lieder-und-gedichte/the-murder-of-lidice.html
By: Edna St. Vincent Millay (22.2.1892- 19.10. 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 underground 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.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edna_St._Vincent_Millay
Edna St Vincent Millay won the Pullitzer Prize in 1923, and was awarded the Robert Frost Medal in 1943 for her lifetime contribution to American poetry.
She was a co-founder of the Cherry Lane Theatre in Greenwich Village, New York City in 1923.
Millay was commissioned by the Writer’s War Board to write a poem for the village of Lidice in the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia (now the Czech Republic) which was completely destroyed, and its people murdered on 10 June 1942. Her poem “The Murder of Lidice†includes these lines:
“The whole world holds in its arms today
The murdered village of Lidice,
Like the murdered body of a little childâ€.
http://www.tenhumbergreinhard.de/taeter-und-mitlaeufer/lieder-und-gedichte/the-murder-of-lidice.html
For Whom the Bell Tolls
Meditation no. 17 from "Devotions upon Emergent Occasions" (1624)
By: John Donne (1572 - 1631)
No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Donne
For Whom the Bell Tolls Read by Orson Wells ?? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G4DdFnHTTMQ
Meditation no. 17 from "Devotions upon Emergent Occasions" (1624)
By: John Donne (1572 - 1631)
No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Donne
For Whom the Bell Tolls Read by Orson Wells ?? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G4DdFnHTTMQ
Do Not Go Gentle Into That
Good Night
By: Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)
Dylan Thomas reads: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1mRec3VbH3w
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 grieve 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.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dylan_Thomas
By: Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)
Dylan Thomas reads: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1mRec3VbH3w
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 grieve 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.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dylan_Thomas
Pikes Peak
By: Professor Katharine Lee Bates, B.A. 1859-1929 (1883, Wellesley College)
This poem became the lyrics for the song “America the Beautifulâ€
O great for halcyon skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the enameled plain!
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee,
Till souls wax fair as earth and air
And music-hearted sea!
O great for pilgrim feet
Whose stern, impassioned stress
A thoroughfare for freedom beat
Across the wilderness!
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee
Till paths be wrought through wilds of thought
By pilgrim foot and knee!
O great for glory-tale
Of liberating strife,
When once or twice, for man's avail,
Men lavished precious life!
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee
Till selfish gain no longer stain,
The banner of the free!
O great for patriot dream
That sees beyond the years
Thine alabaster cities gleam
Undimmed by human tears!
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee
Till nobler men keep once again
Thy whiter jubilee!
http://museumsonthegreen.org/wp-content/uploads/Katharine-Lee-Bates-Manuscript-Collection.pdf
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Katharine_Lee_Bates
Ray Charles sings “America the Beautiful†https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TRUjr8EVgBg
By: Professor Katharine Lee Bates, B.A. 1859-1929 (1883, Wellesley College)
This poem became the lyrics for the song “America the Beautifulâ€
O great for halcyon skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the enameled plain!
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee,
Till souls wax fair as earth and air
And music-hearted sea!
O great for pilgrim feet
Whose stern, impassioned stress
A thoroughfare for freedom beat
Across the wilderness!
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee
Till paths be wrought through wilds of thought
By pilgrim foot and knee!
O great for glory-tale
Of liberating strife,
When once or twice, for man's avail,
Men lavished precious life!
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee
Till selfish gain no longer stain,
The banner of the free!
O great for patriot dream
That sees beyond the years
Thine alabaster cities gleam
Undimmed by human tears!
America! America!
God shed His grace on thee
Till nobler men keep once again
Thy whiter jubilee!
http://museumsonthegreen.org/wp-content/uploads/Katharine-Lee-Bates-Manuscript-Collection.pdf
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Katharine_Lee_Bates
Ray Charles sings “America the Beautiful†https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TRUjr8EVgBg
Sonnet X
Death Be Not Proud
(One of the 19 Holy Sonnets - Published 1633)
By: John Donne (1572–1631)
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.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Donne
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_Be_Not_Proud
Death Be Not Proud
(One of the 19 Holy Sonnets - Published 1633)
By: John Donne (1572–1631)
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.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Donne
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_Be_Not_Proud
Counting The Stars
By: Catherine Vidler
Nothing left to do but count
the stars
(I could be here all night).
*
Like stopped confetti
their utterances
reside, bright-lipped
round the moon’s
pale head
(the abacus has gone to bed).
*
Oh chuckling stars
what can I do
but cut my losses
and count on you.
Cath Vidler -Australian author and poet
http://www.theblastedtree.com/catherine-vidler
http://cordite.org.au/author/cathvidler/
http://www.theblastedtree.com/catherine-vidler
By: Catherine Vidler
Nothing left to do but count
the stars
(I could be here all night).
*
Like stopped confetti
their utterances
reside, bright-lipped
round the moon’s
pale head
(the abacus has gone to bed).
*
Oh chuckling stars
what can I do
but cut my losses
and count on you.
Cath Vidler -Australian author and poet
http://www.theblastedtree.com/catherine-vidler
http://cordite.org.au/author/cathvidler/
http://www.theblastedtree.com/catherine-vidler
Will and Testament
By: Taras Shevchenko (1814 to 1861)
Ukrainian poet, writer and artist--regarded as the founder of modern Ukrainian literature
When I die bury me
in the middle of the steppe
of my Ukraine. So I can seize
broad the broadback field and
Dnipro, twisting, so
I can see and hear it roar,
roaring, carrying
thieves’ blood
to the ocean. Then I’ll toss
the fields and mountains and me
and burn them all like prayers.
I won’t know God till then.
Stash me away then stand,
split your chains and spatter
the soil with blood and fury,
having your body back. Now
in our vast family, the free
one, the new one,
don’t forget to remember me
in good-willed words,
a word unangered,
quiet.
To N. N.
By Taras Shevchenko (1814 to 1861)
Sun submerges, mountains charcoal,
a bird hushes, the fields go mute.
People revel finding rest but
I watch . . . and from my chest I fly
through a darkened grove to Ukraine.
Flying, I fly, with a poem I make up,
and it seems my heart unclamps.
Fields blacken and woods and peaks,
and stars surface in the still blue sky.
O stars! stars—and tears
drop. Have you risen in Ukraine yet?
Are brown eyes looking for you
against the sky? Do they overlook?
If they forgot or fell asleep, at least
they won’t hear about the life I had to live.
1847
http://sites.utoronto.ca/elul/Ukr_Lit/Vol04/06-Shevchenko-poems-Motyl.pdf
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taras_Shevchenko
By: Taras Shevchenko (1814 to 1861)
Ukrainian poet, writer and artist--regarded as the founder of modern Ukrainian literature
When I die bury me
in the middle of the steppe
of my Ukraine. So I can seize
broad the broadback field and
Dnipro, twisting, so
I can see and hear it roar,
roaring, carrying
thieves’ blood
to the ocean. Then I’ll toss
the fields and mountains and me
and burn them all like prayers.
I won’t know God till then.
Stash me away then stand,
split your chains and spatter
the soil with blood and fury,
having your body back. Now
in our vast family, the free
one, the new one,
don’t forget to remember me
in good-willed words,
a word unangered,
quiet.
To N. N.
By Taras Shevchenko (1814 to 1861)
Sun submerges, mountains charcoal,
a bird hushes, the fields go mute.
People revel finding rest but
I watch . . . and from my chest I fly
through a darkened grove to Ukraine.
Flying, I fly, with a poem I make up,
and it seems my heart unclamps.
Fields blacken and woods and peaks,
and stars surface in the still blue sky.
O stars! stars—and tears
drop. Have you risen in Ukraine yet?
Are brown eyes looking for you
against the sky? Do they overlook?
If they forgot or fell asleep, at least
they won’t hear about the life I had to live.
1847
http://sites.utoronto.ca/elul/Ukr_Lit/Vol04/06-Shevchenko-poems-Motyl.pdf
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taras_Shevchenko
from I
Loved Her Like the Leaves
By: Ben Jonson
I loved her like the leaves,
The lush leaves of spring
That weighed the branches of the willows
Standing on the jutting bank
Where we two walked together
While she was of this world.
My life was built on her;
But man cannot flout
The laws of this world.
To the wide fields where the heat haze shimmers
Hidden in a white cloud,
White as white mulberry scarf,
She soared like the morning bird
Hidden from our world like the setting sun.
The child she left as token
Whimpers, begs for food; but always
Finding nothing that I might give,
Like birds that gather rice-heads in their beaks,
I pick him up and clasp him in my arms.
By the pillows where we lay,
My wife and I, as one,
The daylight I pass lonely till the dusk,
The black night I lie sighing till the dawn.
I grieve, yet know no remedy:
I pine, yet have no way to meet her.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ben_Jonson
c. 11 June 1572 – c. 16 August 1637, considered second, to William Shakespeare, as an English dramatist during the reign of James 1
By: Ben Jonson
I loved her like the leaves,
The lush leaves of spring
That weighed the branches of the willows
Standing on the jutting bank
Where we two walked together
While she was of this world.
My life was built on her;
But man cannot flout
The laws of this world.
To the wide fields where the heat haze shimmers
Hidden in a white cloud,
White as white mulberry scarf,
She soared like the morning bird
Hidden from our world like the setting sun.
The child she left as token
Whimpers, begs for food; but always
Finding nothing that I might give,
Like birds that gather rice-heads in their beaks,
I pick him up and clasp him in my arms.
By the pillows where we lay,
My wife and I, as one,
The daylight I pass lonely till the dusk,
The black night I lie sighing till the dawn.
I grieve, yet know no remedy:
I pine, yet have no way to meet her.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ben_Jonson
c. 11 June 1572 – c. 16 August 1637, considered second, to William Shakespeare, as an English dramatist during the reign of James 1
BELL-BIRDS
By: Henry Kendall
By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,
And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling:
It lives in the mountain where moss and the sedges
Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges.
Through breaks of the cedar and sycamore bowers
Struggles the light that is love to the flowers;
And, softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,
The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.
The silver-voiced bell birds, the darlings of daytime!
They sing in September their songs of the May-time;
When shadows wax strong, and the thunder bolts hurtle,
They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle;
When rain and the sunbeams shine mingled together,
They start up like fairies that follow fair weather;
And straightway the hues of their feathers unfolden
Are the green and the purple, the blue and the golden.
October, the maiden of bright yellow tresses,
Loiters for love in these cool wildernesses;
Loiters, knee-deep, in the grasses, to listen,
Where dripping rocks gleam and the leafy pools glisten:
Then is the time when the water-moons splendid
Break with their gold, and are scattered or blended
Over the creeks, till the woodlands have warning
Of songs of the bell-bird and wings of the Morning.
Welcome as waters unkissed by the summers
Are the voices of bell-birds to the thirsty far-comers.
When fiery December sets foot in the forest,
And the need of the wayfarer presses the sorest,
Pent in the ridges for ever and ever
The bell-birds direct him to spring and to river,
With ring and with ripple, like runnels who torrents
Are toned by the pebbles and the leaves in the currents.
Often I sit, looking back to a childhood,
Mixt with the sights and the sounds of the wildwood,
Longing for power and the sweetness to fashion,
Lyrics with beats like the heart-beats of Passion; -
Songs interwoven of lights and of laughters
Borrowed from bell-birds in far forest-rafters;
So I might keep in the city and alleys
The beauty and strength of the deep mountain valleys:
Charming to slumber the pain of my losses
With glimpses of creeks and a vision of mosses.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Kendall_(poet)
By: Henry Kendall
By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,
And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling:
It lives in the mountain where moss and the sedges
Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges.
Through breaks of the cedar and sycamore bowers
Struggles the light that is love to the flowers;
And, softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,
The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.
The silver-voiced bell birds, the darlings of daytime!
They sing in September their songs of the May-time;
When shadows wax strong, and the thunder bolts hurtle,
They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle;
When rain and the sunbeams shine mingled together,
They start up like fairies that follow fair weather;
And straightway the hues of their feathers unfolden
Are the green and the purple, the blue and the golden.
October, the maiden of bright yellow tresses,
Loiters for love in these cool wildernesses;
Loiters, knee-deep, in the grasses, to listen,
Where dripping rocks gleam and the leafy pools glisten:
Then is the time when the water-moons splendid
Break with their gold, and are scattered or blended
Over the creeks, till the woodlands have warning
Of songs of the bell-bird and wings of the Morning.
Welcome as waters unkissed by the summers
Are the voices of bell-birds to the thirsty far-comers.
When fiery December sets foot in the forest,
And the need of the wayfarer presses the sorest,
Pent in the ridges for ever and ever
The bell-birds direct him to spring and to river,
With ring and with ripple, like runnels who torrents
Are toned by the pebbles and the leaves in the currents.
Often I sit, looking back to a childhood,
Mixt with the sights and the sounds of the wildwood,
Longing for power and the sweetness to fashion,
Lyrics with beats like the heart-beats of Passion; -
Songs interwoven of lights and of laughters
Borrowed from bell-birds in far forest-rafters;
So I might keep in the city and alleys
The beauty and strength of the deep mountain valleys:
Charming to slumber the pain of my losses
With glimpses of creeks and a vision of mosses.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Kendall_(poet)
Bury
Me in a Free Land
By: Frances Ellen Watkins Harper - 1825-1911
Make me a grave where'er you will,
In a lowly plain, or a lofty hill;
Make it among earth's humblest graves,
But not in a land where men are slaves.
I could not rest if around my grave
I heard the steps of a trembling slave;
His shadow above my silent tomb
Would make it a place of fearful gloom.
I could not rest if I heard the tread
Of a coffle gang to the shambles led,
And the mother's shriek of wild despair
Rise like a curse on the trembling air.
I could not sleep if I saw the lash
Drinking her blood at each fearful gash,
And I saw her babes torn from her breast,
Like trembling doves from their parent nest.
I'd shudder and start if I heard the bay
Of bloodhounds seizing their human prey,
And I heard the captive plead in vain
As they bound afresh his galling chain.
If I saw young girls from their mother's arms
Bartered and sold for their youthful charms,
My eye would flash with a mournful flame,
My death-paled cheek grow red with shame.
I would sleep, dear friends, where bloated might
Can rob no man of his dearest right;
My rest shall be calm in any grave
Where none can call his brother a slave.
I ask no monument, proud and high,
To arrest the gaze of the passers-by;
All that my yearning spirit craves,
Is bury me not in a land of slaves.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frances_Harper
Frances Harper was one of the first African- American writers to be published.
By: Frances Ellen Watkins Harper - 1825-1911
Make me a grave where'er you will,
In a lowly plain, or a lofty hill;
Make it among earth's humblest graves,
But not in a land where men are slaves.
I could not rest if around my grave
I heard the steps of a trembling slave;
His shadow above my silent tomb
Would make it a place of fearful gloom.
I could not rest if I heard the tread
Of a coffle gang to the shambles led,
And the mother's shriek of wild despair
Rise like a curse on the trembling air.
I could not sleep if I saw the lash
Drinking her blood at each fearful gash,
And I saw her babes torn from her breast,
Like trembling doves from their parent nest.
I'd shudder and start if I heard the bay
Of bloodhounds seizing their human prey,
And I heard the captive plead in vain
As they bound afresh his galling chain.
If I saw young girls from their mother's arms
Bartered and sold for their youthful charms,
My eye would flash with a mournful flame,
My death-paled cheek grow red with shame.
I would sleep, dear friends, where bloated might
Can rob no man of his dearest right;
My rest shall be calm in any grave
Where none can call his brother a slave.
I ask no monument, proud and high,
To arrest the gaze of the passers-by;
All that my yearning spirit craves,
Is bury me not in a land of slaves.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frances_Harper
Frances Harper was one of the first African- American writers to be published.
I
Conquer The World With Words
By: Nizar Qabbani
I conquer the world with words,
conquer the mother tongue,
verbs, nouns, syntax.
I sweep away the beginning of things
and with a new language
that has the music of water the message of fire
I light the coming age
and stop time in your eyes
and wipe away the line
that separates
time from this single moment.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nizar_Qabbani
https://www.britannica.com/biography/Nizar-Qabbani
By: Nizar Qabbani
I conquer the world with words,
conquer the mother tongue,
verbs, nouns, syntax.
I sweep away the beginning of things
and with a new language
that has the music of water the message of fire
I light the coming age
and stop time in your eyes
and wipe away the line
that separates
time from this single moment.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nizar_Qabbani
https://www.britannica.com/biography/Nizar-Qabbani
A Visit from St. Nicholas
By: Clement Clarke Moore
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too—
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!â€
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clement_Clarke_Moore
By: Clement Clarke Moore
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too—
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!â€
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clement_Clarke_Moore
The Wind
By: Harold Monro
SO wayward is the wind to-night
’Twill send the planets tumbling down;
And all the waving trees are dight
In gauzes wafted from the moon.
Faint streaky wisps of roaming cloud
Are swiftly from the mountains swirl’d;
The wind is like a floating shroud
Wound light about the shivering world.
I think I see a little star
Entangled in a knotty tree,
As trembling fishes captured are
In nets from the eternal sea.
There seems a bevy in the air
Of spirits from the sparkling skies:
There seems a maiden with her hair
All tumbled in my blinded eyes.
O, how they whisper, how conspire,
And shrill to one another call!
I fear that, if they cannot tire,
The moon, her shining self, will fall.
Blow! Scatter even if you will
Like spray the stars about mine eyes!
Wind, overturn the goblet, spill
On me the everlasting skies!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harold_Monro
By: Harold Monro
SO wayward is the wind to-night
’Twill send the planets tumbling down;
And all the waving trees are dight
In gauzes wafted from the moon.
Faint streaky wisps of roaming cloud
Are swiftly from the mountains swirl’d;
The wind is like a floating shroud
Wound light about the shivering world.
I think I see a little star
Entangled in a knotty tree,
As trembling fishes captured are
In nets from the eternal sea.
There seems a bevy in the air
Of spirits from the sparkling skies:
There seems a maiden with her hair
All tumbled in my blinded eyes.
O, how they whisper, how conspire,
And shrill to one another call!
I fear that, if they cannot tire,
The moon, her shining self, will fall.
Blow! Scatter even if you will
Like spray the stars about mine eyes!
Wind, overturn the goblet, spill
On me the everlasting skies!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harold_Monro
Lines Written
During a Night Spent in a Bush Inn
By: Louise Lawson
I wish now this heart with its pleading refrain
Would freeze and be still, then this tumult of pain
That mortals call living would end, and the cast
Of life be as nought but a pestilence past.
This robe I am wearing, as white as a cloud,
With neatly sewn border, would do for a shroud,
And thus I'd be ready, pain-shriven and meet,
With only to straighten my hands and my feet.
No sign would I make when Death's hand on me lay,
No sob would I utter when passing away;
For those in the house need the rest, all too short,
To heal the fatigue that a hard day has brought.
Out on the verandah, asleep on the floor,
With weary feet blistered, and aching and sore,
The tramp dreams of home with his head on his swag,
Nor recks he of drought, or the dry water-bag.
And soundly asleep, with a sun-blistered face,
The drover now dreads not the “breaks†he must chase.
But he must be up at the first peep of light
To “fetch up†the yards for his cattle at night.
And while all the sheep in the hurdles are snug
The black boy must rest on his old 'possum rug.
In dust and in heat he has shouted all day,
And sunrise must see him again on his way.
I looked in the face of Death once, when alone,
And met the grim King without shudder or moan,
So I will not shiver nor shriek with affright
If I have to go with him into the night.
And then they would take me to where I love best,
To where I know well that my spirit would rest,
Where gaudy birds chatter and wild cherries wave,
And sunset would throw a red haze o'er my grave —
Away on the gap, 'neath the big kurrajong
That stretches its branches the granites among,
And forms with its shelter a natural tomb
With rest in its stillness, and peace in its gloom.
And some one among them, with grief in his breast,
Might register roughly the place of my rest
By carving in letters cut deep on its bole
These plain words: “A Woman. May God rest her soul.â€
In ground that is hallowed let happy folk lie,
But give me a grave in the bush when I die.
For have I not lived, loved, and suffered alone?
Thus making it meet that my grave be unknown.
The sound of the stockwhip away on the hill.
Ah, God! It is day, and I'm suffering still!
Louisa Lawson
By: Louise Lawson
I wish now this heart with its pleading refrain
Would freeze and be still, then this tumult of pain
That mortals call living would end, and the cast
Of life be as nought but a pestilence past.
This robe I am wearing, as white as a cloud,
With neatly sewn border, would do for a shroud,
And thus I'd be ready, pain-shriven and meet,
With only to straighten my hands and my feet.
No sign would I make when Death's hand on me lay,
No sob would I utter when passing away;
For those in the house need the rest, all too short,
To heal the fatigue that a hard day has brought.
Out on the verandah, asleep on the floor,
With weary feet blistered, and aching and sore,
The tramp dreams of home with his head on his swag,
Nor recks he of drought, or the dry water-bag.
And soundly asleep, with a sun-blistered face,
The drover now dreads not the “breaks†he must chase.
But he must be up at the first peep of light
To “fetch up†the yards for his cattle at night.
And while all the sheep in the hurdles are snug
The black boy must rest on his old 'possum rug.
In dust and in heat he has shouted all day,
And sunrise must see him again on his way.
I looked in the face of Death once, when alone,
And met the grim King without shudder or moan,
So I will not shiver nor shriek with affright
If I have to go with him into the night.
And then they would take me to where I love best,
To where I know well that my spirit would rest,
Where gaudy birds chatter and wild cherries wave,
And sunset would throw a red haze o'er my grave —
Away on the gap, 'neath the big kurrajong
That stretches its branches the granites among,
And forms with its shelter a natural tomb
With rest in its stillness, and peace in its gloom.
And some one among them, with grief in his breast,
Might register roughly the place of my rest
By carving in letters cut deep on its bole
These plain words: “A Woman. May God rest her soul.â€
In ground that is hallowed let happy folk lie,
But give me a grave in the bush when I die.
For have I not lived, loved, and suffered alone?
Thus making it meet that my grave be unknown.
The sound of the stockwhip away on the hill.
Ah, God! It is day, and I'm suffering still!
Louisa Lawson
Why I live in
the Green Mountains
By: Li Bai
Translated by Arthur Waley
In the mountains, you asked, I answered, most popular answer
Why do I live in the green mountains?
I laugh and answer not, my soul serene
I dwell in another paradise, where earth belongs to no man
Where peach trees blossom forever, and the rivers flow on and on
You ask, why I dwell on Green Mountain;
I smile and make no reply for my heart is at peace.
The peach-blossoms flow downstream and are gone forever,
I live in a world apart from among men.
I’m asked what the sense of living on Jade Mountain
I laugh and answer not, my heart at peace
I dwell in another heaven where no earthly man belongs
Where peach trees blossom and spring waters flow forever
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Li_Bai
By: Li Bai
Translated by Arthur Waley
In the mountains, you asked, I answered, most popular answer
Why do I live in the green mountains?
I laugh and answer not, my soul serene
I dwell in another paradise, where earth belongs to no man
Where peach trees blossom forever, and the rivers flow on and on
You ask, why I dwell on Green Mountain;
I smile and make no reply for my heart is at peace.
The peach-blossoms flow downstream and are gone forever,
I live in a world apart from among men.
I’m asked what the sense of living on Jade Mountain
I laugh and answer not, my heart at peace
I dwell in another heaven where no earthly man belongs
Where peach trees blossom and spring waters flow forever
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Li_Bai
Nothing Gold Can Stay
By: Robert Frost
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
ROBERT FROST
Sonnets From The
Portuguese XLIV
By: Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers
Plucked in the garden, all the summer through,
And winter, and it seemed as if they grew
In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers.
So, in the like name of that love of ours,
Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too,
And which on warm and cold days I withdrew
From my hearts ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers
Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,
And wait thy weeding; yet here’s eglantine,
Here’s ivy! take them, as I used to do
Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine.
Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true,
And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.
Sonnets From The Portuguese XLIII
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 candlelight.
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.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
By: Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers
Plucked in the garden, all the summer through,
And winter, and it seemed as if they grew
In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers.
So, in the like name of that love of ours,
Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too,
And which on warm and cold days I withdrew
From my hearts ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers
Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,
And wait thy weeding; yet here’s eglantine,
Here’s ivy! take them, as I used to do
Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine.
Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true,
And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.
Sonnets From The Portuguese XLIII
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 candlelight.
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.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Forever – is composed of Nows – (690)
By: Emily Dickinson
Forever – is composed of Nows –
‘Tis not a different time –
Except for Infiniteness –
And Latitude of Home –
From this – experienced Here –
Remove the Dates – to These –
Let Months dissolve in further Months –
And Years – exhale in Years –
Without Debate – or Pause –
Or Celebrated Days –
No different Our Years would be
From Anno Dominies –
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson
By: Emily Dickinson
Forever – is composed of Nows –
‘Tis not a different time –
Except for Infiniteness –
And Latitude of Home –
From this – experienced Here –
Remove the Dates – to These –
Let Months dissolve in further Months –
And Years – exhale in Years –
Without Debate – or Pause –
Or Celebrated Days –
No different Our Years would be
From Anno Dominies –
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson
The Circle [2]
By: Hester Pulter
Those that the hidden chemic art profess
And visit Nature in her morning dress,
To mercury and sulphur philtres give
That they, consumed with love, may live
In their posterity and in them shine
Though they their being unto them resign;
Glorying to shine in silver and in gold
Which fretting vermeil poison doth enfold,
Forgetting quite that they were once refined.
By time and fate to dust are all calcined
Lying obliviated in their urn
Till they to their great ancestors return.
So man, the universe’s chiefest glory,
His primitive’s dust (alas) doth end his story.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lady_Hester_Pulter
By: Hester Pulter
Those that the hidden chemic art profess
And visit Nature in her morning dress,
To mercury and sulphur philtres give
That they, consumed with love, may live
In their posterity and in them shine
Though they their being unto them resign;
Glorying to shine in silver and in gold
Which fretting vermeil poison doth enfold,
Forgetting quite that they were once refined.
By time and fate to dust are all calcined
Lying obliviated in their urn
Till they to their great ancestors return.
So man, the universe’s chiefest glory,
His primitive’s dust (alas) doth end his story.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lady_Hester_Pulter
Stanzas for Music
By: Lord Byron (George Gordon)
With a magic like thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:
And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep;
Whose breast is gently heaving,
As an infant's asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord_Byron
At a Solemn Music
By: John Milton
Sphear-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Vers,
Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ
Dead things with inbreath'd sense able to pierce,
And to our high-rais'd phantasie present,
That undisturbèd Song of pure content,
Ay sung before the saphire-colour'd throne
To him that sits theron
With Saintly shout, and solemn Jubily,
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
Their loud up-lifted Angel trumpets blow,
And the Cherubick host in thousand quires
Touch their immortal Harps of golden wires,
With those just Spirits that wear victorious Palms,
Hymns devout and holy Psalms
Singing everlastingly;
That we on Earth with undiscording voice
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportion'd sin
Jarr'd against natures chime, and with harsh din
Broke the fair musick that all creatures made
To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway’d
In perfect Diapason, whilst they stood
In first obedience, and their state of good.
O may we soon again renew that Song
And keep in tune with Heav'n, till God ere long
To his celestial consort us unite,
To live with him, and sing in endles morn of light.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Milton
Frost at Midnight
By: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.
But O! how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book:
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!
Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the intersperséd vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the night-thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samuel_Taylor_Coleridge
By: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.
But O! how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book:
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!
Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the intersperséd vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the night-thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samuel_Taylor_Coleridge
Sonnet To The White-Bird Of The Tropic
By: Helen Maria Williams
BIRD of the Tropic! thou, who lov'st to stray
Where thy long pinions sweep the sultry Line,
Or mark'st the bounds which torrid beams confine
By thy averted course, that shuns the ray
Oblique, enamour'd of sublimer day:
Oft on yon cliff thy folded plumes recline,
And drop those snowy feathers Indians twine,
To crown the warrior's brow with honours gay.
O'er trackless oceans what impels thy wing?
Does no soft instinct in thy soul prevail?
No sweet affection to thy bosom cling,
And bid thee oft thy absent nest bewail?--
Yet thou again to that dear spot canst spring,
But I no more my long-lost home shall hail!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helen_Maria_Williams
By: Helen Maria Williams
BIRD of the Tropic! thou, who lov'st to stray
Where thy long pinions sweep the sultry Line,
Or mark'st the bounds which torrid beams confine
By thy averted course, that shuns the ray
Oblique, enamour'd of sublimer day:
Oft on yon cliff thy folded plumes recline,
And drop those snowy feathers Indians twine,
To crown the warrior's brow with honours gay.
O'er trackless oceans what impels thy wing?
Does no soft instinct in thy soul prevail?
No sweet affection to thy bosom cling,
And bid thee oft thy absent nest bewail?--
Yet thou again to that dear spot canst spring,
But I no more my long-lost home shall hail!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helen_Maria_Williams
A Bird Song
By: Christina Rossetti
It’s a year almost that I have not seen her:
Oh, last summer green things were greener,
Brambles fewer, the blue sky bluer.
It’s surely summer, for there’s a swallow:
Come one swallow, his mate will follow,
The bird race quicken and wheel and thicken.
Oh happy swallow whose mate will follow
O’er height, o’er hollow! I’d be a swallow,
To build this weather one nest together.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christina_Rossetti
By: Christina Rossetti
It’s a year almost that I have not seen her:
Oh, last summer green things were greener,
Brambles fewer, the blue sky bluer.
It’s surely summer, for there’s a swallow:
Come one swallow, his mate will follow,
The bird race quicken and wheel and thicken.
Oh happy swallow whose mate will follow
O’er height, o’er hollow! I’d be a swallow,
To build this weather one nest together.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christina_Rossetti
Song: “Blow, blow, thou winter windâ€
By: William Shakespeare
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly...
With thanks to John Mortimer’s Rumpole of the Bailey for quoting from this poem in The Second Rumpole Omnibus:
https://books.google.com.au/books?id=gA_OtwadcK8C&pg=PT113&lpg=PT113&dq=rumpole+shakespeare+Blow+Blo...
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
By: William Shakespeare
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly...
With thanks to John Mortimer’s Rumpole of the Bailey for quoting from this poem in The Second Rumpole Omnibus:
https://books.google.com.au/books?id=gA_OtwadcK8C&pg=PT113&lpg=PT113&dq=rumpole+shakespeare+Blow+Blo...
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
Star-Magic
By: Richard Butler Glaenzer
THOUGH your beauty be a flower
Of unimagined loveliness,
It cannot lure me tonight;
For I am all spirit.
As in the billowy oleander, 5
Full-bloomed,
Each blossom is all but lost
In the next—
One flame in a glow
Of green-veined rhodonite; 10
So is heaven a crystal magnificence
Of stars
Powdered lightly with blue.
For this one night
My spirit has turned honey-moth 15
And has made of the stars
Its flowers.
So all uncountable are the stars
That heaven shimmers as a web,
Bursting with light 20
From beyond,
A light exquisite,
Immeasurable!
For this one night
My spirit has dared, and been caught 25
In the web of the stars.
Though your beauty were a net
Of unimagined power,
It could not hold me tonight;
For I am all spirit.
https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Author:Richard_Butler_Glaenzer
By: Richard Butler Glaenzer
THOUGH your beauty be a flower
Of unimagined loveliness,
It cannot lure me tonight;
For I am all spirit.
As in the billowy oleander, 5
Full-bloomed,
Each blossom is all but lost
In the next—
One flame in a glow
Of green-veined rhodonite; 10
So is heaven a crystal magnificence
Of stars
Powdered lightly with blue.
For this one night
My spirit has turned honey-moth 15
And has made of the stars
Its flowers.
So all uncountable are the stars
That heaven shimmers as a web,
Bursting with light 20
From beyond,
A light exquisite,
Immeasurable!
For this one night
My spirit has dared, and been caught 25
In the web of the stars.
Though your beauty were a net
Of unimagined power,
It could not hold me tonight;
For I am all spirit.
https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Author:Richard_Butler_Glaenzer
Echo and Silence
By: Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges
IN eddying course when leaves began to fly,
And Autumn in her lap the store to strew,
As ’mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo
Through glens untrod, and woods that frowned on high,
Two sleeping Nymphs with wonder mute I spy! 5
And lo, she ’s gone! In robe of dark green hue,
’T was Echo from her sister Silence flew;
For quick the hunter’s horn resounded to the sky!
In shade affrighted Silence melts away;
Not so her sister:—hark! for onward still 10
With far heard step she takes her listening way,
Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill!
Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play
With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Egerton_Brydges
By: Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges
IN eddying course when leaves began to fly,
And Autumn in her lap the store to strew,
As ’mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo
Through glens untrod, and woods that frowned on high,
Two sleeping Nymphs with wonder mute I spy! 5
And lo, she ’s gone! In robe of dark green hue,
’T was Echo from her sister Silence flew;
For quick the hunter’s horn resounded to the sky!
In shade affrighted Silence melts away;
Not so her sister:—hark! for onward still 10
With far heard step she takes her listening way,
Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill!
Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play
With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Egerton_Brydges
From: Evening Songs
By: John Vance Cheney
THE BIRDS have hid, the winds are low,
The brake is awake, the grass aglow:
The bat is the rover,
No bee on the clover,
The day is over, 5
And evening come.
The heavy beetle spreads her wings,
The toad has the road, the cricket sings:
The bat is the rover,
No bee on the clover, 10
The day is over,
And evening come.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Vance_Cheney
By: John Vance Cheney
THE BIRDS have hid, the winds are low,
The brake is awake, the grass aglow:
The bat is the rover,
No bee on the clover,
The day is over, 5
And evening come.
The heavy beetle spreads her wings,
The toad has the road, the cricket sings:
The bat is the rover,
No bee on the clover, 10
The day is over,
And evening come.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Vance_Cheney
The Bush
By: James Lister Cuthbertson
GIVE us from dawn to dark
Blue of Australian skies,
Let there be none to mark
Whither our pathway lies.
Give us when noontide comes 5
Rest in the woodland free—
Fragrant breath of the gums,
Cold, sweet scent of the sea.
Give us the wattle’s gold
And the dew-laden air, 10
And the loveliness bold
Loneliest landscapes wear.
These are the haunts we love,
Glad with enchanted hours,
Bright as the heavens above, 15
Fresh as the wild bush flowers.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Cuthbertson
By: James Lister Cuthbertson
GIVE us from dawn to dark
Blue of Australian skies,
Let there be none to mark
Whither our pathway lies.
Give us when noontide comes 5
Rest in the woodland free—
Fragrant breath of the gums,
Cold, sweet scent of the sea.
Give us the wattle’s gold
And the dew-laden air, 10
And the loveliness bold
Loneliest landscapes wear.
These are the haunts we love,
Glad with enchanted hours,
Bright as the heavens above, 15
Fresh as the wild bush flowers.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Cuthbertson
Winged Words
By: Robert Crawford
THE WINGÈD words, they pass
Still everywhere,
Seeds of the spirit-grass
The dream-winds bear
From that heart-field to this, 5
Where thought as feeling is;
There’s not a seed will miss
Life, once sown there.
They pass, the faery words,
In shade and shine, 10
As they were magic birds
This heart of mine
Gave shape and colour to,
As in the light and dew
The primal creatures grew 15
From germs divine.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Crawford_(Australian_poet)
By: Robert Crawford
THE WINGÈD words, they pass
Still everywhere,
Seeds of the spirit-grass
The dream-winds bear
From that heart-field to this, 5
Where thought as feeling is;
There’s not a seed will miss
Life, once sown there.
They pass, the faery words,
In shade and shine, 10
As they were magic birds
This heart of mine
Gave shape and colour to,
As in the light and dew
The primal creatures grew 15
From germs divine.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Crawford_(Australian_poet)
A Midsummer Noon in the Australian
Forest
By: Charles Harpur
NOT a sound disturbs the air,
There is quiet everywhere;
Over plains and over woods
What a mighty stillness broods!
All the birds and insects keep 5
Where the coolest shadows sleep;
Even the busy ants are found
Resting in their pebbled mound;
Even the locust clingeth now
Silent to the barky bough: 10
Over hills and over plains
Quiet, vast and slumbrous, reigns.
Only there ’s a drowsy humming
From yon warm lagoon slow coming:
’Tis the dragon-hornet—see! 15
All bedaubed resplendently,
Yellow on a tawny ground—
Each rich spot nor square nor round,
Rudely heart-shaped, as it were
The blurred and hasty impress there 20
Of a vermeil-crusted seal,
Dusted o’er with golden meal.
Only there ’s a droning where
Yon bright beetle shines in air,
Tracks it in its gleaming flight 25
With a slanting beam of light,
Rising in the sunshine higher,
Till its shards flame out like fire.
Every other thing is still,
Save the ever-wakeful rill, 30
Whose cool murmur only throws
Cooler comfort round repose;
Or some ripple in the sea
Of leafy boughs, where, lazily,
Tired summer, in her bower 35
Turning with the noontide hour,
Heaves a slumbrous breath ere she
Once more slumbers peacefully.
Oh, ’tis easeful here to lie
Hidden from noon’s scorching eye, 40
In this grassy cool recess
Musing thus of quietness.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Harpur
By: Charles Harpur
NOT a sound disturbs the air,
There is quiet everywhere;
Over plains and over woods
What a mighty stillness broods!
All the birds and insects keep 5
Where the coolest shadows sleep;
Even the busy ants are found
Resting in their pebbled mound;
Even the locust clingeth now
Silent to the barky bough: 10
Over hills and over plains
Quiet, vast and slumbrous, reigns.
Only there ’s a drowsy humming
From yon warm lagoon slow coming:
’Tis the dragon-hornet—see! 15
All bedaubed resplendently,
Yellow on a tawny ground—
Each rich spot nor square nor round,
Rudely heart-shaped, as it were
The blurred and hasty impress there 20
Of a vermeil-crusted seal,
Dusted o’er with golden meal.
Only there ’s a droning where
Yon bright beetle shines in air,
Tracks it in its gleaming flight 25
With a slanting beam of light,
Rising in the sunshine higher,
Till its shards flame out like fire.
Every other thing is still,
Save the ever-wakeful rill, 30
Whose cool murmur only throws
Cooler comfort round repose;
Or some ripple in the sea
Of leafy boughs, where, lazily,
Tired summer, in her bower 35
Turning with the noontide hour,
Heaves a slumbrous breath ere she
Once more slumbers peacefully.
Oh, ’tis easeful here to lie
Hidden from noon’s scorching eye, 40
In this grassy cool recess
Musing thus of quietness.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Harpur
By: Anonymous
There are things
You must say
You may say
You cannot say
And you may
Decide
Wrongly
Or never know
What then
Perhaps
Silence
There are things
You must say
You may say
You cannot say
And you may
Decide
Wrongly
Or never know
What then
Perhaps
Silence
The Open Sea
By: Dorothea Mackellar
FROM my window I can see,
Where the sandhills dip,
One far glimpse of open sea.
Just a slender slip
Curving like a crescent moon— 5
Yet a greater prize
Than the harbour garden-fair
Spread beneath my eyes.
Just below me swings the bay,
Sings a sunny tune, 10
But my heart is far away
Out beyond the dune;
Clearer far the sea-gulls’ cry
And the breakers’ roar,
Than the little waves beneath 15
Lapping on the shore.
For that strip of sapphire sea
Set against the sky
Far horizons means to me—
And the ships go by 20
Framed between the empty sky
And the yellow sands,
While my freed thoughts follow them
Out to other lands.
All its changes who can tell? 25
I have seen it shine
Like a jewel polished well,
Hard and clear and fine;
Then soft lilac—and again
On another day 30
Glimpsed it through a veil of rain,
Shifting, drifting grey.
When the livid waters flee,
Flinching from the storm,
From my window I can see, 35
Standing safe and warm,
How the white foam tosses high
On the naked shore,
And the breakers’ thunder grows
To a battle-roar… 40
Far and far I look—Ten miles?
No, for yesterday
Sure I saw the Blessed Isles
Twenty worlds away.
My blue moon of open sea, 45
Is it little worth?
At the least it gives to me
Keys of all the earth!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dorothea_Mackellar
By: Dorothea Mackellar
FROM my window I can see,
Where the sandhills dip,
One far glimpse of open sea.
Just a slender slip
Curving like a crescent moon— 5
Yet a greater prize
Than the harbour garden-fair
Spread beneath my eyes.
Just below me swings the bay,
Sings a sunny tune, 10
But my heart is far away
Out beyond the dune;
Clearer far the sea-gulls’ cry
And the breakers’ roar,
Than the little waves beneath 15
Lapping on the shore.
For that strip of sapphire sea
Set against the sky
Far horizons means to me—
And the ships go by 20
Framed between the empty sky
And the yellow sands,
While my freed thoughts follow them
Out to other lands.
All its changes who can tell? 25
I have seen it shine
Like a jewel polished well,
Hard and clear and fine;
Then soft lilac—and again
On another day 30
Glimpsed it through a veil of rain,
Shifting, drifting grey.
When the livid waters flee,
Flinching from the storm,
From my window I can see, 35
Standing safe and warm,
How the white foam tosses high
On the naked shore,
And the breakers’ thunder grows
To a battle-roar… 40
Far and far I look—Ten miles?
No, for yesterday
Sure I saw the Blessed Isles
Twenty worlds away.
My blue moon of open sea, 45
Is it little worth?
At the least it gives to me
Keys of all the earth!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dorothea_Mackellar
A Midsummer Noon in the Australian
Forest
By: Charles Harpur
NOT a sound disturbs the air,
There is quiet everywhere;
Over plains and over woods
What a mighty stillness broods!
All the birds and insects keep 5
Where the coolest shadows sleep;
Even the busy ants are found
Resting in their pebbled mound;
Even the locust clingeth now
Silent to the barky bough: 10
Over hills and over plains
Quiet, vast and slumbrous, reigns.
Only there ’s a drowsy humming
From yon warm lagoon slow coming:
’Tis the dragon-hornet—see! 15
All bedaubed resplendently,
Yellow on a tawny ground—
Each rich spot nor square nor round,
Rudely heart-shaped, as it were
The blurred and hasty impress there 20
Of a vermeil-crusted seal,
Dusted o’er with golden meal.
Only there ’s a droning where
Yon bright beetle shines in air,
Tracks it in its gleaming flight 25
With a slanting beam of light,
Rising in the sunshine higher,
Till its shards flame out like fire.
Every other thing is still,
Save the ever-wakeful rill, 30
Whose cool murmur only throws
Cooler comfort round repose;
Or some ripple in the sea
Of leafy boughs, where, lazily,
Tired summer, in her bower 35
Turning with the noontide hour,
Heaves a slumbrous breath ere she
Once more slumbers peacefully.
Oh, ’tis easeful here to lie
Hidden from noon’s scorching eye, 40
In this grassy cool recess
Musing thus of quietness.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Harpur
By: Charles Harpur
NOT a sound disturbs the air,
There is quiet everywhere;
Over plains and over woods
What a mighty stillness broods!
All the birds and insects keep 5
Where the coolest shadows sleep;
Even the busy ants are found
Resting in their pebbled mound;
Even the locust clingeth now
Silent to the barky bough: 10
Over hills and over plains
Quiet, vast and slumbrous, reigns.
Only there ’s a drowsy humming
From yon warm lagoon slow coming:
’Tis the dragon-hornet—see! 15
All bedaubed resplendently,
Yellow on a tawny ground—
Each rich spot nor square nor round,
Rudely heart-shaped, as it were
The blurred and hasty impress there 20
Of a vermeil-crusted seal,
Dusted o’er with golden meal.
Only there ’s a droning where
Yon bright beetle shines in air,
Tracks it in its gleaming flight 25
With a slanting beam of light,
Rising in the sunshine higher,
Till its shards flame out like fire.
Every other thing is still,
Save the ever-wakeful rill, 30
Whose cool murmur only throws
Cooler comfort round repose;
Or some ripple in the sea
Of leafy boughs, where, lazily,
Tired summer, in her bower 35
Turning with the noontide hour,
Heaves a slumbrous breath ere she
Once more slumbers peacefully.
Oh, ’tis easeful here to lie
Hidden from noon’s scorching eye, 40
In this grassy cool recess
Musing thus of quietness.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Harpur
The Daisy
By: Rennell Rodd
WITH little white leaves in the grasses,
Spread wide for the smile of the sun,
It waits till the daylight passes
And closes them one by one.
I have asked why it closed at even, 5
And I know what it wished to say:
There are stars all night in the heaven,
And I am the star of day.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rennell_Rodd,_1st_Baron_Rennell
By: Rennell Rodd
WITH little white leaves in the grasses,
Spread wide for the smile of the sun,
It waits till the daylight passes
And closes them one by one.
I have asked why it closed at even, 5
And I know what it wished to say:
There are stars all night in the heaven,
And I am the star of day.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rennell_Rodd,_1st_Baron_Rennell
The Cliffside Path
(from A Midsummer Holiday and Other Poems, 1884)
By: Algernon Charles Swinburne
Seaward goes the sun, and homeward by the down
We, before the night upon his grave be sealed.
Low behind us lies the bright steep murmuring town,
High before us heaves the steep rough silent field.
Breach by ghastlier breach, the cliffs collapsing yield:
Half the path is broken, half the banks divide;
Flawed and crumbled, riven and rent, they cleave and slide
Toward the ridged and wrinkled waste of girdling sand
Deep beneath, whose furrows tell how far and wide
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of the strand.
Star by star on the unsunned waters twiring down,
Golden spear-points glance against a silver shield.
Over banks and bents, across the headland’s crown,
As by pulse of gradual plumes through twilight wheeled,
Soft as sleep, the waking wind awakes the weald.
Moor and copse and fallow, near or far descried.
Feel the mild wings move, and gladden where they glide:
Silence, uttering love that all things understand,
Bids the quiet fields forget that hard beside
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of the strand.
Yet may sight, ere all the hoar soft shade grow brown,
Hardly reckon half the rifts and rents unhealed
Where the scarred cliffs downward sundering drive and drown,
Hewn as if with stroke of swords in tempest steeled,
Wielded as the night’s will and the wind’s may wield.
Crowned and zoned in vain with flowers of autumn-tide,
Soon the blasts shall break them, soon the waters hide,
Soon, where late we stood, shall no man ever stand.
Life and love seek harbourage on the landward side:
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of the strand.
Friend, though man be less than these, for all his pride,
Yet, for all his weakness, shall not hope abide?
Wind and change can wreck but life and waste but land:
Truth and trust are sure, though here till all subside
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of the strand.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Algernon_Charles_Swinburne
(from A Midsummer Holiday and Other Poems, 1884)
By: Algernon Charles Swinburne
Seaward goes the sun, and homeward by the down
We, before the night upon his grave be sealed.
Low behind us lies the bright steep murmuring town,
High before us heaves the steep rough silent field.
Breach by ghastlier breach, the cliffs collapsing yield:
Half the path is broken, half the banks divide;
Flawed and crumbled, riven and rent, they cleave and slide
Toward the ridged and wrinkled waste of girdling sand
Deep beneath, whose furrows tell how far and wide
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of the strand.
Star by star on the unsunned waters twiring down,
Golden spear-points glance against a silver shield.
Over banks and bents, across the headland’s crown,
As by pulse of gradual plumes through twilight wheeled,
Soft as sleep, the waking wind awakes the weald.
Moor and copse and fallow, near or far descried.
Feel the mild wings move, and gladden where they glide:
Silence, uttering love that all things understand,
Bids the quiet fields forget that hard beside
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of the strand.
Yet may sight, ere all the hoar soft shade grow brown,
Hardly reckon half the rifts and rents unhealed
Where the scarred cliffs downward sundering drive and drown,
Hewn as if with stroke of swords in tempest steeled,
Wielded as the night’s will and the wind’s may wield.
Crowned and zoned in vain with flowers of autumn-tide,
Soon the blasts shall break them, soon the waters hide,
Soon, where late we stood, shall no man ever stand.
Life and love seek harbourage on the landward side:
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of the strand.
Friend, though man be less than these, for all his pride,
Yet, for all his weakness, shall not hope abide?
Wind and change can wreck but life and waste but land:
Truth and trust are sure, though here till all subside
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of the strand.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Algernon_Charles_Swinburne
Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath
By: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
This Sycamore, oft musical with bees,—
Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long unharmed
May all its agèd boughs o'er-canopy
The small round basin, which this jutting stone
Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring,
Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath,
Send up cold waters to the traveller
With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease
Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance,
Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's Page,
As merry and no taller, dances still,
Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount.
Here Twilight is and Coolness: here is moss,
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.
Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree.
Drink, Pilgrim, here; Here rest! and if thy heart
Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh
Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,
Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samuel_Taylor_Coleridge
By: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
This Sycamore, oft musical with bees,—
Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long unharmed
May all its agèd boughs o'er-canopy
The small round basin, which this jutting stone
Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring,
Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath,
Send up cold waters to the traveller
With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease
Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance,
Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's Page,
As merry and no taller, dances still,
Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount.
Here Twilight is and Coolness: here is moss,
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.
Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree.
Drink, Pilgrim, here; Here rest! and if thy heart
Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh
Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,
Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samuel_Taylor_Coleridge
Voices of the Air
By: Katherine Mansfield
But then there comes that moment rare
When, for no cause that I can find,
The little voices of the air
Sound above all the sea and wind.
The sea and wind do then obey
And sighing, sighing double notes
Of double basses, content to play
A droning chord for the little throats
The little throats that sing and rise
Up into the light with lovely ease
And a kind of magical, sweet surprise
To hear and know themselves for these
For these little voices: the bee, the fly,
The leaf that taps, the pod that breaks,
The breeze on the grass-tops bending by,
The shrill quick sound that the insect makes.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Katherine_Mansfield
By: Katherine Mansfield
But then there comes that moment rare
When, for no cause that I can find,
The little voices of the air
Sound above all the sea and wind.
The sea and wind do then obey
And sighing, sighing double notes
Of double basses, content to play
A droning chord for the little throats
The little throats that sing and rise
Up into the light with lovely ease
And a kind of magical, sweet surprise
To hear and know themselves for these
For these little voices: the bee, the fly,
The leaf that taps, the pod that breaks,
The breeze on the grass-tops bending by,
The shrill quick sound that the insect makes.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Katherine_Mansfield
Sunset on the Spire
By: Elinor Wylie
All that I dream
By day or night
Lives in that stream
Of lovely light.
Here is the earth,
And there is the spire;
This is my hearth,
And that is my fire.
From the sun's dome
I am shouted proof
That this is my home,
And that is my roof.
Here is my food,
And here is my drink,
And I am wooed
From the moon's brink.
And the days go over,
And the nights end;
Here is my lover,
Here is my friend.
All that I
Could ever ask
Wears that sky
Like a thin gold mask.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elinor_Wylie
By: Elinor Wylie
All that I dream
By day or night
Lives in that stream
Of lovely light.
Here is the earth,
And there is the spire;
This is my hearth,
And that is my fire.
From the sun's dome
I am shouted proof
That this is my home,
And that is my roof.
Here is my food,
And here is my drink,
And I am wooed
From the moon's brink.
And the days go over,
And the nights end;
Here is my lover,
Here is my friend.
All that I
Could ever ask
Wears that sky
Like a thin gold mask.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elinor_Wylie
Winter: A Dirge
By: Robert Burns
The wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.
The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,
The joyless winter-day,
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!
Thou Pow’r Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,
Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want (O, do Thou grant
This one request of mine!)
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
By: Robert Burns
The wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.
The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,
The joyless winter-day,
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!
Thou Pow’r Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,
Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want (O, do Thou grant
This one request of mine!)
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.
Autumn
By: Alexander Posey
In the dreamy silence
Of the afternoon, a
Cloth of gold is woven
Over wood and prairie;
And the jaybird, newly
Fallen from the heaven,
Scatters cordial greetings,
And the air is filled with
Scarlet leaves, that, dropping,
Rise again, as ever,
With a useless sigh for
Rest—and it is Autumn.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexander_Posey
By: Alexander Posey
In the dreamy silence
Of the afternoon, a
Cloth of gold is woven
Over wood and prairie;
And the jaybird, newly
Fallen from the heaven,
Scatters cordial greetings,
And the air is filled with
Scarlet leaves, that, dropping,
Rise again, as ever,
With a useless sigh for
Rest—and it is Autumn.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexander_Posey
Trees in the Garden
By: D. H. Lawrence
Ah in the thunder air
how still the trees are!
And the lime-tree, lovely and tall, every leaf silent
hardly looses even a last breath of perfume.
And the ghostly, creamy coloured little tree of leaves
white, ivory white among the rambling greens
how evanescent, variegated elder, she hesitates on the green grass
as if, in another moment, she would disappear
with all her grace of foam!
And the larch that is only a column, it goes up too tall to see:
and the balsam-pines that are blue with the grey-blue blueness of
things from the sea,
and the young copper beech, its leaves red-rosy at the ends
how still they are together, they stand so still
in the thunder air, all strangers to one another
as the green grass glows upwards, strangers in the silent garden.
Lichtental
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D._H._Lawrence
By: D. H. Lawrence
Ah in the thunder air
how still the trees are!
And the lime-tree, lovely and tall, every leaf silent
hardly looses even a last breath of perfume.
And the ghostly, creamy coloured little tree of leaves
white, ivory white among the rambling greens
how evanescent, variegated elder, she hesitates on the green grass
as if, in another moment, she would disappear
with all her grace of foam!
And the larch that is only a column, it goes up too tall to see:
and the balsam-pines that are blue with the grey-blue blueness of
things from the sea,
and the young copper beech, its leaves red-rosy at the ends
how still they are together, they stand so still
in the thunder air, all strangers to one another
as the green grass glows upwards, strangers in the silent garden.
Lichtental
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D._H._Lawrence
Song of Myself, 51
By: Walt Whitman
The past and present wilt—I have fill'd them, emptied them.
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.
Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.
Who has done his day's work? who will soonest be through with his supper?
Who wishes to walk with me?
Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walt_Whitman
By: Walt Whitman
The past and present wilt—I have fill'd them, emptied them.
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.
Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.
Who has done his day's work? who will soonest be through with his supper?
Who wishes to walk with me?
Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walt_Whitman
The Four Lakes of Madison
By: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
FOUR limpid lakes,—four Naiades
Or sylvan deities are these,
In flowing robes of azure dressed;
Four lovely handmaids, that uphold
Their shining mirrors, rimmed with gold, 5
To the fair city in the West.
By day the coursers of the sun
Drink of these waters as they run
Their swift diurnal round on high;
By night the constellations glow 10
Far down the hollow deeps below,
And glimmer in another sky.
Fair lakes, serene and full of light,
Fair town, arrayed in robes of white,
How visionary ye appear! 15
All like a floating landscape seems
In cloud-land or the land of dreams,
Bathed in a golden atmosphere!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Wadsworth_Longfellow
By: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
FOUR limpid lakes,—four Naiades
Or sylvan deities are these,
In flowing robes of azure dressed;
Four lovely handmaids, that uphold
Their shining mirrors, rimmed with gold, 5
To the fair city in the West.
By day the coursers of the sun
Drink of these waters as they run
Their swift diurnal round on high;
By night the constellations glow 10
Far down the hollow deeps below,
And glimmer in another sky.
Fair lakes, serene and full of light,
Fair town, arrayed in robes of white,
How visionary ye appear! 15
All like a floating landscape seems
In cloud-land or the land of dreams,
Bathed in a golden atmosphere!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Wadsworth_Longfellow
Song in the Key of Autumn
By: Scudder Middleton
WE are walking with the month
To a quiet place.
See, only here and there the gentians stand!
Tonight the homing loon
Will fly across the moon, 5
Over the tired land.
We were the idlers and the sowers,
The watchers in the sun,
The harvesters who laid away the grain.
Now there’s a sign in every vacant tree, 10
Now there’s a hint in every stubble field,
Something we must not forget
When the blossoms fly again.
Give me your hand!
There were too many promises in June. 15
Human-tinted buds of spring
Told only half the truth.
The withering leaf beneath our feet,
That wrinkled apple overhead,
Say more than vital boughs have said 20
When we went walking
In this growing place.
There is something in this hour
More honest than a flower
Or laughter from a sunny face.
By: Scudder Middleton
WE are walking with the month
To a quiet place.
See, only here and there the gentians stand!
Tonight the homing loon
Will fly across the moon, 5
Over the tired land.
We were the idlers and the sowers,
The watchers in the sun,
The harvesters who laid away the grain.
Now there’s a sign in every vacant tree, 10
Now there’s a hint in every stubble field,
Something we must not forget
When the blossoms fly again.
Give me your hand!
There were too many promises in June. 15
Human-tinted buds of spring
Told only half the truth.
The withering leaf beneath our feet,
That wrinkled apple overhead,
Say more than vital boughs have said 20
When we went walking
In this growing place.
There is something in this hour
More honest than a flower
Or laughter from a sunny face.
Crickets at Dawn
By: Leonora Speyer
ALL night the crickets chirp,
Like little stars of twinkling sound
In the dark silence.
They sparkle through the summer stillness
With a crisp rhythm: 5
They lift the shadows on their tiny voices.
But at the shining note of birds that wake,
Flashing from tree to tree till all the wood is lit—
O golden coloratura of dawn!—
The cricket-stars fade slowly, 10
One by one.
https://www.bartleby.com/273/27.html
By: Leonora Speyer
ALL night the crickets chirp,
Like little stars of twinkling sound
In the dark silence.
They sparkle through the summer stillness
With a crisp rhythm: 5
They lift the shadows on their tiny voices.
But at the shining note of birds that wake,
Flashing from tree to tree till all the wood is lit—
O golden coloratura of dawn!—
The cricket-stars fade slowly, 10
One by one.
https://www.bartleby.com/273/27.html
The Vine
By: James Thomson (1834–1882)
THE WINE of Love is music,
And the feast of Love is song:
And when Love sits down to the banquet,
Love sits long:
Sits long and arises drunken, 5
But not with the feast and the wine;
He reeleth with his own heart,
That great, rich Vine.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Thomson_(poet,_born_1834)
By: James Thomson (1834–1882)
THE WINE of Love is music,
And the feast of Love is song:
And when Love sits down to the banquet,
Love sits long:
Sits long and arises drunken, 5
But not with the feast and the wine;
He reeleth with his own heart,
That great, rich Vine.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Thomson_(poet,_born_1834)
Up in the Hills
From “Autumn Leavesâ€
By: Helen Louise Birch
THE EARTH smells old and warm and mellow, and all things lie at peace.
I too serenely lie here under the white-oak tree, and know the splendid flight of hours all blue and gay, sun-drenched and still.
The dogs chase rabbits through the hazel-brush;
I hear now close at hand their eager cries, now swift receding into the distance, leaving a-trail behind them in the clear sweet air shrill bursts of joy.
There’s something almost drowsy in that waning clamor; 5
It brings the stillness nearer and a sense of being bodily at one with the old warm earth,
Blessedly at one with the fragrant laughing sun-baked earth,
At one with its sly delightful wicked old laughter.
From “Autumn Leavesâ€
By: Helen Louise Birch
THE EARTH smells old and warm and mellow, and all things lie at peace.
I too serenely lie here under the white-oak tree, and know the splendid flight of hours all blue and gay, sun-drenched and still.
The dogs chase rabbits through the hazel-brush;
I hear now close at hand their eager cries, now swift receding into the distance, leaving a-trail behind them in the clear sweet air shrill bursts of joy.
There’s something almost drowsy in that waning clamor; 5
It brings the stillness nearer and a sense of being bodily at one with the old warm earth,
Blessedly at one with the fragrant laughing sun-baked earth,
At one with its sly delightful wicked old laughter.
On Music
By: Anon.
Music
Our passion
Puts us nearest
To God
Moves us
To tears and joy
Away from life
Into the heavens
As with
Hearing
Site
And art
But More so
Of infinite variety
And space
Our ultimate muse
By: Anon.
Music
Our passion
Puts us nearest
To God
Moves us
To tears and joy
Away from life
Into the heavens
As with
Hearing
Site
And art
But More so
Of infinite variety
And space
Our ultimate muse
Easter Day
By: Oscar Wilde
The silver trumpets rang across the Dome:
The people knelt upon the ground with awe:
And borne upon the necks of men I saw,
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,
And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,
Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:
In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.
My heart stole back across wide wastes of years
To One who wandered by a lonely sea,
And sought in vain for any place of rest:
‘Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,
I, only I, must wander wearily,
And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.’
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oscar_Wilde
By: Oscar Wilde
The silver trumpets rang across the Dome:
The people knelt upon the ground with awe:
And borne upon the necks of men I saw,
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,
And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,
Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:
In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.
My heart stole back across wide wastes of years
To One who wandered by a lonely sea,
And sought in vain for any place of rest:
‘Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,
I, only I, must wander wearily,
And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.’
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oscar_Wilde
Lost in the Flood
By: Henry Kendall
When God drave the ruthless waters
From our cornfields to the sea,
Came she where our wives and daughters
Sobbed their thanks on bended knee.
Hidden faces! there ye found her
Mute as death, and staring wild
At the shadow waxing round her
Like the presence of her child—
Of her drenched and drowning child!
Dark thoughts live when tears won't gather;
Who can tell us what she felt?
It was human, O my Father,
If she blamed Thee while she knelt!
Ever, as a benediction
Fell like balm on all and each,
Rose a young face whose affliction
Choked and stayed the founts of speech—
Stayed and shut the founts of speech!
Often doth she sit and ponder
Over gleams of happy hair!
How her white hands used to wander,
Like a flood of moonlight there!
Lord—our Lord! Thou know'st her weakness:
Give her faith that she may pray;
And the subtle strength of meekness,
Lest she falter by the way—
Falter, fainting, by the way!
"Darling!" saith she, wildly moaning
Where the grass-grown silence lies,
"Is there rest from sobs and groaning—
Rest with you beyond the skies?
Child of mine, so far above me!
Late it waxeth—dark and late;
Will the love with which I love thee,
Lift me where you sit and wait—
Darling! where you sit and wait?"
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Kendall_(poet)
By: Henry Kendall
When God drave the ruthless waters
From our cornfields to the sea,
Came she where our wives and daughters
Sobbed their thanks on bended knee.
Hidden faces! there ye found her
Mute as death, and staring wild
At the shadow waxing round her
Like the presence of her child—
Of her drenched and drowning child!
Dark thoughts live when tears won't gather;
Who can tell us what she felt?
It was human, O my Father,
If she blamed Thee while she knelt!
Ever, as a benediction
Fell like balm on all and each,
Rose a young face whose affliction
Choked and stayed the founts of speech—
Stayed and shut the founts of speech!
Often doth she sit and ponder
Over gleams of happy hair!
How her white hands used to wander,
Like a flood of moonlight there!
Lord—our Lord! Thou know'st her weakness:
Give her faith that she may pray;
And the subtle strength of meekness,
Lest she falter by the way—
Falter, fainting, by the way!
"Darling!" saith she, wildly moaning
Where the grass-grown silence lies,
"Is there rest from sobs and groaning—
Rest with you beyond the skies?
Child of mine, so far above me!
Late it waxeth—dark and late;
Will the love with which I love thee,
Lift me where you sit and wait—
Darling! where you sit and wait?"
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Kendall_(poet)
Sonnet 78
By: William Shakespeare
So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse,
And found such fair assistance in my verse
As every alien pen hath got my use
And under thee their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,
Have added feathers to the learned's wing
And given grace a double majesty.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whose influence is thine, and born of thee:
In others' works thou dost but mend the style,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;
But thou art all my art, and dost advance
As high as learning, my rude ignorance.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
By: William Shakespeare
So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse,
And found such fair assistance in my verse
As every alien pen hath got my use
And under thee their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,
Have added feathers to the learned's wing
And given grace a double majesty.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whose influence is thine, and born of thee:
In others' works thou dost but mend the style,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;
But thou art all my art, and dost advance
As high as learning, my rude ignorance.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
Scaped
By: Stephen Crane
ONCE I knew a fine song,
—It is true, believe me,—
It was all of birds,
And I held them in a basket;
When I opened the wicket, 5
Heavens! they all flew away.
I cried, “Come back, Little Thoughts!â€
But they only laughed.
They flew on
Until they were as sand 10
Thrown between me and the sky.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stephen_Crane
By: Stephen Crane
ONCE I knew a fine song,
—It is true, believe me,—
It was all of birds,
And I held them in a basket;
When I opened the wicket, 5
Heavens! they all flew away.
I cried, “Come back, Little Thoughts!â€
But they only laughed.
They flew on
Until they were as sand 10
Thrown between me and the sky.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stephen_Crane
By: Anonymous
Learning
And then knowing
Then closing down
In routine
And certainty
With loss of vision
Clouded by ignorance
And comfort
IX
By: Emily Dickinson
AN altered look about the hills;
A Tyrian light the village fills;
A wider sunrise in the dawn;
A deeper twilight on the lawn;
A print of a vermilion foot; 5
A purple finger on the slope;
A flippant fly upon the pane;
A spider at his trade again;
An added strut in chanticleer;
A flower expected everywhere; 10
An axe shrill singing in the woods;
Fern-odors on untravelled roads,—
All this, and more I cannot tell,
A furtive look you know as well,
And Nicodemus’ mystery 15
Receives its annual reply.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson
By: Emily Dickinson
AN altered look about the hills;
A Tyrian light the village fills;
A wider sunrise in the dawn;
A deeper twilight on the lawn;
A print of a vermilion foot; 5
A purple finger on the slope;
A flippant fly upon the pane;
A spider at his trade again;
An added strut in chanticleer;
A flower expected everywhere; 10
An axe shrill singing in the woods;
Fern-odors on untravelled roads,—
All this, and more I cannot tell,
A furtive look you know as well,
And Nicodemus’ mystery 15
Receives its annual reply.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson
Sonnet 21
By: William Shakespeare
So is it not with me as with that Muse
Stirr’d by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare,
With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems,
With April’s first-born flowers, and all things rare
That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems.
O, let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother’s child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fix’d in heaven’s air:
Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sonnet_21
By: William Shakespeare
So is it not with me as with that Muse
Stirr’d by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare,
With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems,
With April’s first-born flowers, and all things rare
That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems.
O, let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother’s child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fix’d in heaven’s air:
Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sonnet_21
Somewhere
By: David Conolly
Somewhere, The voice speaks to
unexpectedly, a world grown used to
hope is born. darkness, despair.
A voice. The voice says,
At first, only the cry You are light for the world;
of a new-born Let it shine.
gulping for breath. Love, and forgive.
In time, a voice. And suddenly, hope is born.
By: David Conolly
Somewhere, The voice speaks to
unexpectedly, a world grown used to
hope is born. darkness, despair.
A voice. The voice says,
At first, only the cry You are light for the world;
of a new-born Let it shine.
gulping for breath. Love, and forgive.
In time, a voice. And suddenly, hope is born.
Song: "The bee to the heather"
By: Sir Henry Taylor
THE BEE to the heather,
The lark to the sky,
The roe to the greenwood,
And whither shall I?
O, Alice! Ah, Alice! 5
So sweet to the bee
Are the moorland and heather
By Cannock and Leigh!
O, Alice! Ah, Alice!
O’er Teddesley Park 10
The sunny sky scatters
The notes of the lark!
O, Alice! Ah, Alice!
In Beaudesert glade
The roes toss their antlers 15
For joy of the shade!—
But Alice, dear Alice!
Glade, moorland, nor sky
Without you can content me—
And whither shall I? 20
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Taylor_(dramatist)
By: Sir Henry Taylor
THE BEE to the heather,
The lark to the sky,
The roe to the greenwood,
And whither shall I?
O, Alice! Ah, Alice! 5
So sweet to the bee
Are the moorland and heather
By Cannock and Leigh!
O, Alice! Ah, Alice!
O’er Teddesley Park 10
The sunny sky scatters
The notes of the lark!
O, Alice! Ah, Alice!
In Beaudesert glade
The roes toss their antlers 15
For joy of the shade!—
But Alice, dear Alice!
Glade, moorland, nor sky
Without you can content me—
And whither shall I? 20
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Taylor_(dramatist)
To a Skylark
By: Percy Bysshe Shelley
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,
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflow'd.
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a Poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace-tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aëreal hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embower'd
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflower'd,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves:
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.
Chorus Hymeneal,
Or triumphal chant,
Match'd with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest: but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
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.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Percy_Bysshe_Shelley
By: Percy Bysshe Shelley
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,
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflow'd.
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a Poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace-tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aëreal hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embower'd
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflower'd,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves:
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.
Chorus Hymeneal,
Or triumphal chant,
Match'd with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest: but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
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.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Percy_Bysshe_Shelley
A Stormy November Evening, Gradually Clearing up in a
Mountainous Country
by Anna Seward (2020-12-04)
by Anna Seward (2020-12-04)
A Stormy November Evening, Gradually Clearing up in a
Mountainous Country
By: Anna Seward
CEASED is the rain, but heavy drops yet fall
From the drenched roof; yet murmurs the sunk wind
Round the dim hills; can yet a passage find
Whistling through yon cleft rock, and ruined wall.
Loud roar the angry torrents, and appall, 5
Though distant. A few stars, emerging kind,
With green rays tremble through their misty shrouds;
And the moon gleams between the sailing clouds
On half the darkened hill. Now blasts remove
The shadowing clouds, and on the mountain’s brow, 10
Full-orbed she shines. Half sunk within its cove
Heaves the lone boat, with gulphing sound:—and lo!
Bright rolls the settling lake, and brimming rove
The vale’s blue rills, and glitter as they flow!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anna_Seward
By: Anna Seward
CEASED is the rain, but heavy drops yet fall
From the drenched roof; yet murmurs the sunk wind
Round the dim hills; can yet a passage find
Whistling through yon cleft rock, and ruined wall.
Loud roar the angry torrents, and appall, 5
Though distant. A few stars, emerging kind,
With green rays tremble through their misty shrouds;
And the moon gleams between the sailing clouds
On half the darkened hill. Now blasts remove
The shadowing clouds, and on the mountain’s brow, 10
Full-orbed she shines. Half sunk within its cove
Heaves the lone boat, with gulphing sound:—and lo!
Bright rolls the settling lake, and brimming rove
The vale’s blue rills, and glitter as they flow!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anna_Seward
Summer Night
By: Alfred, Lord Tennyson
NOW sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.
Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost, 5
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.
Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.
Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. 10
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred,_Lord_Tennyson
By: Alfred, Lord Tennyson
NOW sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.
Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost, 5
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.
Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.
Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. 10
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred,_Lord_Tennyson
A Light in a Distant Window among Mountains
By: William Wordsworth
EVEN as a dragon’s eye that feels the stress
Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp
Suddenly glaring through sepulchral damp,
So burns yon Taper ’mid a black recess
Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless; 5
The Lake below reflects it not; the sky,
Muffled in clouds, affords no company
To mitigate and cheer its loneliness.
Yet, round the body of that joyless Thing
Which sends so far its melancholy light, 10
Perhaps are seated in domestic ring
A gay society, with faces bright,
Conversing, reading, laughing;—or they sing,
While hearts and voices in the song unite.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Wordsworth
By: William Wordsworth
EVEN as a dragon’s eye that feels the stress
Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp
Suddenly glaring through sepulchral damp,
So burns yon Taper ’mid a black recess
Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless; 5
The Lake below reflects it not; the sky,
Muffled in clouds, affords no company
To mitigate and cheer its loneliness.
Yet, round the body of that joyless Thing
Which sends so far its melancholy light, 10
Perhaps are seated in domestic ring
A gay society, with faces bright,
Conversing, reading, laughing;—or they sing,
While hearts and voices in the song unite.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Wordsworth
For the Fallen
By: Laurence Binyon
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laurence_Binyon
By: Laurence Binyon
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laurence_Binyon
The Grasshopper
By: Richard Lovelace
O THOU that swing'st upon the waving hair
Of some well-fillèd oaten beard,
Drunk every night with a delicious tear
Dropt thee from heaven, where thou wert rear'd!
The joys of earth and air are thine entire, 5
That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly;
And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire
To thy carved acorn-bed to lie.
Up with the day, the Sun thou welcom'st then,
Sport'st in the gilt plaits of his beams, 10
And all these merry days mak'st merry men,
Thyself, and melancholy streams.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Lovelace
By: Richard Lovelace
O THOU that swing'st upon the waving hair
Of some well-fillèd oaten beard,
Drunk every night with a delicious tear
Dropt thee from heaven, where thou wert rear'd!
The joys of earth and air are thine entire, 5
That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly;
And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire
To thy carved acorn-bed to lie.
Up with the day, the Sun thou welcom'st then,
Sport'st in the gilt plaits of his beams, 10
And all these merry days mak'st merry men,
Thyself, and melancholy streams.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Lovelace
"Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art"
By: John Keats
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Keats
By: John Keats
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Keats
To the Nightingale
By: John Milton
O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still;
Thou with fresh hope the lover’s heart dost fill,
While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, 5
First heard before the shallow cuckoo’s bill,
Portend success in love; O, if Jove’s will
Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh; 10
As thou from year to year, hast sung too late
For my relief, yet had’st no reason why:
Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Milton
By: John Milton
O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still;
Thou with fresh hope the lover’s heart dost fill,
While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, 5
First heard before the shallow cuckoo’s bill,
Portend success in love; O, if Jove’s will
Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh; 10
As thou from year to year, hast sung too late
For my relief, yet had’st no reason why:
Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Milton
From: A Cosmic Outlook
By: Frederick William Henry Myers
BACKWARD!—beyond this momentary woe!—
Thine was the world’s dim dawn, the prime emprize;
Eternal aeons gaze thro’ these sad eyes,
And all the empyreal sphere hath shaped thee so.
Nay! all is living, all is plain to know! 5
This rock has drunk the ray from ancient skies;
Strike! and the sheen of that remote sunrise
Gleams in the marble’s unforgetful glow.
Thus hath the cosmic light endured the same
Ere first that ray from Sun to Sirius flew; 10
Aye, and in heaven I heard the mystic Name
Sound, and a breathing of the Spirit blew;
Lit the long Past, bade shine the slumbering flame
And all the Cosmorama blaze anew.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frederic_W._H._Myers
By: Frederick William Henry Myers
BACKWARD!—beyond this momentary woe!—
Thine was the world’s dim dawn, the prime emprize;
Eternal aeons gaze thro’ these sad eyes,
And all the empyreal sphere hath shaped thee so.
Nay! all is living, all is plain to know! 5
This rock has drunk the ray from ancient skies;
Strike! and the sheen of that remote sunrise
Gleams in the marble’s unforgetful glow.
Thus hath the cosmic light endured the same
Ere first that ray from Sun to Sirius flew; 10
Aye, and in heaven I heard the mystic Name
Sound, and a breathing of the Spirit blew;
Lit the long Past, bade shine the slumbering flame
And all the Cosmorama blaze anew.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frederic_W._H._Myers
Fragment of an Ode to Maia
By: John Keats
MOTHER of Hermes! and still youthful Maia!
May I sing to thee
As thou wast hymnèd on the shores of Baiæ?
Or may I woo thee
In earlier Sicilian? or thy smiles 5
Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian isles,
By bards who died content on pleasant sward,
Leaving great verse unto a little clan?
O give me their old vigour! and unheard
Save of the quiet primrose, and the span 10
Of heaven, and few ears,
Rounded by thee, my song should die away
Content as theirs,
Rich in the simple worship of a day.
https://www.bartleby.com/101/629.html
By: John Keats
MOTHER of Hermes! and still youthful Maia!
May I sing to thee
As thou wast hymnèd on the shores of Baiæ?
Or may I woo thee
In earlier Sicilian? or thy smiles 5
Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian isles,
By bards who died content on pleasant sward,
Leaving great verse unto a little clan?
O give me their old vigour! and unheard
Save of the quiet primrose, and the span 10
Of heaven, and few ears,
Rounded by thee, my song should die away
Content as theirs,
Rich in the simple worship of a day.
https://www.bartleby.com/101/629.html
From: Ode to the Moon
By Thomas Hood
I
MOTHER of light! how fairly dost thou go
Over those hoary crests, divinely led!—
Art thou that huntress of the silver bow
Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread
Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, 5
Like the wild Chamois from her Alpine snow,
Where hunter never climb’d,—secure from dread?
How many antique fancies have I read
Of that mild presence! and how many wrought!
Wondrous and bright, 10
Upon the silver light,
Chasing fair figures with the artist, Thought!
II
What art thou like? Sometimes I see thee ride
A far-bound galley on its perilous way,
Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray;— 15
Sometimes behold thee glide,
Cluster’d by all thy family of stars,
Like a lone widow, through the welkin wide,
Whose pallid cheek the midnight sorrow mars;—
Sometimes I watch thee on from steep to steep, 20
Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch,
Till in some Latmian cave I see thee creep,
To catch the young Endymion asleep,—
Leaving thy splendour at the jagged porch!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Hood
By Thomas Hood
I
MOTHER of light! how fairly dost thou go
Over those hoary crests, divinely led!—
Art thou that huntress of the silver bow
Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread
Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, 5
Like the wild Chamois from her Alpine snow,
Where hunter never climb’d,—secure from dread?
How many antique fancies have I read
Of that mild presence! and how many wrought!
Wondrous and bright, 10
Upon the silver light,
Chasing fair figures with the artist, Thought!
II
What art thou like? Sometimes I see thee ride
A far-bound galley on its perilous way,
Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray;— 15
Sometimes behold thee glide,
Cluster’d by all thy family of stars,
Like a lone widow, through the welkin wide,
Whose pallid cheek the midnight sorrow mars;—
Sometimes I watch thee on from steep to steep, 20
Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch,
Till in some Latmian cave I see thee creep,
To catch the young Endymion asleep,—
Leaving thy splendour at the jagged porch!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Hood
The Rainbow
By: William Wordsworth
MY heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old, 5
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Wordsworth
By: William Wordsworth
MY heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old, 5
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Wordsworth
Sonnet.
By: Edward Lord Herbert, Baron of Cherbery and Castle-Island
YOu well compacted Groves, whose light & shade
Mixt equally, produce nor heat, nor cold,
Either to burn the young, or freeze the old,
But to one even temper being made,
Upon a Grave embroidering through each Glade
An Airy Silver, and a Sunny Gold,
So cloath the poorest that they do behold
Themselves, in riches which can never fade,
While the wind whistles, and the birds do singâ–ª
While your twigs clip, and while the leaves do friss,
While the fruit ripens which those trunks do bring,
Sensless to all but love, do you not spring
Pleasure of such a kind, as truly is
A self-renewing vegetable bliss.
Made upon the Groves near Merlow Castle.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Herbert,_1st_Baron_Herbert_of_Cherbury
By: Edward Lord Herbert, Baron of Cherbery and Castle-Island
YOu well compacted Groves, whose light & shade
Mixt equally, produce nor heat, nor cold,
Either to burn the young, or freeze the old,
But to one even temper being made,
Upon a Grave embroidering through each Glade
An Airy Silver, and a Sunny Gold,
So cloath the poorest that they do behold
Themselves, in riches which can never fade,
While the wind whistles, and the birds do singâ–ª
While your twigs clip, and while the leaves do friss,
While the fruit ripens which those trunks do bring,
Sensless to all but love, do you not spring
Pleasure of such a kind, as truly is
A self-renewing vegetable bliss.
Made upon the Groves near Merlow Castle.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Herbert,_1st_Baron_Herbert_of_Cherbury
Bag-Pipes at Sea
By: Clinton Scollard
ABOVE the shouting of the gale,
The whipping sheet, the dashing spray,
I heard, with notes of joy and wail,
A piper play.
Along the dipping deck he trod, 5
The dusk about his shadowy form;
He seemed like some strange ancient god
Of song and storm.
He gave his dim-seen pipes a skirl
And war went down the darkling air; 10
Then came a sudden subtle swirl,
And love was there.
What were the winds that flailed and flayed
The sea to him, the night obscure?
In dreams he strayed some brackened glade, 15
Some heathery moor.
And if he saw the slanting spars,
And if he watched the shifting track,
He marked, too, the eternal stars
Shine through the wrack. 20
And so amid the deep sea din,
And so amid the wastes of foam,
Afar his heart was happy in
His highland home!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clinton_Scollard
By: Clinton Scollard
ABOVE the shouting of the gale,
The whipping sheet, the dashing spray,
I heard, with notes of joy and wail,
A piper play.
Along the dipping deck he trod, 5
The dusk about his shadowy form;
He seemed like some strange ancient god
Of song and storm.
He gave his dim-seen pipes a skirl
And war went down the darkling air; 10
Then came a sudden subtle swirl,
And love was there.
What were the winds that flailed and flayed
The sea to him, the night obscure?
In dreams he strayed some brackened glade, 15
Some heathery moor.
And if he saw the slanting spars,
And if he watched the shifting track,
He marked, too, the eternal stars
Shine through the wrack. 20
And so amid the deep sea din,
And so amid the wastes of foam,
Afar his heart was happy in
His highland home!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clinton_Scollard
The Bridge
By: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I STOOD on the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o’er the city,
Behind the dark church-tower.
I saw her bright reflection 5
In the waters under me,
Like a golden goblet falling
And sinking into the sea.
And far in the hazy distance
Of that lovely night in June, 10
The blaze of the flaming furnace
Gleamed redder than the moon.
Among the long, black rafters
The wavering shadows lay,
And the current that came from the ocean 15
Seemed to lift and bear them away;
As, sweeping and eddying through them,
Rose the belated tide,
And, streaming into the moonlight,
The seaweed floated wide. 20
And like those waters rushing
Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o’er me
That filled my eyes with tears.
How often, oh how often, 25
In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on that bridge at midnight
And gazed on that wave and sky!
How often, oh how often,
I had wished that the ebbing tide 30
Would bear me away on its bosom
O’er the ocean wild and wide!
For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me 35
Seemed greater than I could bear.
But now it has fallen from me,
It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me. 40
Yet whenever I cross the river
On its bridge with wooden piers,
Like the odor of brine from the ocean
Comes the thought of other years.
And I think how many thousands 45
Of care-encumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow,
Have crossed the bridge since then.
I see the long procession
Still passing to and fro, 50
The young heart hot and restless,
And the old subdued and slow!
And forever and forever,
As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions, 55
As long as life has woes;
The moon and its broken reflection
And its shadows shall appear,
As the symbol of love in heaven,
And its wavering image here.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Wadsworth_Longfellow
By: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I STOOD on the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o’er the city,
Behind the dark church-tower.
I saw her bright reflection 5
In the waters under me,
Like a golden goblet falling
And sinking into the sea.
And far in the hazy distance
Of that lovely night in June, 10
The blaze of the flaming furnace
Gleamed redder than the moon.
Among the long, black rafters
The wavering shadows lay,
And the current that came from the ocean 15
Seemed to lift and bear them away;
As, sweeping and eddying through them,
Rose the belated tide,
And, streaming into the moonlight,
The seaweed floated wide. 20
And like those waters rushing
Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o’er me
That filled my eyes with tears.
How often, oh how often, 25
In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on that bridge at midnight
And gazed on that wave and sky!
How often, oh how often,
I had wished that the ebbing tide 30
Would bear me away on its bosom
O’er the ocean wild and wide!
For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me 35
Seemed greater than I could bear.
But now it has fallen from me,
It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me. 40
Yet whenever I cross the river
On its bridge with wooden piers,
Like the odor of brine from the ocean
Comes the thought of other years.
And I think how many thousands 45
Of care-encumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow,
Have crossed the bridge since then.
I see the long procession
Still passing to and fro, 50
The young heart hot and restless,
And the old subdued and slow!
And forever and forever,
As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions, 55
As long as life has woes;
The moon and its broken reflection
And its shadows shall appear,
As the symbol of love in heaven,
And its wavering image here.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Wadsworth_Longfellow
Sonnet to the Nightingale
By: John Milton
O NIGHTINGALE that on yon blooming spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,
Thou with fresh hopes the Lover’s heart dost fill,
While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day, 5
First heard before the shallow cuckoo’s bill,
Portend success in love. O if Jove’s will
Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh; 10
As thou from year to year hast sung too late
For my relief, yet had’st no reason why.
Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Milton
By: John Milton
O NIGHTINGALE that on yon blooming spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,
Thou with fresh hopes the Lover’s heart dost fill,
While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day, 5
First heard before the shallow cuckoo’s bill,
Portend success in love. O if Jove’s will
Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh; 10
As thou from year to year hast sung too late
For my relief, yet had’st no reason why.
Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Milton
From: In the Moonlight
By: David McKee Wright
THE MOON is bright, and the winds are laid, and the river is roaring by;
Orion swings, with his belted lights low down in the western sky;
North and south from the mountain gorge to the heart of the silver plain
There’s many an eye will see no sleep till the east grows bright again;
There’s many a hand will toil to-night, from the centre down to the sea; 5
And I’m far from the men I used to know—and my love is far from me.
Where the broad flood eddies the dredge is moored to the beach of shingle white,
And the straining cable whips the stream in a spray of silver light;
The groaning buckets bear their load, and the engine throbs away,
And the wash pours red on the turning screen that knows not night or day; 10
For there’s many an ounce of gold to save, from the gorge to the shining sea—
And there’s many a league of the bare brown hills between my love and me.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_McKee_Wright
By: David McKee Wright
THE MOON is bright, and the winds are laid, and the river is roaring by;
Orion swings, with his belted lights low down in the western sky;
North and south from the mountain gorge to the heart of the silver plain
There’s many an eye will see no sleep till the east grows bright again;
There’s many a hand will toil to-night, from the centre down to the sea; 5
And I’m far from the men I used to know—and my love is far from me.
Where the broad flood eddies the dredge is moored to the beach of shingle white,
And the straining cable whips the stream in a spray of silver light;
The groaning buckets bear their load, and the engine throbs away,
And the wash pours red on the turning screen that knows not night or day; 10
For there’s many an ounce of gold to save, from the gorge to the shining sea—
And there’s many a league of the bare brown hills between my love and me.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_McKee_Wright
Illa Creek
By: Henry Kendall
(Excerpt)
A STRONG sea-wind flies up and sings
Across the blown-wet border,
Whose stormy echo runs and rings
Like bells in wild disorder.
Fierce breath hath vext the foreland’s face, 5
It glistens, glooms, and glistens;
But deep within this quiet place
Sweet Illa lies and listens.
Sweet Illa of the shining sands,
She sleeps in shady hollows 10
Where August flits with flowerful hands
And silver Summer follows.
Far up the naked hills is heard
A noise of many waters;
But green-haired Illa lies unstirred 15
Amongst her star-like daughters.
The tempest pent in moaning ways
Awakes the shepherd yonder;
But Illa dreams, unknown to days
Whose wings are wind and thunder. 20
Here fairy hands and floral feet
Are brought by bright October;
Here stained with grapes, and smit with heat,
Comes Autumn sweet and sober.
Here lovers rest, what time the red 25
And yellow colors mingle,
And daylight droops with dying head
Beyond the western dingle.
And here, from month to month, the time
Is kissed by Peace and Pleasure, 30
While Nature sings her woodland rhyme
And hoards her woodland treasure.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Kendall_(poet)
By: Henry Kendall
(Excerpt)
A STRONG sea-wind flies up and sings
Across the blown-wet border,
Whose stormy echo runs and rings
Like bells in wild disorder.
Fierce breath hath vext the foreland’s face, 5
It glistens, glooms, and glistens;
But deep within this quiet place
Sweet Illa lies and listens.
Sweet Illa of the shining sands,
She sleeps in shady hollows 10
Where August flits with flowerful hands
And silver Summer follows.
Far up the naked hills is heard
A noise of many waters;
But green-haired Illa lies unstirred 15
Amongst her star-like daughters.
The tempest pent in moaning ways
Awakes the shepherd yonder;
But Illa dreams, unknown to days
Whose wings are wind and thunder. 20
Here fairy hands and floral feet
Are brought by bright October;
Here stained with grapes, and smit with heat,
Comes Autumn sweet and sober.
Here lovers rest, what time the red 25
And yellow colors mingle,
And daylight droops with dying head
Beyond the western dingle.
And here, from month to month, the time
Is kissed by Peace and Pleasure, 30
While Nature sings her woodland rhyme
And hoards her woodland treasure.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Kendall_(poet)
Abou Ben Adhem
By: Leigh Hunt
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leigh_Hunt
By: Leigh Hunt
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leigh_Hunt
The Wall-flower
By: Walter Savage Landor (1775–1864)
THE PLACE where soon I think to lie,
In its old creviced nook hard-by
Rears many a weed:
If parties bring you there, will you
Drop slily in a grain or two 5
Of wall-flower seed?
I shall not see it, and (too sure!)
I shall not ever hear that your
Light step was there;
But the rich odour some fine day 10
Will, what I cannot do, repay
That little care.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walter_Savage_Landor
By: Walter Savage Landor (1775–1864)
THE PLACE where soon I think to lie,
In its old creviced nook hard-by
Rears many a weed:
If parties bring you there, will you
Drop slily in a grain or two 5
Of wall-flower seed?
I shall not see it, and (too sure!)
I shall not ever hear that your
Light step was there;
But the rich odour some fine day 10
Will, what I cannot do, repay
That little care.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walter_Savage_Landor
The Lake Isle of Innisfree
By: William Butler Yeats
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, 5
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; 10
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/W._B._Yeats
By: William Butler Yeats
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, 5
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; 10
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/W._B._Yeats
Misconceptions
By: Robert Browning
THIS is a spray the Bird clung to,
Making it blossom with pleasure,
Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,
Fit for her nest and her treasure.
O, what a hope beyond measure 5
Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,—
So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!
This is a heart the Queen leant on,
Thrill'd in a minute erratic,
Ere the true bosom she bent on, 10
Meet for love's regal dalmatic.
O, what a fancy ecstatic
Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on—
Love to be saved for it, proffer'd to, spent on!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Browning
By: Robert Browning
THIS is a spray the Bird clung to,
Making it blossom with pleasure,
Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,
Fit for her nest and her treasure.
O, what a hope beyond measure 5
Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,—
So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!
This is a heart the Queen leant on,
Thrill'd in a minute erratic,
Ere the true bosom she bent on, 10
Meet for love's regal dalmatic.
O, what a fancy ecstatic
Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on—
Love to be saved for it, proffer'd to, spent on!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Browning
The Elephant
By: John Donne
Nature's great masterpiece, an elephant
(The only harmless great thing), the giant
Of beasts, who thought none had to make him wise,
But to be just and thankful, loth to offend
(Yet nature hath given him no knees to bend)
Himself he up-props, on himself relies,
And, foe to none, suspects no enemies,
Still sleeping stood; vex'd not his fantasy
Black dreams; like an unbent bow carelessly
His sinewy proboscis did remissly lie.
John Donne
By: John Donne
Nature's great masterpiece, an elephant
(The only harmless great thing), the giant
Of beasts, who thought none had to make him wise,
But to be just and thankful, loth to offend
(Yet nature hath given him no knees to bend)
Himself he up-props, on himself relies,
And, foe to none, suspects no enemies,
Still sleeping stood; vex'd not his fantasy
Black dreams; like an unbent bow carelessly
His sinewy proboscis did remissly lie.
John Donne
Motor Bus
By: Alfred Denis Godley
What is this that roareth thus?
Can it be a Motor Bus?
Yes, the smell and hideous hum
Indicat Motorem Bum!
Implet in the Corn and High
Terror me Motoris Bi:
Bo Motori clamitabo
Ne Motore caedar a Bo—
Dative be or Ablative
So thou only let us live:
Whither shall thy victims flee?
Spare us, spare us, Motor Be!
Thus I sang; and still anigh
Came in hordes Motores Bi,
Et complebat omne forum
Copia Motorum Borum.
How shall wretches live like us
Cincti Bis Motoribus?
Domine, defende nos
Contra hos Motores Bos!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A._D._Godley
By: Alfred Denis Godley
What is this that roareth thus?
Can it be a Motor Bus?
Yes, the smell and hideous hum
Indicat Motorem Bum!
Implet in the Corn and High
Terror me Motoris Bi:
Bo Motori clamitabo
Ne Motore caedar a Bo—
Dative be or Ablative
So thou only let us live:
Whither shall thy victims flee?
Spare us, spare us, Motor Be!
Thus I sang; and still anigh
Came in hordes Motores Bi,
Et complebat omne forum
Copia Motorum Borum.
How shall wretches live like us
Cincti Bis Motoribus?
Domine, defende nos
Contra hos Motores Bos!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A._D._Godley
The Fly
By: William Oldys
An Anacreontick
Busy, curious, thirsty Fly,
Gently drink, and drink as I;
Freely welcome to my Cup,
Could’st thou sip and sip it up;
Make the most of Life you may,
Life is short and wears away.
Just alike, both mine and thine,
Hasten quick to their Decline;
Thine’s a Summer, mine’s no more,
Though repeated to threescore;
Threescore Summers, when they’re gone,
Will appear as short as one.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Oldys
By: William Oldys
An Anacreontick
Busy, curious, thirsty Fly,
Gently drink, and drink as I;
Freely welcome to my Cup,
Could’st thou sip and sip it up;
Make the most of Life you may,
Life is short and wears away.
Just alike, both mine and thine,
Hasten quick to their Decline;
Thine’s a Summer, mine’s no more,
Though repeated to threescore;
Threescore Summers, when they’re gone,
Will appear as short as one.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Oldys
Peace
By: Samuel Greenberg
The blue faded purple Horizon mount
Seemed to bellow the vallies in mists
Of enriching ensueing divine shadowings
Where may this be? perhaps unpopulated
Crags of stepping rocks, where thought
Slumbers, inhaled thought, unbearing
Real earth, that refines, e'en the insects muse
Royality defies the haunt they chose
Therein mingles wild prespective charms
As immortelle's thorny entangled growth
Mongst the field of oaks pressing steep
Twilight's vail, Milky way's fence, the deep
Lionized eagle hisses o'er this scene
Birds, wild swans, glide paly o'er a charming stream
Samuel Greenberg
By: Samuel Greenberg
The blue faded purple Horizon mount
Seemed to bellow the vallies in mists
Of enriching ensueing divine shadowings
Where may this be? perhaps unpopulated
Crags of stepping rocks, where thought
Slumbers, inhaled thought, unbearing
Real earth, that refines, e'en the insects muse
Royality defies the haunt they chose
Therein mingles wild prespective charms
As immortelle's thorny entangled growth
Mongst the field of oaks pressing steep
Twilight's vail, Milky way's fence, the deep
Lionized eagle hisses o'er this scene
Birds, wild swans, glide paly o'er a charming stream
Samuel Greenberg
Two Lacquer Prints
By: Amy Lowell
The Emperor's Garden
ONCE, in the sultry heat of midsummer,
An Emperor caused the miniature mountains in his garden
To be covered with white silk,
That so crowned,
They might cool his eyes
With the sparkle of snow.
Meditation
A wise man,
Watching the stars pass across the sky,
Remarked:
In the upper air the fireflies move more slowly.
Amy Lowell
By: Amy Lowell
The Emperor's Garden
ONCE, in the sultry heat of midsummer,
An Emperor caused the miniature mountains in his garden
To be covered with white silk,
That so crowned,
They might cool his eyes
With the sparkle of snow.
Meditation
A wise man,
Watching the stars pass across the sky,
Remarked:
In the upper air the fireflies move more slowly.
Amy Lowell
The Green Linnet
By: William Wordsworth
Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring's unclouded weather,
In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!
And birds and flowers once more to greet,
My last year's friends together.
One have I marked, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to Thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding Spirit here to-day,
Dost lead the revels of the May;
And this is thy dominion.
While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,
Make all one band of paramours,
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
Art sole in thy employment:
A Life, a Presence like the Air,
Scattering thy gladness without care,
Too blest with any one to pair;
Thyself thy own enjoyment.
Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perched in ecstasies,
Yet seeming still to hover;
There! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him all over.
My dazzled sight he oft deceives,
A brother of the dancing leaves;
Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes;
As if by that exulting strain
He mocked and treated with disdain
The voiceless Form he chose to feign,
While fluttering in the bushes.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Wordsworth
By: William Wordsworth
Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring's unclouded weather,
In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!
And birds and flowers once more to greet,
My last year's friends together.
One have I marked, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to Thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding Spirit here to-day,
Dost lead the revels of the May;
And this is thy dominion.
While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,
Make all one band of paramours,
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
Art sole in thy employment:
A Life, a Presence like the Air,
Scattering thy gladness without care,
Too blest with any one to pair;
Thyself thy own enjoyment.
Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perched in ecstasies,
Yet seeming still to hover;
There! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him all over.
My dazzled sight he oft deceives,
A brother of the dancing leaves;
Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes;
As if by that exulting strain
He mocked and treated with disdain
The voiceless Form he chose to feign,
While fluttering in the bushes.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Wordsworth
Among the Rocks
By: Robert Browning
Oh, good gigantic smile o’ the brown old earth,
This autumn morning! How he sets his bones
To bask i’ the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet
For the ripple to run over in its mirth;
Listening the while, where on the heap of stones
The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet.
That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true;
Such is life’s trial, as old earth smiles and knows.
If you loved only what were worth your love,
Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you:
Make the low nature better by your throes!
Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!
To Spring
By: William Blake
THOU with dewy locks, who lookest down
Through 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 one another, and the listening 5
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn'd
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth
And let thy holy feet visit our clime!
Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumèd garments; let us taste 10
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our lovesick 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, 15
Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Blake
By: William Blake
THOU with dewy locks, who lookest down
Through 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 one another, and the listening 5
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn'd
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth
And let thy holy feet visit our clime!
Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumèd garments; let us taste 10
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our lovesick 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, 15
Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Blake
From: Coogee
By: Henry Kendall (1839-1882)
SING the song of wave-worn Coogee,—Coogee in the distance white
With its jags and points disrupted, gaps and fractures fringed with light!
Haunt of gledes and restless plovers of the melancholy wail
Ever lending deeper pathos to the melancholy gale.
There, my brothers, down the fissures, chasms deep and wan and wild, 5
Grows the sea-bloom, one that blushes like a shrinking, fair, blind child;
And amongst the oozing forelands many a glad green rock-vine runs,
Getting ease on earthy ledges sheltered from December suns.
Often, when a gusty morning, rising cold and gray and strange,
Lifts its face from watery spaces, vistas full with cloudy change; 10
Bearing up a gloomy burden which anon begins to wane,
Fading in the sudden shadow of a dark determined rain;
Do I seek an eastern window, so to watch the breakers beat
Round the steadfast crags of Coogee, dim with drifts of driving sleet:
Hearing hollow mournful noises sweeping down a solemn shore 15
While the grim sea-caves are tideless and the storm strives at their core.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Kendall_(poet)
By: Henry Kendall (1839-1882)
SING the song of wave-worn Coogee,—Coogee in the distance white
With its jags and points disrupted, gaps and fractures fringed with light!
Haunt of gledes and restless plovers of the melancholy wail
Ever lending deeper pathos to the melancholy gale.
There, my brothers, down the fissures, chasms deep and wan and wild, 5
Grows the sea-bloom, one that blushes like a shrinking, fair, blind child;
And amongst the oozing forelands many a glad green rock-vine runs,
Getting ease on earthy ledges sheltered from December suns.
Often, when a gusty morning, rising cold and gray and strange,
Lifts its face from watery spaces, vistas full with cloudy change; 10
Bearing up a gloomy burden which anon begins to wane,
Fading in the sudden shadow of a dark determined rain;
Do I seek an eastern window, so to watch the breakers beat
Round the steadfast crags of Coogee, dim with drifts of driving sleet:
Hearing hollow mournful noises sweeping down a solemn shore 15
While the grim sea-caves are tideless and the storm strives at their core.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Kendall_(poet)
The Bee
By: Emily Dickinson
Like trains of cars on tracks of plush
I hear the level bee:
A jar across the flowers goes,
Their velvet masonry
Withstands until the sweet assault
Their chivalry consumes,
While he, victorious, tilts away
To vanquish other blooms.
His feet are shod with gauze,
His helmet is of gold;
His breast, a single onyx
With chrysoprase, inlaid.
His labor is a chant,
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee’s experience
Of clovers and of noon!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson
By: Emily Dickinson
Like trains of cars on tracks of plush
I hear the level bee:
A jar across the flowers goes,
Their velvet masonry
Withstands until the sweet assault
Their chivalry consumes,
While he, victorious, tilts away
To vanquish other blooms.
His feet are shod with gauze,
His helmet is of gold;
His breast, a single onyx
With chrysoprase, inlaid.
His labor is a chant,
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee’s experience
Of clovers and of noon!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson
A December Day
By: Sara Teasdale
Dawn turned on her purple pillow
— And late, late came the winter day,
Snow was curved to the boughs of the willow.
— The sunless world was white and grey.
At noon we heard a blue-jay scolding,
— At five the last thin light was lost
From snow-banked windows faintly holding
— The feathery filigree of frost.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Teasdale
By: Sara Teasdale
Dawn turned on her purple pillow
— And late, late came the winter day,
Snow was curved to the boughs of the willow.
— The sunless world was white and grey.
At noon we heard a blue-jay scolding,
— At five the last thin light was lost
From snow-banked windows faintly holding
— The feathery filigree of frost.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Teasdale
Fairy Land ii
By: William Shakespeare
YOU spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong;
Come not near our fairy queen.
Philomel, with melody,
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!
Never harm,
Nor spell nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So, good night, with lullaby.
Weaving spiders, come not here;
Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence!
Beetles black, approach not near;
Worm nor snail, do no offence.
Philomel, with melody,
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!
Never harm,
Nor spell nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So, good night, with lullaby.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
By: William Shakespeare
YOU spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong;
Come not near our fairy queen.
Philomel, with melody,
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!
Never harm,
Nor spell nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So, good night, with lullaby.
Weaving spiders, come not here;
Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence!
Beetles black, approach not near;
Worm nor snail, do no offence.
Philomel, with melody,
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!
Never harm,
Nor spell nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So, good night, with lullaby.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
A Garden Song
By: Henry Austin Dobson
HERE in this sequester'd close
Bloom the hyacinth and rose,
Here beside the modest stock
Flaunts the flaring hollyhock;
Here, without a pang, one sees 5
Ranks, conditions, and degrees.
All the seasons run their race
In this quiet resting-place;
Peach and apricot and fig
Here will ripen and grow big; 10
Here is store and overplus,—
More had not Alcinoüs!
Here, in alleys cool and green,
Far ahead the thrush is seen;
Here along the southern wall 15
Keeps the bee his festival;
All is quiet else—afar
Sounds of toil and turmoil are.
Here be shadows large and long;
Here be spaces meet for song; 20
Grant, O garden-god, that I,
Now that none profane is nigh,—
Now that mood and moment please,—
Find the fair Pierides!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Austin_Dobson
By: Henry Austin Dobson
HERE in this sequester'd close
Bloom the hyacinth and rose,
Here beside the modest stock
Flaunts the flaring hollyhock;
Here, without a pang, one sees 5
Ranks, conditions, and degrees.
All the seasons run their race
In this quiet resting-place;
Peach and apricot and fig
Here will ripen and grow big; 10
Here is store and overplus,—
More had not Alcinoüs!
Here, in alleys cool and green,
Far ahead the thrush is seen;
Here along the southern wall 15
Keeps the bee his festival;
All is quiet else—afar
Sounds of toil and turmoil are.
Here be shadows large and long;
Here be spaces meet for song; 20
Grant, O garden-god, that I,
Now that none profane is nigh,—
Now that mood and moment please,—
Find the fair Pierides!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Austin_Dobson
For the Fallen
By Laurence Binyon
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laurence_Binyon
In Flanders’ Field
By Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD
In Flanders’ Fields the poppies blow
Between the headstones, 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.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_McCrae
We Shall Keep the Faith
By Moina Michael
Oh! You who sleep in Flanders’ Fields
Sleep sweet - to rise anew;
We caught the torch you threw,
And holding high we kept
The faith with those who died.
We cherish, too, the Poppy red
That grows on fields where valour led.
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies.
But lends a lustre to the red
On the flower that blooms above the dead
In Flanders’ fields.
And now the torch and Poppy red
Wear in honour of our dead.
Fear not that ye have died for naught:
We've learned the lesson that ye taught
In Flanders’ fields.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moina_Michael
By Laurence Binyon
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laurence_Binyon
In Flanders’ Field
By Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD
In Flanders’ Fields the poppies blow
Between the headstones, 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.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_McCrae
We Shall Keep the Faith
By Moina Michael
Oh! You who sleep in Flanders’ Fields
Sleep sweet - to rise anew;
We caught the torch you threw,
And holding high we kept
The faith with those who died.
We cherish, too, the Poppy red
That grows on fields where valour led.
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies.
But lends a lustre to the red
On the flower that blooms above the dead
In Flanders’ fields.
And now the torch and Poppy red
Wear in honour of our dead.
Fear not that ye have died for naught:
We've learned the lesson that ye taught
In Flanders’ fields.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moina_Michael
CIII
By Emily Dickinson
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;
5
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
10
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
15
Beside your twinkling door.
Her bonnet is the firmament,
The universe her shoe,
The stars the trinkets at her belt,
Her dimities of blue.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson
By Emily Dickinson
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;
5
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
10
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
15
Beside your twinkling door.
Her bonnet is the firmament,
The universe her shoe,
The stars the trinkets at her belt,
Her dimities of blue.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson
This is the time to be slow,
Lie low to the wall
Until the bitter weather passes.
Try, as best you can, not to let
The wire brush of doubt
Scrape from your heart
All sense of yourself
And your hesitant light.
If you remain generous,
Time will come good;
And you will find your feet
Again on fresh pastures of promise,
Where the air will be kind
And blushed with beginning.
John Donahue
Lie low to the wall
Until the bitter weather passes.
Try, as best you can, not to let
The wire brush of doubt
Scrape from your heart
All sense of yourself
And your hesitant light.
If you remain generous,
Time will come good;
And you will find your feet
Again on fresh pastures of promise,
Where the air will be kind
And blushed with beginning.
John Donahue
The Wind
By: Harold Monro
SO wayward is the wind to-night
’Twill send the planets tumbling down;
And all the waving trees are dight
In gauzes wafted from the moon.
Faint streaky wisps of roaming cloud
Are swiftly from the mountains swirl’d;
The wind is like a floating shroud
Wound light about the shivering world.
I think I see a little star
Entangled in a knotty tree,
As trembling fishes captured are
In nets from the eternal sea.
There seems a bevy in the air
Of spirits from the sparkling skies:
There seems a maiden with her hair
All tumbled in my blinded eyes.
O, how they whisper, how conspire,
And shrill to one another call!
I fear that, if they cannot tire,
The moon, her shining self, will fall.
Blow! Scatter even if you will
Like spray the stars about mine eyes!
Wind, overturn the goblet, spill
On me the everlasting skies!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harold_Monro
By: Harold Monro
SO wayward is the wind to-night
’Twill send the planets tumbling down;
And all the waving trees are dight
In gauzes wafted from the moon.
Faint streaky wisps of roaming cloud
Are swiftly from the mountains swirl’d;
The wind is like a floating shroud
Wound light about the shivering world.
I think I see a little star
Entangled in a knotty tree,
As trembling fishes captured are
In nets from the eternal sea.
There seems a bevy in the air
Of spirits from the sparkling skies:
There seems a maiden with her hair
All tumbled in my blinded eyes.
O, how they whisper, how conspire,
And shrill to one another call!
I fear that, if they cannot tire,
The moon, her shining self, will fall.
Blow! Scatter even if you will
Like spray the stars about mine eyes!
Wind, overturn the goblet, spill
On me the everlasting skies!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harold_Monro
Poems of Sentiment:
I. Time
Procrastination
By: Edward Young (1681-1765)
From “Night Thoughts,†Night I.
BE wise to-day; ’t is madness to defer;
Next day the fatal precedent will plead;
Thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of life.
Procrastination is the thief of time;
Year after year it steals, till all are fled, 5
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
If not so frequent, would not this be strange?
That ’t is so frequent, this is stranger still.
Of man’s miraculous mistakes this bears 10
The palm, “That all men are about to live,â€
Forever on the brink of being born.
All pay themselves the compliment to think
They one day shall not drivel: and their pride
On this reversion takes up ready praise; 15
At least, their own; their future selves applaud:
How excellent that life they ne’er will lead!
Time lodged in their own hands is folly’s veils;
That lodged in Fate’s, to wisdom they consign;
The thing they can’t but purpose, they postpone: 20
’T is not in folly not to scorn a fool,
And scarce in human wisdom to do more.
All promise is poor dilatory man,
And that through every stage. When young, indeed,
In full content we sometimes nobly rest, 25
Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish,
As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise.
At thirty, man suspects himself a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty, chides his infamous delay, 30
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought,
Resolves, and re-resolves; then dies the same.
And why? Because he thinks himself immortal.
All men think all men mortal but themselves; 35
Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate
Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread;
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon close; where passed the shaft, no trace is found.
As from the wing no scar the sky retains, 40
The parted wave no furrow from the keel,
So dies in human hearts the thought of death:
Even with the tender tears which Nature sheds
O’er those we love, we drop it in their grave.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Young
Procrastination
By: Edward Young (1681-1765)
From “Night Thoughts,†Night I.
BE wise to-day; ’t is madness to defer;
Next day the fatal precedent will plead;
Thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of life.
Procrastination is the thief of time;
Year after year it steals, till all are fled, 5
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
If not so frequent, would not this be strange?
That ’t is so frequent, this is stranger still.
Of man’s miraculous mistakes this bears 10
The palm, “That all men are about to live,â€
Forever on the brink of being born.
All pay themselves the compliment to think
They one day shall not drivel: and their pride
On this reversion takes up ready praise; 15
At least, their own; their future selves applaud:
How excellent that life they ne’er will lead!
Time lodged in their own hands is folly’s veils;
That lodged in Fate’s, to wisdom they consign;
The thing they can’t but purpose, they postpone: 20
’T is not in folly not to scorn a fool,
And scarce in human wisdom to do more.
All promise is poor dilatory man,
And that through every stage. When young, indeed,
In full content we sometimes nobly rest, 25
Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish,
As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise.
At thirty, man suspects himself a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty, chides his infamous delay, 30
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought,
Resolves, and re-resolves; then dies the same.
And why? Because he thinks himself immortal.
All men think all men mortal but themselves; 35
Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate
Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread;
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon close; where passed the shaft, no trace is found.
As from the wing no scar the sky retains, 40
The parted wave no furrow from the keel,
So dies in human hearts the thought of death:
Even with the tender tears which Nature sheds
O’er those we love, we drop it in their grave.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Young
The Panic
By: John Stagg
By: John Stagg
GOD prosper long auld T ALLENTIRE ,
 His wife an' bairns an' a',
An' uncot feary fray there did,
 At Renwick yence befa'.
The guod fwoak of the parish erst,
 A vow to god did make,
That as the Kurk was like to fa',
 They down the pile wad take.
And on that spot and self-same room,
 Their former Church had fill'd,
They wad, as soon as possible,
 A better new yen build.
For in their Tabernacle frail,
 The people dought not bide,
And yet t'were mete on the Lword's day,
 The Lord war glorify'd.
To raise this fane wi' leyme an' stane,
 A' Renwick tuok their way;
The bairn sal laugh that's yet unbworn,
 At that eventful day.
But ere a temple could be rais'd,
 Wherein to preach and pray,
'Twas needful furst the auld yen sud
 Be tirl'd and clear'd away.
Wi' meeght and main the parish rwose,
 (God fearing), pious people;
Wi' easy fa's furst fell the wa's,
 Then bang came down the steeple.
For as king Solomon hath said,
 The place I'll not turn tilt,
There is a teyme to big and eke,
 To pull down that that's built.
Sea here wi' gavelicks, hacks, and shouls,
 The fwoak leyke furies work,
And lang or hauf the day was duone,
 They'd feckly down'd the kurk.
When as with lev'ling bats they bang'd,
 About the steeple's base,
To down an nndemolish'd nuok,
 An' fairly clear the place.
Wi' dreadful noise on sounding wings,
 A hideous monster rose,
And round their faces, eyes, and ears,
 Its dingy pinnions throws.
In corriscations here and there,
 Now high, now low it flew.
The people glop'd wi' deep surprise,
 Away their wark-gear threw.
And to their heels they tuok wi' speed,
 Seyne he that fastest ran,
Esteem'd himsel as fair he meeght,
 Wate weel the luckiest man.
For whea wad be sea daftly baul,
 Expos'd in sec a cease,
As madly stop and turn to meet
 The deevil in the feace.
Nae, for a meyle they ran at least,
 Till a' war felly spent,
Then down they sat in council grave,
 To muse on this event.
There monny a curious judgment past,
 And queerfar'd exposition,
What this infernal spright might be,
 This flaysome apparition.
Some said it was the de'il himsel,
 Whae aye in secret lurks,
To counteract the works of grace,
 In corner of auld kurks.
But others of opinion war,
 Some wand'ring ghaist 't meeght be,
That had been conjur'd here of yore,
 And thus by chance set free.
Tho' the majority agreed,
 Which nwotion took the sway,
That 'twas a Cockatrice an' weel,
 War they that ran away.
For had the monster fix'd his een,
 On them befwore they fled,
They had as seer as eggs are eggs,
 Been every soul struck dead.
But seyne 't'ad pleas'd the powers abuin,
 To shield them frae annoy,
'Twas mete that methods they devis'd,
 This pestment to destroy.
Yet where a champion might be fund,
 With heart and valour stout,
Sea terrible a foe to feace,
 Was matter of dispute.
Then up ruose doughty T ALLENTIRE ,
 At that teyme parish clerk,
And said guod neebor's ne'er be baz'd,
 I'll undertake the wark.
Wi' Rowan Tree weel fenc'd about,
 We're seafe frae every evil,
For weel I ken that wood has power,
 To scar away the deevil.
Sea said frae the furst buss they met,
 Each man ruove down a beugh,
But Tallentire cut for his sel,
 A stow'r beath lang and teugh.
Then back to Renwick Kurk they march,
 Tho' not at sec a peace
As when they left it, but as if
 They had the De'il to feace.
Bauld Tallentire wi' spelfu' spear,
 Unrival'd takes the lead,
The lave tho' hang'dly follow him,
 Wi' nea uncommon speed.
And monny a panting heart was there,
 That buode full bitter picks,
For tho' wi' witch wood weard, yet weel,
 They kend auld Hornie's tricks.
And should miscarriage in the end,
 Their tryste thus bauld befa',
Auld Nick wi' cowper han' wad tek
 Full vengeance on them a'.
At length they reach'd the fated spot,
 And circling round the peyle;
Halt, ere the bruoly they begin,
 To breathe and think awheyle.
For whea wi' rashness wad proceed,
 The de'il sea clwose at han',
Nay een the bauldest of the bauld,
 Wad here have meade a stan.
But suon tbe steans they gin to rowk,
 An' bicker but an' ben',
Wi' picks an' poles agean to raise,
 The deevil frae his den.
Forth frae the bit they scry'd it furst,
 Agean the demon springs,
An' roun' their lugs an' haffits flaps,
 His diabolic wings.
Struck wi' surprise, these sons of fear,
 Set up a piteous rwoar,
Tuok to their heels an' run as fast
 As they had done befwore.
Save Tallentire, the dauntless clerk,
 Of heart and mettle sound,
He scworn'd an Ignominious fleeght,
 And bravely stuode his ground.
And as the foe his circles wheel'd,
 Now darting high, now low,
The Champion at the fluttering fiend,
 Aim'd many a harmless blow.
Still by agility or chance,
 It shuns his fiercest strokes,
Tho' baith wi' pith and skill bestow'd,
 Which sair the Clerk provokes.
For tweyce or threyce between his een,
 It peck'd some sharpish blows,
At last as if from mere contempt,
 It s—t upon his nose.
An' lang the goblin vex'd him sare,
 Till by yae lucky drub,
His adversary sunk beneath
 His massy magic club.
Drawn by his shouts triumphant, back
 His friends far scatter'd round
Returns to see the foe whea lies
 Expiring on the ground.
But what was their surprise to see
 This demon dire, why what?
In sooth 'twas nowther mair nor less,
 Than a puor owrgrown bat.
Thus hath the world been oft alarm'd,
 By bugbear panic fears;
The mountain labours, and behold
 A feckless mouse appears.
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
By: Christopher Marlowe
COME 1 live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
Or woods or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks, 5
And see 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; 10
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-linèd slippers for the cold, 15
With buckles of the 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. 20
The shepherd 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.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_Marlowe
By: Christopher Marlowe
COME 1 live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
Or woods or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks, 5
And see 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; 10
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-linèd slippers for the cold, 15
With buckles of the 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. 20
The shepherd 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.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_Marlowe
Phantasmion. A Fairy Tale (1837)
X. “I was a Brookâ€
By: Sarah Coleridge
I WAS a brook in straitest channel pent,
Foreing ’mid rocks and stones my toilsome way,
A scanty brook in wandering well-nigh spent;
But now with thee, rich stream, conjoin’d I stray,
Through golden meads the river sweeps along, 5
Murmuring its deep full joy in gentlest undersong.
I crept through desert moor and gloomy glade,
My waters ever vex’d, yet sad and slow,
My waters ever steep’d in baleful shade:
But, whilst with thee, rich stream, conjoined I flow,
E’en in swift course the river seems to rest,
Blue sky, bright bloom and verdure imag’d on its breast.
And, whilst with thee I roam through regions bright
Beneath kind love’s serene and gladsome sky,
A thousand happy things that seek the light,
Till now in darkest shadow forc’d to lie,
Up through the illumin’d waters nimbly run,
To show their forms and hues in the all revealing sun.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Coleridge
X. “I was a Brookâ€
By: Sarah Coleridge
I WAS a brook in straitest channel pent,
Foreing ’mid rocks and stones my toilsome way,
A scanty brook in wandering well-nigh spent;
But now with thee, rich stream, conjoin’d I stray,
Through golden meads the river sweeps along, 5
Murmuring its deep full joy in gentlest undersong.
I crept through desert moor and gloomy glade,
My waters ever vex’d, yet sad and slow,
My waters ever steep’d in baleful shade:
But, whilst with thee, rich stream, conjoined I flow,
E’en in swift course the river seems to rest,
Blue sky, bright bloom and verdure imag’d on its breast.
And, whilst with thee I roam through regions bright
Beneath kind love’s serene and gladsome sky,
A thousand happy things that seek the light,
Till now in darkest shadow forc’d to lie,
Up through the illumin’d waters nimbly run,
To show their forms and hues in the all revealing sun.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Coleridge
On an Hour-Glass
By: John Hall (1627-1656)
MY life is measur’d by this glass, this glass
By all those little sands that thorough pass.
See how they press, see how they strive, which shall
With greatest speed and greatest quickness fall.
See how they raise a little mount, and then
With their own weight do level it again.
But when th’ have all got thorough, they give o’er
Their nimble sliding down, and move no more.
Just such is man, whose hours still forward run,
Being almost finish’d ere they are begun;
So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we,
That ere we’re aught at all, we cease to be.
Do what we will, our hasty minutes fly,
And while we sleep, what do we else but die?
How transient are our joys, how short their day!
They creep on towards us, but fly away.
How stinging are our sorrows! where they gain
But the least footing, there they will remain.
How groundless are our hopes, how they deceive
Our childish thoughts, and only sorrow leave!
How real are our fears! they blast us still,
Still rend us, still with gnawing passions fill;
How senseless are our wishes, yet how great!
With what toil we pursue them, with what sweat!
Yet most times for our hurts, so small we see,
Like children crying for some Mercury.
This gapes for marriage, yet his fickle head
Knows not what cares wait on a marriage bed:
This vows virginity, yet knows not what
Loneness, grief, discontent, attends that state.
Desires of wealth another’s wishes hold,
And yet how many have been chok’d with gold?
This only hunts for honour, yet who shall
Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall.
This thirsts for knowledge, yet how is it bought?
With many a sleepless night, and racking thought.
This needs will travel, yet how dangers lay
Most secret ambuscados in the way?
These triumph in their beauty, though it shall
Like a pluck’d rose or fading lily fall.
Another boasts strong arms: ’las! giants have
By silly dwarfs been dragg’d unto their grave.
These ruffle in rich silk: though ne’er so gay,
A well-plum’d peacock is more gay than they.
Poor man! what art? A tennis-ball of error,
A ship of glass toss’d in a sea of terror;
Issuing in blood and sorrow from the womb,
Crawling in tears and mourning to the tomb:
How slippery are thy paths! How sure thy fall!
How art thou nothing, when th’ art most all!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Hall_(poet)
By: John Hall (1627-1656)
MY life is measur’d by this glass, this glass
By all those little sands that thorough pass.
See how they press, see how they strive, which shall
With greatest speed and greatest quickness fall.
See how they raise a little mount, and then
With their own weight do level it again.
But when th’ have all got thorough, they give o’er
Their nimble sliding down, and move no more.
Just such is man, whose hours still forward run,
Being almost finish’d ere they are begun;
So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we,
That ere we’re aught at all, we cease to be.
Do what we will, our hasty minutes fly,
And while we sleep, what do we else but die?
How transient are our joys, how short their day!
They creep on towards us, but fly away.
How stinging are our sorrows! where they gain
But the least footing, there they will remain.
How groundless are our hopes, how they deceive
Our childish thoughts, and only sorrow leave!
How real are our fears! they blast us still,
Still rend us, still with gnawing passions fill;
How senseless are our wishes, yet how great!
With what toil we pursue them, with what sweat!
Yet most times for our hurts, so small we see,
Like children crying for some Mercury.
This gapes for marriage, yet his fickle head
Knows not what cares wait on a marriage bed:
This vows virginity, yet knows not what
Loneness, grief, discontent, attends that state.
Desires of wealth another’s wishes hold,
And yet how many have been chok’d with gold?
This only hunts for honour, yet who shall
Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall.
This thirsts for knowledge, yet how is it bought?
With many a sleepless night, and racking thought.
This needs will travel, yet how dangers lay
Most secret ambuscados in the way?
These triumph in their beauty, though it shall
Like a pluck’d rose or fading lily fall.
Another boasts strong arms: ’las! giants have
By silly dwarfs been dragg’d unto their grave.
These ruffle in rich silk: though ne’er so gay,
A well-plum’d peacock is more gay than they.
Poor man! what art? A tennis-ball of error,
A ship of glass toss’d in a sea of terror;
Issuing in blood and sorrow from the womb,
Crawling in tears and mourning to the tomb:
How slippery are thy paths! How sure thy fall!
How art thou nothing, when th’ art most all!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Hall_(poet)
Bright is the Ring of Words
By: Robert Louis Stevenson
Bright is the ring of words
When the right man rings them,
Fair the fall of songs
When the singer sings them.
Still they are carolled and said –
On wings they are carried –
After the singer is dead
And the maker is buried.
Low as the singer lies
In the field of heather,
Songs of his fashion bring
The swains together.
And when the west is red
With the sunset embers,
The lover lingers and sings
And the maid remembers.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Louis_Stevenson
By: Robert Louis Stevenson
Bright is the ring of words
When the right man rings them,
Fair the fall of songs
When the singer sings them.
Still they are carolled and said –
On wings they are carried –
After the singer is dead
And the maker is buried.
Low as the singer lies
In the field of heather,
Songs of his fashion bring
The swains together.
And when the west is red
With the sunset embers,
The lover lingers and sings
And the maid remembers.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Louis_Stevenson
The Soul of Gerontius
By: John Henry Newman
I went to sleep; and now I am refresh’d,
A strange refreshment: for I feel in me
An inexpressive lightness, and a sense
Of freedom, as I were at length myself,
And ne’er had been before. How still it is!
I hear no more the busy beat of time,
No, nor my fluttering breath, nor struggling pulse;
Nor does one moment differ from the next.
I had a dream; yes – some one softly said
“He’s goneâ€; and then a sigh went round the room.
And then I surely heard a priestly voice
Cry “Subveniteâ€; and they knelt in prayer.
I seem to hear him still; but thin and low,
And fainter and more faint the accents come,
As at an ever-widening interval.
Ah! whence is this? What is this severance?
This silence pours a solitariness
Into the very essence of my soul;
And the deep rest, so soothing and so sweet,
Hath something too of sternness and of pain.
For it drives back my thoughts upon their spring
By a strange introversion, and perforce
I now begin to feed upon myself,
Because I have nought else to feed upon –
Am I alive or dead? I am not dead,
But in the body still; for I possess
A sort of confidence which clings to me,
That each particular organ holds its place
As heretofore, combining with the rest
Into one symmetry, that wraps me round,
And makes me man; and surely I could move,
Did I but will it, every part of me.
And yet I cannot to my sense bring home
By very trial, that I have the power.
’Tis strange; I cannot stir a hand or foot,
I cannot make my fingers or my lips
By mutual pressure witness each to each,
Nor by the eyelid’s instantaneous stroke
Assure myself I have a body still.
Nor do I know my very attitude,
Nor if I stand, or lie, or sit, or kneel.
So much I know, not knowing how I know,
That the vast universe, where I have dwelt,
Is quitting me, or I am quitting it.
Or I or it is rushing on the wings
Of light or lightning on an onward course,
And we e’en now are million miles apart.
Yet … is this peremptory severance
Wrought out in lengthening measurements of space
Which grow and multiply by speed and time?
Or am I traversing infinity
By endless subdivision, hurrying back
From finite towards infinitesimal,
Thus dying out of the expansive world?
Another marvel: some one has me fast
Within his ample palm; ‘tis not a grasp
Such as they use on earth, but all around
Over the surface of my subtle being,
As though I were a sphere, and capable
To be accosted thus, a uniform
And gentle pressure tells me I am not
Self-moving, but borne forward on my way.
And hark! I hear a singing; yet in sooth
I cannot of that music rightly say
Whether I hear, or touch, or taste the tones.
Oh, what a heart-subduing melody!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Henry_Newman
By: John Henry Newman
I went to sleep; and now I am refresh’d,
A strange refreshment: for I feel in me
An inexpressive lightness, and a sense
Of freedom, as I were at length myself,
And ne’er had been before. How still it is!
I hear no more the busy beat of time,
No, nor my fluttering breath, nor struggling pulse;
Nor does one moment differ from the next.
I had a dream; yes – some one softly said
“He’s goneâ€; and then a sigh went round the room.
And then I surely heard a priestly voice
Cry “Subveniteâ€; and they knelt in prayer.
I seem to hear him still; but thin and low,
And fainter and more faint the accents come,
As at an ever-widening interval.
Ah! whence is this? What is this severance?
This silence pours a solitariness
Into the very essence of my soul;
And the deep rest, so soothing and so sweet,
Hath something too of sternness and of pain.
For it drives back my thoughts upon their spring
By a strange introversion, and perforce
I now begin to feed upon myself,
Because I have nought else to feed upon –
Am I alive or dead? I am not dead,
But in the body still; for I possess
A sort of confidence which clings to me,
That each particular organ holds its place
As heretofore, combining with the rest
Into one symmetry, that wraps me round,
And makes me man; and surely I could move,
Did I but will it, every part of me.
And yet I cannot to my sense bring home
By very trial, that I have the power.
’Tis strange; I cannot stir a hand or foot,
I cannot make my fingers or my lips
By mutual pressure witness each to each,
Nor by the eyelid’s instantaneous stroke
Assure myself I have a body still.
Nor do I know my very attitude,
Nor if I stand, or lie, or sit, or kneel.
So much I know, not knowing how I know,
That the vast universe, where I have dwelt,
Is quitting me, or I am quitting it.
Or I or it is rushing on the wings
Of light or lightning on an onward course,
And we e’en now are million miles apart.
Yet … is this peremptory severance
Wrought out in lengthening measurements of space
Which grow and multiply by speed and time?
Or am I traversing infinity
By endless subdivision, hurrying back
From finite towards infinitesimal,
Thus dying out of the expansive world?
Another marvel: some one has me fast
Within his ample palm; ‘tis not a grasp
Such as they use on earth, but all around
Over the surface of my subtle being,
As though I were a sphere, and capable
To be accosted thus, a uniform
And gentle pressure tells me I am not
Self-moving, but borne forward on my way.
And hark! I hear a singing; yet in sooth
I cannot of that music rightly say
Whether I hear, or touch, or taste the tones.
Oh, what a heart-subduing melody!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Henry_Newman
The Lane
By: Edward Thomas
Some day, I think, there will be people enough
In Froxfield to pick all the blackberries
Out of the hedges of Green Lane, the straight
Broad lane where now September hides herself
In bracken and blackberry, harebell and dwarf gorse.
Today, where yesterday a hundred sheep
Were nibbling, halcyon bells shake to the sway
Of waters that no vessel ever sailed ...
It is a kind of spring: the chaffinch tries
His song. For heat it is like summer too.
This might be winter’s quiet. While the glint
Of hollies dark in the swollen hedges lasts—
One mile—and those bells ring, little I know
Or heed if time be still the same, until
The lane ends and once more all is the same.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Thomas_(poet)
By: Edward Thomas
Some day, I think, there will be people enough
In Froxfield to pick all the blackberries
Out of the hedges of Green Lane, the straight
Broad lane where now September hides herself
In bracken and blackberry, harebell and dwarf gorse.
Today, where yesterday a hundred sheep
Were nibbling, halcyon bells shake to the sway
Of waters that no vessel ever sailed ...
It is a kind of spring: the chaffinch tries
His song. For heat it is like summer too.
This might be winter’s quiet. While the glint
Of hollies dark in the swollen hedges lasts—
One mile—and those bells ring, little I know
Or heed if time be still the same, until
The lane ends and once more all is the same.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Thomas_(poet)
Out there
By: Rev David Conolly
So big, that sea
out there.
So big.
Stopped in your tracks,
silence claims you.
What is it, child of Mary?
Could it be that, in your
sunny spirit of
adventure,
you sense
the sudden passing
of a shadow?
But the dream
of a world
of peace,
healed by love,
could remain
just that
a dream.
Unless
you step,
bravely
and surely,
to where
we’re waiting.
Out there.
By: Rev David Conolly
So big, that sea
out there.
So big.
Stopped in your tracks,
silence claims you.
What is it, child of Mary?
Could it be that, in your
sunny spirit of
adventure,
you sense
the sudden passing
of a shadow?
But the dream
of a world
of peace,
healed by love,
could remain
just that
a dream.
Unless
you step,
bravely
and surely,
to where
we’re waiting.
Out there.
The Jumblies
By: Edward Lear
They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they went to sea:
In spite of all their friends could say,
On a winter’s morn, on a stormy day,
In a Sieve they went to sea!
And when the Sieve turned round and round,
And every one cried, ‘You’ll all be drowned!’
They called aloud, ‘Our Sieve ain’t big,
But we don’t care a button! we don’t care a fig!
In a Sieve we’ll go to sea!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
II
They sailed away in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they sailed so fast,
With only a beautiful pea-green veil
Tied with a riband by way of a sail,
To a small tobacco-pipe mast;
And every one said, who saw them go,
‘O won’t they be soon upset, you know!
For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,
And happen what may, it’s extremely wrong
In a Sieve to sail so fast!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
III
The water it soon came in, it did,
The water it soon came in;
So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
In a pinky paper all folded neat,
And they fastened it down with a pin.
And they passed the night in a crockery-jar,
And each of them said, ‘How wise we are!
Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,
Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,
While round in our Sieve we spin!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
IV
And all night long they sailed away;
And when the sun went down,
They whistled and warbled a moony song
To the echoing sound of a coppery gong,
In the shade of the mountains brown.
‘O Timballo! How happy we are,
When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar,
And all night long in the moonlight pale,
We sail away with a pea-green sail,
In the shade of the mountains brown!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
V
They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,
To a land all covered with trees,
And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart,
And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart,
And a hive of silvery Bees.
And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-daws,
And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws,
And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree,
And no end of Stilton Cheese.
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
VI
And in twenty years they all came back,
In twenty years or more,
And every one said, ‘How tall they’ve grown!’
For they’ve been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,
And the hills of the Chankly Bore;
And they drank their health, and gave them a feast
Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;
And everyone said, ‘If we only live,
We too will go to sea in a Sieve,—
To the hills of the Chankly Bore!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Lear
By: Edward Lear
They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they went to sea:
In spite of all their friends could say,
On a winter’s morn, on a stormy day,
In a Sieve they went to sea!
And when the Sieve turned round and round,
And every one cried, ‘You’ll all be drowned!’
They called aloud, ‘Our Sieve ain’t big,
But we don’t care a button! we don’t care a fig!
In a Sieve we’ll go to sea!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
II
They sailed away in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they sailed so fast,
With only a beautiful pea-green veil
Tied with a riband by way of a sail,
To a small tobacco-pipe mast;
And every one said, who saw them go,
‘O won’t they be soon upset, you know!
For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,
And happen what may, it’s extremely wrong
In a Sieve to sail so fast!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
III
The water it soon came in, it did,
The water it soon came in;
So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
In a pinky paper all folded neat,
And they fastened it down with a pin.
And they passed the night in a crockery-jar,
And each of them said, ‘How wise we are!
Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,
Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,
While round in our Sieve we spin!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
IV
And all night long they sailed away;
And when the sun went down,
They whistled and warbled a moony song
To the echoing sound of a coppery gong,
In the shade of the mountains brown.
‘O Timballo! How happy we are,
When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar,
And all night long in the moonlight pale,
We sail away with a pea-green sail,
In the shade of the mountains brown!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
V
They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,
To a land all covered with trees,
And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart,
And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart,
And a hive of silvery Bees.
And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-daws,
And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws,
And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree,
And no end of Stilton Cheese.
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
VI
And in twenty years they all came back,
In twenty years or more,
And every one said, ‘How tall they’ve grown!’
For they’ve been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,
And the hills of the Chankly Bore;
And they drank their health, and gave them a feast
Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;
And everyone said, ‘If we only live,
We too will go to sea in a Sieve,—
To the hills of the Chankly Bore!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Lear
April Midnight
By: Arthur Symons
Side by side through the streets at midnight,
Roaming together,
Through the tumultuous night of London,
In the miraculous April weather.
Roaming together under the gaslight,
Day’s work over,
How the Spring calls to us, here in the city,
Calls to the heart from the heart of a lover!
Cool to the wind blows, fresh in our faces,
Cleansing, entrancing,
After the heat and the fumes and the footlights,
Where you dance and I watch your dancing.
Good it is to be here together,
Good to be roaming,
Even in London, even at midnight,
Lover-like in a lover’s gloaming.
You the dancer and I the dreamer,
Children together,
Wandering lost in the night of London,
In the miraculous April weather.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Symons
By: Arthur Symons
Side by side through the streets at midnight,
Roaming together,
Through the tumultuous night of London,
In the miraculous April weather.
Roaming together under the gaslight,
Day’s work over,
How the Spring calls to us, here in the city,
Calls to the heart from the heart of a lover!
Cool to the wind blows, fresh in our faces,
Cleansing, entrancing,
After the heat and the fumes and the footlights,
Where you dance and I watch your dancing.
Good it is to be here together,
Good to be roaming,
Even in London, even at midnight,
Lover-like in a lover’s gloaming.
You the dancer and I the dreamer,
Children together,
Wandering lost in the night of London,
In the miraculous April weather.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Symons
LXXXIII
By: Emily Dickinson
JUST lost when I was saved!
Just felt the world go by!
Just girt me for the onset with eternity,
When breath blew back,
And on the other side
I heard recede the disappointed tide!
Therefore, as one returned, I feel,
Odd secrets of the line to tell!
Some sailor, skirting foreign shores,
Some pale reporter from the awful doors
Before the seal!
Next time, to stay!
Next time, the things to see
By ear unheard,
Unscrutinized by eye.
Next time, to tarry,
While the ages steal,—
Slow tramp the centuries,
And the cycles wheel.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson
By: Emily Dickinson
JUST lost when I was saved!
Just felt the world go by!
Just girt me for the onset with eternity,
When breath blew back,
And on the other side
I heard recede the disappointed tide!
Therefore, as one returned, I feel,
Odd secrets of the line to tell!
Some sailor, skirting foreign shores,
Some pale reporter from the awful doors
Before the seal!
Next time, to stay!
Next time, the things to see
By ear unheard,
Unscrutinized by eye.
Next time, to tarry,
While the ages steal,—
Slow tramp the centuries,
And the cycles wheel.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson
To Flush, My Dog
By: Elizabeth Barrett Browning
LOVING friend, the gift of one,
Who, her own true faith, hath run,
Through thy lower nature ;
Be my benediction said
With my hand upon thy head,
Gentle fellow-creature !
Like a lady's ringlets brown,
Flow thy silken ears adown
Either side demurely,
Of thy silver-suited breast
Shining out from all the rest
Of thy body purely.
Darkly brown thy body is,
Till the sunshine, striking this,
Alchemize its dulness, —
When the sleek curls manifold
Flash all over into gold,
With a burnished fulness.
Underneath my stroking hand,
Startled eyes of hazel bland
Kindling, growing larger, —
Up thou leapest with a spring,
Full of prank and curvetting,
Leaping like a charger.
Leap ! thy broad tail waves a light ;
Leap ! thy slender feet are bright,
Canopied in fringes.
Leap — those tasselled ears of thine
Flicker strangely, fair and fine,
Down their golden inches
Yet, my pretty sportive friend,
Little is 't to such an end
That I praise thy rareness !
Other dogs may be thy peers
Haply in these drooping ears,
And this glossy fairness.
But of thee it shall be said,
This dog watched beside a bed
Day and night unweary, —
Watched within a curtained room,
Where no sunbeam brake the gloom
Round the sick and dreary.
Roses, gathered for a vase,
In that chamber died apace,
Beam and breeze resigning —
This dog only, waited on,
Knowing that when light is gone,
Love remains for shining.
Other dogs in thymy dew
Tracked the hares and followed through
Sunny moor or meadow —
This dog only, crept and crept
Next a languid cheek that slept,
Sharing in the shadow.
Other dogs of loyal cheer
Bounded at the whistle clear,
Up the woodside hieing —
This dog only, watched in reach
Of a faintly uttered speech,
Or a louder sighing.
And if one or two quick tears
Dropped upon his glossy ears,
Or a sigh came double, —
Up he sprang in eager haste,
Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,
In a tender trouble.
And this dog was satisfied,
If a pale thin hand would glide,
Down his dewlaps sloping, —
Which he pushed his nose within,
After, — platforming his chin
On the palm left open.
This dog, if a friendly voice
Call him now to blyther choice
Than such chamber-keeping,
Come out ! ' praying from the door, —
Presseth backward as before,
Up against me leaping.
Therefore to this dog will I,
Tenderly not scornfully,
Render praise and favour !
With my hand upon his head,
Is my benediction said
Therefore, and for ever.
And because he loves me so,
Better than his kind will do
Often, man or woman,
Give I back more love again
Than dogs often take of men, —
Leaning from my Human.
Blessings on thee, dog of mine,
Pretty collars make thee fine,
Sugared milk make fat thee !
Pleasures wag on in thy tail —
Hands of gentle motion fail
Nevermore, to pat thee !
Downy pillow take thy head,
Silken coverlid bestead,
Sunshine help thy sleeping !
No fly 's buzzing wake thee up —
No man break thy purple cup,
Set for drinking deep in.
Whiskered cats arointed flee —
Sturdy stoppers keep from thee
Cologne distillations ;
Nuts lie in thy path for stones,
And thy feast-day macaroons
Turn to daily rations !
Mock I thee, in wishing weal ? —
Tears are in my eyes to feel
Thou art made so straightly,
Blessing needs must straighten too, —
Little canst thou joy or do,
Thou who lovest greatly.
Yet be blessed to the height
Of all good and all delight
Pervious to thy nature, —
Only loved beyond that line,
With a love that answers thine,
Loving fellow-creature !
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_Barrett_Browning
By: Elizabeth Barrett Browning
LOVING friend, the gift of one,
Who, her own true faith, hath run,
Through thy lower nature ;
Be my benediction said
With my hand upon thy head,
Gentle fellow-creature !
Like a lady's ringlets brown,
Flow thy silken ears adown
Either side demurely,
Of thy silver-suited breast
Shining out from all the rest
Of thy body purely.
Darkly brown thy body is,
Till the sunshine, striking this,
Alchemize its dulness, —
When the sleek curls manifold
Flash all over into gold,
With a burnished fulness.
Underneath my stroking hand,
Startled eyes of hazel bland
Kindling, growing larger, —
Up thou leapest with a spring,
Full of prank and curvetting,
Leaping like a charger.
Leap ! thy broad tail waves a light ;
Leap ! thy slender feet are bright,
Canopied in fringes.
Leap — those tasselled ears of thine
Flicker strangely, fair and fine,
Down their golden inches
Yet, my pretty sportive friend,
Little is 't to such an end
That I praise thy rareness !
Other dogs may be thy peers
Haply in these drooping ears,
And this glossy fairness.
But of thee it shall be said,
This dog watched beside a bed
Day and night unweary, —
Watched within a curtained room,
Where no sunbeam brake the gloom
Round the sick and dreary.
Roses, gathered for a vase,
In that chamber died apace,
Beam and breeze resigning —
This dog only, waited on,
Knowing that when light is gone,
Love remains for shining.
Other dogs in thymy dew
Tracked the hares and followed through
Sunny moor or meadow —
This dog only, crept and crept
Next a languid cheek that slept,
Sharing in the shadow.
Other dogs of loyal cheer
Bounded at the whistle clear,
Up the woodside hieing —
This dog only, watched in reach
Of a faintly uttered speech,
Or a louder sighing.
And if one or two quick tears
Dropped upon his glossy ears,
Or a sigh came double, —
Up he sprang in eager haste,
Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,
In a tender trouble.
And this dog was satisfied,
If a pale thin hand would glide,
Down his dewlaps sloping, —
Which he pushed his nose within,
After, — platforming his chin
On the palm left open.
This dog, if a friendly voice
Call him now to blyther choice
Than such chamber-keeping,
Come out ! ' praying from the door, —
Presseth backward as before,
Up against me leaping.
Therefore to this dog will I,
Tenderly not scornfully,
Render praise and favour !
With my hand upon his head,
Is my benediction said
Therefore, and for ever.
And because he loves me so,
Better than his kind will do
Often, man or woman,
Give I back more love again
Than dogs often take of men, —
Leaning from my Human.
Blessings on thee, dog of mine,
Pretty collars make thee fine,
Sugared milk make fat thee !
Pleasures wag on in thy tail —
Hands of gentle motion fail
Nevermore, to pat thee !
Downy pillow take thy head,
Silken coverlid bestead,
Sunshine help thy sleeping !
No fly 's buzzing wake thee up —
No man break thy purple cup,
Set for drinking deep in.
Whiskered cats arointed flee —
Sturdy stoppers keep from thee
Cologne distillations ;
Nuts lie in thy path for stones,
And thy feast-day macaroons
Turn to daily rations !
Mock I thee, in wishing weal ? —
Tears are in my eyes to feel
Thou art made so straightly,
Blessing needs must straighten too, —
Little canst thou joy or do,
Thou who lovest greatly.
Yet be blessed to the height
Of all good and all delight
Pervious to thy nature, —
Only loved beyond that line,
With a love that answers thine,
Loving fellow-creature !
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_Barrett_Browning
From: Lines Written in Kensington Gardens
By: Matthew Arnold
In this lone, open glade I lie,
Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand;
And at its end, to stay the eye,
Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees stand!
Birds here make song, each bird has his,
Across the girdling city's hum.
How green under the boughs it is!
How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come!
Sometimes a child will cross the glade
To take his nurse his broken toy;
Sometimes a thrush flit overhead
Deep in her unknown day's employ.
Here at my feet what wonders pass,
What endless, active life is here!
What blowing daisies, fragrant grass!
An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Matthew_Arnold
By: Matthew Arnold
In this lone, open glade I lie,
Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand;
And at its end, to stay the eye,
Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees stand!
Birds here make song, each bird has his,
Across the girdling city's hum.
How green under the boughs it is!
How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come!
Sometimes a child will cross the glade
To take his nurse his broken toy;
Sometimes a thrush flit overhead
Deep in her unknown day's employ.
Here at my feet what wonders pass,
What endless, active life is here!
What blowing daisies, fragrant grass!
An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Matthew_Arnold
Ode to Psyche
By: John Keats
O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
Even into thine own soft-conched ear:
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see
The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?
I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,
And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side
In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
A brooklet, scarce espied:
Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
They lay calm-breathing, on the bedded grass;
Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;
Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu,
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:
The winged boy I knew;
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
His Psyche true!
O latest born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star,
Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
Nor altar heap'd with flowers;
Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan
Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
From chain-swung censer teeming;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
O brightest! though too late for antique vows,
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
Yet even in these days so far retir'd
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir'd.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swinged censer teeming;
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees
Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
To let the warm Love in!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Keats
From The Lotos-eaters
By: Alfred, Lord Tennyson
"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 whoso 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.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred,_Lord_Tennyson
By: Alfred, Lord Tennyson
"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 whoso 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.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred,_Lord_Tennyson
From: The Book of Thel
By: William Blake
THEL'S MOTTO
Does the Eagle know what is in the pit?
Or wilt thou go ask the Mole:
Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod?
Or Love in a golden bowl?
I
The daughters of Mne Seraphim led round their sunny flocks.
All but the youngest; she in paleness sought the secret air.
To fade away like morning beauty from her mortal day:
Down by the river of Adona her soft voice is heard:
And thus her gentle lamentation falls like morning dew.
O life of this our spring! why fades the lotus of the water?
Why fade these children of the spring? born but to smile & fall.
Ah! Thel is like a watry bow. and like a parting cloud.
Like a reflection in a glass. like shadows in the water.
Like dreams of infants. like a smile upon an infants face,
Like the doves voice, like transient day, like music in the air;
Ah! gentle may I lay me down, and gentle rest my head,
And gentle sleep the sleep of death. and gentle hear the voice
Of him that walketh in the garden in the evening time.
The Lilly of the valley breathing in the humble grass
Answer'd the lovely maid and said: I am a watry weed,
And I am very small, and love to dwell in lowly vales;
So weak, the gilded butterfly scarce perches on my head.
Yet I am visited from heaven and he that smiles on all.
Walks in the valley. and each morn over me spreads his hand
Saying, rejoice thou humble grass, thou new-born lilly flower,
Thou gentle maid of silent valleys. and of modest brooks;
For thou shalt be clothed in light, and fed with morning manna:
Till summers heat melts thee beside the fountains and the springs
To flourish in eternal vales: then why should Thel complain,
Why should the mistress of the vales of Har, utter a sigh.
She ceasd & smild in tears, then sat down in her silver shrine.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Blake
By: William Blake
THEL'S MOTTO
Does the Eagle know what is in the pit?
Or wilt thou go ask the Mole:
Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod?
Or Love in a golden bowl?
I
The daughters of Mne Seraphim led round their sunny flocks.
All but the youngest; she in paleness sought the secret air.
To fade away like morning beauty from her mortal day:
Down by the river of Adona her soft voice is heard:
And thus her gentle lamentation falls like morning dew.
O life of this our spring! why fades the lotus of the water?
Why fade these children of the spring? born but to smile & fall.
Ah! Thel is like a watry bow. and like a parting cloud.
Like a reflection in a glass. like shadows in the water.
Like dreams of infants. like a smile upon an infants face,
Like the doves voice, like transient day, like music in the air;
Ah! gentle may I lay me down, and gentle rest my head,
And gentle sleep the sleep of death. and gentle hear the voice
Of him that walketh in the garden in the evening time.
The Lilly of the valley breathing in the humble grass
Answer'd the lovely maid and said: I am a watry weed,
And I am very small, and love to dwell in lowly vales;
So weak, the gilded butterfly scarce perches on my head.
Yet I am visited from heaven and he that smiles on all.
Walks in the valley. and each morn over me spreads his hand
Saying, rejoice thou humble grass, thou new-born lilly flower,
Thou gentle maid of silent valleys. and of modest brooks;
For thou shalt be clothed in light, and fed with morning manna:
Till summers heat melts thee beside the fountains and the springs
To flourish in eternal vales: then why should Thel complain,
Why should the mistress of the vales of Har, utter a sigh.
She ceasd & smild in tears, then sat down in her silver shrine.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Blake
Fairy-Land
BY:EDGAR ALLAN POE
Dim vales—and shadowy floods—
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can’t discover
For the tears that drip all over:
Huge moons there wax and wane—
Again—again—again—
Every moment of the night—
Forever changing places—
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial,
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down—still down—and down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain’s eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be—
O’er the strange woods—o’er the sea—
Over spirits on the wing—
Over every drowsy thing—
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light—
And then, how, deep! —O, deep,
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like—almost any thing—
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before,
Videlicet, a tent—
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.
EDGAR ALLAN POE
BY:EDGAR ALLAN POE
Dim vales—and shadowy floods—
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can’t discover
For the tears that drip all over:
Huge moons there wax and wane—
Again—again—again—
Every moment of the night—
Forever changing places—
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial,
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down—still down—and down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain’s eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be—
O’er the strange woods—o’er the sea—
Over spirits on the wing—
Over every drowsy thing—
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light—
And then, how, deep! —O, deep,
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like—almost any thing—
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before,
Videlicet, a tent—
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again
(Never-contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.
EDGAR ALLAN POE
From: Mont Blanc
By: Percy Bysshe Shelley
LINES WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI
The everlasting universe of things
Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves,
Now dark—now glittering—now reflecting gloom—
Now lending splendour, where from secret springs
The source of human thought its tribute brings
Of waters,—with a sound but half its own,
Such as a feeble brook will oft assume
In the wild woods, among the mountains lone,
Where waterfalls around it leap for ever,
Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river
Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Percy_Bysshe_Shelley
By: Percy Bysshe Shelley
LINES WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI
The everlasting universe of things
Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves,
Now dark—now glittering—now reflecting gloom—
Now lending splendour, where from secret springs
The source of human thought its tribute brings
Of waters,—with a sound but half its own,
Such as a feeble brook will oft assume
In the wild woods, among the mountains lone,
Where waterfalls around it leap for ever,
Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river
Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Percy_Bysshe_Shelley
The
Ruin
By: Walter de la Mare
When the last colours of the day
Have from their burning ebbed away,
About that ruin, cold and lone,
The cricket shrills from stone to stone;
And scattering o'er its darkened green,
Bands of the fairies may be seen,
Chattering like grasshoppers, their feet
Dancing a thistledown dance round it:
While the great gold of the mild moon
Tinges their tiny acorn shoon.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walter_de_la_Mare
By: Walter de la Mare
When the last colours of the day
Have from their burning ebbed away,
About that ruin, cold and lone,
The cricket shrills from stone to stone;
And scattering o'er its darkened green,
Bands of the fairies may be seen,
Chattering like grasshoppers, their feet
Dancing a thistledown dance round it:
While the great gold of the mild moon
Tinges their tiny acorn shoon.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walter_de_la_Mare
The Brook
By: Lord Alfred Tennyson
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorpes, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred,_Lord_Tennyson
By: Lord Alfred Tennyson
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorpes, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred,_Lord_Tennyson
To My Friends
By: Henry Lawson
From: Skyline Riders.
These are the songs of the Friends I neglected -
And the Foes too, in part;
These are songs that were mostly rejected -
And songs from my heart.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Lawson - circa 1910
By: Henry Lawson
From: Skyline Riders.
These are the songs of the Friends I neglected -
And the Foes too, in part;
These are songs that were mostly rejected -
And songs from my heart.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Lawson - circa 1910
'From Cocoon forth a Butterfly'
By: Emily Dickinson :
From Cocoon forth a Butterfly
As Lady from her Door
Emerged—a Summer Afternoon—
Repairing Everywhere—
Without Design—that I could trace
Except to stray abroad
On Miscellaneous Enterprise
The Clovers—understood—
Her pretty Parasol be seen
Contracting in a Field
Where Men made Hay—
Then struggling hard
With an opposing Cloud—
Where Parties—Phantom as Herself—
To Nowhere—seemed to go
In purposeless Circumference—
As 'twere a Tropic Show—
And notwithstanding Bee—that worked—
And Flower—that zealous blew—
This Audience of Idleness
Disdained them, from the Sky—
Till Sundown crept—a steady Tide—
And Men that made the Hay—
And Afternoon—and Butterfly—
Extinguished—in the Sea—
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson
By: Emily Dickinson :
From Cocoon forth a Butterfly
As Lady from her Door
Emerged—a Summer Afternoon—
Repairing Everywhere—
Without Design—that I could trace
Except to stray abroad
On Miscellaneous Enterprise
The Clovers—understood—
Her pretty Parasol be seen
Contracting in a Field
Where Men made Hay—
Then struggling hard
With an opposing Cloud—
Where Parties—Phantom as Herself—
To Nowhere—seemed to go
In purposeless Circumference—
As 'twere a Tropic Show—
And notwithstanding Bee—that worked—
And Flower—that zealous blew—
This Audience of Idleness
Disdained them, from the Sky—
Till Sundown crept—a steady Tide—
And Men that made the Hay—
And Afternoon—and Butterfly—
Extinguished—in the Sea—
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson
From: The Hunting of the Snark
By: Lewis Carroll
Fit the Sixth
The Barrister's Dream
They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.
But the Barrister, weary of proving in vain
That the Beaver's lace-making was wrong,
Fell asleep, and in dreams saw the creature quite plain
That his fancy had dwelt on so long.
He dreamed that he stood in a shadowy Court,
Where the Snark, with a glass in its eye,
Dressed in gown, bands, and wig, was defending a pig
On the charge of deserting its sty.
The Witnesses proved, without error or flaw,
That the sty was deserted when found:
And the Judge kept explaining the state of the law
In a soft under-current of sound.
The indictment had never been clearly expressed,
And it seemed that the Snark had begun,
And had spoken three hours, before any one guessed
What the pig was supposed to have done.
The Jury had each formed a different view
(Long before the indictment was read),
And they all spoke at once, so that none of them knew
One word that the others had said.
"You must know—" said the Judge: but the Snark exclaimed "Fudge!"
That statute is obsolete quite!
Let me tell you, my friends, the whole question depends
On an ancient manorial right.
"In the matter of Treason the pig would appear
To have aided, but scarcely abetted:
While the charge of Insolvency fails, it is clear,
If you grant the plea 'never indebted.'
"The fact of Desertion I will not dispute;
But its guilt, as I trust, is removed
(So far as relates to the costs of this suit)
By the Alibi which has been proved.
"My poor client's fate now depends on your votes."
Here the speaker sat down in his place,
And directed the Judge to refer to his notes
And briefly to sum up the case.
But the Judge said he never had summed up before;
So the Snark undertook it instead,
And summed it so well that it came to far more
Than the Witnesses ever had said!
When the verdict was called for, the Jury declined,
As the word was so puzzling to spell;
But they ventured to hope that the Snark wouldn't mind
Undertaking that duty as well.
So the Snark found the verdict, although, as it owned,
It was spent with the toils of the day:
When it said the word "GUILTY!" the Jury all groaned,
And some of them fainted away.
Then the Snark pronounced sentence, the Judge being quite
Too nervous to utter a word:
When it rose to its feet, there was silence like night,
And the fall of a pin might be heard.
"Transportation for life" was the sentence it gave,
"And then to be fined forty pound."
The Jury all cheered, though the Judge said he feared
That the phrase was not legally sound.
But their wild exultation was suddenly checked
When the jailer informed them, with tears,
Such a sentence would have not the slightest effect,
As the pig had been dead for some years.
The Judge left the Court, looking deeply disgusted:
But the Snark, though a little aghast,
As the lawyer to whom the defence was intrusted,
Went bellowing on to the last.
Thus the Barrister dreamed, while the bellowing seemed
To grow every moment more clear:
Till he woke to the knell of a furious bell,
Which the Bellman rang close at his ear.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lewis_Carroll
On the
Hill-Side
By: Radclyffe Hall
A Memory
You lay so still in the sunshine,
So still in that hot sweet hour—
That the timid things of the forest land
Came close; a butterfly lit on your hand,
Mistaking it for a flower.
You scarcely breathed in your slumber,
So dreamless it was, so deep—
While the warm air stirred in my veins like wine,
The air that had blown through a jasmine vine,
But you slept—and I let you sleep.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Radclyffe_Hall
By: Radclyffe Hall
A Memory
You lay so still in the sunshine,
So still in that hot sweet hour—
That the timid things of the forest land
Came close; a butterfly lit on your hand,
Mistaking it for a flower.
You scarcely breathed in your slumber,
So dreamless it was, so deep—
While the warm air stirred in my veins like wine,
The air that had blown through a jasmine vine,
But you slept—and I let you sleep.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Radclyffe_Hall
The Night Is Still
By: Edith Matilda Thomas
The night is still, the moon looks kind,
The dew hangs jewels in the heath,
An ivy climbs across thy blind,
And throws a light and misty wreath.
The dew hangs jewels in the heath,
Buds bloom for which the bee has pined;
I haste along, I quicker breathe,
The night is still, the moon looks kind.
Buds bloom for which the bee has pined,
The primrose slips its jealous sheath,
As up the flower-watched path I wind
And come thy window-ledge beneath.
The primrose slips its jealous sheath,—
Then open wide that churlish blind,
And kiss me through the ivy wreath!
The night is still, the moon looks kind.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edith_M._Thomas
By: Edith Matilda Thomas
The night is still, the moon looks kind,
The dew hangs jewels in the heath,
An ivy climbs across thy blind,
And throws a light and misty wreath.
The dew hangs jewels in the heath,
Buds bloom for which the bee has pined;
I haste along, I quicker breathe,
The night is still, the moon looks kind.
Buds bloom for which the bee has pined,
The primrose slips its jealous sheath,
As up the flower-watched path I wind
And come thy window-ledge beneath.
The primrose slips its jealous sheath,—
Then open wide that churlish blind,
And kiss me through the ivy wreath!
The night is still, the moon looks kind.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edith_M._Thomas
Down By the Carib Sea (VI: Sunset in the Tropics)
By: James Weldon Johnson
A silver flash from the sinking sun,
Then a shot of crimson across the sky
That, bursting, lets a thousand colors fly
And riot among the clouds; they run,
Deepening in purple, flaming in gold,
Changing, and opening fold after fold,
Then fading through all of the tints of the rose into gray.
Till, taking quick fright at the coming night,
They rush out down the west,
In hurried quest
Of the fleeing day.
Now above where the tardiest color flares a moment yet,
One point of light, now two, now three are set
To form the starry stairs,—
And, in her firefly crown,
Queen Night, on velvet slippered feet, comes softly down.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Weldon_Johnson
By: James Weldon Johnson
A silver flash from the sinking sun,
Then a shot of crimson across the sky
That, bursting, lets a thousand colors fly
And riot among the clouds; they run,
Deepening in purple, flaming in gold,
Changing, and opening fold after fold,
Then fading through all of the tints of the rose into gray.
Till, taking quick fright at the coming night,
They rush out down the west,
In hurried quest
Of the fleeing day.
Now above where the tardiest color flares a moment yet,
One point of light, now two, now three are set
To form the starry stairs,—
And, in her firefly crown,
Queen Night, on velvet slippered feet, comes softly down.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Weldon_Johnson
A Spring Morning
By: John Clare
The Spring comes in with all her hues and smells,
In freshness breathing over hills and dells;
O’er woods where May her gorgeous drapery flings,
And meads washed fragrant by their laughing springs.
Fresh are new opened flowers, untouched and free
From the bold rifling of the amorous bee.
The happy time of singing birds is come,
And Love’s lone pilgrimage now finds a home;
Among the mossy oaks now coos the dove,
And the hoarse crow finds softer notes for love.
The foxes play around their dens, and bark
In joy’s excess, ’mid woodland shadows dark.
The flowers join lips below; the leaves above;
And every sound that meets the ear is Love.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Clare
By: John Clare
The Spring comes in with all her hues and smells,
In freshness breathing over hills and dells;
O’er woods where May her gorgeous drapery flings,
And meads washed fragrant by their laughing springs.
Fresh are new opened flowers, untouched and free
From the bold rifling of the amorous bee.
The happy time of singing birds is come,
And Love’s lone pilgrimage now finds a home;
Among the mossy oaks now coos the dove,
And the hoarse crow finds softer notes for love.
The foxes play around their dens, and bark
In joy’s excess, ’mid woodland shadows dark.
The flowers join lips below; the leaves above;
And every sound that meets the ear is Love.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Clare
The Gardener 85
By: Rabindranath Tagore
Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence?
I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds.
Open your doors and look abroad.
From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the vanished flowers of an hundred years before.
In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang one spring morning, sending its glad voice across an hundred years.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rabindranath_Tagore
By: Rabindranath Tagore
Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence?
I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds.
Open your doors and look abroad.
From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the vanished flowers of an hundred years before.
In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang one spring morning, sending its glad voice across an hundred years.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rabindranath_Tagore
It was a hard thing to undo this knot
By: Gerard Manley Hopkins
It was a hard thing to undo this knot.
The rainbow shines, but only in the thought
Of him that looks. Yet not in that alone,
For who makes rainbows by invention?
And many standing round a waterfall
See one bow each, yet not the same to all,
But each a hand's breadth further than the next.
The sun on falling waters writes the text
Which yet is in the eye or in the thought.
It was a hard thing to undo this knot.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gerard_Manley_Hopkins
By: Gerard Manley Hopkins
It was a hard thing to undo this knot.
The rainbow shines, but only in the thought
Of him that looks. Yet not in that alone,
For who makes rainbows by invention?
And many standing round a waterfall
See one bow each, yet not the same to all,
But each a hand's breadth further than the next.
The sun on falling waters writes the text
Which yet is in the eye or in the thought.
It was a hard thing to undo this knot.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gerard_Manley_Hopkins
A Winter Scene
By: Henry David Thoreau
The rabbit leaps,
The mouse out-creeps,
The flag out-peeps
Beside the brook;
The ferret weeps,
The marmot sleeps,
The owlet keeps
In his snug nook.
The apples thaw,
The ravens caw,
The squirrels gnaw
The frozen fruit.
To their retreat
I track the feet
Of mice that eat
The apple's root.
The snow-dust falls,
The otter crawls,
The partridge calls,
Far in the wood.
The traveller dreams,
The tree-ice gleams,
The blue-jay screams
In angry mood.
The willows droop,
The alders stoop,
The pheasants group
Beneath the snow.
The catkins green
Cast o'er the scene
A summer's sheen,
A genial glow.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_David_Thoreau
By: Henry David Thoreau
The rabbit leaps,
The mouse out-creeps,
The flag out-peeps
Beside the brook;
The ferret weeps,
The marmot sleeps,
The owlet keeps
In his snug nook.
The apples thaw,
The ravens caw,
The squirrels gnaw
The frozen fruit.
To their retreat
I track the feet
Of mice that eat
The apple's root.
The snow-dust falls,
The otter crawls,
The partridge calls,
Far in the wood.
The traveller dreams,
The tree-ice gleams,
The blue-jay screams
In angry mood.
The willows droop,
The alders stoop,
The pheasants group
Beneath the snow.
The catkins green
Cast o'er the scene
A summer's sheen,
A genial glow.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_David_Thoreau
Places [III. Winter Sun]
By: Sara Teasdale - 1884-1933
(Lenox)
There was a bush with scarlet berries,
And there were hemlocks heaped with snow,
With a sound like surf on long sea-beaches
They took the wind and let it go.
The hills were shining in their samite,
Fold after fold they flowed away;
"Let come what may," your eyes were saying,
"At least we two have had to-day."
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Teasdale
By: Sara Teasdale - 1884-1933
(Lenox)
There was a bush with scarlet berries,
And there were hemlocks heaped with snow,
With a sound like surf on long sea-beaches
They took the wind and let it go.
The hills were shining in their samite,
Fold after fold they flowed away;
"Let come what may," your eyes were saying,
"At least we two have had to-day."
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Teasdale
In the Past
By: Trumbull Stickney
There lies a somnolent lake
Under a noiseless sky,
Where never the mornings break
Nor the evenings die.
Mad flakes of colour
Whirl on its even face
Iridescent and streaked with pallour;
And, warding the silent place,
The rocks rise sheer and gray
From the sedgeless brink to the sky
Dull-lit with the light of pale half-day
Thro’ a void space and dry.
And the hours lag dead in the air
With a sense of coming eternity
To the heart of the lonely boatman there:
That boatman am I,
I, in my lonely boat,
A waif on the somnolent lake,
Watching the colours creep and float
With the sinuous track of a snake.
Now I lean o’er the side
And lazy shades in the water see,
Lapped in the sweep of a sluggish tide
Crawled in from the living sea;
And next I fix mine eyes,
So long that the heart declines,
On the changeless face of the open skies
Where no star shines;
And now to the rocks I turn,
To the rocks, around
That lie like walls of a circling sun
Wherein lie bound
The waters that feel my powerless strength
And meet my homeless oar
Labouring over their ashen length
Never to find a shore.
But the gleam still skims
At times on the somnolent lake,
And a light there is that swims
With the whirl of a snake;
And tho’ dead be the hours i’ the air,
And dayless the sky,
The heart is alive of the boatman there:
That boatman am I.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trumbull_Stickney
‘The Opal Sea’
By: Ella Higginson
An inland sea – blue as a sapphire – set
Within a sparkling, emerald mountain chain
Where day and night fir-needles sift like rain
Thro’ the voluptuous air. The soft winds fret
The waves, and beat them wantonly to foam.
The golden distances across the sea
Are shot with rose and purple. Languorously
The silver seabirds in wide circles roam.
The sun drops slowly down the flaming West
And flings its rays across to set aglow
The islands rocking on the cool waves’ crest
And the great glistening domes of snow on snow.
And thro’ the mist the Olympics flash and float
Like opals linked around a beating throat.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ella_Rhoads_Higginson
By: Ella Higginson
An inland sea – blue as a sapphire – set
Within a sparkling, emerald mountain chain
Where day and night fir-needles sift like rain
Thro’ the voluptuous air. The soft winds fret
The waves, and beat them wantonly to foam.
The golden distances across the sea
Are shot with rose and purple. Languorously
The silver seabirds in wide circles roam.
The sun drops slowly down the flaming West
And flings its rays across to set aglow
The islands rocking on the cool waves’ crest
And the great glistening domes of snow on snow.
And thro’ the mist the Olympics flash and float
Like opals linked around a beating throat.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ella_Rhoads_Higginson
The Snow-Storm
By: Ralph Waldo Emerson
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ralph_Waldo_Emerson
By: Ralph Waldo Emerson
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ralph_Waldo_Emerson
From 'A Pastoral'
By: George Essex Evans
Nature feels the touch of noon;
Not a rustle stirs the grass;
Not a shadow flecks the sky,
Save the brown hawk hovering nigh;
Not a ripple dims the glass
Of the wide lagoon.
Darkly, like an armed host
Seen afar against the blue,
Rise the hills, and yellow-grey
Sleeps the plain in cove and bay,
Like a shining sea that dreams
Round a silent coast.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Essex_Evans
By: George Essex Evans
Nature feels the touch of noon;
Not a rustle stirs the grass;
Not a shadow flecks the sky,
Save the brown hawk hovering nigh;
Not a ripple dims the glass
Of the wide lagoon.
Darkly, like an armed host
Seen afar against the blue,
Rise the hills, and yellow-grey
Sleeps the plain in cove and bay,
Like a shining sea that dreams
Round a silent coast.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Essex_Evans
To a Locomotive in
Winter
By: Walt Whitman
Thee for my recitative,
Thee in the driving storm even as now, the snow, the winter-day declining,
Thee in thy panoply, thy measur'd dual throbbing and thy beat convulsive,
Thy black cylindric body, golden brass, and silvery steel,
Thy ponderous side-bars, parallel and connecting rods, gyrating, shuttling at thy sides,
Thy metrical, now swelling pant and roar, now tapering in the distance,
Thy great protruding head-light fix’d in front,
Thy long, pale, floating vapor-pennants, tinged with delicate purple,
The dense and murky clouds out-belching from thy smoke-stack,
Thy knitted frame, thy springs and valves, the tremulous twinkle of thy wheels,
Thy train of cars behind, obedient, merrily following,
Through gale or calm, now swift, now slack, yet steadily careering;
Type of the modern—emblem of motion and power—pulse of the continent,
For once come serve the Muse and merge in verse, even as here I see thee,
With storm and buffeting gusts of wind and falling snow,
By day thy warning ringing bell to sound its notes,
By night thy silent signal lamps to swing.
Fierce-throated beauty!
Roll through my chant with all thy lawless music, thy swinging lamps at night,
Thy madly-whistled laughter, echoing, rumbling like an earthquake, rousing all,
Law of thyself complete, thine own track firmly holding,
(No sweetness debonair of tearful harp or glib piano thine,)
Thy trills of shrieks by rocks and hills return’d,
Launch’d o’er the prairies wide, across the lakes,
To the free skies unpent and glad and strong.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walt_Whitman
By: Walt Whitman
Thee for my recitative,
Thee in the driving storm even as now, the snow, the winter-day declining,
Thee in thy panoply, thy measur'd dual throbbing and thy beat convulsive,
Thy black cylindric body, golden brass, and silvery steel,
Thy ponderous side-bars, parallel and connecting rods, gyrating, shuttling at thy sides,
Thy metrical, now swelling pant and roar, now tapering in the distance,
Thy great protruding head-light fix’d in front,
Thy long, pale, floating vapor-pennants, tinged with delicate purple,
The dense and murky clouds out-belching from thy smoke-stack,
Thy knitted frame, thy springs and valves, the tremulous twinkle of thy wheels,
Thy train of cars behind, obedient, merrily following,
Through gale or calm, now swift, now slack, yet steadily careering;
Type of the modern—emblem of motion and power—pulse of the continent,
For once come serve the Muse and merge in verse, even as here I see thee,
With storm and buffeting gusts of wind and falling snow,
By day thy warning ringing bell to sound its notes,
By night thy silent signal lamps to swing.
Fierce-throated beauty!
Roll through my chant with all thy lawless music, thy swinging lamps at night,
Thy madly-whistled laughter, echoing, rumbling like an earthquake, rousing all,
Law of thyself complete, thine own track firmly holding,
(No sweetness debonair of tearful harp or glib piano thine,)
Thy trills of shrieks by rocks and hills return’d,
Launch’d o’er the prairies wide, across the lakes,
To the free skies unpent and glad and strong.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walt_Whitman
Before Quiet
By: Hazel Hall
I will think of water-lilies
Growing in a darkened pool,
And my breath shall move like water,
And my hands be limp and cool.
It shall be as though I waited
In a wooden place alone;
I will learn the peace of lilies
And will take it for my own.
If a twinge of thought, if yearning
Come like wind into this place,
I will bear it like the shadow
Of a leaf across my face.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hazel_Hall
By: Hazel Hall
I will think of water-lilies
Growing in a darkened pool,
And my breath shall move like water,
And my hands be limp and cool.
It shall be as though I waited
In a wooden place alone;
I will learn the peace of lilies
And will take it for my own.
If a twinge of thought, if yearning
Come like wind into this place,
I will bear it like the shadow
Of a leaf across my face.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hazel_Hall
The Poet
By: Yone Noguchi
Out of the deep and the dark,
A sparkling mystery, a shape,
Something perfect,
Comes like the stir of the day:
One whose breath is an odour,
Whose eyes show the road to stars,
The breeze in his face,
The glory of Heaven on his back.
He steps like a vision hung in air,
Diffusing the passion of Eternity;
His abode is the sunlight of morn,
The music of eve his speech:
In his sight,
One shall turn from the dust of the grave,
And move upward to the woodland.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yone_Noguchi
By: Yone Noguchi
Out of the deep and the dark,
A sparkling mystery, a shape,
Something perfect,
Comes like the stir of the day:
One whose breath is an odour,
Whose eyes show the road to stars,
The breeze in his face,
The glory of Heaven on his back.
He steps like a vision hung in air,
Diffusing the passion of Eternity;
His abode is the sunlight of morn,
The music of eve his speech:
In his sight,
One shall turn from the dust of the grave,
And move upward to the woodland.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yone_Noguchi
From The Tempest
By: William Shakespeare
Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
By: William Shakespeare
Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
Dream-Time
By: Ella Higginson
It is the time when crimson stars
Weary of heaven’s cold delight,
And take, like petals from a rose,
Their soft and hesitating flight
Upon the cool wings of the air
Across the purple night.
It is the time when silver sails
Go drifting down the violet sea,
And every poppy’s crimson mouth
Kisses to sleep a lovesick bee;
The fireweed waves her rosy plumes
On pasture, hill and lea.
It is the time to dream—and feel
The lanquid rocking of a boat,
The pushing ripple round the keel
Where cool, deep-hearted lilies float,
And hear thro’ wild syringas steal
Some songster’s drowsy note.
It is the time, at eve, to lie
And in a hammock faintly sway,
To watch the golds and crimsons die
Across the blue stretch of the bay;
To hear the sweet dusk tiptoe by
In the footsteps of the day.
Ella Higginson
By: Ella Higginson
It is the time when crimson stars
Weary of heaven’s cold delight,
And take, like petals from a rose,
Their soft and hesitating flight
Upon the cool wings of the air
Across the purple night.
It is the time when silver sails
Go drifting down the violet sea,
And every poppy’s crimson mouth
Kisses to sleep a lovesick bee;
The fireweed waves her rosy plumes
On pasture, hill and lea.
It is the time to dream—and feel
The lanquid rocking of a boat,
The pushing ripple round the keel
Where cool, deep-hearted lilies float,
And hear thro’ wild syringas steal
Some songster’s drowsy note.
It is the time, at eve, to lie
And in a hammock faintly sway,
To watch the golds and crimsons die
Across the blue stretch of the bay;
To hear the sweet dusk tiptoe by
In the footsteps of the day.
Ella Higginson
Why I Love Thee?
By: Sadakichi Hartmann
Why I love thee?
Ask why the seawind wanders,
Why the shore is aflush with the tide,
Why the moon through heaven meanders
Like seafaring ships that ride
On a sullen, motionless deep;
Why the seabirds are fluttering the strand
Where the waves sing themselves to sleep
And starshine lives in the curves of the sand!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sadakichi_Hartmann
By: Sadakichi Hartmann
Why I love thee?
Ask why the seawind wanders,
Why the shore is aflush with the tide,
Why the moon through heaven meanders
Like seafaring ships that ride
On a sullen, motionless deep;
Why the seabirds are fluttering the strand
Where the waves sing themselves to sleep
And starshine lives in the curves of the sand!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sadakichi_Hartmann
From: The Tempest
By: William Shakespeare, 1564 - 1616
Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:
Court’sied when you have, and kiss’d,--
The wild waves whist--
Foot it featly here and there;
And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.
Hark, hark!
Bow, wow,
The watch-dogs bark:
Bow, wow.
Hark, hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!
By: William Shakespeare, 1564 - 1616
Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:
Court’sied when you have, and kiss’d,--
The wild waves whist--
Foot it featly here and there;
And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.
Hark, hark!
Bow, wow,
The watch-dogs bark:
Bow, wow.
Hark, hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!
The Skaters
By: John Gould Fletcher, 1886 - 1950
Black swallows swooping or gliding
In a flurry of entangled loops and curves;
The skaters skim over the frozen river.
And the grinding click of their skates as they impinge upon the surface,
Is like the brushing together of thin wing-tips of silver.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Gould_Fletcher
By: John Gould Fletcher, 1886 - 1950
Black swallows swooping or gliding
In a flurry of entangled loops and curves;
The skaters skim over the frozen river.
And the grinding click of their skates as they impinge upon the surface,
Is like the brushing together of thin wing-tips of silver.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Gould_Fletcher
A Midsummer Night’s
Dream, Act II, Scene I [Over hill, over dale]
By: William Shakespeare, 1564 - 1616
A wood near Athens. A Fairy speaks.
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander every where,
Swifter than the moon’s sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green:
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dew-drops here
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits: I’ll be gone;
Our queen and all her elves come here anon.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
By: William Shakespeare, 1564 - 1616
A wood near Athens. A Fairy speaks.
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander every where,
Swifter than the moon’s sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green:
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dew-drops here
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits: I’ll be gone;
Our queen and all her elves come here anon.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
From: Baby Tortoise
By: D. H. Lawrence
You know what it is to be born alone,
Baby tortoise!
The first day to heave your feet little by little from
the shell,
Not yet awake,
And remain lapsed on earth,
Not quite alive.
A tiny, fragile, half-animate bean.
To open your tiny beak-mouth, that looks as if it would
never open
Like some iron door;
To lift the upper hawk-beak from the lower base
And reach your skinny neck
And take your first bite at some dim bit of herbage,
Alone, small insect,
Tiny bright-eye,
Slow one.
To take your first solitary bite
And move on your slow, solitary hunt.
Your bright, dark little eye,
Your eye of a dark disturbed night,
Under its slow lid, tiny baby tortoise,
So indomitable.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D._H._Lawrence
By: D. H. Lawrence
You know what it is to be born alone,
Baby tortoise!
The first day to heave your feet little by little from
the shell,
Not yet awake,
And remain lapsed on earth,
Not quite alive.
A tiny, fragile, half-animate bean.
To open your tiny beak-mouth, that looks as if it would
never open
Like some iron door;
To lift the upper hawk-beak from the lower base
And reach your skinny neck
And take your first bite at some dim bit of herbage,
Alone, small insect,
Tiny bright-eye,
Slow one.
To take your first solitary bite
And move on your slow, solitary hunt.
Your bright, dark little eye,
Your eye of a dark disturbed night,
Under its slow lid, tiny baby tortoise,
So indomitable.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D._H._Lawrence
A Winter Blue Jay
By: Sara Teasdale
Crisply the bright snow whispered,
Crunching beneath our feet;
Behind us as we walked along the parkway,
Our shadows danced,
Fantastic shapes in vivid blue.
Across the lake the skaters
Flew to and fro,
With sharp turns weaving
A frail invisible net.
In ecstasy the earth
Drank the silver sunlight;
In ecstasy the skaters
Drank the wine of speed;
In ecstasy we laughed
Drinking the wine of love.
Had not the music of our joy
Sounded its highest note?
But no,
For suddenly, with lifted eyes you said,
“Oh look!â€
There, on the black bough of a snow flecked maple,
Fearless and gay as our love,
A bluejay cocked his crest!
Oh who can tell the range of joy
Or set the bounds of beauty?
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Teasdale
By: Sara Teasdale
Crisply the bright snow whispered,
Crunching beneath our feet;
Behind us as we walked along the parkway,
Our shadows danced,
Fantastic shapes in vivid blue.
Across the lake the skaters
Flew to and fro,
With sharp turns weaving
A frail invisible net.
In ecstasy the earth
Drank the silver sunlight;
In ecstasy the skaters
Drank the wine of speed;
In ecstasy we laughed
Drinking the wine of love.
Had not the music of our joy
Sounded its highest note?
But no,
For suddenly, with lifted eyes you said,
“Oh look!â€
There, on the black bough of a snow flecked maple,
Fearless and gay as our love,
A bluejay cocked his crest!
Oh who can tell the range of joy
Or set the bounds of beauty?
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Teasdale
The Cricket
By: Edwin Markham
The twilight is the morning of his day.
While Sleep drops seaward from the fading shore,
With purpling sail and dip of silver oar,
He cheers the shadowed time with roundelay,
Until the dark east softens into gray.
Now as the noisy hours are coming—hark!
His song dies gently—it is growing dark—
His night, with its one star, is on the way!
Faintly the light breaks over the blowing oats—
Sleep, little brother, sleep: I am astir.
We worship Song, and servants are of her—
I in the bright hours, thou in shadow-time:
Lead thou the starlit night with merry notes,
And I will lead the clamoring day with rhyme.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edwin_Markham
By: Edwin Markham
The twilight is the morning of his day.
While Sleep drops seaward from the fading shore,
With purpling sail and dip of silver oar,
He cheers the shadowed time with roundelay,
Until the dark east softens into gray.
Now as the noisy hours are coming—hark!
His song dies gently—it is growing dark—
His night, with its one star, is on the way!
Faintly the light breaks over the blowing oats—
Sleep, little brother, sleep: I am astir.
We worship Song, and servants are of her—
I in the bright hours, thou in shadow-time:
Lead thou the starlit night with merry notes,
And I will lead the clamoring day with rhyme.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edwin_Markham
Upon the Mountain’s
Distant Head
By: William Cullen Bryant
Upon the mountain’s distant head,
With trackless snows for ever white,
Where all is still, and cold, and dead,
Late shines the day’s departing light.
But far below those icy rocks,
The vales, in summer bloom arrayed,
Woods full of birds, and fields of flocks,
Are dim with mist and dark with shade.
’Tis thus, from warm and kindly hearts,
And eyes where generous meanings burn,
Earliest the light of life departs,
But lingers with the cold and stern.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Cullen_Bryant
By: William Cullen Bryant
Upon the mountain’s distant head,
With trackless snows for ever white,
Where all is still, and cold, and dead,
Late shines the day’s departing light.
But far below those icy rocks,
The vales, in summer bloom arrayed,
Woods full of birds, and fields of flocks,
Are dim with mist and dark with shade.
’Tis thus, from warm and kindly hearts,
And eyes where generous meanings burn,
Earliest the light of life departs,
But lingers with the cold and stern.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Cullen_Bryant
The White
Rabbit's Evidence
By: Lewis Carroll
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lewis_Carroll
en.wikipedia.org
Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (/ ˈ l ʌ t w ɪ dʒ ˈ d ɒ dʒ s ən /; 27 January 1832 – 14 January 1898), better known by his pen name Lewis Carroll, was an English writer of world-famous children's fiction, notably Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and its sequel Through the Looking-Glass.He was noted for his facility at word play, logic and fantasy.The poems Jabberwocky and The Hunting of the ....
By: Lewis Carroll
‘They told me you had been to her,
And mentioned me to him:
She gave me a good character,
But said I could not swim.
He sent them word I had not gone
(We know it to be true):
If she should push the matter on,
What would become of you?
I gave her one, they gave him two,
You gave us three or more;
They all returned from him to you,
Though they were mine before.
If I or she should chance to be
Involved in this affair,
He trusts to you to set them free,
Exactly as we were.
My notion was that you had been
(Before she had this fit)
An obstacle that came between
Him, and ourselves, and it.
Don’t let him know she liked them best,
For this must ever be
A secret, kept from all the rest,
Between yourself and me.’
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lewis_Carroll
en.wikipedia.org
Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (/ ˈ l ʌ t w ɪ dʒ ˈ d ɒ dʒ s ən /; 27 January 1832 – 14 January 1898), better known by his pen name Lewis Carroll, was an English writer of world-famous children's fiction, notably Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and its sequel Through the Looking-Glass.He was noted for his facility at word play, logic and fantasy.The poems Jabberwocky and The Hunting of the ....
Two in the Campagna
By: Robert Browning
I
I wonder do you feel to-day
As I have felt since, hand in hand,
We sat down on the grass, to stray
In spirit better through the land,
This morn of Rome and May?
II
For me, I touched a thought, I know,
Has tantalized me many times,
(Like turns of thread the spiders throw
Mocking across our path) for rhymes
To catch at and let go.
III
Help me to hold it! First it left
The yellowing fennel, run to seed
There, branching from the brickwork's cleft,
Some old tomb's ruin: yonder weed
Took up the floating weft,
IV
Where one small orange cup amassed
Five beetles,—blind and green they grope
Among the honey-meal: and last,
Everywhere on the grassy slope
I traced it. Hold it fast!
V
The champaign with its endless fleece
Of feathery grasses everywhere!
Silence and passion, joy and peace,
An everlasting wash of air—
Rome's ghost since her decease.
VI
Such life here, through such lengths of hours,
Such miracles performed in play,
Such primal naked forms of flowers,
Such letting nature have her way
While heaven looks from its towers!
VII
How say you? Let us, O my dove,
Let us be unashamed of soul,
As earth lies bare to heaven above!
How is it under our control
To love or not to love?
VIII
I would that you were all to me,
You that are just so much, no more.
Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free!
Where does the fault lie? What the core
O' the wound, since wound must be?
IX
I would I could adopt your will,
See with your eyes, and set my heart
Beating by yours, and drink my fill
At your soul's springs,—your part my part
In life, for good and ill.
X
No. I yearn upward, touch you close,
Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,
Catch your soul's warmth,—I pluck the rose
And love it more than tongue can speak—
Then the good minute goes.
XI
Already how am I so far
Out of that minute? Must I go
Still like the thistle-ball, no bar,
Onward, whenever light winds blow,
Fixed by no friendly star?
XII
Just when I seemed about to learn!
Where is the thread now? Off again!
The old trick! Only I discern—
Infinite passion, and the pain
Of finite hearts that yearn.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Browning
Robert Browning - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
Robert Browning (7 May 1812 – 12 December 1889) was an English poet and playwright whose mastery of the dramatic monologue made him one of the foremost Victorian poets.His poems are known for their irony, characterization, dark humour, social commentary, historical settings, and challenging vocabulary and syntax.. Browning's early career began promisingly, but collapsed.
By: Robert Browning
I
I wonder do you feel to-day
As I have felt since, hand in hand,
We sat down on the grass, to stray
In spirit better through the land,
This morn of Rome and May?
II
For me, I touched a thought, I know,
Has tantalized me many times,
(Like turns of thread the spiders throw
Mocking across our path) for rhymes
To catch at and let go.
III
Help me to hold it! First it left
The yellowing fennel, run to seed
There, branching from the brickwork's cleft,
Some old tomb's ruin: yonder weed
Took up the floating weft,
IV
Where one small orange cup amassed
Five beetles,—blind and green they grope
Among the honey-meal: and last,
Everywhere on the grassy slope
I traced it. Hold it fast!
V
The champaign with its endless fleece
Of feathery grasses everywhere!
Silence and passion, joy and peace,
An everlasting wash of air—
Rome's ghost since her decease.
VI
Such life here, through such lengths of hours,
Such miracles performed in play,
Such primal naked forms of flowers,
Such letting nature have her way
While heaven looks from its towers!
VII
How say you? Let us, O my dove,
Let us be unashamed of soul,
As earth lies bare to heaven above!
How is it under our control
To love or not to love?
VIII
I would that you were all to me,
You that are just so much, no more.
Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free!
Where does the fault lie? What the core
O' the wound, since wound must be?
IX
I would I could adopt your will,
See with your eyes, and set my heart
Beating by yours, and drink my fill
At your soul's springs,—your part my part
In life, for good and ill.
X
No. I yearn upward, touch you close,
Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,
Catch your soul's warmth,—I pluck the rose
And love it more than tongue can speak—
Then the good minute goes.
XI
Already how am I so far
Out of that minute? Must I go
Still like the thistle-ball, no bar,
Onward, whenever light winds blow,
Fixed by no friendly star?
XII
Just when I seemed about to learn!
Where is the thread now? Off again!
The old trick! Only I discern—
Infinite passion, and the pain
Of finite hearts that yearn.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Browning
Robert Browning - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
Robert Browning (7 May 1812 – 12 December 1889) was an English poet and playwright whose mastery of the dramatic monologue made him one of the foremost Victorian poets.His poems are known for their irony, characterization, dark humour, social commentary, historical settings, and challenging vocabulary and syntax.. Browning's early career began promisingly, but collapsed.
Book 6, Epigram 17: In
Sextum.
By:Thomas Bastard
Sextus upon a spleen, did rashly swear,
That no new fashion he would ever wear.
He was forsworn, for see what did ensue,
He wore the old, till the old was the new.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Bastard
By:Thomas Bastard
Sextus upon a spleen, did rashly swear,
That no new fashion he would ever wear.
He was forsworn, for see what did ensue,
He wore the old, till the old was the new.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Bastard
|
en.wikipedia.org The Reverend Thomas Bastard (1565/1566 – April 19, 1618) was an English clergyman famed for his published English language epigrams.. Life. Born in Blandford Forum, Dorset, England, Bastard is best known for seven books of 285 epigrams entitled Chrestoleros published in 1598.. He initially attended Winchester College.Subsequently he began studying at New College, Oxford on 27 August 1586. |
A Sonnet to the Noble
Lady, the Lady Mary Wroth
By: Ben Jonson
I that have been a lover, and could show it,
Though not in these, in rithmes not wholly dumb,
Since I exscribe your sonnets, am become
A better lover, and much better poet.
Nor is my Muse or I ashamed to owe it
To those true numerous graces, whereof some
But charm the senses, others overcome
Both brains and hearts; and mine now best do know it:
For in your verse all Cupid’s armory,
His flames, his shafts, his quiver, and his bow,
His very eyes are yours to overthrow.
But then his mother’s sweets you so apply,
Her joys, her smiles, her loves, as readers take
For Venus’ ceston every line you make.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ben_Jonson
By: Ben Jonson
I that have been a lover, and could show it,
Though not in these, in rithmes not wholly dumb,
Since I exscribe your sonnets, am become
A better lover, and much better poet.
Nor is my Muse or I ashamed to owe it
To those true numerous graces, whereof some
But charm the senses, others overcome
Both brains and hearts; and mine now best do know it:
For in your verse all Cupid’s armory,
His flames, his shafts, his quiver, and his bow,
His very eyes are yours to overthrow.
But then his mother’s sweets you so apply,
Her joys, her smiles, her loves, as readers take
For Venus’ ceston every line you make.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ben_Jonson
Fishmonger
By: Marsden Hartley
I have taken scales from off
The cheeks of the moon.
I have made fins from bluejays’ wings,
I have made eyes from damsons in the shadow.
I have taken flushes from the peachlips in the sun.
From all these I have made a fish of heaven for you,
Set it swimming on a young October sky.
I sit on the bank of the stream and watch
The grasses in amazement
As they turn to ashy gold.
Are the fishes from the rainbow
Still beautiful to you,
For whom they are made,
For whom I have set them,
Swimming?
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marsden_Hartley
By: Marsden Hartley
I have taken scales from off
The cheeks of the moon.
I have made fins from bluejays’ wings,
I have made eyes from damsons in the shadow.
I have taken flushes from the peachlips in the sun.
From all these I have made a fish of heaven for you,
Set it swimming on a young October sky.
I sit on the bank of the stream and watch
The grasses in amazement
As they turn to ashy gold.
Are the fishes from the rainbow
Still beautiful to you,
For whom they are made,
For whom I have set them,
Swimming?
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marsden_Hartley
Kabale und Liebe
By: Sandys Wason
Many a mad magenta minute
Lights the lavender of Life;
Keren-happuch at her spinet,
Psalms the scarlet song of strife.’
Keren-happuch is my wife.
Spinet carving olive stanzas,
Orange fricassèes of sound,
Nicotine extravaganzas,
Like a cheese at evening found,
Sitting primrose on the ground.
Spinet, cast thy chiaroscuro
O’er the omelette of the past;
Drawn from thy enamelled bureau,
Bind thy night-shirt to the mast,
Derelict but not outcast.
With a harsh pea-green “Rememberâ€
From the horoscope of Ruth
Frame the language of December
With the silver-guilt of Truth,
Consecrated to thy youth.
Sandys Wason
By: Sandys Wason
Many a mad magenta minute
Lights the lavender of Life;
Keren-happuch at her spinet,
Psalms the scarlet song of strife.’
Keren-happuch is my wife.
Spinet carving olive stanzas,
Orange fricassèes of sound,
Nicotine extravaganzas,
Like a cheese at evening found,
Sitting primrose on the ground.
Spinet, cast thy chiaroscuro
O’er the omelette of the past;
Drawn from thy enamelled bureau,
Bind thy night-shirt to the mast,
Derelict but not outcast.
With a harsh pea-green “Rememberâ€
From the horoscope of Ruth
Frame the language of December
With the silver-guilt of Truth,
Consecrated to thy youth.
Sandys Wason
To Mrs K____, On Her
Sending Me an English Christmas Plum-Cake at Paris
By: Helen Maria Williams
What crowding thoughts around me wake,
What marvels in a Christmas-cake!
Ah say, what strange enchantment dwells
Enclosed within its odorous cells?
Is there no small magician bound
Encrusted in its snowy round?
For magic surely lurks in this,
A cake that tells of vanished bliss;
A cake that conjures up to view
The early scenes, when life was new;
When memory knew no sorrows past,
And hope believed in joys that last! —
Mysterious cake, whose folds contain
Life’s calendar of bliss and pain;
That speaks of friends for ever fled,
And wakes the tears I love to shed.
Oft shall I breathe her cherished name
From whose fair hand the offering came:
For she recalls the artless smile
Of nymphs that deck my native isle;
Of beauty that we love to trace,
Allied with tender, modest grace;
Of those who, while abroad they roam,
Retain each charm that gladdens home,
And whose dear friendships can impart
A Christmas banquet for the heart!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helen_Maria_Williams
Helen Maria Williams (17 June 1759 – 15 December 1827) was a British novelist, poet, and translator of French-language works. A religious dissenter, she was a supporter of abolitionism and of the ideals of the French Revolution; she was imprisoned in Paris during the Reign of Terror, but nonetheless spent much of the rest of her life in France.. A controversial figure in her own time, the ..
By: Helen Maria Williams
What crowding thoughts around me wake,
What marvels in a Christmas-cake!
Ah say, what strange enchantment dwells
Enclosed within its odorous cells?
Is there no small magician bound
Encrusted in its snowy round?
For magic surely lurks in this,
A cake that tells of vanished bliss;
A cake that conjures up to view
The early scenes, when life was new;
When memory knew no sorrows past,
And hope believed in joys that last! —
Mysterious cake, whose folds contain
Life’s calendar of bliss and pain;
That speaks of friends for ever fled,
And wakes the tears I love to shed.
Oft shall I breathe her cherished name
From whose fair hand the offering came:
For she recalls the artless smile
Of nymphs that deck my native isle;
Of beauty that we love to trace,
Allied with tender, modest grace;
Of those who, while abroad they roam,
Retain each charm that gladdens home,
And whose dear friendships can impart
A Christmas banquet for the heart!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helen_Maria_Williams
Helen Maria Williams (17 June 1759 – 15 December 1827) was a British novelist, poet, and translator of French-language works. A religious dissenter, she was a supporter of abolitionism and of the ideals of the French Revolution; she was imprisoned in Paris during the Reign of Terror, but nonetheless spent much of the rest of her life in France.. A controversial figure in her own time, the ..
Summer Wind
By: William Cullen Bryant
It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk
The dew that lay upon the morning grass;
There is no rustling in the lofty elm
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on the wing. The plants around
Feel the too potent fervors: the tall maize
Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven–
Their bases on the mountains–their white tops
Shining in the far ether–fire the air
With a reflected radiance, and make turn
The gazer’s eye away. For me, I lie
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays his coming. Why so slow,
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?
Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth
Coolness and life! Is it that in his caves
He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,
The pine is bending his proud top, and now
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak
Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes;
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves!
The deep distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds
And universal motion. He is come,
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,
And sound of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,
By the road-side and the borders of the brook,
Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet, and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Cullen_Bryant
By: William Cullen Bryant
It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk
The dew that lay upon the morning grass;
There is no rustling in the lofty elm
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on the wing. The plants around
Feel the too potent fervors: the tall maize
Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven–
Their bases on the mountains–their white tops
Shining in the far ether–fire the air
With a reflected radiance, and make turn
The gazer’s eye away. For me, I lie
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays his coming. Why so slow,
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?
Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth
Coolness and life! Is it that in his caves
He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,
The pine is bending his proud top, and now
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak
Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes;
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves!
The deep distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds
And universal motion. He is come,
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,
And sound of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,
By the road-side and the borders of the brook,
Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet, and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Cullen_Bryant
Dream On
By: David Conolly
A child in a gallery sits, From another womb
takes paper and pencil, in a faraway age
and starts to draw. another child emerged
The paintings around her with a dream –
disappear. the Great Dream
They have served of a world renewed by
their purpose. peace and justice,
formed in the womb of
They have sparked in her love.
the spirit to create –
the spirit formed in her He said that children
along with bone and blood show us
in the mystic dark of what God is like.
her mother’s womb –
humanity’s sacred site. No wonder
we celebrate
Thus is passed his birth.
from age to age
imagination, No wonder that Dream
wonder, still lives, and passes
dreams. to children yet unborn.
By: David Conolly
A child in a gallery sits, From another womb
takes paper and pencil, in a faraway age
and starts to draw. another child emerged
The paintings around her with a dream –
disappear. the Great Dream
They have served of a world renewed by
their purpose. peace and justice,
formed in the womb of
They have sparked in her love.
the spirit to create –
the spirit formed in her He said that children
along with bone and blood show us
in the mystic dark of what God is like.
her mother’s womb –
humanity’s sacred site. No wonder
we celebrate
Thus is passed his birth.
from age to age
imagination, No wonder that Dream
wonder, still lives, and passes
dreams. to children yet unborn.
Autumn
By: Alexander Posey
In the dreamy silence
Of the afternoon, a
Cloth of gold is woven
Over wood and prairie;
And the jaybird, newly
Fallen from the heaven,
Scatters cordial greetings,
And the air is filled with
Scarlet leaves, that, dropping,
Rise again, as ever,
With a useless sigh for
Rest—and it is Autumn.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexander_Posey
By: Alexander Posey
In the dreamy silence
Of the afternoon, a
Cloth of gold is woven
Over wood and prairie;
And the jaybird, newly
Fallen from the heaven,
Scatters cordial greetings,
And the air is filled with
Scarlet leaves, that, dropping,
Rise again, as ever,
With a useless sigh for
Rest—and it is Autumn.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexander_Posey
The Rainbow
By: Charlotte Richardson
Soft falls the shower, the thunders cease!
And see the messenger of peace
Illumes the eastern skies;
Blest sign of firm unchanging love!
While others seek the cause to prove,
That bids thy beauties rise.
My soul, content with humbler views,
Well pleased admires thy varied hues,
And can with joy behold
Thy beauteous form, and wondering gaze
Enraptured on thy mingled rays
Of purple, green, and gold.
Enough for me to deem divine
The hand that paints each glowing line;
To think that thou art given
A transient gleam of that bright place
Where Beauty owns celestial grace,
A faint display of Heaven!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlotte_Richardson
By: Charlotte Richardson
Soft falls the shower, the thunders cease!
And see the messenger of peace
Illumes the eastern skies;
Blest sign of firm unchanging love!
While others seek the cause to prove,
That bids thy beauties rise.
My soul, content with humbler views,
Well pleased admires thy varied hues,
And can with joy behold
Thy beauteous form, and wondering gaze
Enraptured on thy mingled rays
Of purple, green, and gold.
Enough for me to deem divine
The hand that paints each glowing line;
To think that thou art given
A transient gleam of that bright place
Where Beauty owns celestial grace,
A faint display of Heaven!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlotte_Richardson
Spring, the sweet spring
By: Thomas Nashe
Spring, the sweet spring, is the year’s pleasant king,
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to witta-woo!
Spring, the sweet spring!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Nashe
Floating Island
By: Dorothy Wordsworth
Harmonious Powers with Nature work
On sky, earth, river, lake, and sea:
Sunshine and storm, whirlwind and breeze
All in one duteous task agree.
Once did I see a slip of earth,
By throbbing waves long undermined,
Loosed from its hold; — how no one knew
But all might see it float, obedient to the wind.
Might see it, from the mossy shore
Dissevered float upon the Lake,
Float, with its crest of trees adorned
On which the warbling birds their pastime take.
Food, shelter, safety there they find
There berries ripen, flowerets bloom;
There insects live their lives — and die:
A peopled world it is; in size a tiny room.
And thus through many seasons’ space
This little Island may survive
But Nature, though we mark her not,
Will take away — may cease to give.
Perchance when you are wandering forth
Upon some vacant sunny day
Without an object, hope, or fear,
Thither your eyes may turn — the Isle is passed away.
Buried beneath the glittering Lake!
Its place no longer to be found,
Yet the lost fragments shall remain,
To fertilize some other ground.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dorothy_Wordsworth
By: Dorothy Wordsworth
Harmonious Powers with Nature work
On sky, earth, river, lake, and sea:
Sunshine and storm, whirlwind and breeze
All in one duteous task agree.
Once did I see a slip of earth,
By throbbing waves long undermined,
Loosed from its hold; — how no one knew
But all might see it float, obedient to the wind.
Might see it, from the mossy shore
Dissevered float upon the Lake,
Float, with its crest of trees adorned
On which the warbling birds their pastime take.
Food, shelter, safety there they find
There berries ripen, flowerets bloom;
There insects live their lives — and die:
A peopled world it is; in size a tiny room.
And thus through many seasons’ space
This little Island may survive
But Nature, though we mark her not,
Will take away — may cease to give.
Perchance when you are wandering forth
Upon some vacant sunny day
Without an object, hope, or fear,
Thither your eyes may turn — the Isle is passed away.
Buried beneath the glittering Lake!
Its place no longer to be found,
Yet the lost fragments shall remain,
To fertilize some other ground.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dorothy_Wordsworth
From Halloween
By: Robert Burns, 1759 - 1796
Upon that night, when fairies light
On Cassilis Downans dance,
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
On sprightly coursers prance;
Or for Colean the route is ta’en,
Beneath the moon’s pale beams;
There, up the cove, to stray and rove,
Among the rocks and streams
To sport that night.
Among the bonny winding banks,
Where Doon rins, wimplin’ clear,
Where Bruce ance ruled the martial ranks,
And shook his Carrick spear,
Some merry, friendly, country-folks,
Together did convene,
To burn their nits, and pou their stocks,
And haud their Halloween
Fu’ blithe that night.
The lasses feat, and cleanly neat,
Mair braw than when they’re fine;
Their faces blithe, fu’ sweetly kythe,
Hearts leal, and warm, and kin’;
The lads sae trig, wi’ wooer-babs,
Weel knotted on their garten,
Some unco blate, and some wi’ gabs,
Gar lasses’ hearts gang startin’
Whiles fast at night.
Then, first and foremost, through the kail,
Their stocks maun a’ be sought ance;
They steek their een, and graip and wale,
For muckle anes and straught anes.
Poor hav’rel Will fell aff the drift,
And wander’d through the bow-kail,
And pou’t, for want o’ better shift,
A runt was like a sow-tail,
Sae bow’t that night.
Then, staught or crooked, yird or nane,
They roar and cry a’ throu’ther;
The very wee things, todlin’, rin,
Wi’ stocks out owre their shouther;
And gif the custoc’s sweet or sour.
Wi’ joctelegs they taste them;
Syne cozily, aboon the door,
Wi cannie care, they’ve placed them
To lie that night.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Burns
By: Robert Burns, 1759 - 1796
Upon that night, when fairies light
On Cassilis Downans dance,
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
On sprightly coursers prance;
Or for Colean the route is ta’en,
Beneath the moon’s pale beams;
There, up the cove, to stray and rove,
Among the rocks and streams
To sport that night.
Among the bonny winding banks,
Where Doon rins, wimplin’ clear,
Where Bruce ance ruled the martial ranks,
And shook his Carrick spear,
Some merry, friendly, country-folks,
Together did convene,
To burn their nits, and pou their stocks,
And haud their Halloween
Fu’ blithe that night.
The lasses feat, and cleanly neat,
Mair braw than when they’re fine;
Their faces blithe, fu’ sweetly kythe,
Hearts leal, and warm, and kin’;
The lads sae trig, wi’ wooer-babs,
Weel knotted on their garten,
Some unco blate, and some wi’ gabs,
Gar lasses’ hearts gang startin’
Whiles fast at night.
Then, first and foremost, through the kail,
Their stocks maun a’ be sought ance;
They steek their een, and graip and wale,
For muckle anes and straught anes.
Poor hav’rel Will fell aff the drift,
And wander’d through the bow-kail,
And pou’t, for want o’ better shift,
A runt was like a sow-tail,
Sae bow’t that night.
Then, staught or crooked, yird or nane,
They roar and cry a’ throu’ther;
The very wee things, todlin’, rin,
Wi’ stocks out owre their shouther;
And gif the custoc’s sweet or sour.
Wi’ joctelegs they taste them;
Syne cozily, aboon the door,
Wi cannie care, they’ve placed them
To lie that night.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Burns
Love's Good-Morrow
By: Thomas Heywood
Pack, clouds away! and welcome day!
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air, blow soft, mount larks aloft
To give my love good-morrow!
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I’ll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,
To give my love good-morrow;
To give my love good-morrow;
Notes from them both I’ll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, Robin Redbreast,
Sing birds in every furrow;
And from each hill, let music shrill
Give my fair love good-morrow!
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow;
To give my love good-morrow,
Sing birds in every furrow.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Heywood
By: Thomas Heywood
Pack, clouds away! and welcome day!
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air, blow soft, mount larks aloft
To give my love good-morrow!
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I’ll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,
To give my love good-morrow;
To give my love good-morrow;
Notes from them both I’ll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, Robin Redbreast,
Sing birds in every furrow;
And from each hill, let music shrill
Give my fair love good-morrow!
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow;
To give my love good-morrow,
Sing birds in every furrow.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Heywood
Sonnet 53
By: William Shakespeare
What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
And you but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
Speak of the spring, and foison of the year,
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear;
And you in every blessed shape we know.
In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
By: William Shakespeare
What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
And you but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
Speak of the spring, and foison of the year,
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear;
And you in every blessed shape we know.
In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
Evening Song
By: Sherwood Anderson
MY song will rest while I rest. I struggle along. I’ll get back to the corn and the open fields. Don’t fret, love, I’ll come out all right.
Back of Chicago the open fields. Were you ever there—trains coming toward you out of the West—streaks of light on the long gray plains? Many a song—aching to sing.
I’ve got a gray and ragged brother in my breast—that’s a fact. Back of Chicago the open fields—long trains go west too—in the silence. Don’t fret, love. I’ll come out all right.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sherwood_Anderson
By: Sherwood Anderson
MY song will rest while I rest. I struggle along. I’ll get back to the corn and the open fields. Don’t fret, love, I’ll come out all right.
Back of Chicago the open fields. Were you ever there—trains coming toward you out of the West—streaks of light on the long gray plains? Many a song—aching to sing.
I’ve got a gray and ragged brother in my breast—that’s a fact. Back of Chicago the open fields—long trains go west too—in the silence. Don’t fret, love. I’ll come out all right.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sherwood_Anderson
A Sonnet to the Noble
Lady, the Lady Mary Wroth
By: Ben Jonson
I that have been a lover, and could show it,
Though not in these, in rithmes not wholly dumb,
Since I exscribe your sonnets, am become
A better lover, and much better poet.
Nor is my Muse or I ashamed to owe it
To those true numerous graces, whereof some
But charm the senses, others overcome
Both brains and hearts; and mine now best do know it:
For in your verse all Cupid’s armory,
His flames, his shafts, his quiver, and his bow,
His very eyes are yours to overthrow.
But then his mother’s sweets you so apply,
Her joys, her smiles, her loves, as readers take
For Venus’ ceston every line you make.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ben_Jonson
By: Ben Jonson
I that have been a lover, and could show it,
Though not in these, in rithmes not wholly dumb,
Since I exscribe your sonnets, am become
A better lover, and much better poet.
Nor is my Muse or I ashamed to owe it
To those true numerous graces, whereof some
But charm the senses, others overcome
Both brains and hearts; and mine now best do know it:
For in your verse all Cupid’s armory,
His flames, his shafts, his quiver, and his bow,
His very eyes are yours to overthrow.
But then his mother’s sweets you so apply,
Her joys, her smiles, her loves, as readers take
For Venus’ ceston every line you make.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ben_Jonson
XVIII
By: Emily Dickinson
TWO butterflies went out at noon
And waltzed above a stream,
Then stepped straight through the firmament
And rested on a beam;
And then together bore away
Upon a shining sea,—
Though never yet, in any port,
Their coming mentioned be.
If spoken by the distant bird,
If met in ether sea
By frigate or by merchantman,
Report was not to me.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson
By: Emily Dickinson
TWO butterflies went out at noon
And waltzed above a stream,
Then stepped straight through the firmament
And rested on a beam;
And then together bore away
Upon a shining sea,—
Though never yet, in any port,
Their coming mentioned be.
If spoken by the distant bird,
If met in ether sea
By frigate or by merchantman,
Report was not to me.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson
Drifting Flowers of the
Sea
By: Sadakichi Hartmann
Sadakichi Hartmann
Across the dunes, in the waning light,
The rising moon pours her amber rays,
Through the slumbrous air of the dim, brown night
The pungent smell of the seaweed strays—
From vast and trackless spaces
Where wind and water meet,
White flowers, that rise from the sleepless deep,
Come drifting to my feet.
They flutter the shore in a drowsy tune,
Unfurl their bloom to the lightlorn sky,
Allow a caress to the rising moon,
Then fall to slumber, and fade, and die.
White flowers, a-bloom on the vagrant deep,
Like dreams of love, rising out of sleep,
You are the songs, I dreamt but never sung,
Pale hopes my thoughts alone have known,
Vain words ne’er uttered, though on the tongue,
That winds to the sibilant seas have blown.
In you, I see the everlasting drift of years
That will endure all sorrows, smiles and tears;
For when the bell of time will ring the doom
To all the follies of the human race,
You still will rise in fugitive bloom
And garland the shores of ruined space.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sadakichi_Hartmann
By: Sadakichi Hartmann
Sadakichi Hartmann
Across the dunes, in the waning light,
The rising moon pours her amber rays,
Through the slumbrous air of the dim, brown night
The pungent smell of the seaweed strays—
From vast and trackless spaces
Where wind and water meet,
White flowers, that rise from the sleepless deep,
Come drifting to my feet.
They flutter the shore in a drowsy tune,
Unfurl their bloom to the lightlorn sky,
Allow a caress to the rising moon,
Then fall to slumber, and fade, and die.
White flowers, a-bloom on the vagrant deep,
Like dreams of love, rising out of sleep,
You are the songs, I dreamt but never sung,
Pale hopes my thoughts alone have known,
Vain words ne’er uttered, though on the tongue,
That winds to the sibilant seas have blown.
In you, I see the everlasting drift of years
That will endure all sorrows, smiles and tears;
For when the bell of time will ring the doom
To all the follies of the human race,
You still will rise in fugitive bloom
And garland the shores of ruined space.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sadakichi_Hartmann
The Crocuses
By: Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
They heard the South wind sighing
A murmur of the rain;
And they knew that Earth was longing
To see them all again.
While the snow-drops still were sleeping
Beneath the silent sod;
They felt their new life pulsing
Within the dark, cold clod.
Not a daffodil nor daisy
Had dared to raise its head;
Not a fairhaired dandelion
Peeped timid from its bed;
Though a tremor of the winter
Did shivering through them run;
Yet they lifted up their foreheads
To greet the vernal sun.
And the sunbeams gave them welcome,
As did the morning air—
And scattered o’er their simple robes
Rich tints of beauty rare.
Soon a host of lovely flowers
From vales and woodland burst;
But in all that fair procession
The crocuses were first.
First to weave for Earth a chaplet
To crown her dear old head;
And to beauty the pathway
Where winter still did tread.
And their loved and white haired mother
Smiled sweetly ’neath the touch,
When she knew her faithful children
Were loving her so much.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frances_Harper
By: Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
They heard the South wind sighing
A murmur of the rain;
And they knew that Earth was longing
To see them all again.
While the snow-drops still were sleeping
Beneath the silent sod;
They felt their new life pulsing
Within the dark, cold clod.
Not a daffodil nor daisy
Had dared to raise its head;
Not a fairhaired dandelion
Peeped timid from its bed;
Though a tremor of the winter
Did shivering through them run;
Yet they lifted up their foreheads
To greet the vernal sun.
And the sunbeams gave them welcome,
As did the morning air—
And scattered o’er their simple robes
Rich tints of beauty rare.
Soon a host of lovely flowers
From vales and woodland burst;
But in all that fair procession
The crocuses were first.
First to weave for Earth a chaplet
To crown her dear old head;
And to beauty the pathway
Where winter still did tread.
And their loved and white haired mother
Smiled sweetly ’neath the touch,
When she knew her faithful children
Were loving her so much.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frances_Harper
To a Louse,
On Seeing one on a Lady’s Bonnet at Church
By: Robert Burns
Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlan ferlie!
Your impudence protects you sairly:
I canna say but ye strunt rarely,
Owre gawze and lace;
Tho’ faith, I fear ye dine but sparely,
On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepan, blastet wonner,
Detested, shunn’d, by saunt an’ sinner,
How daur ye set your fit upon her,
Sae fine a Lady!
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner,
On some poor body.
Swith, in some beggar’s haffet squattle;
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,
Wi’ ither kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Whare horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettle,
Your thick plantations.
Now haud you there, ye’re out o’ sight,
Below the fatt’rels, snug and tight,
Na faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right,
Till ye’ve got on it,
The vera topmost, towrin height
O’ Miss’s bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump an’ gray as onie grozet:
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,
I’d gie you sic a hearty dose o’t,
Wad dress your droddum!
I wad na been surpriz’d to spy
You on an auld wife’s flainen toy;
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On ’s wylecoat;
But Miss’s fine Lunardi, fye!
How daur ye do ’t?
O Jenny dinna toss your head,
An’ set your beauties a’ abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie’s makin!
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin!
O wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us
An’ foolish notion:
What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,
And ev’n Devotion!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Burns
By: Robert Burns
Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlan ferlie!
Your impudence protects you sairly:
I canna say but ye strunt rarely,
Owre gawze and lace;
Tho’ faith, I fear ye dine but sparely,
On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepan, blastet wonner,
Detested, shunn’d, by saunt an’ sinner,
How daur ye set your fit upon her,
Sae fine a Lady!
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner,
On some poor body.
Swith, in some beggar’s haffet squattle;
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,
Wi’ ither kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Whare horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettle,
Your thick plantations.
Now haud you there, ye’re out o’ sight,
Below the fatt’rels, snug and tight,
Na faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right,
Till ye’ve got on it,
The vera topmost, towrin height
O’ Miss’s bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump an’ gray as onie grozet:
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,
I’d gie you sic a hearty dose o’t,
Wad dress your droddum!
I wad na been surpriz’d to spy
You on an auld wife’s flainen toy;
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On ’s wylecoat;
But Miss’s fine Lunardi, fye!
How daur ye do ’t?
O Jenny dinna toss your head,
An’ set your beauties a’ abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie’s makin!
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin!
O wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us
An’ foolish notion:
What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,
And ev’n Devotion!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Burns
Haymaking
By: John Clare
‘Tis haytime and the red-complexioned sun
Was scarcely up ere blackbirds had begun
Along the meadow hedges here and there
To sing loud songs to the sweet-smelling air
Where breath of flowers and grass and happy cow
Fling o’er one’s senses streams of fragrance now
while in some pleasant nook the swain and maid
Lean o’er their rakes and loiter in the shade
Or bend a minute o’er the bridge and throw
Crumbs in their leisure to the fish below
—Hark at that happy shout—and song between
‘Tis pleasure’s birthday in her meadow scene.
What joy seems half so rich from pleasure won
As the loud laugh of maidens in the sun?
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Clare
By: John Clare
‘Tis haytime and the red-complexioned sun
Was scarcely up ere blackbirds had begun
Along the meadow hedges here and there
To sing loud songs to the sweet-smelling air
Where breath of flowers and grass and happy cow
Fling o’er one’s senses streams of fragrance now
while in some pleasant nook the swain and maid
Lean o’er their rakes and loiter in the shade
Or bend a minute o’er the bridge and throw
Crumbs in their leisure to the fish below
—Hark at that happy shout—and song between
‘Tis pleasure’s birthday in her meadow scene.
What joy seems half so rich from pleasure won
As the loud laugh of maidens in the sun?
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Clare
The Complaint of Lisa
By: Algernon Charles Swinburne
There is no woman living that draws breath
So sad as I, though all things sadden her.
There is not one upon life's weariest way
Who is weary as I am weary of all but death.
Toward whom I look as looks the sunflower
All day with all his whole soul toward the sun;
While in the sun's sight I make moan all day,
And all night on my sleepless maiden bed
Weep and call out on death, O Love, and thee,
That thou or he would take me to the dead,
And know not what thing evil I have done
That life should lay such heavy hand on me.
Alas, Love, what is this thou wouldst with me?
What honour shalt thou have to quench my breath,
Or what shall my heart broken profit thee?
O Love, O great god Love, what have I done,
That thou shouldst hunger so after my death?
My heart is harmless as my life's first day:
Seek out some false fair woman, and plague her
Till her tears even as my tears fill her bed:
I am the least flower in thy flowery way,
But till my time be come that I be dead
Let me live out my flower-time in the sun
Though my leaves shut before the sunflower.
O Love, Love, Love, the kingly sunflower!
Shall he the sun hath looked on look on me,
That live down here in shade, out of the sun,
Here living in the sorrow and shadow of death?
Shall he that feeds his heart full of the day
Care to give mine eyes light, or my lips breath?
Because she loves him shall my lord love her
Who is as a worm in my lord's kingly way?
I shall not see him or know him alive or dead;
But thou, I know thee, O Love, and pray to thee
That in brief while my brief life-days be done,
And the worm quickly make my marriage-bed.
For underground there is no sleepless bed:
But here since I beheld my sunflower
These eyes have slept not, seeing all night and day
His sunlike eyes, and face fronting the sun.
Wherefore if anywhere be any death,
I would fain find and fold him fast to me,
That I may sleep with the world's eldest dead,
With her that died seven centuries since, and her
That went last night down the night-wandering way.
For this is sleep indeed, when labour is done,
Without love, without dreams, and without breath,
And without thought, O name unnamed! of thee.
Ah, but, forgetting all things, shall I thee?
Wilt thou not be as now about my bed
There underground as here before the sun?
Shall not thy vision vex me alive and dead,
Thy moving vision without form or breath?
I read long since the bitter tale of her
Who read the tale of Launcelot on a day,
And died, and had no quiet after death,
But was moved ever along a weary way,
Lost with her love in the underworld; ah me,
O my king, O my lordly sunflower,
Would God to me too such a thing were done!
But if such sweet and bitter things be done,
Then, flying from life, I shall not fly from thee.
For in that living world without a sun
Thy vision will lay hold upon me dead,
And meet and mock me, and mar my peace in death.
Yet if being wroth God had such pity on her,
Who was a sinner and foolish in her day,
That even in hell they twain should breathe one breath,
Why should he not in some wise pity me?
So if I sleep not in my soft strait bed
I may look up and see my sunflower
As he the sun, in some divine strange way.
O poor my heart, well knowest thou in what way
This sore sweet evil unto us was done.
For on a holy and a heavy day
I was arisen out of my still small bed
To see the knights tilt, and one said to me
"The king," and seeing him, somewhat stopped my breath,
And if the girl spake more, I heard not her,
For only I saw what I shall see when dead,
A kingly flower of knights, a sunflower,
That shone against the sunlight like the sun,
And like a fire, O heart, consuming thee,
The fire of love that lights the pyre of death.
Howbeit I shall not die an evil death
Who have loved in such a sad and sinless way,
That this my love, lord, was no shame to thee.
So when mine eyes are shut against the sun,
O my soul's sun, O the world's sunflower,
Thou nor no man will quite despise me dead.
And dying I pray with all my low last breath
That thy whole life may be as was that day,
That feast-day that made trothplight death and me,
Giving the world light of thy great deeds done;
And that fair face brightening thy bridal bed,
That God be good as God hath been to her.
That all things goodly and glad remain with her,
All things that make glad life and goodly death;
That as a bee sucks from a sunflower
Honey, when summer draws delighted breath,
Her soul may drink of thy soul in like way,
And love make life a fruitful marriage-bed
Where day may bring forth fruits of joy to day
And night to night till days and nights be dead.
And as she gives light of her love to thee,
Give thou to her the old glory of days long done;
And either give some heat of light to me,
To warm me where I sleep without the sun.
O sunflower made drunken with the sun,
O knight whose lady's heart draws thine to her,
Great king, glad lover, I have a word to thee.
There is a weed lives out of the sun's way,
Hid from the heat deep in the meadow's bed,
That swoons and whitens at the wind's least breath,
A flower star-shaped, that all a summer day
Will gaze her soul out on the sunflower
For very love till twilight finds her dead.
But the great sunflower heeds not her poor death,
Knows not when all her loving life is done;
And so much knows my lord the king of me.
Aye, all day long he has no eye for me;
With golden eye following the golden sun
From rose-coloured to purple-pillowed bed,
From birthplace to the flame-lit place of death,
From eastern end to western of his way.
So mine eye follows thee, my sunflower,
So the white star-flower turns and yearns to thee,
The sick weak weed, not well alive or dead,
Trod underfoot if any pass by her,
Pale, without colour of summer or summer breath
In the shrunk shuddering petals, that have done
No work but love, and die before the day.
But thou, to-day, to-morrow, and every day,
Be glad and great, O love whose love slays me.
Thy fervent flower made fruitful from the sun
Shall drop its golden seed in the world's way,
That all men thereof nourished shall praise thee
For grain and flower and fruit of works well done;
Till thy shed seed, O shining sunflower,
Bring forth such growth of the world's garden-bed
As like the sun shall outlive age and death.
And yet I would thine heart had heed of her
Who loves thee alive; but not till she be dead.
Come, Love, then, quickly, and take her utmost breath.
Song, speak for me who am dumb as are the dead;
From my sad bed of tears I send forth thee,
To fly all day from sun's birth to sun's death
Down the sun's way after the flying sun,
For love of her that gave thee wings and breath,
Ere day be done, to seek the sunflower.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Algernon_Charles_Swinburne
Algernon Charles Swinburne (5 April 1837 – 10 April 1909) was an English poet, playwright, novelist, and critic. He wrote several novels and collections of poetry such as Poems and Ballads, and contributed to the famous Eleventh Edition of the Encyclopædia Britannica
By: Algernon Charles Swinburne
There is no woman living that draws breath
So sad as I, though all things sadden her.
There is not one upon life's weariest way
Who is weary as I am weary of all but death.
Toward whom I look as looks the sunflower
All day with all his whole soul toward the sun;
While in the sun's sight I make moan all day,
And all night on my sleepless maiden bed
Weep and call out on death, O Love, and thee,
That thou or he would take me to the dead,
And know not what thing evil I have done
That life should lay such heavy hand on me.
Alas, Love, what is this thou wouldst with me?
What honour shalt thou have to quench my breath,
Or what shall my heart broken profit thee?
O Love, O great god Love, what have I done,
That thou shouldst hunger so after my death?
My heart is harmless as my life's first day:
Seek out some false fair woman, and plague her
Till her tears even as my tears fill her bed:
I am the least flower in thy flowery way,
But till my time be come that I be dead
Let me live out my flower-time in the sun
Though my leaves shut before the sunflower.
O Love, Love, Love, the kingly sunflower!
Shall he the sun hath looked on look on me,
That live down here in shade, out of the sun,
Here living in the sorrow and shadow of death?
Shall he that feeds his heart full of the day
Care to give mine eyes light, or my lips breath?
Because she loves him shall my lord love her
Who is as a worm in my lord's kingly way?
I shall not see him or know him alive or dead;
But thou, I know thee, O Love, and pray to thee
That in brief while my brief life-days be done,
And the worm quickly make my marriage-bed.
For underground there is no sleepless bed:
But here since I beheld my sunflower
These eyes have slept not, seeing all night and day
His sunlike eyes, and face fronting the sun.
Wherefore if anywhere be any death,
I would fain find and fold him fast to me,
That I may sleep with the world's eldest dead,
With her that died seven centuries since, and her
That went last night down the night-wandering way.
For this is sleep indeed, when labour is done,
Without love, without dreams, and without breath,
And without thought, O name unnamed! of thee.
Ah, but, forgetting all things, shall I thee?
Wilt thou not be as now about my bed
There underground as here before the sun?
Shall not thy vision vex me alive and dead,
Thy moving vision without form or breath?
I read long since the bitter tale of her
Who read the tale of Launcelot on a day,
And died, and had no quiet after death,
But was moved ever along a weary way,
Lost with her love in the underworld; ah me,
O my king, O my lordly sunflower,
Would God to me too such a thing were done!
But if such sweet and bitter things be done,
Then, flying from life, I shall not fly from thee.
For in that living world without a sun
Thy vision will lay hold upon me dead,
And meet and mock me, and mar my peace in death.
Yet if being wroth God had such pity on her,
Who was a sinner and foolish in her day,
That even in hell they twain should breathe one breath,
Why should he not in some wise pity me?
So if I sleep not in my soft strait bed
I may look up and see my sunflower
As he the sun, in some divine strange way.
O poor my heart, well knowest thou in what way
This sore sweet evil unto us was done.
For on a holy and a heavy day
I was arisen out of my still small bed
To see the knights tilt, and one said to me
"The king," and seeing him, somewhat stopped my breath,
And if the girl spake more, I heard not her,
For only I saw what I shall see when dead,
A kingly flower of knights, a sunflower,
That shone against the sunlight like the sun,
And like a fire, O heart, consuming thee,
The fire of love that lights the pyre of death.
Howbeit I shall not die an evil death
Who have loved in such a sad and sinless way,
That this my love, lord, was no shame to thee.
So when mine eyes are shut against the sun,
O my soul's sun, O the world's sunflower,
Thou nor no man will quite despise me dead.
And dying I pray with all my low last breath
That thy whole life may be as was that day,
That feast-day that made trothplight death and me,
Giving the world light of thy great deeds done;
And that fair face brightening thy bridal bed,
That God be good as God hath been to her.
That all things goodly and glad remain with her,
All things that make glad life and goodly death;
That as a bee sucks from a sunflower
Honey, when summer draws delighted breath,
Her soul may drink of thy soul in like way,
And love make life a fruitful marriage-bed
Where day may bring forth fruits of joy to day
And night to night till days and nights be dead.
And as she gives light of her love to thee,
Give thou to her the old glory of days long done;
And either give some heat of light to me,
To warm me where I sleep without the sun.
O sunflower made drunken with the sun,
O knight whose lady's heart draws thine to her,
Great king, glad lover, I have a word to thee.
There is a weed lives out of the sun's way,
Hid from the heat deep in the meadow's bed,
That swoons and whitens at the wind's least breath,
A flower star-shaped, that all a summer day
Will gaze her soul out on the sunflower
For very love till twilight finds her dead.
But the great sunflower heeds not her poor death,
Knows not when all her loving life is done;
And so much knows my lord the king of me.
Aye, all day long he has no eye for me;
With golden eye following the golden sun
From rose-coloured to purple-pillowed bed,
From birthplace to the flame-lit place of death,
From eastern end to western of his way.
So mine eye follows thee, my sunflower,
So the white star-flower turns and yearns to thee,
The sick weak weed, not well alive or dead,
Trod underfoot if any pass by her,
Pale, without colour of summer or summer breath
In the shrunk shuddering petals, that have done
No work but love, and die before the day.
But thou, to-day, to-morrow, and every day,
Be glad and great, O love whose love slays me.
Thy fervent flower made fruitful from the sun
Shall drop its golden seed in the world's way,
That all men thereof nourished shall praise thee
For grain and flower and fruit of works well done;
Till thy shed seed, O shining sunflower,
Bring forth such growth of the world's garden-bed
As like the sun shall outlive age and death.
And yet I would thine heart had heed of her
Who loves thee alive; but not till she be dead.
Come, Love, then, quickly, and take her utmost breath.
Song, speak for me who am dumb as are the dead;
From my sad bed of tears I send forth thee,
To fly all day from sun's birth to sun's death
Down the sun's way after the flying sun,
For love of her that gave thee wings and breath,
Ere day be done, to seek the sunflower.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Algernon_Charles_Swinburne
Algernon Charles Swinburne (5 April 1837 – 10 April 1909) was an English poet, playwright, novelist, and critic. He wrote several novels and collections of poetry such as Poems and Ballads, and contributed to the famous Eleventh Edition of the Encyclopædia Britannica
The Fallow Deer At The
Lonely House
By: Thomas Hardy
One without looks in tonight
Through the curtain-chink
From the sheet of glistening white;
One without looks in tonight
As we sit and think
By the fender-brink.
We do not discern those eyes
Watching in the snow;
Lit by lamps of rosy dyes
We do not discern those eyes
Wandering, aglow
Four-footed, tiptoe.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Hardy
By: Thomas Hardy
One without looks in tonight
Through the curtain-chink
From the sheet of glistening white;
One without looks in tonight
As we sit and think
By the fender-brink.
We do not discern those eyes
Watching in the snow;
Lit by lamps of rosy dyes
We do not discern those eyes
Wandering, aglow
Four-footed, tiptoe.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Hardy
Sonnet 76
By: William Shakespeare
Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth and where they did proceed?
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
By: William Shakespeare
Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth and where they did proceed?
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
Above the Dock
By: T. E. Hulme
Above the quiet dock in mid night,
Tangled in the tall mast’s corded height,
Hangs the moon. What seemed so far away
Is but a child’s balloon, forgotten after play.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/T._E._Hulme
By: T. E. Hulme
Above the quiet dock in mid night,
Tangled in the tall mast’s corded height,
Hangs the moon. What seemed so far away
Is but a child’s balloon, forgotten after play.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/T._E._Hulme
Up-Hill
By: CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
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.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christina_Rossetti
Christina Georgina Rossetti (5 December 1830 – 29 December 1894) was an English poet who wrote a variety of romantic, devotional, and children's poems. She is famous for writing Goblin Market and "Remember". She also wrote the words of the Christmas carols "In the Bleak Midwinter", set to a tune by Gustav Holst, and "Love Came Down at Christmas"
By: CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
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.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christina_Rossetti
Christina Georgina Rossetti (5 December 1830 – 29 December 1894) was an English poet who wrote a variety of romantic, devotional, and children's poems. She is famous for writing Goblin Market and "Remember". She also wrote the words of the Christmas carols "In the Bleak Midwinter", set to a tune by Gustav Holst, and "Love Came Down at Christmas"
Sonnet 109
By: William Shakespeare
O, never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seemed my flame to qualify.
As easy might I from my self depart
As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie.
That is my home of love; if I have ranged,
Like him that travels I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe though in my nature reigned
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stained
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
For nothing this wide universe I call
Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
Early life. William Shakespeare was the son of John Shakespeare, an alderman and a successful glover (glove-maker) originally from Snitterfield, and Mary Arden, the daughter of an affluent landowning farmer.
By: William Shakespeare
O, never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seemed my flame to qualify.
As easy might I from my self depart
As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie.
That is my home of love; if I have ranged,
Like him that travels I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe though in my nature reigned
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stained
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
For nothing this wide universe I call
Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
Early life. William Shakespeare was the son of John Shakespeare, an alderman and a successful glover (glove-maker) originally from Snitterfield, and Mary Arden, the daughter of an affluent landowning farmer.
Heaven
By: Rupert Brooke
Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June,
Dawdling away their wat'ry noon)
Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear,
Each secret fishy hope or fear.
Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond;
But is there anything Beyond?
This life cannot be All, they swear,
For how unpleasant if it were!
One may not doubt that, somehow, Good
Shall come of Water and of Mud;
And, sure, the reverent eye must see
A Purpose in Liquidity.
We darkly know, by Faith we cry,
The future is not Wholly Dry.
Mud unto mud! – Death eddies near –
Not here the appointed End, not here!
But somewhere, beyond Space and Time,
Is wetter water, slimier slime!
And there (they trust) there swimmeth One
Who swam ere rivers were begun,
Immense, of fishy form and mind,
Squamous, omnipotent and kind;
And under that Almighty Fin,
The littlest fish may enter in.
Oh! Never fly conceals a hook,
Fish say, in the Eternal Brook,
But more than mundane weeds are there,
And mud, celestially fair;
Fat caterpillars drift around,
And Paradisal grubs are found;
Unfading moths, immortal flies,
And the worm that never dies.
And in that Heaven of all their wish,
There shall be no more land, say fish.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rupert_Brooke
By: Rupert Brooke
Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June,
Dawdling away their wat'ry noon)
Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear,
Each secret fishy hope or fear.
Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond;
But is there anything Beyond?
This life cannot be All, they swear,
For how unpleasant if it were!
One may not doubt that, somehow, Good
Shall come of Water and of Mud;
And, sure, the reverent eye must see
A Purpose in Liquidity.
We darkly know, by Faith we cry,
The future is not Wholly Dry.
Mud unto mud! – Death eddies near –
Not here the appointed End, not here!
But somewhere, beyond Space and Time,
Is wetter water, slimier slime!
And there (they trust) there swimmeth One
Who swam ere rivers were begun,
Immense, of fishy form and mind,
Squamous, omnipotent and kind;
And under that Almighty Fin,
The littlest fish may enter in.
Oh! Never fly conceals a hook,
Fish say, in the Eternal Brook,
But more than mundane weeds are there,
And mud, celestially fair;
Fat caterpillars drift around,
And Paradisal grubs are found;
Unfading moths, immortal flies,
And the worm that never dies.
And in that Heaven of all their wish,
There shall be no more land, say fish.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rupert_Brooke
When I Read the Book
By: Walt Whitman
When I read the book, the biography famous,
And is this then (said I) what the author calls a man’s life?
And so will some one when I am dead and gone write my life?
(As if any man really knew aught my life,
Why even I myself I often think know little or nothing of my real life,
Only a few hints, a few diffused faint clews and indirections
I seek for my own use to trace out here.)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walt_Whitman
Sunset on the Spire
By: Elinor Wylie
All that I dream
By day or night
Lives in that stream
Of lovely light.
Here is the earth,
And there is the spire;
This is my hearth,
And that is my fire.
From the sun's dome
I am shouted proof
That this is my home,
And that is my roof.
Here is my food,
And here is my drink,
And I am wooed
From the moon's brink.
And the days go over,
And the nights end;
Here is my lover,
Here is my friend.
All that I
Could ever ask
Wears that sky
Like a thin gold mask.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elinor_Wylie
By: Elinor Wylie
All that I dream
By day or night
Lives in that stream
Of lovely light.
Here is the earth,
And there is the spire;
This is my hearth,
And that is my fire.
From the sun's dome
I am shouted proof
That this is my home,
And that is my roof.
Here is my food,
And here is my drink,
And I am wooed
From the moon's brink.
And the days go over,
And the nights end;
Here is my lover,
Here is my friend.
All that I
Could ever ask
Wears that sky
Like a thin gold mask.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elinor_Wylie
Sonnet 1
By: William Shakespeare
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shakespeare
William Shakespeare - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
Early life. William Shakespeare was the son of John Shakespeare, an alderman and a successful glover (glove-maker) originally from Snitterfield, and Mary Arden, the daughter of an affluent landowning farmer.
By: William Shakespeare
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shakespeare
William Shakespeare - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
Early life. William Shakespeare was the son of John Shakespeare, an alderman and a successful glover (glove-maker) originally from Snitterfield, and Mary Arden, the daughter of an affluent landowning farmer.
Elegy V: His Picture
By: John Donne
Here take my picture; though I bid farewell
Thine, in my heart, where my soul dwells, shall dwell.
’Tis like me now, but I dead, ’twill be more
When we are shadows both, than 'twas before.
When weather-beaten I come back, my hand
Perhaps with rude oars torn, or sun beams tann’d,
My face and breast of haircloth, and my head
With care’s rash sudden storms being o’erspread,
My body’a sack of bones, broken within,
And powder’s blue stains scatter’d on my skin;
If rival fools tax thee to’have lov’d a man
So foul and coarse as, oh, I may seem then,
This shall say what I was, and thou shalt say,
“Do his hurts reach me? doth my worth decay?
Or do they reach his judging mind, that he
Should now love less, what he did love to see?
That which in him was fair and delicate,
Was but the milk which in love's childish state
Did nurse it; who now is grown strong enough
To feed on that, which to disus’d tastes seems tough.â€
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Donne
By: John Donne
Here take my picture; though I bid farewell
Thine, in my heart, where my soul dwells, shall dwell.
’Tis like me now, but I dead, ’twill be more
When we are shadows both, than 'twas before.
When weather-beaten I come back, my hand
Perhaps with rude oars torn, or sun beams tann’d,
My face and breast of haircloth, and my head
With care’s rash sudden storms being o’erspread,
My body’a sack of bones, broken within,
And powder’s blue stains scatter’d on my skin;
If rival fools tax thee to’have lov’d a man
So foul and coarse as, oh, I may seem then,
This shall say what I was, and thou shalt say,
“Do his hurts reach me? doth my worth decay?
Or do they reach his judging mind, that he
Should now love less, what he did love to see?
That which in him was fair and delicate,
Was but the milk which in love's childish state
Did nurse it; who now is grown strong enough
To feed on that, which to disus’d tastes seems tough.â€
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Donne
The Word
By: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Oh, a word is a gem, or a stone, or a song,
Or a flame, or a two-edged sword;
Or a rose in bloom, or a sweet perfume,
Or a drop of gall is a word.
You may choose your word like a connoisseur,
And polish it up with art,
But the word that sways, and stirs, and stays,
Is the word that comes from the heart.
You may work on your word a thousand weeks,
But it will not glow like one
That all unsought, leaps forth white hot,
When the fountains of feeling run.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ella_Wheeler_Wilcox
By: Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Oh, a word is a gem, or a stone, or a song,
Or a flame, or a two-edged sword;
Or a rose in bloom, or a sweet perfume,
Or a drop of gall is a word.
You may choose your word like a connoisseur,
And polish it up with art,
But the word that sways, and stirs, and stays,
Is the word that comes from the heart.
You may work on your word a thousand weeks,
But it will not glow like one
That all unsought, leaps forth white hot,
When the fountains of feeling run.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ella_Wheeler_Wilcox
The Vast Hour
By: Genevieve Taggard
All essences of sweetness from the white
Warm day go up in vapor, when the dark
Comes down. Ascends the tune of meadow-lark,
Ascends the noon-time smell of grass, when night
Takes sunlight from the world, and gives it ease.
Mysterious wings have brushed the air; and light
Float all the ghosts of sense and sound and sight;
The silent hive is echoing the bees.
So stir my thoughts at this slow, solemn time.
Now only is there certainty for me
When all the day's distilled and understood.
Now light meets darkness: now my tendrils climb
In this vast hour, up the living tree,
Where gloom foregathers, and the stern winds brood.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Genevieve_Taggard
By: Genevieve Taggard
All essences of sweetness from the white
Warm day go up in vapor, when the dark
Comes down. Ascends the tune of meadow-lark,
Ascends the noon-time smell of grass, when night
Takes sunlight from the world, and gives it ease.
Mysterious wings have brushed the air; and light
Float all the ghosts of sense and sound and sight;
The silent hive is echoing the bees.
So stir my thoughts at this slow, solemn time.
Now only is there certainty for me
When all the day's distilled and understood.
Now light meets darkness: now my tendrils climb
In this vast hour, up the living tree,
Where gloom foregathers, and the stern winds brood.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Genevieve_Taggard
Poetry
By: Claude McKay
Sometimes I tremble like a storm-swept flower,
And seek to hide my tortured soul from thee,
Bowing my head in deep humility
Before the silent thunder of thy power.
Sometimes I flee before thy blazing light,
As from the specter of pursuing death;
Intimidated lest thy mighty breath,
Windways, will sweep me into utter night.
For oh, I fear they will be swallowed up—
The loves which are to me of vital worth,
My passion and my pleasure in the earth—
And lost forever in thy magic cup!
I fear, I fear my truly human heart
Will perish on the altar-stone of art!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Claude_McKay
Claude McKay - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
Festus Claudius "Claude" McKay (September 15, 1889 – May 22, 1948) was a Jamaican writer and poet, who was a seminal figure in the Harlem Renaissance.He wrote four novels: Home to Harlem (1928), a best-seller that won the Harmon Gold Award for Literature, Banjo (1929), Banana Bottom (1933), and in 1941 a manuscript called Amiable With Big ...
By: Claude McKay
Sometimes I tremble like a storm-swept flower,
And seek to hide my tortured soul from thee,
Bowing my head in deep humility
Before the silent thunder of thy power.
Sometimes I flee before thy blazing light,
As from the specter of pursuing death;
Intimidated lest thy mighty breath,
Windways, will sweep me into utter night.
For oh, I fear they will be swallowed up—
The loves which are to me of vital worth,
My passion and my pleasure in the earth—
And lost forever in thy magic cup!
I fear, I fear my truly human heart
Will perish on the altar-stone of art!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Claude_McKay
Claude McKay - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
Festus Claudius "Claude" McKay (September 15, 1889 – May 22, 1948) was a Jamaican writer and poet, who was a seminal figure in the Harlem Renaissance.He wrote four novels: Home to Harlem (1928), a best-seller that won the Harmon Gold Award for Literature, Banjo (1929), Banana Bottom (1933), and in 1941 a manuscript called Amiable With Big ...
To Winter
By: William Blake
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 scepter 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 in 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 driven yelling to his caves beneath Mount Hecla.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Blake
By: William Blake
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 scepter 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 in 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 driven yelling to his caves beneath Mount Hecla.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Blake
Moments of Vision
By: Thomas Hardy
That mirror
Which makes of men a transparency,
Who holds that mirror
And bids us such a breast-bared spectacle to see
Of you and me?
That mirror
Whose magic penetrates like a dart,
Who lifts that mirror
And throws our mind back on us, and our heart,
Until we start?
That mirror
Works well in these night hours of ache;
Why in that mirror
Are tincts we never see ourselves once take
When the world is awake?
That mirror
Can test each mortal when unaware;
Yea, that strange mirror
May catch his last thoughts, whole life foul or fair,
Reflecting it—where?
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Hardy
Thomas Hardy - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
Thomas Hardy OM (2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928) was an English novelist and poet. A Victorian realist in the tradition of George Eliot, he was influenced both in his novels and in his poetry by Romanticism, especially William Wordsworth.
By: Thomas Hardy
That mirror
Which makes of men a transparency,
Who holds that mirror
And bids us such a breast-bared spectacle to see
Of you and me?
That mirror
Whose magic penetrates like a dart,
Who lifts that mirror
And throws our mind back on us, and our heart,
Until we start?
That mirror
Works well in these night hours of ache;
Why in that mirror
Are tincts we never see ourselves once take
When the world is awake?
That mirror
Can test each mortal when unaware;
Yea, that strange mirror
May catch his last thoughts, whole life foul or fair,
Reflecting it—where?
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Hardy
Thomas Hardy - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
Thomas Hardy OM (2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928) was an English novelist and poet. A Victorian realist in the tradition of George Eliot, he was influenced both in his novels and in his poetry by Romanticism, especially William Wordsworth.
By the Stream
By: Paul Laurence Dunbar
By the stream I dream in calm delight, and watch as in a glass,
How the clouds like crowds of snowy-hued and white-robed maidens
pass,
And the water into ripples breaks and sparkles as it spreads,
Like a host of armored knights with silver helmets on their heads.
And I deem the stream an emblem fit of human life may go,
For I find a mind may sparkle much and yet but shallows show,
And a soul may glow with myriad lights and wondrous mysteries,
When it only lies a dormant thing and mirrors what it sees.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Laurence_Dunbar
Paul Laurence Dunbar - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
Paul Laurence Dunbar (June 27, 1872 – February 9, 1906) was an American poet, novelist, and playwright of the late 19th and early 20th centuries.Born in Dayton, Ohio, to parents who had been enslaved in Kentucky before the American Civil War, Dunbar began to write stories and verse when still a child; he was president of his high school's ...
By: Paul Laurence Dunbar
By the stream I dream in calm delight, and watch as in a glass,
How the clouds like crowds of snowy-hued and white-robed maidens
pass,
And the water into ripples breaks and sparkles as it spreads,
Like a host of armored knights with silver helmets on their heads.
And I deem the stream an emblem fit of human life may go,
For I find a mind may sparkle much and yet but shallows show,
And a soul may glow with myriad lights and wondrous mysteries,
When it only lies a dormant thing and mirrors what it sees.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Laurence_Dunbar
Paul Laurence Dunbar - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
Paul Laurence Dunbar (June 27, 1872 – February 9, 1906) was an American poet, novelist, and playwright of the late 19th and early 20th centuries.Born in Dayton, Ohio, to parents who had been enslaved in Kentucky before the American Civil War, Dunbar began to write stories and verse when still a child; he was president of his high school's ...
Still On Patrol
By: Lt Col Frederick Lambert
In their submarines they went,
Some never to return
In those dark years of war.
We called them Yanks.
Do not forget them,
We give out our thanks.
Roll calls for their battle losses
The tolling of the bells
Dong, dong, dong.
War claimed its sacrifices
Tributes paid, wreathes laid.
Messages from aching hearts
Of loved ones far from home.
Lives for freedom.
Submarines,
Still on patrol.
Lt Col Frederick Lambert
"Z Special Force"
Borneo, 1944/45
By: Lt Col Frederick Lambert
In their submarines they went,
Some never to return
In those dark years of war.
We called them Yanks.
Do not forget them,
We give out our thanks.
Roll calls for their battle losses
The tolling of the bells
Dong, dong, dong.
War claimed its sacrifices
Tributes paid, wreathes laid.
Messages from aching hearts
Of loved ones far from home.
Lives for freedom.
Submarines,
Still on patrol.
Lt Col Frederick Lambert
"Z Special Force"
Borneo, 1944/45
Still On Patrol
By: Lt Col Frederick Lambert
In their submarines they went,
Some never to return
In those dark years of war.
We called them Yanks.
Do not forget them,
We give out our thanks.
Roll calls for their battle losses
The tolling of the bells
Dong, dong, dong.
War claimed its sacrifices
Tributes paid, wreathes laid.
Messages from aching hearts
Of loved ones far from home.
Lives for freedom.
Submarines,
Still on patrol.
Lt Col Frederick Lambert
"Z Special Force"
Borneo, 1944/45
By: Lt Col Frederick Lambert
In their submarines they went,
Some never to return
In those dark years of war.
We called them Yanks.
Do not forget them,
We give out our thanks.
Roll calls for their battle losses
The tolling of the bells
Dong, dong, dong.
War claimed its sacrifices
Tributes paid, wreathes laid.
Messages from aching hearts
Of loved ones far from home.
Lives for freedom.
Submarines,
Still on patrol.
Lt Col Frederick Lambert
"Z Special Force"
Borneo, 1944/45
Fragment: Questions
By: Percy Bysshe Shelley
Is it that in some brighter sphere
We part from friends we meet with here?
Or do we see the Future pass
Over the Present’s dusky glass?
Or what is that that makes us seem
To patch up fragments of a dream,
Part of which comes true, and part
Beats and trembles in the heart?
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Percy_Bysshe_Shelley
Percy Bysshe Shelley - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
Percy Bysshe Shelley (/ ˈ p ÉœËr s i ˈ b ɪ ʃ ˈ ʃ É› l i; 4 August 1792 – 8 July 1822) was one of the major English Romantic poets, and is regarded by some as among the finest lyric poets in the English language, and one of the most influential.
By: Percy Bysshe Shelley
Is it that in some brighter sphere
We part from friends we meet with here?
Or do we see the Future pass
Over the Present’s dusky glass?
Or what is that that makes us seem
To patch up fragments of a dream,
Part of which comes true, and part
Beats and trembles in the heart?
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Percy_Bysshe_Shelley
Percy Bysshe Shelley - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
Percy Bysshe Shelley (/ ˈ p ÉœËr s i ˈ b ɪ ʃ ˈ ʃ É› l i; 4 August 1792 – 8 July 1822) was one of the major English Romantic poets, and is regarded by some as among the finest lyric poets in the English language, and one of the most influential.
The Definition of
Love
By: Andrew Marvell
My Love is of a birth as rare
As ’tis for object strange and high:
It was begotten by despair
Upon Impossibility.
Magnanimous Despair alone
Could show me so divine a thing,
Where feeble Hope could ne’r have flown
But vainly flapt its Tinsel Wing.
And yet I quickly might arrive
Where my extended Soul is fixt,
But Fate does Iron wedges drive,
And alwaies crowds it self betwixt.
For Fate with jealous Eye does see
Two perfect Loves; nor lets them close:
Their union would her ruine be,
And her Tyrannick pow’er depose.
And therefore her Decrees of Steel
Us as the distant Poles have plac’d,
(Though Love’s whole World on us doth wheel)
Not by themselves to be embrac’d.
Unless the giddy Heaven fall,
And Earth some new Convulsion tear;
And, us to joyn, the World should all
Be cramp’d into a Planisphere.
As Lines so Loves oblique may well
Themselves in every Angle greet:
But ours so truly Parallel,
Though infinite can never meet.
Therefore the Love which us doth bind,
But Fate so enviously debarrs,
Is the Conjunction of the Mind,
And Opposition of the Stars.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andrew_Marvell
Andrew Marvell - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
Andrew Marvell (/ ˈ m É‘Ër v É™l /; 31 March 1621 – 16 August 1678) was an English metaphysical poet, satirist and politician who sat in the House of Commons at various times between 1659 and 1678.
By: Andrew Marvell
My Love is of a birth as rare
As ’tis for object strange and high:
It was begotten by despair
Upon Impossibility.
Magnanimous Despair alone
Could show me so divine a thing,
Where feeble Hope could ne’r have flown
But vainly flapt its Tinsel Wing.
And yet I quickly might arrive
Where my extended Soul is fixt,
But Fate does Iron wedges drive,
And alwaies crowds it self betwixt.
For Fate with jealous Eye does see
Two perfect Loves; nor lets them close:
Their union would her ruine be,
And her Tyrannick pow’er depose.
And therefore her Decrees of Steel
Us as the distant Poles have plac’d,
(Though Love’s whole World on us doth wheel)
Not by themselves to be embrac’d.
Unless the giddy Heaven fall,
And Earth some new Convulsion tear;
And, us to joyn, the World should all
Be cramp’d into a Planisphere.
As Lines so Loves oblique may well
Themselves in every Angle greet:
But ours so truly Parallel,
Though infinite can never meet.
Therefore the Love which us doth bind,
But Fate so enviously debarrs,
Is the Conjunction of the Mind,
And Opposition of the Stars.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andrew_Marvell
Andrew Marvell - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
Andrew Marvell (/ ˈ m É‘Ër v É™l /; 31 March 1621 – 16 August 1678) was an English metaphysical poet, satirist and politician who sat in the House of Commons at various times between 1659 and 1678.
The Exposed Nest
By: Robert Frost
You were forever finding some new play.
So when I saw you down on hands and knees
In the meadow, busy with the new-cut hay,
Trying, I thought, to set it up on end,
I went to show you how to make it stay,
If that was your idea, against the breeze,
And, if you asked me, even help pretend
To make it root again and grow afresh.
But ‘twas no make-believe with you to-day,
Nor was the grass itself your real concern,
Though I found your hand full of wilted fern,
Steel-bright June-grass, and blackening heads of clover.
‘Twas a nest full of young birds on the ground
The cutter-bar had just gone champing over
(Miraculously without tasting flesh)
And left defenseless to the heat and light.
You wanted to restore them to their right
Of something interposed between their sight
And too much world at once—could means be found.
The way the nest-full every time we stirred
Stood up to us as to a mother-bird
Whose coming home has been too long deferred,
Made me ask would the mother-bird return
And care for them in such a change of scene
And might our meddling make her more afraid.
That was a thing we could not wait to learn.
We saw the risk we took in doing good,
But dared not spare to do the best we could
Though harm should come of it; so built the screen
You had begun, and gave them back their shade.
All this to prove we cared. Why is there then
No more to tell? We turned to other things.
I haven’t any memory—have you?—
Of ever coming to the place again
To see if the birds lived the first night through,
And so at last to learn to use their wings.
Robert Frost
Robert Frost - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
Robert Frost was born in San Francisco, California, to journalist William Prescott Frost, Jr., and Isabelle Moodie. His mother was a Scottish immigrant, and his ...
By: Robert Frost
You were forever finding some new play.
So when I saw you down on hands and knees
In the meadow, busy with the new-cut hay,
Trying, I thought, to set it up on end,
I went to show you how to make it stay,
If that was your idea, against the breeze,
And, if you asked me, even help pretend
To make it root again and grow afresh.
But ‘twas no make-believe with you to-day,
Nor was the grass itself your real concern,
Though I found your hand full of wilted fern,
Steel-bright June-grass, and blackening heads of clover.
‘Twas a nest full of young birds on the ground
The cutter-bar had just gone champing over
(Miraculously without tasting flesh)
And left defenseless to the heat and light.
You wanted to restore them to their right
Of something interposed between their sight
And too much world at once—could means be found.
The way the nest-full every time we stirred
Stood up to us as to a mother-bird
Whose coming home has been too long deferred,
Made me ask would the mother-bird return
And care for them in such a change of scene
And might our meddling make her more afraid.
That was a thing we could not wait to learn.
We saw the risk we took in doing good,
But dared not spare to do the best we could
Though harm should come of it; so built the screen
You had begun, and gave them back their shade.
All this to prove we cared. Why is there then
No more to tell? We turned to other things.
I haven’t any memory—have you?—
Of ever coming to the place again
To see if the birds lived the first night through,
And so at last to learn to use their wings.
Robert Frost
Robert Frost - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
Robert Frost was born in San Francisco, California, to journalist William Prescott Frost, Jr., and Isabelle Moodie. His mother was a Scottish immigrant, and his ...
Book 1, Epigram 5: Ad lectorem de subjecto operis sui.
By: Thomas Bastard
The little world, the subject of my muse,
Is a huge task and labor infinite;
Like to a wilderness or mass confuse,
Or to an endless gulf, or to the night:
How many strange Meanders do I find?
How many paths do turn my straying pen?
How many doubtful twilights make me blind,
Which seek to limb out this strange All of men?
Easy it were the earth to portray out,
Or to draw forth the heavens’ purest frame,
Whose restless course, by order whirls about
Of change and place, and still remains the same.
But how shall man’s, or manner’s, form appear,
Which while I write, do change from what they were?
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Bastard
|
en.wikipedia.org The Reverend Thomas Bastard (1565/1566 – April 19, 1618) was an English clergyman famed for his published English language epigrams. Life. Born in Blandford Forum ... |
Sonnet 105
By: William Shakespeare
Let not my love be call'd idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Therefore my verse to constancy confined,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
'Fair, kind and true' is all my argument,
'Fair, kind, and true' varying to other words;
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
'Fair, kind, and true,' have often lived alone,
Which three till now never kept seat in one.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
By: William Shakespeare
Let not my love be call'd idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Therefore my verse to constancy confined,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
'Fair, kind and true' is all my argument,
'Fair, kind, and true' varying to other words;
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
'Fair, kind, and true,' have often lived alone,
Which three till now never kept seat in one.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
That Bright Chimeric
Beast
By: Countee Cullen
That bright chimeric beast
Conceived yet never born,
Save in the poet’s breast,
The white-flanked unicorn,
Never may be shaken
From his solitude;
Never may be taken
In any earthly wood.
That bird forever feathered,
Of its new self the sire,
After aeons weathered,
Reincarnate by fire,
Falcon may not nor eagle
Swerve from his eyrie,
Nor any crumb inveigle
Down to an earthly tree.
That fish of the dread regime
Invented to become
The fable and the dream
Of the Lord’s aquarium,
Leviathan, the jointed
Harpoon was never wrought
By which the Lord’s anointed
Will suffer to be caught.
Bird of the deathless breast,
Fish of the frantic fin,
That bright chimeric beast
Flashing the argent skin, –
If beasts like these you’d harry,
Plumb then the poet’s dream;
Make it your aviary,
Make it your wood and stream.
There only shall the swish
Be heard of the regal fish;
There like a golden knife
Dart the feet of the unicorn,
And there, death brought to life,
The dead bird be reborn.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Countee_Cullen
Countee Cullen - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
Early life Childhood. Countee Cullen was born on May 30, 1903, but due to a lack of records of his early childhood, it has been difficult to pinpoint his city of birth.
By: Countee Cullen
That bright chimeric beast
Conceived yet never born,
Save in the poet’s breast,
The white-flanked unicorn,
Never may be shaken
From his solitude;
Never may be taken
In any earthly wood.
That bird forever feathered,
Of its new self the sire,
After aeons weathered,
Reincarnate by fire,
Falcon may not nor eagle
Swerve from his eyrie,
Nor any crumb inveigle
Down to an earthly tree.
That fish of the dread regime
Invented to become
The fable and the dream
Of the Lord’s aquarium,
Leviathan, the jointed
Harpoon was never wrought
By which the Lord’s anointed
Will suffer to be caught.
Bird of the deathless breast,
Fish of the frantic fin,
That bright chimeric beast
Flashing the argent skin, –
If beasts like these you’d harry,
Plumb then the poet’s dream;
Make it your aviary,
Make it your wood and stream.
There only shall the swish
Be heard of the regal fish;
There like a golden knife
Dart the feet of the unicorn,
And there, death brought to life,
The dead bird be reborn.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Countee_Cullen
Countee Cullen - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
Early life Childhood. Countee Cullen was born on May 30, 1903, but due to a lack of records of his early childhood, it has been difficult to pinpoint his city of birth.
Autumn
By: John Clare
The thistledown's flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.
The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.
Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Clare
John Clare - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
John Clare (13 July 1793 – 20 May 1864) was an English poet, the son of a farm labourer, who became known for his celebrations of the English countryside and ...
By: John Clare
The thistledown's flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.
The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.
Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Clare
John Clare - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
John Clare (13 July 1793 – 20 May 1864) was an English poet, the son of a farm labourer, who became known for his celebrations of the English countryside and ...
Seaweed
By: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
When descends on the Atlantic
The gigantic
Storm-wind of the equinox,
Landward in his wrath he scourges
The toiling surges,
Laden with seaweed from the rocks:
From Bermuda's reefs; from edges
Of sunken ledges,
In some far-off, bright Azore;
From Bahama, and the dashing,
Silver-flashing
Surges of San Salvador;
From the tumbling surf, that buries
The Orkneyan skerries,
Answering the hoarse Hebrides;
And from wrecks of ships, and drifting
Spars, uplifting
On the desolate, rainy seas; —
Ever drifting, drifting, drifting
On the shifting
Currents of the restless main;
Till in sheltered coves, and reaches
Of sandy beaches,
All have found repose again.
So when storms of wild emotion
Strike the ocean
Of the poet's soul, erelong
From each cave and rocky fastness,
In its vastness,
Floats some fragment of a song:
From the far-off isles enchanted,
Heaven has planted
With the golden fruit of Truth;
From the flashing surf, whose vision
Gleams Elysian
In the tropic clime of Youth;
From the strong Will, and the Endeavor
That forever
Wrestle with the tides of Fate;
From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered,
Tempest-shattered,
Floating waste and desolate; —
Ever drifting, drifting, drifting
On the shifting
Currents of the restless heart;
Till at length in books recorded,
They, like hoarded
Household words, no more depart.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Wadsworth_Longfellow
By: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
When descends on the Atlantic
The gigantic
Storm-wind of the equinox,
Landward in his wrath he scourges
The toiling surges,
Laden with seaweed from the rocks:
From Bermuda's reefs; from edges
Of sunken ledges,
In some far-off, bright Azore;
From Bahama, and the dashing,
Silver-flashing
Surges of San Salvador;
From the tumbling surf, that buries
The Orkneyan skerries,
Answering the hoarse Hebrides;
And from wrecks of ships, and drifting
Spars, uplifting
On the desolate, rainy seas; —
Ever drifting, drifting, drifting
On the shifting
Currents of the restless main;
Till in sheltered coves, and reaches
Of sandy beaches,
All have found repose again.
So when storms of wild emotion
Strike the ocean
Of the poet's soul, erelong
From each cave and rocky fastness,
In its vastness,
Floats some fragment of a song:
From the far-off isles enchanted,
Heaven has planted
With the golden fruit of Truth;
From the flashing surf, whose vision
Gleams Elysian
In the tropic clime of Youth;
From the strong Will, and the Endeavor
That forever
Wrestle with the tides of Fate;
From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered,
Tempest-shattered,
Floating waste and desolate; —
Ever drifting, drifting, drifting
On the shifting
Currents of the restless heart;
Till at length in books recorded,
They, like hoarded
Household words, no more depart.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Wadsworth_Longfellow
To a Friend who sent
me some Roses
By: John Keats
As late I rambled in the happy fields,
What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dew
From his lush clover covert;—when anew
Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields:
I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,
A fresh-blown musk-rose; ‘twas the first that threw
Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew
As is the wand that queen Titania wields.
And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,
I thought the garden-rose it far excell’d:
But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me
My sense with their deliciousness was spell’d:
Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
Whisper’d of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell’d.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Keats
By: John Keats
As late I rambled in the happy fields,
What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dew
From his lush clover covert;—when anew
Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields:
I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,
A fresh-blown musk-rose; ‘twas the first that threw
Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew
As is the wand that queen Titania wields.
And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,
I thought the garden-rose it far excell’d:
But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me
My sense with their deliciousness was spell’d:
Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
Whisper’d of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell’d.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Keats
A Musical Instrument
By: Elizabeth Barrett Browning
I.
WHAT was he doing, the great god Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river ?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river.
II.
He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river :
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
Ere he brought it out of the river.
III.
High on the shore sate the great god Pan,
While turbidly flowed the river ;
And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.
IV.
He cut it short, did the great god Pan,
(How tall it stood in the river !)
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notched the poor dry empty thing
In holes, as he sate by the river.
V.
This is the way,' laughed the great god Pan,
Laughed while he sate by the river,)
The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed.'
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
He blew in power by the river.
VI.
Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan !
Piercing sweet by the river !
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan !
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.
VII.
Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man :
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, —
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_Barrett_Browning
By: Elizabeth Barrett Browning
I.
WHAT was he doing, the great god Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river ?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river.
II.
He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river :
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
Ere he brought it out of the river.
III.
High on the shore sate the great god Pan,
While turbidly flowed the river ;
And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.
IV.
He cut it short, did the great god Pan,
(How tall it stood in the river !)
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notched the poor dry empty thing
In holes, as he sate by the river.
V.
This is the way,' laughed the great god Pan,
Laughed while he sate by the river,)
The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed.'
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
He blew in power by the river.
VI.
Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan !
Piercing sweet by the river !
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan !
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.
VII.
Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man :
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, —
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_Barrett_Browning
The House of Life:
19. Silent Noon
By: Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass,—
The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:
Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms
'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.
All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,
Are golden kingcup fields with silver edge
Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge.
'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.
Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly
Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky:—
So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above.
Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,
This close-companioned inarticulate hour
When twofold silence was the song of love.
By: Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass,—
The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:
Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms
'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.
All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,
Are golden kingcup fields with silver edge
Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge.
'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.
Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly
Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky:—
So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above.
Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,
This close-companioned inarticulate hour
When twofold silence was the song of love.
Empty Manger
By: David Conolly
Once a church,
the little building
gathers dust.
Has he finally
abandoned us?
Is this the end
of
the lovely dream?
Look
at the hot, silent land -
and remember:
it was to planet earth
he came,
not to bricks
and crumbling mortar.
And to earth's inhabitants.
Wherever his Way
still lives -
and in whom -
he is present.
Always will be.
By: David Conolly
Once a church,
the little building
gathers dust.
Has he finally
abandoned us?
Is this the end
of
the lovely dream?
Look
at the hot, silent land -
and remember:
it was to planet earth
he came,
not to bricks
and crumbling mortar.
And to earth's inhabitants.
Wherever his Way
still lives -
and in whom -
he is present.
Always will be.
Sonnet 59
By: William Shakespeare
If there be nothing new, but that which is
Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd,
Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss
The second burthen of a former child!
O, that record could with a backward look,
Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
Show me your image in some antique book,
Since mind at first in character was done!
That I might see what the old world could say
To this composed wonder of your frame;
Whether we are mended, or whe'r better they,
Or whether revolution be the same.
O! sure I am, the wits of former days
To subjects worse have given admiring praise.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
By: William Shakespeare
If there be nothing new, but that which is
Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd,
Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss
The second burthen of a former child!
O, that record could with a backward look,
Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
Show me your image in some antique book,
Since mind at first in character was done!
That I might see what the old world could say
To this composed wonder of your frame;
Whether we are mended, or whe'r better they,
Or whether revolution be the same.
O! sure I am, the wits of former days
To subjects worse have given admiring praise.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
Of Love, A Sonnet
By: Robert Herrick
How love came in I do not know,
Whether by the eye, or ear, or no;
Or whether with the soul it came
(At first) infused with the same;
Whether in part ’tis here or there,
Or, like the soul, whole everywhere,
This troubles me: but I as well
As any other this can tell:
That when from hence she does depart
The outlet then is from the heart.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Herrick_(poet)
By: Robert Herrick
How love came in I do not know,
Whether by the eye, or ear, or no;
Or whether with the soul it came
(At first) infused with the same;
Whether in part ’tis here or there,
Or, like the soul, whole everywhere,
This troubles me: but I as well
As any other this can tell:
That when from hence she does depart
The outlet then is from the heart.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Herrick_(poet)
Cock-Crow
By: Edward Thomas
Out of the wood of thoughts that grows by night
To be cut down by the sharp axe of light,—
Out of the night, two cocks together crow,
Cleaving the darkness with a silver blow:
And bright before my eyes twin trumpeters stand,
Heralds of splendour, one at either hand,
Each facing each as in a coat of arms:
The milkers lace their boots up at the farms.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Thomas_(poet)
By: Edward Thomas
Out of the wood of thoughts that grows by night
To be cut down by the sharp axe of light,—
Out of the night, two cocks together crow,
Cleaving the darkness with a silver blow:
And bright before my eyes twin trumpeters stand,
Heralds of splendour, one at either hand,
Each facing each as in a coat of arms:
The milkers lace their boots up at the farms.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Thomas_(poet)
Love's Growth
By: John Donne
I scarce believe my love to be so pure
As I had thought it was,
Because it doth endure
Vicissitude, and season, as the grass;
Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore
My love was infinite, if spring make’ it more.
But if medicine, love, which cures all sorrow
With more, not only be no quintessence,
But mixed of all stuffs paining soul or sense,
And of the sun his working vigor borrow,
Love’s not so pure, and abstract, as they use
To say, which have no mistress but their muse,
But as all else, being elemented too,
Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.
And yet no greater, but more eminent,
Love by the spring is grown;
As, in the firmament,
Stars by the sun are not enlarged, but shown,
Gentle love deeds, as blossoms on a bough,
From love’s awakened root do bud out now.
If, as water stirred more circles be
Produced by one, love such additions take,
Those, like so many spheres, but one heaven make,
For they are all concentric unto thee;
And though each spring do add to love new heat,
As princes do in time of action get
New taxes, and remit them not in peace,
No winter shall abate the spring’s increase.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Donne
I scarce believe my love to be so pure
As I had thought it was,
Because it doth endure
Vicissitude, and season, as the grass;
Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore
My love was infinite, if spring make’ it more.
But if medicine, love, which cures all sorrow
With more, not only be no quintessence,
But mixed of all stuffs paining soul or sense,
And of the sun his working vigor borrow,
Love’s not so pure, and abstract, as they use
To say, which have no mistress but their muse,
But as all else, being elemented too,
Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.
And yet no greater, but more eminent,
Love by the spring is grown;
As, in the firmament,
Stars by the sun are not enlarged, but shown,
Gentle love deeds, as blossoms on a bough,
From love’s awakened root do bud out now.
If, as water stirred more circles be
Produced by one, love such additions take,
Those, like so many spheres, but one heaven make,
For they are all concentric unto thee;
And though each spring do add to love new heat,
As princes do in time of action get
New taxes, and remit them not in peace,
No winter shall abate the spring’s increase.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Donne
The Argument of
His Book
By: Robert Herrick
I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July-flowers.
I sing of maypoles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal cakes.
I write of youth, of love, and have access
By these to sing of cleanly wantonness.
I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece by piece,
Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris.
I sing of time’s trans-shifting; and I write
How roses first came red, and lilies white.
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
The court of Mab, and of the fairy king.
I write of Hell; I sing (and ever shall)
Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Herrick_(poet)​
By: Robert Herrick
I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July-flowers.
I sing of maypoles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal cakes.
I write of youth, of love, and have access
By these to sing of cleanly wantonness.
I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece by piece,
Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris.
I sing of time’s trans-shifting; and I write
How roses first came red, and lilies white.
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
The court of Mab, and of the fairy king.
I write of Hell; I sing (and ever shall)
Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Herrick_(poet)​
An Invite to Eternity
By: John Clare
Wilt thou go with me sweet maid
Say maiden wilt thou go with me
Through the valley depths of shade
Of night and dark obscurity
Where the path hath lost its way
Where the sun forgets the day
Where there’s nor life nor light to see
Sweet maiden wilt thou go with me
Where stones will turn to flooding streams,
Where plains will rise like ocean waves,
Where life will fade like visioned dreams
And mountains darken into caves.
Say maiden wilt thou go with me
Through this sad non-identity
Where parents live and are forgot
And sisters live and know us not
Say maiden wilt thou go with me
In this strange death of life to be
To live in death and be the same
Without this life, or home, or name
At once to be, and not to be
That was, and is not – yet to see
Things pass like shadows – and the sky
Above, below, around us lie
The land of shadows wilt thou trace
And look – nor know each other’s face
The present mixed with reasons gone
And past, and present all as one
Say maiden can thy life be led
To join the living to the dead
Then trace thy footsteps on with me
We’re wed to one eternity​
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Clare
By: John Clare
Wilt thou go with me sweet maid
Say maiden wilt thou go with me
Through the valley depths of shade
Of night and dark obscurity
Where the path hath lost its way
Where the sun forgets the day
Where there’s nor life nor light to see
Sweet maiden wilt thou go with me
Where stones will turn to flooding streams,
Where plains will rise like ocean waves,
Where life will fade like visioned dreams
And mountains darken into caves.
Say maiden wilt thou go with me
Through this sad non-identity
Where parents live and are forgot
And sisters live and know us not
Say maiden wilt thou go with me
In this strange death of life to be
To live in death and be the same
Without this life, or home, or name
At once to be, and not to be
That was, and is not – yet to see
Things pass like shadows – and the sky
Above, below, around us lie
The land of shadows wilt thou trace
And look – nor know each other’s face
The present mixed with reasons gone
And past, and present all as one
Say maiden can thy life be led
To join the living to the dead
Then trace thy footsteps on with me
We’re wed to one eternity​
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Clare
An Idyll of Dandaloo
By: A.B 'Banjo' Paterson
On Western plains, where shade is not,
‘Neath summer skies of cloudless blue,
Where all is dry and all is hot,
There stands the town of Dandaloo —
A township where life’s total sum
Is sleep, diversified with rum.
It’s grass-grown streets with dust are deep,
’Twere vain endeavour to express
The dreamless silence of its sleep,
Its wide, expansive drunkenness.
The yearly races mostly drew
A lively crowd to Dandaloo.
There came a sportsman from the East,
The eastern land where sportsmen blow,
And brought with him a speedy beast —
A speedy beast as horses go.
He came afar in hope to ‘do’
The little town of Dandaloo.
Now this was weak of him, I wot —
Exceeding weak, it seemed to me —
For we in Dandaloo were not
The Jugginses we seemed to be;
In fact, we rather thought we knew
Our book by heart in Dandaloo.
We held a meeting at the bar,
And met the question fair and square —
‘We’ve stumped the country near and far
To raise the cash for races here;
We’ve got a hundred pounds or two —
Not half so bad for Dandaloo.
‘And now, it seems, we have to be
Cleaned out by this here Sydney bloke,
With his imported horse; and he
Will scoop the pool and leave us broke
Shall we sit still, and make no fuss
While this chap climbs all over us?’
. . . . .
The races came to Dandaloo,
And all the cornstalks from the West,
On ev’ry kind of moke and screw,
Came forth in all their glory drest.
The stranger’s horse, as hard as nails,
Look’d fit to run for New South Wales.
He won the race by half a length —
QUITE half a length, it seemed to me —
But Dandaloo, with all its strength,
Roared out ‘Dead heat!’ most fervently;
And, after hesitation meet,
The judge’s verdict was ‘Dead heat!’
And many men there were could tell
What gave the verdict extra force:
The stewards, and the judge as well —
They all had backed the second horse.
For things like this they sometimes do
In larger towns than Dandaloo.
They ran it off; the stranger won,
Hands down, by near a hundred yards
He smiled to think his troubles done;
But Dandaloo held all the cards.
They went to scale and — cruel fate! —
His jockey turned out under-weight.
Perhaps they’d tampered with the scale!
I cannot tell. I only know
It weighed him OUT all right. I fail
To paint that Sydney sportsman’s woe.
He said the stewards were a crew
Of low-lived thieves in Dandaloo.
He lifted up his voice, irate,
And swore till all the air was blue;
So then we rose to vindicate
The dignity of Dandaloo.
‘Look here,’ said we, ‘you must not poke
Such oaths at us poor country folk.’
We rode him softly on a rail,
We shied at him, in careless glee,
Some large tomatoes, rank and stale,
And eggs of great antiquity —
Their wild, unholy fragrance flew
About the town of Dandaloo.
He left the town at break of day,
He led his race-horse through the streets,
And now he tells the tale, they say,
To every racing man he meets.
And Sydney sportsmen all eschew
The atmosphere of Dandaloo.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banjo_Paterson
By: A.B 'Banjo' Paterson
On Western plains, where shade is not,
‘Neath summer skies of cloudless blue,
Where all is dry and all is hot,
There stands the town of Dandaloo —
A township where life’s total sum
Is sleep, diversified with rum.
It’s grass-grown streets with dust are deep,
’Twere vain endeavour to express
The dreamless silence of its sleep,
Its wide, expansive drunkenness.
The yearly races mostly drew
A lively crowd to Dandaloo.
There came a sportsman from the East,
The eastern land where sportsmen blow,
And brought with him a speedy beast —
A speedy beast as horses go.
He came afar in hope to ‘do’
The little town of Dandaloo.
Now this was weak of him, I wot —
Exceeding weak, it seemed to me —
For we in Dandaloo were not
The Jugginses we seemed to be;
In fact, we rather thought we knew
Our book by heart in Dandaloo.
We held a meeting at the bar,
And met the question fair and square —
‘We’ve stumped the country near and far
To raise the cash for races here;
We’ve got a hundred pounds or two —
Not half so bad for Dandaloo.
‘And now, it seems, we have to be
Cleaned out by this here Sydney bloke,
With his imported horse; and he
Will scoop the pool and leave us broke
Shall we sit still, and make no fuss
While this chap climbs all over us?’
. . . . .
The races came to Dandaloo,
And all the cornstalks from the West,
On ev’ry kind of moke and screw,
Came forth in all their glory drest.
The stranger’s horse, as hard as nails,
Look’d fit to run for New South Wales.
He won the race by half a length —
QUITE half a length, it seemed to me —
But Dandaloo, with all its strength,
Roared out ‘Dead heat!’ most fervently;
And, after hesitation meet,
The judge’s verdict was ‘Dead heat!’
And many men there were could tell
What gave the verdict extra force:
The stewards, and the judge as well —
They all had backed the second horse.
For things like this they sometimes do
In larger towns than Dandaloo.
They ran it off; the stranger won,
Hands down, by near a hundred yards
He smiled to think his troubles done;
But Dandaloo held all the cards.
They went to scale and — cruel fate! —
His jockey turned out under-weight.
Perhaps they’d tampered with the scale!
I cannot tell. I only know
It weighed him OUT all right. I fail
To paint that Sydney sportsman’s woe.
He said the stewards were a crew
Of low-lived thieves in Dandaloo.
He lifted up his voice, irate,
And swore till all the air was blue;
So then we rose to vindicate
The dignity of Dandaloo.
‘Look here,’ said we, ‘you must not poke
Such oaths at us poor country folk.’
We rode him softly on a rail,
We shied at him, in careless glee,
Some large tomatoes, rank and stale,
And eggs of great antiquity —
Their wild, unholy fragrance flew
About the town of Dandaloo.
He left the town at break of day,
He led his race-horse through the streets,
And now he tells the tale, they say,
To every racing man he meets.
And Sydney sportsmen all eschew
The atmosphere of Dandaloo.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banjo_Paterson
Song: “Fear no more
the heat o’ the sunâ€
By: William Shakespeare
(from Cymbeline)
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.
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 scepter, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renownèd be thy grave!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
By: William Shakespeare
(from Cymbeline)
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.
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 scepter, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renownèd be thy grave!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
The Snail
By: Richard Lovelace
Wise emblem of our politic world,
Sage snail, within thine own self curl’d;
Instruct me softly to make haste,
Whilst these my feet go slowly fast.
Compendious snail! thou seem’st to me,
Large Euclid’s strict epitome;
And in each diagram dost fling
Thee from the point unto the ring;
A figure now triangular,
An oval now, and now a square;
And then a serpentine dost crawl,
Now a straight line, now crook’d, now all.
Preventing rival of the day,
Th’art up and openest thy ray,
And ere the morn cradles the moon
Th’art broke into a beauteous noon.
Then when the sun sups in the deep,
Thy silver horns ere Cynthia’s peep;
And thou from thine own liquid bed
New Phoebus heav’st thy pleasant head.
Who shall a name for thee create,
Deep riddle of mysterious state?
Bold Nature that gives common birth
To all products of seas and earth,
Of thee, as earthquakes, is afraid,
Nor will thy dire deliv’ry aid.
Thou thine own daughter then, and sire,
That son and mother art entire,
That big still with thy self dost go,
And liv’st an aged embryo;
That like the cubs of India,
Thou from thyself a while dost play;
But frighted with a dog or gun,
In thine own belly thou dost run,
And as thy house was thine own womb,
So thine own womb concludes thy tomb.
But now I must (analyz’d king)
Thy economic virtues sing;
Thou great stay’d husband still within,
Thou, thee, that’s thine dost discipline;
And when thou art to progress bent,
Thou mov’st thy self and tenement,
As warlike Scythians travell’d, you
Remove your men and city too;
Then after a sad dearth and rain,
Thou scatterest thy silver train;
And when the trees grow nak’d and old,
Thou clothest them with cloth of gold,
Which from thy bowels thou dost spin,
And draw from the rich mines within.
Now hast thou chang’d thee saint; and made
Thy self a fane that’s cupola’d;
And in thy wreathed cloister thou
Walkest thine own grey friar too;
Strict, and lock’d up, th’art hood all o’er,
And ne’er eliminat’st thy door.
On salads thou dost feed severe,
And ’stead of beads thou dropp’st a tear;
And when to rest, each calls the bell,
Thou sleep’st within thy marble cell,
Where in dark contemplation plac’d,
The sweets of nature thou dost taste;
Who now with time thy days resolve,
And in a jelly thee dissolve,
Like a shot star, which doth repair
Upward, and rarify the air.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Lovelace
By: Richard Lovelace
Wise emblem of our politic world,
Sage snail, within thine own self curl’d;
Instruct me softly to make haste,
Whilst these my feet go slowly fast.
Compendious snail! thou seem’st to me,
Large Euclid’s strict epitome;
And in each diagram dost fling
Thee from the point unto the ring;
A figure now triangular,
An oval now, and now a square;
And then a serpentine dost crawl,
Now a straight line, now crook’d, now all.
Preventing rival of the day,
Th’art up and openest thy ray,
And ere the morn cradles the moon
Th’art broke into a beauteous noon.
Then when the sun sups in the deep,
Thy silver horns ere Cynthia’s peep;
And thou from thine own liquid bed
New Phoebus heav’st thy pleasant head.
Who shall a name for thee create,
Deep riddle of mysterious state?
Bold Nature that gives common birth
To all products of seas and earth,
Of thee, as earthquakes, is afraid,
Nor will thy dire deliv’ry aid.
Thou thine own daughter then, and sire,
That son and mother art entire,
That big still with thy self dost go,
And liv’st an aged embryo;
That like the cubs of India,
Thou from thyself a while dost play;
But frighted with a dog or gun,
In thine own belly thou dost run,
And as thy house was thine own womb,
So thine own womb concludes thy tomb.
But now I must (analyz’d king)
Thy economic virtues sing;
Thou great stay’d husband still within,
Thou, thee, that’s thine dost discipline;
And when thou art to progress bent,
Thou mov’st thy self and tenement,
As warlike Scythians travell’d, you
Remove your men and city too;
Then after a sad dearth and rain,
Thou scatterest thy silver train;
And when the trees grow nak’d and old,
Thou clothest them with cloth of gold,
Which from thy bowels thou dost spin,
And draw from the rich mines within.
Now hast thou chang’d thee saint; and made
Thy self a fane that’s cupola’d;
And in thy wreathed cloister thou
Walkest thine own grey friar too;
Strict, and lock’d up, th’art hood all o’er,
And ne’er eliminat’st thy door.
On salads thou dost feed severe,
And ’stead of beads thou dropp’st a tear;
And when to rest, each calls the bell,
Thou sleep’st within thy marble cell,
Where in dark contemplation plac’d,
The sweets of nature thou dost taste;
Who now with time thy days resolve,
And in a jelly thee dissolve,
Like a shot star, which doth repair
Upward, and rarify the air.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Lovelace
Moonrise
By Gerard Manley Hopkins
I AWOKE in the Midsummer not to call night, in the
white and the walk of the morning:
The moon, dwindled and thinned to the fringe of a
finger-nail held to the candle,
Or paring of paradisaïcal fruit, lovely in waning but
lustreless,
Stepped from the stool, drew back from the barrow, of
dark Maenefa the mountain;
A cusp still clasped him, a fluke yet fanged him, en-
tangled him, not quit utterly.
This was the prized, the desirable sight, unsought, pre-
sented so easily,
Parted me leaf and leaf, divided me, eyelid and eyelid of
slumber.
By Gerard Manley Hopkins
I AWOKE in the Midsummer not to call night, in the
white and the walk of the morning:
The moon, dwindled and thinned to the fringe of a
finger-nail held to the candle,
Or paring of paradisaïcal fruit, lovely in waning but
lustreless,
Stepped from the stool, drew back from the barrow, of
dark Maenefa the mountain;
A cusp still clasped him, a fluke yet fanged him, en-
tangled him, not quit utterly.
This was the prized, the desirable sight, unsought, pre-
sented so easily,
Parted me leaf and leaf, divided me, eyelid and eyelid of
slumber.
Shakespeare
BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
A vision as of crowded city streets,
With human life in endless overflow;
Thunder of thoroughfares; trumpets that blow
To battle; clamor, in obscure retreats, Of sailors landed from their anchored fleets;
Tolling of bells in turrets, and below
Voices of children, and bright flowers that throw
O'er garden-walls their intermingled sweets!
This vision comes to me when I unfold
The volume of the Poet paramount,
Whom all the Muses loved, not one alone; — Into his hands they put the lyre of gold,
And, crowned with sacred laurel at their fount,
Placed him as Musagetes on their throne.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
A vision as of crowded city streets,
With human life in endless overflow;
Thunder of thoroughfares; trumpets that blow
To battle; clamor, in obscure retreats, Of sailors landed from their anchored fleets;
Tolling of bells in turrets, and below
Voices of children, and bright flowers that throw
O'er garden-walls their intermingled sweets!
This vision comes to me when I unfold
The volume of the Poet paramount,
Whom all the Muses loved, not one alone; — Into his hands they put the lyre of gold,
And, crowned with sacred laurel at their fount,
Placed him as Musagetes on their throne.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
The Oak
Letitia Elizabeth Landon
. . . It is the last survivor of a race
Strong in their forest-pride when I was young.
I can remember when, for miles around,
In place of those smooth meadows and corn-fields, There stood ten thousand tall and stately trees, Such as had braved the winds of March, the bolt Sent by the summer lightning, and the snow Heaping for weeks their boughs. Even in the depth Of hot July the glades were cool; the grass, Yellow and parched elsewhere, grew long and fresh, Shading wild strawberries and violets, Or the lark’s nest; and overhead the dove Had her lone dwelling, paying for her home With melancholy songs; and scarce a beech Was there without a honeysuckle linked Around, with its red tendrils and pink flowers; Or girdled by a brier-rose, whose buds Yield fragrant harvest for the honey-bee There dwelt the last red deer, those antler’d kings . . .
But this is as dream,—the plough has pass’d Where the stag bounded, and the day has looked On the green twilight of the forest-trees.
This oak has no companion! . . . .
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Letitia_Elizabeth_Landon
Letitia Elizabeth Landon
. . . It is the last survivor of a race
Strong in their forest-pride when I was young.
I can remember when, for miles around,
In place of those smooth meadows and corn-fields, There stood ten thousand tall and stately trees, Such as had braved the winds of March, the bolt Sent by the summer lightning, and the snow Heaping for weeks their boughs. Even in the depth Of hot July the glades were cool; the grass, Yellow and parched elsewhere, grew long and fresh, Shading wild strawberries and violets, Or the lark’s nest; and overhead the dove Had her lone dwelling, paying for her home With melancholy songs; and scarce a beech Was there without a honeysuckle linked Around, with its red tendrils and pink flowers; Or girdled by a brier-rose, whose buds Yield fragrant harvest for the honey-bee There dwelt the last red deer, those antler’d kings . . .
But this is as dream,—the plough has pass’d Where the stag bounded, and the day has looked On the green twilight of the forest-trees.
This oak has no companion! . . . .
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Letitia_Elizabeth_Landon
Song: 'The
feathers of the willow'
By Richard Watson Dixon
THE FEATHERS of the willow
Are half of them grown yellow
Above the swelling stream;
And ragged are the bushes,
And rusty now the rushes,
And wild the clouded gleam.
The thistle now is older,
His stalk begins to moulder,
His head is white as snow;
The branches all are barer,
The linnet’s song is rarer,
The robin pipeth now.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Watson_Dixon​
By Richard Watson Dixon
THE FEATHERS of the willow
Are half of them grown yellow
Above the swelling stream;
And ragged are the bushes,
And rusty now the rushes,
And wild the clouded gleam.
The thistle now is older,
His stalk begins to moulder,
His head is white as snow;
The branches all are barer,
The linnet’s song is rarer,
The robin pipeth now.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Watson_Dixon​
To One Who Has Been Long in City Pent
BY JOHN KEATS
To one who has been long in city pent,
'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer
Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
And gentle tale of love and languishment?
Returning home at evening, with an ear
Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye
Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,
He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
E'en like the passage of an angel's tear
That falls through the clear ether silently. ​
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Keats​
BY JOHN KEATS
To one who has been long in city pent,
'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer
Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
And gentle tale of love and languishment?
Returning home at evening, with an ear
Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye
Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,
He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
E'en like the passage of an angel's tear
That falls through the clear ether silently. ​
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Keats​
Today's
poem, 'Thoughts 1', is the first poem from Volume 1 of 'Three Hundred Tang Poems', an anthology compiled by the Qing Dynasty
scholar Sun Zhu in around 1763.
Thoughts I
By Zhang Jiuling
A lonely swan from the sea flies,
To alight on puddles it does not deign.
Nesting in the poplar of pearls
It spies and questions green birds twain:
"Don't you fear the threat of slings,
Perched on top of branches so high?
Nice clothes invite pointing fingers,
High climbers god's good will defy.
Bird-hunters will crave me in vain,
For I roam the limitless sky." ​
All five volumes of the anthology may be downloaded for reading and listening from the LibriVox website.
Thoughts I
By Zhang Jiuling
A lonely swan from the sea flies,
To alight on puddles it does not deign.
Nesting in the poplar of pearls
It spies and questions green birds twain:
"Don't you fear the threat of slings,
Perched on top of branches so high?
Nice clothes invite pointing fingers,
High climbers god's good will defy.
Bird-hunters will crave me in vain,
For I roam the limitless sky." ​
All five volumes of the anthology may be downloaded for reading and listening from the LibriVox website.
Inviting a Friend to Supper
BY BEN JONSONTonight, grave sir, both my poor house, and I
Do equally desire your company;
Not that we think us worthy such a guest,
But that your worth will dignify our feast
With those that come, whose grace may make that seem
Something, which else could hope for no esteem.
It is the fair acceptance, sir, creates
The entertainment perfect, not the cates.
Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate,
An olive, capers, or some better salad
Ushering the mutton; with a short-legged hen,
If we can get her, full of eggs, and then
Lemons, and wine for sauce; to these a cony
Is not to be despaired of, for our money;
And, though fowl now be scarce, yet there are clerks,
The sky not falling, think we may have larks.
I’ll tell you of more, and lie, so you will come:
Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some
May yet be there, and godwit, if we can;
Knat, rail, and ruff too. Howsoe’er, my man
Shall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus,
Livy, or of some better book to us,
Of which we’ll speak our minds, amidst our meat;
And I’ll profess no verses to repeat.
To this, if ought appear which I not know of,
That will the pastry, not my paper, show of.
Digestive cheese and fruit there sure will be;
But that which most doth take my Muse and me,
Is a pure cup of rich Canary wine,
Which is the Mermaid’s now, but shall be mine;
Of which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted,
Their lives, as so their lines, till now had lasted.
Tobacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring,
Are all but Luther's beer to this I sing.
Of this we will sup free, but moderately,
And we will have no Pooley, or Parrot by,
Nor shall our cups make any guilty men;
But, at our parting we will be as when
We innocently met. No simple word
That shall be uttered at our mirthful board,
Shall make us sad next morning or affright
The liberty that we’ll enjoy tonight.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/ben-jonson​
from Endymion
BY JOHN KEATSA Poetic Romance
(excerpt)
BOOK I
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
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-darkened 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;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/john-keats​
from The Prelude: Book
2: School-time
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leaving much
Unvisited, endeavour'd to retrace
My life through its first years, and measured back
The way I travell'd when I first began
To love the woods and fields; the passion yet
Was in its birth, sustain'd, as might befal,
By nourishment that came unsought, for still,
From week to week, from month to month, we liv'd
A round of tumult: duly were our games
Prolong'd in summer till the day-light fail'd;
No chair remain'd before the doors, the bench
And threshold steps were empty; fast asleep
The Labourer, and the old Man who had sate,
A later lingerer, yet the revelry
Continued, and the loud uproar: at last,
When all the ground was dark, and the huge clouds
Were edged with twinkling stars, to bed we went,
With weary joints, and with a beating mind.
Ah! is there one who ever has been young,
Nor needs a monitory voice to tame
The pride of virtue, and of intellect?
And is there one, the wisest and the best
Of all mankind, who does not sometimes wish
For things which cannot be, who would not give,
If so he might, to duty and to truth
The eagerness of infantine desire?
A tranquillizing spirit presses now
On my corporeal frame: so wide appears
The vacancy between me and those days,
Which yet have such self-presence in my mind
That, sometimes, when I think of them, I seem
Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself
And of some other Being. A grey Stone
Of native rock, left midway in the Square
Of our small market Village, was the home
And centre of these joys, and when, return'd
After long absence, thither I repair'd,
I found that it was split, and gone to build
A smart Assembly-room that perk'd and flar'd
With wash and rough-cast elbowing the ground
Which had been ours. But let the fiddle scream,
And be ye happy! yet, my Friends! I know
That more than one of you will think with me
Of those soft starry nights, and that old Dame
From whom the stone was nam'd who there had sate
And watch'd her Table with its huckster's wares
Assiduous, thro' the length of sixty years.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/william-wordsworth​
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leaving much
Unvisited, endeavour'd to retrace
My life through its first years, and measured back
The way I travell'd when I first began
To love the woods and fields; the passion yet
Was in its birth, sustain'd, as might befal,
By nourishment that came unsought, for still,
From week to week, from month to month, we liv'd
A round of tumult: duly were our games
Prolong'd in summer till the day-light fail'd;
No chair remain'd before the doors, the bench
And threshold steps were empty; fast asleep
The Labourer, and the old Man who had sate,
A later lingerer, yet the revelry
Continued, and the loud uproar: at last,
When all the ground was dark, and the huge clouds
Were edged with twinkling stars, to bed we went,
With weary joints, and with a beating mind.
Ah! is there one who ever has been young,
Nor needs a monitory voice to tame
The pride of virtue, and of intellect?
And is there one, the wisest and the best
Of all mankind, who does not sometimes wish
For things which cannot be, who would not give,
If so he might, to duty and to truth
The eagerness of infantine desire?
A tranquillizing spirit presses now
On my corporeal frame: so wide appears
The vacancy between me and those days,
Which yet have such self-presence in my mind
That, sometimes, when I think of them, I seem
Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself
And of some other Being. A grey Stone
Of native rock, left midway in the Square
Of our small market Village, was the home
And centre of these joys, and when, return'd
After long absence, thither I repair'd,
I found that it was split, and gone to build
A smart Assembly-room that perk'd and flar'd
With wash and rough-cast elbowing the ground
Which had been ours. But let the fiddle scream,
And be ye happy! yet, my Friends! I know
That more than one of you will think with me
Of those soft starry nights, and that old Dame
From whom the stone was nam'd who there had sate
And watch'd her Table with its huckster's wares
Assiduous, thro' the length of sixty years.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/william-wordsworth​
The Wine of Love
By James Thomson (Bysshe Vanolis)
The wine of Love is music,
And the feast of Love is song:
And when Love sits down to the banquet,
Love sits long:
Sits long and ariseth drunken,
But not with the feast and the wine;
He reeleth with his own heart,
That great rich Vine.
By James Thomson (Bysshe Vanolis)
The wine of Love is music,
And the feast of Love is song:
And when Love sits down to the banquet,
Love sits long:
Sits long and ariseth drunken,
But not with the feast and the wine;
He reeleth with his own heart,
That great rich Vine.
The Garden
By Andrew Marvell
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!
By Andrew Marvell
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!
Sonnet 55: Not marble
nor the gilded monuments
By William Shakespeare
Not marble nor the gilded monuments
Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme,
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone besmeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war’s quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
’Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the Judgement that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes.
By William Shakespeare
Not marble nor the gilded monuments
Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme,
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone besmeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war’s quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
’Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the Judgement that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes.
To Margaret W------
By Charles Lamb
Margaret, in happy hour
Christen'd from that humble flower
Which we a daisy call!
May thy pretty name-sake be
In all things a type of thee,
And image thee in all.
Like it you show a modest face,
An unpretending native grace;—
The tulip, and the pink,
The china and the damask rose,
And every flaunting flower that blows,
In the comparing shrink.
Of lowly fields you think no scorn;
Yet gayest gardens would adorn,
And grace, wherever set.
Home-seated in your lonely bower,
Or wedded—a transplanted flower—
I bless you, Margaret!
By Charles Lamb
Margaret, in happy hour
Christen'd from that humble flower
Which we a daisy call!
May thy pretty name-sake be
In all things a type of thee,
And image thee in all.
Like it you show a modest face,
An unpretending native grace;—
The tulip, and the pink,
The china and the damask rose,
And every flaunting flower that blows,
In the comparing shrink.
Of lowly fields you think no scorn;
Yet gayest gardens would adorn,
And grace, wherever set.
Home-seated in your lonely bower,
Or wedded—a transplanted flower—
I bless you, Margaret!
The Author to Her
Book
By Anne Bradstreet
Thou ill-form’d offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad, expos’d to publick view,
Made thee in raggs, halting to th’ press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judg).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:
I wash’d thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretched thy joynts to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run’st more hobling then is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i’ th’ house I find.
In this array ’mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam.
In Criticks hands, beware thou dost not come;
And take thy way where yet thou art not known,
If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none:
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which caus’d her thus to send thee out of door.
By Anne Bradstreet
Thou ill-form’d offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad, expos’d to publick view,
Made thee in raggs, halting to th’ press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judg).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:
I wash’d thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretched thy joynts to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run’st more hobling then is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i’ th’ house I find.
In this array ’mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam.
In Criticks hands, beware thou dost not come;
And take thy way where yet thou art not known,
If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none:
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which caus’d her thus to send thee out of door.
Bell-Birds
by Henry Kendall
By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,
And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling:
It lives in the mountain where moss and the sedges
Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges.
Through breaks of the cedar and sycamore bowers
Struggles the light that is love to the flowers;
And, softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,
The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.
The silver-voiced bell birds, the darlings of daytime!
They sing in September their songs of the May-time;
When shadows wax strong, and the thunder bolts hurtle,
They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle;
When rain and the sunbeams shine mingled together,
They start up like fairies that follow fair weather;
And straightway the hues of their feathers unfolden
Are the green and the purple, the blue and the golden.
October, the maiden of bright yellow tresses,
Loiters for love in these cool wildernesses;
Loiters, knee-deep, in the grasses, to listen,
Where dripping rocks gleam and the leafy pools glisten:
Then is the time when the water-moons splendid
Break with their gold, and are scattered or blended
Over the creeks, till the woodlands have warning
Of songs of the bell-bird and wings of the Morning.
Welcome as waters unkissed by the summers
Are the voices of bell-birds to the thirsty far-comers.
When fiery December sets foot in the forest,
And the need of the wayfarer presses the sorest,
Pent in the ridges for ever and ever
The bell-birds direct him to spring and to river,
With ring and with ripple, like runnels who torrents
Are toned by the pebbles and the leaves in the currents.
Often I sit, looking back to a childhood,
Mixt with the sights and the sounds of the wildwood,
Longing for power and the sweetness to fashion,
Lyrics with beats like the heart-beats of Passion; -
Songs interwoven of lights and of laughters
Borrowed from bell-birds in far forest-rafters;
So I might keep in the city and alleys
The beauty and strength of the deep mountain valleys:
Charming to slumber the pain of my losses
With glimpses of creeks and a vision of mosses.
by Henry Kendall
By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,
And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling:
It lives in the mountain where moss and the sedges
Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges.
Through breaks of the cedar and sycamore bowers
Struggles the light that is love to the flowers;
And, softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,
The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.
The silver-voiced bell birds, the darlings of daytime!
They sing in September their songs of the May-time;
When shadows wax strong, and the thunder bolts hurtle,
They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle;
When rain and the sunbeams shine mingled together,
They start up like fairies that follow fair weather;
And straightway the hues of their feathers unfolden
Are the green and the purple, the blue and the golden.
October, the maiden of bright yellow tresses,
Loiters for love in these cool wildernesses;
Loiters, knee-deep, in the grasses, to listen,
Where dripping rocks gleam and the leafy pools glisten:
Then is the time when the water-moons splendid
Break with their gold, and are scattered or blended
Over the creeks, till the woodlands have warning
Of songs of the bell-bird and wings of the Morning.
Welcome as waters unkissed by the summers
Are the voices of bell-birds to the thirsty far-comers.
When fiery December sets foot in the forest,
And the need of the wayfarer presses the sorest,
Pent in the ridges for ever and ever
The bell-birds direct him to spring and to river,
With ring and with ripple, like runnels who torrents
Are toned by the pebbles and the leaves in the currents.
Often I sit, looking back to a childhood,
Mixt with the sights and the sounds of the wildwood,
Longing for power and the sweetness to fashion,
Lyrics with beats like the heart-beats of Passion; -
Songs interwoven of lights and of laughters
Borrowed from bell-birds in far forest-rafters;
So I might keep in the city and alleys
The beauty and strength of the deep mountain valleys:
Charming to slumber the pain of my losses
With glimpses of creeks and a vision of mosses.
Sonnet I
by Henry Kendall
I
I purposed once to take my pen and write,
Not songs, like some, tormented and awry
With passion, but a cunning harmony
Of words and music caught from glen and height,
And lucid colours born of woodland light
And shining places where the sea-streams lie.
But this was when the heat of youth glowed white,
And since I've put the faded purpose by.
I have no faultless fruits to offer you
Who read this book; but certain syllables
Herein are borrowed from unfooted dells
And secret hollows dear to noontide dew;
And these at least, though far between and few,
May catch the sense like subtle forest spells.
by Henry Kendall
I
I purposed once to take my pen and write,
Not songs, like some, tormented and awry
With passion, but a cunning harmony
Of words and music caught from glen and height,
And lucid colours born of woodland light
And shining places where the sea-streams lie.
But this was when the heat of youth glowed white,
And since I've put the faded purpose by.
I have no faultless fruits to offer you
Who read this book; but certain syllables
Herein are borrowed from unfooted dells
And secret hollows dear to noontide dew;
And these at least, though far between and few,
May catch the sense like subtle forest spells.
For Once, Then, Something
By Robert Frost
Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs
Always wrong to the light, so never seeing
Deeper down in the well than where the water
Gives me back in a shining surface picture
Me myself in the summer heaven godlike
Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs.
Once, when trying with chin against a well-curb,
I discerned, as I thought, beyond the picture,
Through the picture, a something white, uncertain,
Something more of the depths—and then I lost it.
Water came to rebuke the too clear water.
One drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple
Shook whatever it was lay there at bottom,
Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness?
Truth? A pebble of quartz? For once, then, something.
By Robert Frost
Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs
Always wrong to the light, so never seeing
Deeper down in the well than where the water
Gives me back in a shining surface picture
Me myself in the summer heaven godlike
Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs.
Once, when trying with chin against a well-curb,
I discerned, as I thought, beyond the picture,
Through the picture, a something white, uncertain,
Something more of the depths—and then I lost it.
Water came to rebuke the too clear water.
One drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple
Shook whatever it was lay there at bottom,
Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness?
Truth? A pebble of quartz? For once, then, something.
The Owl
By Edward Thomas
Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved;
Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof
Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest
Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof.
Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest,
Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I.
All of the night was quite barred out except
An owl’s cry, a most melancholy cry
Shaken out long and clear upon the hill,
No merry note, nor cause of merriment,
But one telling me plain what I escaped
And others could not, that night, as in I went.
And salted was my food, and my repose,
Salted and sobered, too, by the bird’s voice
Speaking for all who lay under the stars,
Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.
By Edward Thomas
Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved;
Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof
Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest
Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof.
Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest,
Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I.
All of the night was quite barred out except
An owl’s cry, a most melancholy cry
Shaken out long and clear upon the hill,
No merry note, nor cause of merriment,
But one telling me plain what I escaped
And others could not, that night, as in I went.
And salted was my food, and my repose,
Salted and sobered, too, by the bird’s voice
Speaking for all who lay under the stars,
Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.
“Dank fens of cedar; hemlock-branches grayâ€
By Frederick Goddard Tuckerman
from Sonnets, First Series
VI
Dank fens of cedar; hemlock-branches gray
With trees and trail of mosses, wringing-wet;
Beds of the black pitchpine in dead leaves set
Whose wasted red has wasted to white away;
Remnants of rain and droppings of decay, —
Why hold ye so my heart, nor dimly let
Through your deep leaves the light of yesterday,
The faded glimmer of a sunshine set?
Is it that in your darkness, shut from strife,
The bread of tears becomes the bread of life?
Far from the roar of day, beneath your boughs
Fresh griefs beat tranquilly, and loves and vows
Grow green in your gray shadows, dearer far
Even than all lovely lights and roses are?
By Frederick Goddard Tuckerman
from Sonnets, First Series
VI
Dank fens of cedar; hemlock-branches gray
With trees and trail of mosses, wringing-wet;
Beds of the black pitchpine in dead leaves set
Whose wasted red has wasted to white away;
Remnants of rain and droppings of decay, —
Why hold ye so my heart, nor dimly let
Through your deep leaves the light of yesterday,
The faded glimmer of a sunshine set?
Is it that in your darkness, shut from strife,
The bread of tears becomes the bread of life?
Far from the roar of day, beneath your boughs
Fresh griefs beat tranquilly, and loves and vows
Grow green in your gray shadows, dearer far
Even than all lovely lights and roses are?
When that I was and a little
tiny boy (With hey, ho,
the wind and the rain)
(from Twelth Night)
By William Shakespeare
When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came to man’s estate,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came, alas! to wive,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
By swaggering could I never thrive,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came unto my beds,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
With toss-pots still had drunken heads,
For the rain it raineth every day.
A great while ago the world begun,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
But that’s all one, our play is done,
And we’ll strive to please you every day.
(from Twelth Night)
By William Shakespeare
When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came to man’s estate,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came, alas! to wive,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
By swaggering could I never thrive,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came unto my beds,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
With toss-pots still had drunken heads,
For the rain it raineth every day.
A great while ago the world begun,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
But that’s all one, our play is done,
And we’ll strive to please you every day.
Inscription for a Fountain on a
Heath
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge
This Sycamore, oft musical with bees,—
Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long unharmed
May all its agèd boughs o'er-canopy
The small round basin, which this jutting stone
Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring,
Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath,
Send up cold waters to the traveller
With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease
Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance,
Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's Page,
As merry and no taller, dances still,
Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount.
Here Twilight is and Coolness: here is moss,
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.
Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree.
Drink, Pilgrim, here; Here rest! and if thy heart
Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh
Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,
Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees!
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge
This Sycamore, oft musical with bees,—
Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long unharmed
May all its agèd boughs o'er-canopy
The small round basin, which this jutting stone
Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring,
Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath,
Send up cold waters to the traveller
With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease
Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance,
Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's Page,
As merry and no taller, dances still,
Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount.
Here Twilight is and Coolness: here is moss,
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.
Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree.
Drink, Pilgrim, here; Here rest! and if thy heart
Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh
Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,
Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees!
from The Prelude: Book 2: School-time (Continued)
By William Wordsworth
Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leaving much
Unvisited, endeavour'd to retrace
My life through its first years, and measured back
The way I travell'd when I first began
To love the woods and fields; the passion yet
Was in its birth, sustain'd, as might befal,
By nourishment that came unsought, for still,
From week to week, from month to month, we liv'd
A round of tumult: duly were our games
Prolong'd in summer till the day-light fail'd;
No chair remain'd before the doors, the bench
And threshold steps were empty; fast asleep
The Labourer, and the old Man who had sate,
A later lingerer, yet the revelry
Continued, and the loud uproar: at last,
When all the ground was dark, and the huge clouds
Were edged with twinkling stars, to bed we went,
With weary joints, and with a beating mind.
Ah! is there one who ever has been young,
Nor needs a monitory voice to tame
The pride of virtue, and of intellect?
And is there one, the wisest and the best
Of all mankind, who does not sometimes wish
For things which cannot be, who would not give,
If so he might, to duty and to truth
The eagerness of infantine desire?
A tranquillizing spirit presses now
On my corporeal frame: so wide appears
The vacancy between me and those days,
Which yet have such self-presence in my mind
That, sometimes, when I think of them, I seem
Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself
And of some other Being.
By William Wordsworth
Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leaving much
Unvisited, endeavour'd to retrace
My life through its first years, and measured back
The way I travell'd when I first began
To love the woods and fields; the passion yet
Was in its birth, sustain'd, as might befal,
By nourishment that came unsought, for still,
From week to week, from month to month, we liv'd
A round of tumult: duly were our games
Prolong'd in summer till the day-light fail'd;
No chair remain'd before the doors, the bench
And threshold steps were empty; fast asleep
The Labourer, and the old Man who had sate,
A later lingerer, yet the revelry
Continued, and the loud uproar: at last,
When all the ground was dark, and the huge clouds
Were edged with twinkling stars, to bed we went,
With weary joints, and with a beating mind.
Ah! is there one who ever has been young,
Nor needs a monitory voice to tame
The pride of virtue, and of intellect?
And is there one, the wisest and the best
Of all mankind, who does not sometimes wish
For things which cannot be, who would not give,
If so he might, to duty and to truth
The eagerness of infantine desire?
A tranquillizing spirit presses now
On my corporeal frame: so wide appears
The vacancy between me and those days,
Which yet have such self-presence in my mind
That, sometimes, when I think of them, I seem
Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself
And of some other Being.
The Arrow and the Song
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
Delia 31: Look,
Delia, how we 'steem the half-blown rose (1592 version)
By Samuel Daniel
Look, Delia, how we 'steem the half-blown rose,
The image of thy blush and summer's honour,
Whilst in her tender green she doth enclose
That pure sweet beauty time bestows upon her.
No sooner spreads her glory in the air
But straight her full-blown pride is in declining;
She then is scorn'd that late adorn'd the fair:
So clouds thy beauty after fairest shining.
No April can revive thy wither'd flowers,
Whose blooming grace adorns thy beauty now;
Swift speedy time, feather'd with flying hours,
Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.
O let not then such riches waste in vain,
But love whilst that thou mayst be lov'd again.
By Samuel Daniel
Look, Delia, how we 'steem the half-blown rose,
The image of thy blush and summer's honour,
Whilst in her tender green she doth enclose
That pure sweet beauty time bestows upon her.
No sooner spreads her glory in the air
But straight her full-blown pride is in declining;
She then is scorn'd that late adorn'd the fair:
So clouds thy beauty after fairest shining.
No April can revive thy wither'd flowers,
Whose blooming grace adorns thy beauty now;
Swift speedy time, feather'd with flying hours,
Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.
O let not then such riches waste in vain,
But love whilst that thou mayst be lov'd again.
Wash of Cold River
By Hilda Doolittle
Wash of cold river
in a glacial land,
Ionian water,
chill, snow-ribbed sand,
drift of rare flowers,
clear, with delicate shell-
like leaf enclosing
frozen lily-leaf,
camellia texture,
colder than a rose;
wind-flower
that keeps the breath
of the north-wind—
these and none other;
intimate thoughts and kind
reach out to share
the treasure of my mind,
intimate hands and dear
drawn garden-ward and sea-ward
all the sheer rapture
that I would take
to mould a clear
and frigid statue;
rare, of pure texture,
beautiful space and line,
marble to grace
your inaccessible shrine.
By Hilda Doolittle
Wash of cold river
in a glacial land,
Ionian water,
chill, snow-ribbed sand,
drift of rare flowers,
clear, with delicate shell-
like leaf enclosing
frozen lily-leaf,
camellia texture,
colder than a rose;
wind-flower
that keeps the breath
of the north-wind—
these and none other;
intimate thoughts and kind
reach out to share
the treasure of my mind,
intimate hands and dear
drawn garden-ward and sea-ward
all the sheer rapture
that I would take
to mould a clear
and frigid statue;
rare, of pure texture,
beautiful space and line,
marble to grace
your inaccessible shrine.
The Cloud Confines
By Dante Gabriel Rossetti
The day is dark and the night
To him that would search their heart;
No lips of cloud that will part
Nor morning song in the light:
Only, gazing alone,
To him wild shadows are shown,
Deep under deep unknown
And height above unknown height.
Still we say as we go,
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
The Past is over and fled;
Nam'd new, we name it the old;
Thereof some tale hath been told,
But no word comes from the dead;
Whether at all they be,
Or whether as bond or free,
Or whether they too were we,
Or by what spell they have sped.
Still we say as we go,
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
What of the heart of hate
That beats in thy breast, O Time?
Red strife from the furthest prime,
And anguish of fierce debate;
War that shatters her slain,
And peace that grinds them as grain,
And eyes fix'd ever in vain
On the pitiless eyes of Fate.
Still we say as we go,
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
What of the heart of love
That bleeds in thy breast, O Man?
Thy kisses snatch'd 'neath the ban
Of fangs that mock them above;
Thy bells prolong'd unto knells,
Thy hope that a breath dispels,
Thy bitter forlorn farewells
And the empty echoes thereof?
Still we say as we go,
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
The sky leans dumb on the sea,
Aweary with all its wings;
And oh! the song the sea sings
Is dark everlastingly.
Our past is clean forgot,
Our present is and is not,
Our future's a seal'd seedplot,
And what betwixt them are we?
We who say as we go,
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
By Dante Gabriel Rossetti
The day is dark and the night
To him that would search their heart;
No lips of cloud that will part
Nor morning song in the light:
Only, gazing alone,
To him wild shadows are shown,
Deep under deep unknown
And height above unknown height.
Still we say as we go,
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
The Past is over and fled;
Nam'd new, we name it the old;
Thereof some tale hath been told,
But no word comes from the dead;
Whether at all they be,
Or whether as bond or free,
Or whether they too were we,
Or by what spell they have sped.
Still we say as we go,
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
What of the heart of hate
That beats in thy breast, O Time?
Red strife from the furthest prime,
And anguish of fierce debate;
War that shatters her slain,
And peace that grinds them as grain,
And eyes fix'd ever in vain
On the pitiless eyes of Fate.
Still we say as we go,
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
What of the heart of love
That bleeds in thy breast, O Man?
Thy kisses snatch'd 'neath the ban
Of fangs that mock them above;
Thy bells prolong'd unto knells,
Thy hope that a breath dispels,
Thy bitter forlorn farewells
And the empty echoes thereof?
Still we say as we go,
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
The sky leans dumb on the sea,
Aweary with all its wings;
And oh! the song the sea sings
Is dark everlastingly.
Our past is clean forgot,
Our present is and is not,
Our future's a seal'd seedplot,
And what betwixt them are we?
We who say as we go,
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."
Who Has Seen the Wind?
By Christina Rossetti
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.
By Christina Rossetti
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.
It was a Lover and his Lass
By William Shakespeare
It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o’er the green cornfield did pass,
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the rye,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
Those pretty country folks would lie,
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
This carol they began that hour,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
How that a life was but a flower
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
And therefore take the present time,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
For love is crownèd with the prime
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
By William Shakespeare
It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o’er the green cornfield did pass,
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the rye,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
Those pretty country folks would lie,
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
This carol they began that hour,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
How that a life was but a flower
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
And therefore take the present time,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
For love is crownèd with the prime
In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
II Thompson’s Lunch Room—Grand
Central Station
Study in Whites
By Amy Lowell
Wax-white—
Floor, ceiling, walls.
Ivory shadows
Over the pavement
Polished to cream surfaces
By constant sweeping.
The big room is coloured like the petals
Of a great magnolia,
And has a patina
Of flower bloom
Which makes it shine dimly
Under the electric lamps.
Chairs are ranged in rows
Like sepia seeds
Waiting fulfilment.
The chalk-white spot of a cook’s cap
Moves unglossily against the vaguely bright wall—
Dull chalk-white striking the retina like a blow
Through the wavering uncertainty of steam.
Vitreous-white of glasses with green reflections,
Ice-green carboys, shifting—greener, bluer—with the jar of moving water.
Jagged green-white bowls of pressed glass
Rearing snow-peaks of chipped sugar
Above the lighthouse-shaped castors
Of grey pepper and grey-white salt.
Grey-white placards: “Oyster Stew, Cornbeef Hash, Frankfurtersâ€:
Marble slabs veined with words in meandering lines.
Dropping on the white counter like horn notes
Through a web of violins,
The flat yellow lights of oranges,
The cube-red splashes of apples,
In high plated épergnes.
The electric clock jerks every half-minute:
“Coming!—Past!â€
“Three beef-steaks and a chicken-pie,â€
Bawled through a slide while the clock jerks heavily.
A man carries a china mug of coffee to a distant chair.
Two rice puddings and a salmon salad
Are pushed over the counter;
The unfulfilled chairs open to receive them.
A spoon falls upon the floor with the impact of metal striking stone,
And the sound throws across the room
Sharp, invisible zigzags
Of silver.
Study in Whites
By Amy Lowell
Wax-white—
Floor, ceiling, walls.
Ivory shadows
Over the pavement
Polished to cream surfaces
By constant sweeping.
The big room is coloured like the petals
Of a great magnolia,
And has a patina
Of flower bloom
Which makes it shine dimly
Under the electric lamps.
Chairs are ranged in rows
Like sepia seeds
Waiting fulfilment.
The chalk-white spot of a cook’s cap
Moves unglossily against the vaguely bright wall—
Dull chalk-white striking the retina like a blow
Through the wavering uncertainty of steam.
Vitreous-white of glasses with green reflections,
Ice-green carboys, shifting—greener, bluer—with the jar of moving water.
Jagged green-white bowls of pressed glass
Rearing snow-peaks of chipped sugar
Above the lighthouse-shaped castors
Of grey pepper and grey-white salt.
Grey-white placards: “Oyster Stew, Cornbeef Hash, Frankfurtersâ€:
Marble slabs veined with words in meandering lines.
Dropping on the white counter like horn notes
Through a web of violins,
The flat yellow lights of oranges,
The cube-red splashes of apples,
In high plated épergnes.
The electric clock jerks every half-minute:
“Coming!—Past!â€
“Three beef-steaks and a chicken-pie,â€
Bawled through a slide while the clock jerks heavily.
A man carries a china mug of coffee to a distant chair.
Two rice puddings and a salmon salad
Are pushed over the counter;
The unfulfilled chairs open to receive them.
A spoon falls upon the floor with the impact of metal striking stone,
And the sound throws across the room
Sharp, invisible zigzags
Of silver.
The Seasons: Spring
By James Thomson
As rising from the vegetable World
My Theme ascends, with equal Wing ascend,
My panting Muse; and hark, how loud the Woods
Invite you forth in all your gayest Trim.
Lend me your Song, ye Nightingales! oh pour
The mazy-running Soul of Melody
Into my varied Verse! while I deduce,
From the first Note the hollow Cuckoo sings,
The Symphony of Spring, and touch a Theme
Unknown to Fame, the Passion of the Groves.
By James Thomson
As rising from the vegetable World
My Theme ascends, with equal Wing ascend,
My panting Muse; and hark, how loud the Woods
Invite you forth in all your gayest Trim.
Lend me your Song, ye Nightingales! oh pour
The mazy-running Soul of Melody
Into my varied Verse! while I deduce,
From the first Note the hollow Cuckoo sings,
The Symphony of Spring, and touch a Theme
Unknown to Fame, the Passion of the Groves.
Are They Shadows
By Samuel Daniel
Are they shadows that we see?
And can shadows pleasure give?
Pleasures only shadows be
Cast by bodies we conceive
And are made the things we deem
In those figures which they seem.
But these pleasures vanish fast
Which by shadows are expressed;
Pleasures are not, if they last;
In their passing is their best.
Glory is most bright and gay
In a flash, and so away.
Feed apace then, greedy eyes,
On the wonder you behold;
Take it sudden as it flies,
Though you take it not to hold.
When your eyes have done their part,
Thought must length it in the heart.
By Samuel Daniel
Are they shadows that we see?
And can shadows pleasure give?
Pleasures only shadows be
Cast by bodies we conceive
And are made the things we deem
In those figures which they seem.
But these pleasures vanish fast
Which by shadows are expressed;
Pleasures are not, if they last;
In their passing is their best.
Glory is most bright and gay
In a flash, and so away.
Feed apace then, greedy eyes,
On the wonder you behold;
Take it sudden as it flies,
Though you take it not to hold.
When your eyes have done their part,
Thought must length it in the heart.
The Evening Wind
By William Cullen Bryant
Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool’st the twilight of the sultry day,
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow:
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!
Nor I alone—a thousand blossoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,
God’s blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!
Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse
The wide old wood from his majestic rest,
Summoning from the innumerable boughs
The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast:
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows.
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,
And where the o’ershadowing branches sweep the grass.
The faint old man shall lean his silver head
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,
And dry the moistened curls that overspread
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep:
And they who stand about the sick man’s bed,
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,
And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.
Go—but the circle of eternal change,
Which is the life of nature, shall restore,
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;
Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore;
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.
By William Cullen Bryant
Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool’st the twilight of the sultry day,
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow:
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!
Nor I alone—a thousand blossoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,
God’s blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!
Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse
The wide old wood from his majestic rest,
Summoning from the innumerable boughs
The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast:
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows.
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,
And where the o’ershadowing branches sweep the grass.
The faint old man shall lean his silver head
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,
And dry the moistened curls that overspread
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep:
And they who stand about the sick man’s bed,
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,
And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.
Go—but the circle of eternal change,
Which is the life of nature, shall restore,
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;
Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore;
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.
The Solitary Reaper
By William Wordsworth
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.
By William Wordsworth
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.
What mystery pervades a well!
By Emily Dickinson
What mystery pervades a well!
That water lives so far–
A neighbor from another world
Residing in a jar
Whose limit none has ever seen,
But just his lid of glass–
Like looking every time you please
In an abyss's face!
The grass does not appear afraid,
I often wonder he
Can stand so close and look so bold
At what is awe to me.
Related somehow they may be,
The sedge stands near the sea–
Where he is floorless
And does no timidity betray
But nature is a stranger yet:
The ones that cite her most
Have never passed her haunted house,
Nor simplified her ghost.
To pity those that know her not
Is helped by the regret
That those who know her, know her less
The nearer her they get.
By Emily Dickinson
What mystery pervades a well!
That water lives so far–
A neighbor from another world
Residing in a jar
Whose limit none has ever seen,
But just his lid of glass–
Like looking every time you please
In an abyss's face!
The grass does not appear afraid,
I often wonder he
Can stand so close and look so bold
At what is awe to me.
Related somehow they may be,
The sedge stands near the sea–
Where he is floorless
And does no timidity betray
But nature is a stranger yet:
The ones that cite her most
Have never passed her haunted house,
Nor simplified her ghost.
To pity those that know her not
Is helped by the regret
That those who know her, know her less
The nearer her they get.
Youth and Age
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee—
Both were mine! Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young!
When I was young?—Ah, woful When!
Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flashed along:—
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Nought cared this body for wind or weather
When Youth and I lived in't together.
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;
O! the joys, that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
Ere I was old!
Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,
Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
O Youth! for years so many and sweet,
'Tis known, that Thou and I were one,
I'll think it but a fond conceit—
It cannot be that Thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:—
And thou wert aye a masker bold!
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe, that thou are gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size:
But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are house-mates still.
Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve!
Where no hope is, life's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve,
When we are old:
That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismist;
Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee—
Both were mine! Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young!
When I was young?—Ah, woful When!
Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flashed along:—
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Nought cared this body for wind or weather
When Youth and I lived in't together.
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;
O! the joys, that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
Ere I was old!
Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,
Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
O Youth! for years so many and sweet,
'Tis known, that Thou and I were one,
I'll think it but a fond conceit—
It cannot be that Thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:—
And thou wert aye a masker bold!
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe, that thou are gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size:
But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are house-mates still.
Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve!
Where no hope is, life's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve,
When we are old:
That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismist;
Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.
The Cloud
By Percy Bysshe Shelley
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The 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.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning my pilot sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The Spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in Heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead;
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardours of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of Heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine aëry nest,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbèd maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till calm the rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-coloured bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,
While the moist Earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.
By Percy Bysshe Shelley
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The 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.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning my pilot sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The Spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in Heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead;
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardours of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of Heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine aëry nest,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbèd maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till calm the rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-coloured bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,
While the moist Earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.
Astrophil and
Stella 72: Desire, though thou my old companion art
By Sir Philip Sidney
Desire, though thou my old companion art,
And oft so clings to my pure Love that I
One from the other scarcely can descry,
While each doth blow the fire of my heart,
Now from thy fellowship I needs must part;
Venus is taught with Dian’s wings to fly;
I must no more in thy sweet passions lie;
Virtue’s gold now must head my Cupid’s dart.
Service and honor, wonder with delight,
Fear to offend, will worthy to appear,
Care shining in mine eyes, faith in my sprite:
These things are let me by my only dear;
But thou, Desire, because thou wouldst have all,
Now banished art. But yet alas how shall?
By Sir Philip Sidney
Desire, though thou my old companion art,
And oft so clings to my pure Love that I
One from the other scarcely can descry,
While each doth blow the fire of my heart,
Now from thy fellowship I needs must part;
Venus is taught with Dian’s wings to fly;
I must no more in thy sweet passions lie;
Virtue’s gold now must head my Cupid’s dart.
Service and honor, wonder with delight,
Fear to offend, will worthy to appear,
Care shining in mine eyes, faith in my sprite:
These things are let me by my only dear;
But thou, Desire, because thou wouldst have all,
Now banished art. But yet alas how shall?
Lord, Make Me an
Instrument of Thy Peace
By St. Francis of Assisi
Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace;
where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.
O Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood, as to understand;
to be loved, as to love;
for it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
Amen.
---
The Sydney Male Choir today sing the famous reflection of St Francis of Assisi to the setting of Rutter ‘Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace’, in memory of Jason David McCarthy.
The great Sydney Male Choir is now rehearsing at 6.15PM at Aquinas Institute Harrington Street Sydney each Tuesday and are auditioning. enquiries@sydneymalechoir.com.au
By St. Francis of Assisi
Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace;
where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.
O Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood, as to understand;
to be loved, as to love;
for it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
Amen.
---
The Sydney Male Choir today sing the famous reflection of St Francis of Assisi to the setting of Rutter ‘Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace’, in memory of Jason David McCarthy.
The great Sydney Male Choir is now rehearsing at 6.15PM at Aquinas Institute Harrington Street Sydney each Tuesday and are auditioning. enquiries@sydneymalechoir.com.au
The Twelve Days of
Christmas
By Anonymous
The first day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
A partridge in a pear tree.
The second day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
The third day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
The fourth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Four colly birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
The fifth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Five gold rings,
Four colly birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
The sixth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Six geese a-laying,
Five gold rings,
Four colly birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
The seventh day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five gold rings,
Four colly birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
The eighth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five gold rings,
Four colly birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
The ninth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Nine drummers drumming,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five gold rings,
Four colly birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
The tenth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Ten pipers piping,
Nine drummers drumming,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five gold rings,
Four colly birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
The eleventh day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
Eleven ladies dancing,
Ten pipers piping,
Nine drummers drumming,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five gold rings,
Four colly birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
The twelfth day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
Twelve fiddlers fiddling,
Eleven ladies dancing,
Ten pipers piping,
Nine drummers drumming,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five gold rings,
Four colly birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
By Anonymous
The first day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
A partridge in a pear tree.
The second day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
The third day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
The fourth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Four colly birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
The fifth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Five gold rings,
Four colly birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
The sixth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Six geese a-laying,
Five gold rings,
Four colly birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
The seventh day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five gold rings,
Four colly birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
The eighth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five gold rings,
Four colly birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
The ninth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Nine drummers drumming,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five gold rings,
Four colly birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
The tenth day of Christmas,
My true love sent to me
Ten pipers piping,
Nine drummers drumming,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five gold rings,
Four colly birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
The eleventh day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
Eleven ladies dancing,
Ten pipers piping,
Nine drummers drumming,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five gold rings,
Four colly birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
The twelfth day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
Twelve fiddlers fiddling,
Eleven ladies dancing,
Ten pipers piping,
Nine drummers drumming,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five gold rings,
Four colly birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree.
Sun of God
By David Conolly
No need to search the skies. They beam light
to reach
The light is here, the shadow places
down here – in us
everywhere. and our poor world.
Shimmering Light
in people from the Light-source
whose lives whose birth
banish we celebrate.
rejection,
bitterness, They don’t know
indifference, they do it.
fear. That’s why they shine.
By David Conolly
No need to search the skies. They beam light
to reach
The light is here, the shadow places
down here – in us
everywhere. and our poor world.
Shimmering Light
in people from the Light-source
whose lives whose birth
banish we celebrate.
rejection,
bitterness, They don’t know
indifference, they do it.
fear. That’s why they shine.
The Sea and the Skylark
By Gerard Manley Hopkins
On ear and ear two noises too old to end
Trench—right, the tide that ramps against the shore;
With a flood or a fall, low lull-off or all roar,
Frequenting there while moon shall wear and wend.
Left hand, off land, I hear the lark ascend,
His rash-fresh re-winded new-skeinèd score
In crisps of curl off wild winch whirl, and pour
And pelt music, till none ’s to spill nor spend.
How these two shame this shallow and frail town!
How ring right out our sordid turbid time,
Being pure! We, life’s pride and cared-for crown,
Have lost that cheer and charm of earth’s past prime:
Our make and making break, are breaking, down
To man’s last dust, drain fast towards man’s first slime.
By Gerard Manley Hopkins
On ear and ear two noises too old to end
Trench—right, the tide that ramps against the shore;
With a flood or a fall, low lull-off or all roar,
Frequenting there while moon shall wear and wend.
Left hand, off land, I hear the lark ascend,
His rash-fresh re-winded new-skeinèd score
In crisps of curl off wild winch whirl, and pour
And pelt music, till none ’s to spill nor spend.
How these two shame this shallow and frail town!
How ring right out our sordid turbid time,
Being pure! We, life’s pride and cared-for crown,
Have lost that cheer and charm of earth’s past prime:
Our make and making break, are breaking, down
To man’s last dust, drain fast towards man’s first slime.
The Sun's Shame (Sonnets XCII and XCIII)
By Dante
Gabriel RossettiI
Beholding youth and hope in mockery caught
From life; and mocking pulses that remain
When the soul’s death of bodily death is fain;
Honour unknown, and honour known unsought;
And penury’s sedulous self-torturing thought
On gold, whose master therewith buys his bane;
And longed-for woman longing all in vain
For lonely man with love’s desire distraught;
And wealth, and strength, and power, and pleasantness,
Given unto bodies of whose souls men say,
None poor and weak, slavish and foul, as they:—
Beholding these things, I behold no less
The blushing morn and blushing eve confess
The shame that loads the intolerable day.
II
As some true chief of men, bowed down with stress
Of life’s disastrous eld, on blossoming youth
May gaze, and murmur with self-pity and ruth,—
“Might I thy fruitless treasure but possess,
Such blessing of mine all coming years should bless;â€â€”
Then sends one sigh forth to the unknown goal,
And bitterly feels breathe against his soul
The hour swift-winged of nearer nothingness:—
Even so the World’s grey Soul to the green World
Perchance one hour must cry: “Woe’s me, for whom
Inveteracy of ill portends the doom,—
Whose heart’s old fire in shadow of shame is furl’d:
While thou even as of yore art journeying,
All soulless now, yet merry with the Spring!â€
Theocritus:
A Villanelle
By Oscar Wilde
O singer of Persephone!
In the dim meadows desolate
Dost thou remember Sicily?
Still through the ivy flits the bee
Where Amaryllis lies in state;
O Singer of Persephone!
Simaetha calls on Hecate
And hears the wild dogs at the gate;
Dost thou remember Sicily?
Still by the light and laughing sea
Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate;
O Singer of Persephone!
And still in boyish rivalry
Young Daphnis challenges his mate;
Dost thou remember Sicily?
Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee,
For thee the jocund shepherds wait;
O Singer of Persephone!
Dost thou remember Sicily?
By Oscar Wilde
O singer of Persephone!
In the dim meadows desolate
Dost thou remember Sicily?
Still through the ivy flits the bee
Where Amaryllis lies in state;
O Singer of Persephone!
Simaetha calls on Hecate
And hears the wild dogs at the gate;
Dost thou remember Sicily?
Still by the light and laughing sea
Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate;
O Singer of Persephone!
And still in boyish rivalry
Young Daphnis challenges his mate;
Dost thou remember Sicily?
Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee,
For thee the jocund shepherds wait;
O Singer of Persephone!
Dost thou remember Sicily?
The
Owl and the Pussy-Cat
By Edward Lear
I
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"
II
Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-Tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
III
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
By Edward Lear
I
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"
II
Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-Tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
III
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
Sonnet 98: From you have I been absent in the spring
By William Shakespeare
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight
Drawn after you, – you pattern of all those.
Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.​
By William Shakespeare
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight
Drawn after you, – you pattern of all those.
Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.​
Old Pardon, the Son of Reprieve
By Banjo Paterson
You never heard tell of the story?
Well, now, I can hardly believe!
Never heard of the honour and glory
Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve?
But maybe you're only a Johnnie
And don't know a horse from a hoe?
Well, well, don't get angry, my sonny,
But, really, a young un should know.
They bred him out back on the `Never',
His mother was Mameluke breed.
To the front -- and then stay there -- was ever
The root of the Mameluke creed.
He seemed to inherit their wiry
Strong frames -- and their pluck to receive --
As hard as a flint and as fiery
Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
We ran him at many a meeting
At crossing and gully and town,
And nothing could give him a beating --
At least when our money was down.
For weight wouldn't stop him, nor distance,
Nor odds, though the others were fast,
He'd race with a dogged persistence,
And wear them all down at the last.
At the Turon the Yattendon filly
Led by lengths at the mile-and-a-half,
And we all began to look silly,
While HER crowd were starting to laugh;
But the old horse came faster and faster,
His pluck told its tale, and his strength,
He gained on her, caught her, and passed her,
And won it, hands-down, by a length.
And then we swooped down on Menindie
To run for the President's Cup --
Oh! that's a sweet township -- a shindy
To them is board, lodging, and sup.
Eye-openers they are, and their system
Is never to suffer defeat;
It's `win, tie, or wrangle' -- to best 'em
You must lose 'em, or else it's `dead heat'.
We strolled down the township and found 'em
At drinking and gaming and play;
If sorrows they had, why they drowned 'em,
And betting was soon under way.
Their horses were good 'uns and fit 'uns,
There was plenty of cash in the town;
They backed their own horses like Britons,
And, Lord! how WE rattled it down!
With gladness we thought of the morrow,
We counted our wagers with glee,
A simile homely to borrow --
`There was plenty of milk in our tea.'
You see we were green; and we never
Had even a thought of foul play,
Though we well might have known that the clever
Division would `put us away'.
Experience `docet', they tell us,
At least so I've frequently heard,
But, `dosing' or `stuffing', those fellows
Were up to each move on the board:
They got to his stall -- it is sinful
To think what such villains would do --
And they gave him a regular skinful
Of barley -- green barley -- to chew.
He munched it all night, and we found him
Next morning as full as a hog --
The girths wouldn't nearly meet round him;
He looked like an overfed frog.
We saw we were done like a dinner --
The odds were a thousand to one
Against Pardon turning up winner,
'Twas cruel to ask him to run.
We got to the course with our troubles,
A crestfallen couple were we;
And we heard the `books' calling the doubles --
A roar like the surf of the sea;
And over the tumult and louder
Rang `Any price Pardon, I lay!'
Says Jimmy, `The children of Judah
Are out on the warpath to-day.'
Three miles in three heats: -- Ah, my sonny,
The horses in those days were stout,
They had to run well to win money;
I don't see such horses about.
Your six-furlong vermin that scamper
Half-a-mile with their feather-weight up;
They wouldn't earn much of their damper
In a race like the President's Cup.
The first heat was soon set a-going;
The Dancer went off to the front;
The Don on his quarters was showing,
With Pardon right out of the hunt.
He rolled and he weltered and wallowed --
You'd kick your hat faster, I'll bet;
They finished all bunched, and he followed
All lathered and dripping with sweat.
But troubles came thicker upon us,
For while we were rubbing him dry
The stewards came over to warn us:
`We hear you are running a bye!
If Pardon don't spiel like tarnation
And win the next heat -- if he can --
He'll earn a disqualification;
Just think over THAT, now, my man!'
Our money all gone and our credit,
Our horse couldn't gallop a yard;
And then people thought that WE did it!
It really was terribly hard.
We were objects of mirth and derision
To folk in the lawn and the stand,
And the yells of the clever division
Of `Any price Pardon!' were grand.
We still had a chance for the money,
Two heats still remained to be run;
If both fell to us -- why, my sonny,
The clever division were done.
And Pardon was better, we reckoned,
His sickness was passing away,
So he went to the post for the second
And principal heat of the day.
They're off and away with a rattle,
Like dogs from the leashes let slip,
And right at the back of the battle
He followed them under the whip.
They gained ten good lengths on him quickly
He dropped right away from the pack;
I tell you it made me feel sickly
To see the blue jacket fall back.
Our very last hope had departed --
We thought the old fellow was done,
When all of a sudden he started
To go like a shot from a gun.
His chances seemed slight to embolden
Our hearts; but, with teeth firmly set,
We thought, `Now or never! The old 'un
May reckon with some of 'em yet.'
Then loud rose the war-cry for Pardon;
He swept like the wind down the dip,
And over the rise by the garden,
The jockey was done with the whip
The field were at sixes and sevens --
The pace at the first had been fast --
And hope seemed to drop from the heavens,
For Pardon was coming at last.
And how he did come! It was splendid;
He gained on them yards every bound,
Stretching out like a greyhound extended,
His girth laid right down on the ground.
A shimmer of silk in the cedars
As into the running they wheeled,
And out flashed the whips on the leaders,
For Pardon had collared the field.
Then right through the ruck he came sailing --
I knew that the battle was won --
The son of Haphazard was failing,
The Yattendon filly was done;
He cut down the Don and the Dancer,
He raced clean away from the mare --
He's in front! Catch him now if you can, sir!
And up went my hat in the air!
Then loud from the lawn and the garden
Rose offers of `Ten to one ON!'
`Who'll bet on the field? I back Pardon!'
No use; all the money was gone.
He came for the third heat light-hearted,
A-jumping and dancing about;
The others were done ere they started
Crestfallen, and tired, and worn out.
He won it, and ran it much faster
Than even the first, I believe
Oh, he was the daddy, the master,
Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
He showed 'em the method to travel --
The boy sat as still as a stone --
They never could see him for gravel;
He came in hard-held, and alone.
. . . . .
But he's old -- and his eyes are grown hollow;
Like me, with my thatch of the snow;
When he dies, then I hope I may follow,
And go where the racehorses go.
I don't want no harping nor singing --
Such things with my style don't agree;
Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing
There's music sufficient for me.
And surely the thoroughbred horses
Will rise up again and begin
Fresh races on far-away courses,
And p'raps they might let me slip in.
It would look rather well the race-card on
'Mongst Cherubs and Seraphs and things,
`Angel Harrison's black gelding Pardon,
Blue halo, white body and wings.'
And if they have racing hereafter,
(And who is to say they will not?)
When the cheers and the shouting and laughter
Proclaim that the battle grows hot;
As they come down the racecourse a-steering,
He'll rush to the front, I believe;
And you'll hear the great multitude cheering
For Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
By Banjo Paterson
You never heard tell of the story?
Well, now, I can hardly believe!
Never heard of the honour and glory
Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve?
But maybe you're only a Johnnie
And don't know a horse from a hoe?
Well, well, don't get angry, my sonny,
But, really, a young un should know.
They bred him out back on the `Never',
His mother was Mameluke breed.
To the front -- and then stay there -- was ever
The root of the Mameluke creed.
He seemed to inherit their wiry
Strong frames -- and their pluck to receive --
As hard as a flint and as fiery
Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
We ran him at many a meeting
At crossing and gully and town,
And nothing could give him a beating --
At least when our money was down.
For weight wouldn't stop him, nor distance,
Nor odds, though the others were fast,
He'd race with a dogged persistence,
And wear them all down at the last.
At the Turon the Yattendon filly
Led by lengths at the mile-and-a-half,
And we all began to look silly,
While HER crowd were starting to laugh;
But the old horse came faster and faster,
His pluck told its tale, and his strength,
He gained on her, caught her, and passed her,
And won it, hands-down, by a length.
And then we swooped down on Menindie
To run for the President's Cup --
Oh! that's a sweet township -- a shindy
To them is board, lodging, and sup.
Eye-openers they are, and their system
Is never to suffer defeat;
It's `win, tie, or wrangle' -- to best 'em
You must lose 'em, or else it's `dead heat'.
We strolled down the township and found 'em
At drinking and gaming and play;
If sorrows they had, why they drowned 'em,
And betting was soon under way.
Their horses were good 'uns and fit 'uns,
There was plenty of cash in the town;
They backed their own horses like Britons,
And, Lord! how WE rattled it down!
With gladness we thought of the morrow,
We counted our wagers with glee,
A simile homely to borrow --
`There was plenty of milk in our tea.'
You see we were green; and we never
Had even a thought of foul play,
Though we well might have known that the clever
Division would `put us away'.
Experience `docet', they tell us,
At least so I've frequently heard,
But, `dosing' or `stuffing', those fellows
Were up to each move on the board:
They got to his stall -- it is sinful
To think what such villains would do --
And they gave him a regular skinful
Of barley -- green barley -- to chew.
He munched it all night, and we found him
Next morning as full as a hog --
The girths wouldn't nearly meet round him;
He looked like an overfed frog.
We saw we were done like a dinner --
The odds were a thousand to one
Against Pardon turning up winner,
'Twas cruel to ask him to run.
We got to the course with our troubles,
A crestfallen couple were we;
And we heard the `books' calling the doubles --
A roar like the surf of the sea;
And over the tumult and louder
Rang `Any price Pardon, I lay!'
Says Jimmy, `The children of Judah
Are out on the warpath to-day.'
Three miles in three heats: -- Ah, my sonny,
The horses in those days were stout,
They had to run well to win money;
I don't see such horses about.
Your six-furlong vermin that scamper
Half-a-mile with their feather-weight up;
They wouldn't earn much of their damper
In a race like the President's Cup.
The first heat was soon set a-going;
The Dancer went off to the front;
The Don on his quarters was showing,
With Pardon right out of the hunt.
He rolled and he weltered and wallowed --
You'd kick your hat faster, I'll bet;
They finished all bunched, and he followed
All lathered and dripping with sweat.
But troubles came thicker upon us,
For while we were rubbing him dry
The stewards came over to warn us:
`We hear you are running a bye!
If Pardon don't spiel like tarnation
And win the next heat -- if he can --
He'll earn a disqualification;
Just think over THAT, now, my man!'
Our money all gone and our credit,
Our horse couldn't gallop a yard;
And then people thought that WE did it!
It really was terribly hard.
We were objects of mirth and derision
To folk in the lawn and the stand,
And the yells of the clever division
Of `Any price Pardon!' were grand.
We still had a chance for the money,
Two heats still remained to be run;
If both fell to us -- why, my sonny,
The clever division were done.
And Pardon was better, we reckoned,
His sickness was passing away,
So he went to the post for the second
And principal heat of the day.
They're off and away with a rattle,
Like dogs from the leashes let slip,
And right at the back of the battle
He followed them under the whip.
They gained ten good lengths on him quickly
He dropped right away from the pack;
I tell you it made me feel sickly
To see the blue jacket fall back.
Our very last hope had departed --
We thought the old fellow was done,
When all of a sudden he started
To go like a shot from a gun.
His chances seemed slight to embolden
Our hearts; but, with teeth firmly set,
We thought, `Now or never! The old 'un
May reckon with some of 'em yet.'
Then loud rose the war-cry for Pardon;
He swept like the wind down the dip,
And over the rise by the garden,
The jockey was done with the whip
The field were at sixes and sevens --
The pace at the first had been fast --
And hope seemed to drop from the heavens,
For Pardon was coming at last.
And how he did come! It was splendid;
He gained on them yards every bound,
Stretching out like a greyhound extended,
His girth laid right down on the ground.
A shimmer of silk in the cedars
As into the running they wheeled,
And out flashed the whips on the leaders,
For Pardon had collared the field.
Then right through the ruck he came sailing --
I knew that the battle was won --
The son of Haphazard was failing,
The Yattendon filly was done;
He cut down the Don and the Dancer,
He raced clean away from the mare --
He's in front! Catch him now if you can, sir!
And up went my hat in the air!
Then loud from the lawn and the garden
Rose offers of `Ten to one ON!'
`Who'll bet on the field? I back Pardon!'
No use; all the money was gone.
He came for the third heat light-hearted,
A-jumping and dancing about;
The others were done ere they started
Crestfallen, and tired, and worn out.
He won it, and ran it much faster
Than even the first, I believe
Oh, he was the daddy, the master,
Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
He showed 'em the method to travel --
The boy sat as still as a stone --
They never could see him for gravel;
He came in hard-held, and alone.
. . . . .
But he's old -- and his eyes are grown hollow;
Like me, with my thatch of the snow;
When he dies, then I hope I may follow,
And go where the racehorses go.
I don't want no harping nor singing --
Such things with my style don't agree;
Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing
There's music sufficient for me.
And surely the thoroughbred horses
Will rise up again and begin
Fresh races on far-away courses,
And p'raps they might let me slip in.
It would look rather well the race-card on
'Mongst Cherubs and Seraphs and things,
`Angel Harrison's black gelding Pardon,
Blue halo, white body and wings.'
And if they have racing hereafter,
(And who is to say they will not?)
When the cheers and the shouting and laughter
Proclaim that the battle grows hot;
As they come down the racecourse a-steering,
He'll rush to the front, I believe;
And you'll hear the great multitude cheering
For Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
Old
Pardon, the Son of Reprieve
By Banjo Paterson
You never heard tell of the story?
Well, now, I can hardly believe!
Never heard of the honour and glory
Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve?
But maybe you're only a Johnnie
And don't know a horse from a hoe?
Well, well, don't get angry, my sonny,
But, really, a young un should know.
They bred him out back on the `Never',
His mother was Mameluke breed.
To the front -- and then stay there -- was ever
The root of the Mameluke creed.
He seemed to inherit their wiry
Strong frames -- and their pluck to receive --
As hard as a flint and as fiery
Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
We ran him at many a meeting
At crossing and gully and town,
And nothing could give him a beating --
At least when our money was down.
For weight wouldn't stop him, nor distance,
Nor odds, though the others were fast,
He'd race with a dogged persistence,
And wear them all down at the last.
At the Turon the Yattendon filly
Led by lengths at the mile-and-a-half,
And we all began to look silly,
While HER crowd were starting to laugh;
But the old horse came faster and faster,
His pluck told its tale, and his strength,
He gained on her, caught her, and passed her,
And won it, hands-down, by a length.
And then we swooped down on Menindie
To run for the President's Cup --
Oh! that's a sweet township -- a shindy
To them is board, lodging, and sup.
Eye-openers they are, and their system
Is never to suffer defeat;
It's `win, tie, or wrangle' -- to best 'em
You must lose 'em, or else it's `dead heat'.
We strolled down the township and found 'em
At drinking and gaming and play;
If sorrows they had, why they drowned 'em,
And betting was soon under way.
Their horses were good 'uns and fit 'uns,
There was plenty of cash in the town;
They backed their own horses like Britons,
And, Lord! how WE rattled it down!
With gladness we thought of the morrow,
We counted our wagers with glee,
A simile homely to borrow --
`There was plenty of milk in our tea.'
You see we were green; and we never
Had even a thought of foul play,
Though we well might have known that the clever
Division would `put us away'.
Experience `docet', they tell us,
At least so I've frequently heard,
But, `dosing' or `stuffing', those fellows
Were up to each move on the board:
They got to his stall -- it is sinful
To think what such villains would do --
And they gave him a regular skinful
Of barley -- green barley -- to chew.
He munched it all night, and we found him
Next morning as full as a hog --
The girths wouldn't nearly meet round him;
He looked like an overfed frog.
We saw we were done like a dinner --
The odds were a thousand to one
Against Pardon turning up winner,
'Twas cruel to ask him to run.
We got to the course with our troubles,
A crestfallen couple were we;
And we heard the `books' calling the doubles --
A roar like the surf of the sea;
And over the tumult and louder
Rang `Any price Pardon, I lay!'
Says Jimmy, `The children of Judah
Are out on the warpath to-day.'
Three miles in three heats: -- Ah, my sonny,
The horses in those days were stout,
They had to run well to win money;
I don't see such horses about.
Your six-furlong vermin that scamper
Half-a-mile with their feather-weight up;
They wouldn't earn much of their damper
In a race like the President's Cup.
The first heat was soon set a-going;
The Dancer went off to the front;
The Don on his quarters was showing,
With Pardon right out of the hunt.
He rolled and he weltered and wallowed --
You'd kick your hat faster, I'll bet;
They finished all bunched, and he followed
All lathered and dripping with sweat.
But troubles came thicker upon us,
For while we were rubbing him dry
The stewards came over to warn us:
`We hear you are running a bye!
If Pardon don't spiel like tarnation
And win the next heat -- if he can --
He'll earn a disqualification;
Just think over THAT, now, my man!'
Our money all gone and our credit,
Our horse couldn't gallop a yard;
And then people thought that WE did it!
It really was terribly hard.
We were objects of mirth and derision
To folk in the lawn and the stand,
And the yells of the clever division
Of `Any price Pardon!' were grand.
We still had a chance for the money,
Two heats still remained to be run;
If both fell to us -- why, my sonny,
The clever division were done.
And Pardon was better, we reckoned,
His sickness was passing away,
So he went to the post for the second
And principal heat of the day.
They're off and away with a rattle,
Like dogs from the leashes let slip,
And right at the back of the battle
He followed them under the whip.
They gained ten good lengths on him quickly
He dropped right away from the pack;
I tell you it made me feel sickly
To see the blue jacket fall back.
Our very last hope had departed --
We thought the old fellow was done,
When all of a sudden he started
To go like a shot from a gun.
His chances seemed slight to embolden
Our hearts; but, with teeth firmly set,
We thought, `Now or never! The old 'un
May reckon with some of 'em yet.'
Then loud rose the war-cry for Pardon;
He swept like the wind down the dip,
And over the rise by the garden,
The jockey was done with the whip
The field were at sixes and sevens --
The pace at the first had been fast --
And hope seemed to drop from the heavens,
For Pardon was coming at last.
And how he did come! It was splendid;
He gained on them yards every bound,
Stretching out like a greyhound extended,
His girth laid right down on the ground.
A shimmer of silk in the cedars
As into the running they wheeled,
And out flashed the whips on the leaders,
For Pardon had collared the field.
Then right through the ruck he came sailing --
I knew that the battle was won --
The son of Haphazard was failing,
The Yattendon filly was done;
He cut down the Don and the Dancer,
He raced clean away from the mare --
He's in front! Catch him now if you can, sir!
And up went my hat in the air!
Then loud from the lawn and the garden
Rose offers of `Ten to one ON!'
`Who'll bet on the field? I back Pardon!'
No use; all the money was gone.
He came for the third heat light-hearted,
A-jumping and dancing about;
The others were done ere they started
Crestfallen, and tired, and worn out.
He won it, and ran it much faster
Than even the first, I believe
Oh, he was the daddy, the master,
Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
He showed 'em the method to travel --
The boy sat as still as a stone --
They never could see him for gravel;
He came in hard-held, and alone.
. . . . .
But he's old -- and his eyes are grown hollow;
Like me, with my thatch of the snow;
When he dies, then I hope I may follow,
And go where the racehorses go.
I don't want no harping nor singing --
Such things with my style don't agree;
Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing
There's music sufficient for me.
And surely the thoroughbred horses
Will rise up again and begin
Fresh races on far-away courses,
And p'raps they might let me slip in.
It would look rather well the race-card on
'Mongst Cherubs and Seraphs and things,
`Angel Harrison's black gelding Pardon,
Blue halo, white body and wings.'
And if they have racing hereafter,
(And who is to say they will not?)
When the cheers and the shouting and laughter
Proclaim that the battle grows hot;
As they come down the racecourse a-steering,
He'll rush to the front, I believe;
And you'll hear the great multitude cheering
For Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
By Banjo Paterson
You never heard tell of the story?
Well, now, I can hardly believe!
Never heard of the honour and glory
Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve?
But maybe you're only a Johnnie
And don't know a horse from a hoe?
Well, well, don't get angry, my sonny,
But, really, a young un should know.
They bred him out back on the `Never',
His mother was Mameluke breed.
To the front -- and then stay there -- was ever
The root of the Mameluke creed.
He seemed to inherit their wiry
Strong frames -- and their pluck to receive --
As hard as a flint and as fiery
Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
We ran him at many a meeting
At crossing and gully and town,
And nothing could give him a beating --
At least when our money was down.
For weight wouldn't stop him, nor distance,
Nor odds, though the others were fast,
He'd race with a dogged persistence,
And wear them all down at the last.
At the Turon the Yattendon filly
Led by lengths at the mile-and-a-half,
And we all began to look silly,
While HER crowd were starting to laugh;
But the old horse came faster and faster,
His pluck told its tale, and his strength,
He gained on her, caught her, and passed her,
And won it, hands-down, by a length.
And then we swooped down on Menindie
To run for the President's Cup --
Oh! that's a sweet township -- a shindy
To them is board, lodging, and sup.
Eye-openers they are, and their system
Is never to suffer defeat;
It's `win, tie, or wrangle' -- to best 'em
You must lose 'em, or else it's `dead heat'.
We strolled down the township and found 'em
At drinking and gaming and play;
If sorrows they had, why they drowned 'em,
And betting was soon under way.
Their horses were good 'uns and fit 'uns,
There was plenty of cash in the town;
They backed their own horses like Britons,
And, Lord! how WE rattled it down!
With gladness we thought of the morrow,
We counted our wagers with glee,
A simile homely to borrow --
`There was plenty of milk in our tea.'
You see we were green; and we never
Had even a thought of foul play,
Though we well might have known that the clever
Division would `put us away'.
Experience `docet', they tell us,
At least so I've frequently heard,
But, `dosing' or `stuffing', those fellows
Were up to each move on the board:
They got to his stall -- it is sinful
To think what such villains would do --
And they gave him a regular skinful
Of barley -- green barley -- to chew.
He munched it all night, and we found him
Next morning as full as a hog --
The girths wouldn't nearly meet round him;
He looked like an overfed frog.
We saw we were done like a dinner --
The odds were a thousand to one
Against Pardon turning up winner,
'Twas cruel to ask him to run.
We got to the course with our troubles,
A crestfallen couple were we;
And we heard the `books' calling the doubles --
A roar like the surf of the sea;
And over the tumult and louder
Rang `Any price Pardon, I lay!'
Says Jimmy, `The children of Judah
Are out on the warpath to-day.'
Three miles in three heats: -- Ah, my sonny,
The horses in those days were stout,
They had to run well to win money;
I don't see such horses about.
Your six-furlong vermin that scamper
Half-a-mile with their feather-weight up;
They wouldn't earn much of their damper
In a race like the President's Cup.
The first heat was soon set a-going;
The Dancer went off to the front;
The Don on his quarters was showing,
With Pardon right out of the hunt.
He rolled and he weltered and wallowed --
You'd kick your hat faster, I'll bet;
They finished all bunched, and he followed
All lathered and dripping with sweat.
But troubles came thicker upon us,
For while we were rubbing him dry
The stewards came over to warn us:
`We hear you are running a bye!
If Pardon don't spiel like tarnation
And win the next heat -- if he can --
He'll earn a disqualification;
Just think over THAT, now, my man!'
Our money all gone and our credit,
Our horse couldn't gallop a yard;
And then people thought that WE did it!
It really was terribly hard.
We were objects of mirth and derision
To folk in the lawn and the stand,
And the yells of the clever division
Of `Any price Pardon!' were grand.
We still had a chance for the money,
Two heats still remained to be run;
If both fell to us -- why, my sonny,
The clever division were done.
And Pardon was better, we reckoned,
His sickness was passing away,
So he went to the post for the second
And principal heat of the day.
They're off and away with a rattle,
Like dogs from the leashes let slip,
And right at the back of the battle
He followed them under the whip.
They gained ten good lengths on him quickly
He dropped right away from the pack;
I tell you it made me feel sickly
To see the blue jacket fall back.
Our very last hope had departed --
We thought the old fellow was done,
When all of a sudden he started
To go like a shot from a gun.
His chances seemed slight to embolden
Our hearts; but, with teeth firmly set,
We thought, `Now or never! The old 'un
May reckon with some of 'em yet.'
Then loud rose the war-cry for Pardon;
He swept like the wind down the dip,
And over the rise by the garden,
The jockey was done with the whip
The field were at sixes and sevens --
The pace at the first had been fast --
And hope seemed to drop from the heavens,
For Pardon was coming at last.
And how he did come! It was splendid;
He gained on them yards every bound,
Stretching out like a greyhound extended,
His girth laid right down on the ground.
A shimmer of silk in the cedars
As into the running they wheeled,
And out flashed the whips on the leaders,
For Pardon had collared the field.
Then right through the ruck he came sailing --
I knew that the battle was won --
The son of Haphazard was failing,
The Yattendon filly was done;
He cut down the Don and the Dancer,
He raced clean away from the mare --
He's in front! Catch him now if you can, sir!
And up went my hat in the air!
Then loud from the lawn and the garden
Rose offers of `Ten to one ON!'
`Who'll bet on the field? I back Pardon!'
No use; all the money was gone.
He came for the third heat light-hearted,
A-jumping and dancing about;
The others were done ere they started
Crestfallen, and tired, and worn out.
He won it, and ran it much faster
Than even the first, I believe
Oh, he was the daddy, the master,
Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
He showed 'em the method to travel --
The boy sat as still as a stone --
They never could see him for gravel;
He came in hard-held, and alone.
. . . . .
But he's old -- and his eyes are grown hollow;
Like me, with my thatch of the snow;
When he dies, then I hope I may follow,
And go where the racehorses go.
I don't want no harping nor singing --
Such things with my style don't agree;
Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing
There's music sufficient for me.
And surely the thoroughbred horses
Will rise up again and begin
Fresh races on far-away courses,
And p'raps they might let me slip in.
It would look rather well the race-card on
'Mongst Cherubs and Seraphs and things,
`Angel Harrison's black gelding Pardon,
Blue halo, white body and wings.'
And if they have racing hereafter,
(And who is to say they will not?)
When the cheers and the shouting and laughter
Proclaim that the battle grows hot;
As they come down the racecourse a-steering,
He'll rush to the front, I believe;
And you'll hear the great multitude cheering
For Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
Spirits of the Dead
By Edgar Allan Poe
I
Thy soul shall find itself alone
’Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone—
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
II
Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness—for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
In life before thee are again
In death around thee—and their will
Shall overshadow thee: be still.
III
The night, tho’ clear, shall frown—
And the stars shall look not down
From their high thrones in the heaven,
With light like Hope to mortals given—
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.
IV
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne’er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more—like dew-drop from the grass.
V
The breeze—the breath of God—is still—
And the mist upon the hill,
Shadowy—shadowy—yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token—
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!​
By Edgar Allan Poe
I
Thy soul shall find itself alone
’Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone—
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
II
Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness—for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
In life before thee are again
In death around thee—and their will
Shall overshadow thee: be still.
III
The night, tho’ clear, shall frown—
And the stars shall look not down
From their high thrones in the heaven,
With light like Hope to mortals given—
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.
IV
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne’er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more—like dew-drop from the grass.
V
The breeze—the breath of God—is still—
And the mist upon the hill,
Shadowy—shadowy—yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token—
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!​
The Poppy
By Jane Taylor
High on a bright and sunny bed
A scarlet poppy grew
And up it held its staring head,
And thrust it full in view.
Yet no attention did it win,
By all these efforts made,
And less unwelcome had it been
In some retired shade.
Although within its scarlet breast
No sweet perfume was found,
It seemed to think itself the best
Of all the flowers round,
From this I may a hint obtain
And take great care indeed,
Lest I appear as pert and vain
As does this gaudy weed.​
By Jane Taylor
High on a bright and sunny bed
A scarlet poppy grew
And up it held its staring head,
And thrust it full in view.
Yet no attention did it win,
By all these efforts made,
And less unwelcome had it been
In some retired shade.
Although within its scarlet breast
No sweet perfume was found,
It seemed to think itself the best
Of all the flowers round,
From this I may a hint obtain
And take great care indeed,
Lest I appear as pert and vain
As does this gaudy weed.​
Scorn not the Sonnet ​
By William Wordsworth
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camöens soothed an exile's grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains—alas, too few!
By William Wordsworth
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camöens soothed an exile's grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains—alas, too few!
Part One: Life LXXIX |
| I YEARS had been from home, |
| And now, before the door, |
| I dared not open, lest a face |
| I never saw before |
| |
| Stare vacant into mine |
| And ask my business there. |
| My business,—just a life I left, |
| Was such still dwelling there? |
| |
| I fumbled at my nerve, |
| I scanned the windows near; |
| The silence like an ocean rolled, |
| And broke against my ear. |
| |
| I laughed a wooden laugh |
| That I could fear a door, |
| Who danger and the dead had faced, |
| But never quaked before. |
| |
| I fitted to the latch |
| My hand, with trembling care, |
| Lest back the awful door should spring, |
| And leave me standing there. |
| |
| I moved my fingers off |
| As cautiously as glass, |
| And held my ears, and like a thief |
| Fled gasping from the house. |
Introduction to the Songs of
Innocence
By William Blake
Piping down the valleys wild
Piping songs of pleasant glee
On a cloud I saw a child.
And he laughing said to me.
Pipe a song about a Lamb;
So I piped with merry chear,
Piper pipe that song again—
So I piped, he wept to hear.
Drop thy pipe thy happy pipe
Sing thy songs of happy chear,
So I sung the same again
While he wept with joy to hear
Piper sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read—
So he vanish'd from my sight.
And I pluck'd a hollow reed.
And I made a rural pen,
And I stain'd the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear​
By William Blake
Piping down the valleys wild
Piping songs of pleasant glee
On a cloud I saw a child.
And he laughing said to me.
Pipe a song about a Lamb;
So I piped with merry chear,
Piper pipe that song again—
So I piped, he wept to hear.
Drop thy pipe thy happy pipe
Sing thy songs of happy chear,
So I sung the same again
While he wept with joy to hear
Piper sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read—
So he vanish'd from my sight.
And I pluck'd a hollow reed.
And I made a rural pen,
And I stain'd the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear​
Lines Written in Early Spring
By William Wordsworth
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
By William Wordsworth
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
November Night
By Adelaide Crapsey
Listen.
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost - crisp'd, break from the trees
And fall.
By Adelaide Crapsey
Listen.
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost - crisp'd, break from the trees
And fall.
Voices of the Air
By Katherine Mansfield
But then there comes that moment rare
When, for no cause that I can find,
The little voices of the air
Sound above all the sea and wind.
The sea and wind do then obey
And sighing, sighing double notes
Of double basses, content to play
A droning chord for the little throats
The little throats that sing and rise
Up into the light with lovely ease
And a kind of magical, sweet surprise
To hear and know themselves for these
For these little voices: the bee, the fly,
The leaf that taps, the pod that breaks,
The breeze on the grass-tops bending by,
The shrill quick sound that the insect makes.
By Katherine Mansfield
But then there comes that moment rare
When, for no cause that I can find,
The little voices of the air
Sound above all the sea and wind.
The sea and wind do then obey
And sighing, sighing double notes
Of double basses, content to play
A droning chord for the little throats
The little throats that sing and rise
Up into the light with lovely ease
And a kind of magical, sweet surprise
To hear and know themselves for these
For these little voices: the bee, the fly,
The leaf that taps, the pod that breaks,
The breeze on the grass-tops bending by,
The shrill quick sound that the insect makes.
Lights
Out
Edward Thomas, 1878 - 1917
I have come to the borders of sleep,
The unfathomable deep
Forest where all must lose
Their way, however straight,
Or winding, soon or late;
They cannot choose.
Many a road and track
That, since the dawn’s first crack,
Up to the forest brink,
Deceived the travellers,
Suddenly now blurs,
And in they sink.
Here love ends,
Despair, ambition ends;
All pleasure and all trouble,
Although most sweet or bitter,
Here ends in sleep that is sweeter
Than tasks most noble.
Edward Thomas, 1878 - 1917
I have come to the borders of sleep,
The unfathomable deep
Forest where all must lose
Their way, however straight,
Or winding, soon or late;
They cannot choose.
Many a road and track
That, since the dawn’s first crack,
Up to the forest brink,
Deceived the travellers,
Suddenly now blurs,
And in they sink.
Here love ends,
Despair, ambition ends;
All pleasure and all trouble,
Although most sweet or bitter,
Here ends in sleep that is sweeter
Than tasks most noble.
Floating Island
By Dorothy Wordsworth
Harmonious Powers with Nature work
On sky, earth, river, lake, and sea:
Sunshine and storm, whirlwind and breeze
All in one duteous task agree.
Once did I see a slip of earth,
By throbbing waves long undermined,
Loosed from its hold; — how no one knew
But all might see it float, obedient to the wind.
Might see it, from the mossy shore
Dissevered float upon the Lake,
Float, with its crest of trees adorned
On which the warbling birds their pastime take.
Food, shelter, safety there they find
There berries ripen, flowerets bloom;
There insects live their lives — and die:
A peopled world it is; in size a tiny room.
And thus through many seasons’ space
This little Island may survive
But Nature, though we mark her not,
Will take away — may cease to give.
Perchance when you are wandering forth
Upon some vacant sunny day
Without an object, hope, or fear,
Thither your eyes may turn — the Isle is passed away.
Buried beneath the glittering Lake!
Its place no longer to be found,
Yet the lost fragments shall remain,
To fertilize some other ground.
By Dorothy Wordsworth
Harmonious Powers with Nature work
On sky, earth, river, lake, and sea:
Sunshine and storm, whirlwind and breeze
All in one duteous task agree.
Once did I see a slip of earth,
By throbbing waves long undermined,
Loosed from its hold; — how no one knew
But all might see it float, obedient to the wind.
Might see it, from the mossy shore
Dissevered float upon the Lake,
Float, with its crest of trees adorned
On which the warbling birds their pastime take.
Food, shelter, safety there they find
There berries ripen, flowerets bloom;
There insects live their lives — and die:
A peopled world it is; in size a tiny room.
And thus through many seasons’ space
This little Island may survive
But Nature, though we mark her not,
Will take away — may cease to give.
Perchance when you are wandering forth
Upon some vacant sunny day
Without an object, hope, or fear,
Thither your eyes may turn — the Isle is passed away.
Buried beneath the glittering Lake!
Its place no longer to be found,
Yet the lost fragments shall remain,
To fertilize some other ground.
Sonnet 15: When I consider
everything that grows
By William Shakespeare
When I consider everything that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and check'd even by the selfsame sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
By William Shakespeare
When I consider everything that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and check'd even by the selfsame sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
A Man Said to the Universe
BY STEPHEN CRANE
A man said to the universe:
“Sir, I exist!â€
“However,†replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.â€
BY STEPHEN CRANE
A man said to the universe:
“Sir, I exist!â€
“However,†replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.â€
“Blow, blow, thou winter windâ€
By William Shakespeare
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly...
By William Shakespeare
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly...
Piano
by D.H. Lawrence
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
by D.H. Lawrence
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
Moon in the Morning
By Mary Eleanor Roberts
WHAT dost thou, so ghostly white
In the halls of day?—
Facing the triumphant light,
Reveler astray?
When thy silver court was kept,
Thou and thine were free,
And the sun, while dotards slept,
Did not spy on thee.
Scent of jasmine, voices low,
Dost thou seek them yet—
Lovers of the long ago
Thou canst not forget?
Day’s gay banners all unfurled
Flaunt from sea to sea:
All the work of all the world
Calls the sun and me.
Nay, thou shalt not bid me stand!
Nay, I will not yield!
Strong to-day in my right hand
Is the brand I wield.
Then aroint thee, shadow fly!
Wherefore haunt me so—
Hanging mournful in the sky,
Pale and loath to go?
By Mary Eleanor Roberts
WHAT dost thou, so ghostly white
In the halls of day?—
Facing the triumphant light,
Reveler astray?
When thy silver court was kept,
Thou and thine were free,
And the sun, while dotards slept,
Did not spy on thee.
Scent of jasmine, voices low,
Dost thou seek them yet—
Lovers of the long ago
Thou canst not forget?
Day’s gay banners all unfurled
Flaunt from sea to sea:
All the work of all the world
Calls the sun and me.
Nay, thou shalt not bid me stand!
Nay, I will not yield!
Strong to-day in my right hand
Is the brand I wield.
Then aroint thee, shadow fly!
Wherefore haunt me so—
Hanging mournful in the sky,
Pale and loath to go?
The Flower Boat
By Robert Frost
THE FISHERMAN’S swapping a yarn for a yarn
Under the hand of the village barber,
And here in the angle of house and barn
His deep-sea dory has found a harbor.
At anchor she rides the sunny sod
As full to the gunnel with flowers a-growing
As ever she turned her home with cod
From George’s Bank when winds were blowing.
And I know from that Elysian freight
She will brave but once more the Atlantic weather,
When dory and fisherman sail by fate
To seek for the Happy Isles together.
By Robert Frost
THE FISHERMAN’S swapping a yarn for a yarn
Under the hand of the village barber,
And here in the angle of house and barn
His deep-sea dory has found a harbor.
At anchor she rides the sunny sod
As full to the gunnel with flowers a-growing
As ever she turned her home with cod
From George’s Bank when winds were blowing.
And I know from that Elysian freight
She will brave but once more the Atlantic weather,
When dory and fisherman sail by fate
To seek for the Happy Isles together.
Robin Hood
By John Keats
TO A FRIEND
No! those days are gone away
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the 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 "grenè 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.
By John Keats
TO A FRIEND
No! those days are gone away
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the 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 "grenè 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.
A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns
By Robert Burns
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 art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve!
And fare-thee-weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ ’twere ten thousand mile!
The Sydney Male Choir
The Sydney Male Choir formed in 1913. Each year, since 1930, the Choir has led the singing at the ANZAC Day Dawn Service at the Cenotaph in Martin Place Sydney. In 2013, the choir's Centenary Year, it sung at the ANZAC Day service in Villers-Bretonneux, France and took part in the Cornwall International Male Voice Choral Festival.
www.sydneymalechoir.com.au
By Robert Burns
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 art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve!
And fare-thee-weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ ’twere ten thousand mile!
The Sydney Male Choir
The Sydney Male Choir formed in 1913. Each year, since 1930, the Choir has led the singing at the ANZAC Day Dawn Service at the Cenotaph in Martin Place Sydney. In 2013, the choir's Centenary Year, it sung at the ANZAC Day service in Villers-Bretonneux, France and took part in the Cornwall International Male Voice Choral Festival.
www.sydneymalechoir.com.au
Autumn Leaves
By Yves Montand
The falling leaves drift by the window
The autumn leaves of red and gold
I see your lips, the summer kisses
The sunburned hand I used to hold
Since you went away the days grow long
And soon I'll hear old winter's song
But I miss you most of all, my darling
When autumn leaves start to fall
I see your lips, the summer kisses
The sunburned hand I used to hold
Since you went away the days grow long
And soon I'll hear old winter's song
But I miss you most of all, my darling
When autumn leaves start to fall
The Sydney Male Choir
The Sydney Male Choir formed in 1913. Each year, since 1930, the Choir has led the singing at the ANZAC Day Dawn Service at the Cenotaph in Martin Place Sydney. In 2013, the choir's Centenary Year, it sung at the ANZAC Day service in Villers-Bretonneux, France and took part in the Cornwall International Male Voice Choral Festival.
www.sydneymalechoir.com.au
By Yves Montand
The falling leaves drift by the window
The autumn leaves of red and gold
I see your lips, the summer kisses
The sunburned hand I used to hold
Since you went away the days grow long
And soon I'll hear old winter's song
But I miss you most of all, my darling
When autumn leaves start to fall
I see your lips, the summer kisses
The sunburned hand I used to hold
Since you went away the days grow long
And soon I'll hear old winter's song
But I miss you most of all, my darling
When autumn leaves start to fall
The Sydney Male Choir
The Sydney Male Choir formed in 1913. Each year, since 1930, the Choir has led the singing at the ANZAC Day Dawn Service at the Cenotaph in Martin Place Sydney. In 2013, the choir's Centenary Year, it sung at the ANZAC Day service in Villers-Bretonneux, France and took part in the Cornwall International Male Voice Choral Festival.
www.sydneymalechoir.com.au
An Evening Prayer from Under Milk Wood
by Dylan Thomas
Every morning when I wake,
Dear Lord, a little prayer I make,
O please do keep Thy lovely eye
On all poor creatures born to die.
And every evening at sun-down
I ask a blessing on the town,
For whether we last the night or no
I’m sure is always touch-and-go.
We are not wholly bad or good
Who live our lives under Milk Wood,
And Thou, I know, wilt be the first
To see our best side, not our worst.
O let us see another day!
Bless us all this night, I pray,
And to the sun we all will bow
And say, good-bye – but just for now!
The Sydney Male Choir
The Sydney Male Choir formed in 1913. Each year, since 1930, the Choir has led the singing at the ANZAC Day Dawn Service at the Cenotaph in Martin Place Sydney. In 2013, the choir's Centenary Year, it sung at the ANZAC Day service in Villers-Bretonneux, France and took part in the Cornwall International Male Voice Choral Festival.
www.sydneymalechoir.com.au
by Dylan Thomas
Every morning when I wake,
Dear Lord, a little prayer I make,
O please do keep Thy lovely eye
On all poor creatures born to die.
And every evening at sun-down
I ask a blessing on the town,
For whether we last the night or no
I’m sure is always touch-and-go.
We are not wholly bad or good
Who live our lives under Milk Wood,
And Thou, I know, wilt be the first
To see our best side, not our worst.
O let us see another day!
Bless us all this night, I pray,
And to the sun we all will bow
And say, good-bye – but just for now!
The Sydney Male Choir
The Sydney Male Choir formed in 1913. Each year, since 1930, the Choir has led the singing at the ANZAC Day Dawn Service at the Cenotaph in Martin Place Sydney. In 2013, the choir's Centenary Year, it sung at the ANZAC Day service in Villers-Bretonneux, France and took part in the Cornwall International Male Voice Choral Festival.
www.sydneymalechoir.com.au
Of a Poynted Diamond given by the Author to his Wife, at the Birth of his Eldest Son
John Harington
Deare, I to thee this diamond commend,
In which a modell of thyself I send.
How just unto thy joints this circlet sitteth,
So just thy face and shape my fancy fitteth.
The touch will try this ring of purest gold,
My touch tries thee, as pure though softer mold.
That metal precious is, the stone is true,
As true, and then how much more precious, you.
The gem is cleare, and hath nor needes no foyle,
Thy face, nay more, thy fame is free from soil.
Youle deem this deere, because from me you have it,
I deem your faith more deer, because you gave it.
This pointed Diamond cuts glass and Steele,
Your love’s like force in my firme heart I feele.
But this, as all things else, time wastes with wearing,
Where you my jewels multiply with bearing.
John Harington
John Harington
Deare, I to thee this diamond commend,
In which a modell of thyself I send.
How just unto thy joints this circlet sitteth,
So just thy face and shape my fancy fitteth.
The touch will try this ring of purest gold,
My touch tries thee, as pure though softer mold.
That metal precious is, the stone is true,
As true, and then how much more precious, you.
The gem is cleare, and hath nor needes no foyle,
Thy face, nay more, thy fame is free from soil.
Youle deem this deere, because from me you have it,
I deem your faith more deer, because you gave it.
This pointed Diamond cuts glass and Steele,
Your love’s like force in my firme heart I feele.
But this, as all things else, time wastes with wearing,
Where you my jewels multiply with bearing.
John Harington
The Lover’s Maze
Attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh
Her Face, her Tonge, her Wytte,
So fayre, so sweete, so sharpe,
First bent, then drew, then hytte,
Myne Eye, mine Eare, my Hartt:
Myne eye, mine eare, mine Harte,
To Lyke, to Learne, to Love,
Your face, your Tonge, your Wytt,
Doth Leade, doth teache, doth move:
Her face, her Tongue, her Wytt,
With Beames, with Sound, with Arte,
Doth bynde, doth Charm, doth Rule,
Myne eye, myne eare, my harte.
Myne eye, myne eare, my harte,
With Lyfe, with Hope, with Skill,
Your face, your Tonge, your wytt,
Doth feed, doth feast, doth fill:
Oh face, Oh Tonge, Oh Wytte,
With Frownes, with Checkes, with Smarte,
Wronge not, vex not, wound not,
Mine eye, mine eare, my Harte.
This Eye, This eare, This harte,
Shall joy, shall bynd, shall sweare
Your Face, your Tonge, your Wytt,
To Serve, to Love, to Feare.
Attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh
Attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh
Her Face, her Tonge, her Wytte,
So fayre, so sweete, so sharpe,
First bent, then drew, then hytte,
Myne Eye, mine Eare, my Hartt:
Myne eye, mine eare, mine Harte,
To Lyke, to Learne, to Love,
Your face, your Tonge, your Wytt,
Doth Leade, doth teache, doth move:
Her face, her Tongue, her Wytt,
With Beames, with Sound, with Arte,
Doth bynde, doth Charm, doth Rule,
Myne eye, myne eare, my harte.
Myne eye, myne eare, my harte,
With Lyfe, with Hope, with Skill,
Your face, your Tonge, your wytt,
Doth feed, doth feast, doth fill:
Oh face, Oh Tonge, Oh Wytte,
With Frownes, with Checkes, with Smarte,
Wronge not, vex not, wound not,
Mine eye, mine eare, my Harte.
This Eye, This eare, This harte,
Shall joy, shall bynd, shall sweare
Your Face, your Tonge, your Wytt,
To Serve, to Love, to Feare.
Attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh
The Tides
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I saw the long line of the vacant shore,
The sea-weed and the shells upon the sand,
And the brown rocks left bare on every hand,
As if the ebbing tide would flow no more.
Then heard I, more distinctly than before,
The ocean breathe and its great breast expand,
And hurrying came on the defenceless land
The insurgent waters with tumultuous roar.
All thought and feeling and desire, I said,
Love, laughter, and the exultant joy of song
Have ebbed from me forever! Suddenly o’er me
They swept again from their deep ocean bed,
And in a tumult of delight, and strong
As youth, and beautiful as youth, upbore me.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I saw the long line of the vacant shore,
The sea-weed and the shells upon the sand,
And the brown rocks left bare on every hand,
As if the ebbing tide would flow no more.
Then heard I, more distinctly than before,
The ocean breathe and its great breast expand,
And hurrying came on the defenceless land
The insurgent waters with tumultuous roar.
All thought and feeling and desire, I said,
Love, laughter, and the exultant joy of song
Have ebbed from me forever! Suddenly o’er me
They swept again from their deep ocean bed,
And in a tumult of delight, and strong
As youth, and beautiful as youth, upbore me.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The Sun’s Shame (Sonnets XCII and XCIII)
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
I
Beholding youth and hope in mockery caught
From life; and mocking pulses that remain
When the soul’s death of bodily death is fain;
Honour unknown, and honour known unsought;
And penury’s sedulous self-torturing thought
On gold, whose master therewith buys his bane;
And longed-for woman longing all in vain
For lonely man with love’s desire distraught;
And wealth, and strength, and power, and pleasantness,
Given unto bodies of whose souls men say,
None poor and weak, slavish and foul, as they:—
Beholding these things, I behold no less
The blushing morn and blushing eve confess
The shame that loads the intolerable day.
II
As some true chief of men, bowed down with stress
Of life’s disastrous eld, on blossoming youth
May gaze, and murmur with self-pity and ruth,—
“Might I thy fruitless treasure but possess,
Such blessing of mine all coming years should bless;â€â€”
Then sends one sigh forth to the unknown goal,
And bitterly feels breathe against his soul
The hour swift-winged of nearer nothingness:—
Even so the World’s grey Soul to the green World
Perchance one hour must cry: “Woe’s me, for whom
Inveteracy of ill portends the doom,—
Whose heart’s old fire in shadow of shame is furl’d:
While thou even as of yore art journeying,
All soulless now, yet merry with the Spring!â€
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
I
Beholding youth and hope in mockery caught
From life; and mocking pulses that remain
When the soul’s death of bodily death is fain;
Honour unknown, and honour known unsought;
And penury’s sedulous self-torturing thought
On gold, whose master therewith buys his bane;
And longed-for woman longing all in vain
For lonely man with love’s desire distraught;
And wealth, and strength, and power, and pleasantness,
Given unto bodies of whose souls men say,
None poor and weak, slavish and foul, as they:—
Beholding these things, I behold no less
The blushing morn and blushing eve confess
The shame that loads the intolerable day.
II
As some true chief of men, bowed down with stress
Of life’s disastrous eld, on blossoming youth
May gaze, and murmur with self-pity and ruth,—
“Might I thy fruitless treasure but possess,
Such blessing of mine all coming years should bless;â€â€”
Then sends one sigh forth to the unknown goal,
And bitterly feels breathe against his soul
The hour swift-winged of nearer nothingness:—
Even so the World’s grey Soul to the green World
Perchance one hour must cry: “Woe’s me, for whom
Inveteracy of ill portends the doom,—
Whose heart’s old fire in shadow of shame is furl’d:
While thou even as of yore art journeying,
All soulless now, yet merry with the Spring!â€
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Sonnet XIII
By William Shakespeare
O! that you were your self; but, love, you are
No longer yours, than you your self here live:
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give:
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination; then you were
Yourself again, after yourself’s decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold,
Against the stormy gusts of winter’s day
And barren rage of death’s eternal cold?
O! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know,
You had a father: let your son say so.
William Shakespeare
By William Shakespeare
O! that you were your self; but, love, you are
No longer yours, than you your self here live:
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give:
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination; then you were
Yourself again, after yourself’s decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold,
Against the stormy gusts of winter’s day
And barren rage of death’s eternal cold?
O! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know,
You had a father: let your son say so.
William Shakespeare
Slow, Slow, Fresh Fount
By Ben Jonson
Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;
Yet slower, yet, O faintly, gentle springs:
List to the heavy part the music bears,
Woe weeps out her division, when she sings.
Droop, herbs and flowers,
Fall grief in showers;
Our beauties are not ours:
O, I could still,
Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
Drop, drop, drop, drop,
Since nature’s pride is, now, a withered daffodil.
BEN JONSON
By Ben Jonson
Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;
Yet slower, yet, O faintly, gentle springs:
List to the heavy part the music bears,
Woe weeps out her division, when she sings.
Droop, herbs and flowers,
Fall grief in showers;
Our beauties are not ours:
O, I could still,
Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
Drop, drop, drop, drop,
Since nature’s pride is, now, a withered daffodil.
BEN JONSON
Book 1, Epigram 5: Ad lectorem de subjecto operis sui
BY THOMAS BASTARD
The little world, the subject of my muse,
Is a huge task and labor infinite;
Like to a wilderness or mass confuse,
Or to an endless gulf, or to the night:
How many strange Meanders do I find?
How many paths do turn my straying pen?
How many doubtful twilights make me blind,
Which seek to limb out this strange All of men?
Easy it were the earth to portray out,
Or to draw forth the heavens’ purest frame,
Whose restless course, by order whirls about
Of change and place, and still remains the same.
But how shall man’s, or manner’s, form appear,
Which while I write, do change from what they were?
THOMAS BASTARD
BY THOMAS BASTARD
The little world, the subject of my muse,
Is a huge task and labor infinite;
Like to a wilderness or mass confuse,
Or to an endless gulf, or to the night:
How many strange Meanders do I find?
How many paths do turn my straying pen?
How many doubtful twilights make me blind,
Which seek to limb out this strange All of men?
Easy it were the earth to portray out,
Or to draw forth the heavens’ purest frame,
Whose restless course, by order whirls about
Of change and place, and still remains the same.
But how shall man’s, or manner’s, form appear,
Which while I write, do change from what they were?
THOMAS BASTARD
The Late Worm
By Kay Ryan
The worms
which had been
thick are thin
upon the ground
now that it's gotten
later. They stick
against the path,
their pink chapped
and their inching
labored. It's a
matter of moisture
isn't it? Time, a
measure of wet,
shrinking, the
drier you get.
Kay Ryan
By Kay Ryan
The worms
which had been
thick are thin
upon the ground
now that it's gotten
later. They stick
against the path,
their pink chapped
and their inching
labored. It's a
matter of moisture
isn't it? Time, a
measure of wet,
shrinking, the
drier you get.
Kay Ryan
MULGA BILL'S BICYCLE
by A.B. "Banjo" Paterson
'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;
He turned away the good old horse that served him many days;
He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;
He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine;
And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride,
The grinning shop assistant said, "Excuse me, can you ride?"
"See here, young man," said Mulga Bill, "from Walgett to the sea,
From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me.
I'm good all round at everything as everybody knows,
Although I'm not the one to talk - I hate a man that blows.
But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;
Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wildcat can it fight.
There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel,
There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel,
But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight:
I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight."
'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode,
That perched above Dead Man's Creek, beside the mountain road.
He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray,
But 'ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.
It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver steak,
It whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man's Creek.
It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box:
The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks,
The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground,
As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.
It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree,
It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be;
And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek
It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dean Man's Creek.
'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore:
He said, "I've had some narrer shaves and lively rides before;
I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five-pound bet,
But this was the most awful ride that I've encountered yet.
I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it's shaken all my nerve
To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.
It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek, we'll leave it lying still;
A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill."
A.B. "Banjo" Paterson
by A.B. "Banjo" Paterson
'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;
He turned away the good old horse that served him many days;
He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;
He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine;
And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride,
The grinning shop assistant said, "Excuse me, can you ride?"
"See here, young man," said Mulga Bill, "from Walgett to the sea,
From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me.
I'm good all round at everything as everybody knows,
Although I'm not the one to talk - I hate a man that blows.
But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;
Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wildcat can it fight.
There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel,
There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel,
But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight:
I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight."
'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode,
That perched above Dead Man's Creek, beside the mountain road.
He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray,
But 'ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.
It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver steak,
It whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man's Creek.
It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box:
The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks,
The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground,
As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.
It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree,
It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be;
And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek
It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dean Man's Creek.
'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore:
He said, "I've had some narrer shaves and lively rides before;
I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five-pound bet,
But this was the most awful ride that I've encountered yet.
I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it's shaken all my nerve
To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.
It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek, we'll leave it lying still;
A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill."
A.B. "Banjo" Paterson
The Florist Wears Knee-Breeches
Wallace Stevens
My flowers are reflected
In your mind
As you are reflected in your glass.
When you look at them,
There is nothing in your mind
Except the reflections
Of my flowers.
But when I look at them
I see only the reflections
In your mind,
And not my flowers.
It is my desire
To bring roses,
And place them before you
In a white dish.
Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens
My flowers are reflected
In your mind
As you are reflected in your glass.
When you look at them,
There is nothing in your mind
Except the reflections
Of my flowers.
But when I look at them
I see only the reflections
In your mind,
And not my flowers.
It is my desire
To bring roses,
And place them before you
In a white dish.
Wallace Stevens
A Shropshire Lad: 52: Far in a western brookland
BY A. E. HOUSMAN
Far in a western brookland
That bred me long ago
The poplars stand and tremble
By pools I used to know.
There, in the windless night-time,
The wanderer, marvelling why,
Halts on the bridge to hearken
How soft the poplars sigh.
He hears: long since forgotten
In fields where I was known,
Here I lie down in London
And turn to rest alone.
There, by the starlit fences,
The wanderer halts and hears
My soul that lingers sighing
About the glimmering weirs.
A. E. HOUSMAN
BY A. E. HOUSMAN
Far in a western brookland
That bred me long ago
The poplars stand and tremble
By pools I used to know.
There, in the windless night-time,
The wanderer, marvelling why,
Halts on the bridge to hearken
How soft the poplars sigh.
He hears: long since forgotten
In fields where I was known,
Here I lie down in London
And turn to rest alone.
There, by the starlit fences,
The wanderer halts and hears
My soul that lingers sighing
About the glimmering weirs.
A. E. HOUSMAN
from Don Juan: Canto 1, Stanzas 217-221
BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)
217
Ambition was my idol, which was broken
Before the shrines of Sorrow and of Pleasure;
And the two last have left me many a token
O'er which reflection may be made at leisure:
Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I've spoken,
'Time is, Time was, Time's past', a chymic treasure
Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes—
My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
218
What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper:
Some liken it to climbing up a hill,
Whose summit, like all hills', is lost in vapour;
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,
And bards burn what they call their 'midnight taper,'
To have, when the original is dust,
A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.
219
What are the hopes of man? old Egypt's King
Cheops erected the first pyramid
And largest, thinking it was just the thing
To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid;
But somebody or other rummaging,
Burglariously broke his coffin's lid:
Let not a monument give you or me hopes,
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.
220
But I being fond of true philosophy,
Say very often to myself, 'Alas!
All things that have been born were born to die,
And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass;
You've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly,
And if you had it o'er again—'twould pass—
So thank your stars that matters are no worse,
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.'
221
But for the present, gentle reader! and
Still gentler purchaser! the bard—that's I—
Must, with permission, shake you by the hand,
And so your humble servant, and good bye!
We meet again, if we should understand
Each other; and if not, I shall not try
Your patience further than by this short sample—
'Twere well if others follow'd my example.
LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)
BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)
217
Ambition was my idol, which was broken
Before the shrines of Sorrow and of Pleasure;
And the two last have left me many a token
O'er which reflection may be made at leisure:
Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I've spoken,
'Time is, Time was, Time's past', a chymic treasure
Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes—
My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
218
What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper:
Some liken it to climbing up a hill,
Whose summit, like all hills', is lost in vapour;
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,
And bards burn what they call their 'midnight taper,'
To have, when the original is dust,
A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.
219
What are the hopes of man? old Egypt's King
Cheops erected the first pyramid
And largest, thinking it was just the thing
To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid;
But somebody or other rummaging,
Burglariously broke his coffin's lid:
Let not a monument give you or me hopes,
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.
220
But I being fond of true philosophy,
Say very often to myself, 'Alas!
All things that have been born were born to die,
And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass;
You've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly,
And if you had it o'er again—'twould pass—
So thank your stars that matters are no worse,
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.'
221
But for the present, gentle reader! and
Still gentler purchaser! the bard—that's I—
Must, with permission, shake you by the hand,
And so your humble servant, and good bye!
We meet again, if we should understand
Each other; and if not, I shall not try
Your patience further than by this short sample—
'Twere well if others follow'd my example.
LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)
I would not paint — a picture — (348)
BY EMILY DICKINSON
I would not paint — a picture —
I'd rather be the One
It's bright impossibility
To dwell — delicious — on —
And wonder how the fingers feel
Whose rare — celestial — stir —
Evokes so sweet a torment —
Such sumptuous — Despair —
I would not talk, like Cornets —
I'd rather be the One
Raised softly to the Ceilings —
And out, and easy on —
Through Villages of Ether —
Myself endued Balloon
By but a lip of Metal —
The pier to my Pontoon —
Nor would I be a Poet —
It's finer — Own the Ear —
Enamored — impotent — content —
The License to revere,
A privilege so awful
What would the Dower be,
Had I the Art to stun myself
With Bolts — of Melody!
EMILY DICKINSON
BY EMILY DICKINSON
I would not paint — a picture —
I'd rather be the One
It's bright impossibility
To dwell — delicious — on —
And wonder how the fingers feel
Whose rare — celestial — stir —
Evokes so sweet a torment —
Such sumptuous — Despair —
I would not talk, like Cornets —
I'd rather be the One
Raised softly to the Ceilings —
And out, and easy on —
Through Villages of Ether —
Myself endued Balloon
By but a lip of Metal —
The pier to my Pontoon —
Nor would I be a Poet —
It's finer — Own the Ear —
Enamored — impotent — content —
The License to revere,
A privilege so awful
What would the Dower be,
Had I the Art to stun myself
With Bolts — of Melody!
EMILY DICKINSON
Aspens
BY EDWARD THOMAS
All day and night, save winter, every weather,
Above the inn, the smithy, and the shop,
The aspens at the cross-roads talk together
Of rain, until their last leaves fall from the top.
Out of the blacksmith's cavern comes the ringing
Of hammer, shoe, and anvil; out of the inn
The clink, the hum, the roar, the random singing—
The sounds that for these fifty years have been.
The whisper of the aspens is not drowned,
And over lightless pane and footless road,
Empty as sky, with every other sound
Not ceasing, calls their ghosts from their abode,
A silent smithy, a silent inn, nor fails
In the bare moonlight or the thick-furred gloom,
In tempest or the night of nightingales,
To turn the cross-roads to a ghostly room.
And it would be the same were no house near.
Over all sorts of weather, men, and times,
Aspens must shake their leaves and men may hear
But need not listen, more than to my rhymes.
Whatever wind blows, while they and I have leaves
We cannot other than an aspen be
That ceaselessly, unreasonably grieves,
Or so men think who like a different tree.
BY EDWARD THOMAS
BY EDWARD THOMAS
All day and night, save winter, every weather,
Above the inn, the smithy, and the shop,
The aspens at the cross-roads talk together
Of rain, until their last leaves fall from the top.
Out of the blacksmith's cavern comes the ringing
Of hammer, shoe, and anvil; out of the inn
The clink, the hum, the roar, the random singing—
The sounds that for these fifty years have been.
The whisper of the aspens is not drowned,
And over lightless pane and footless road,
Empty as sky, with every other sound
Not ceasing, calls their ghosts from their abode,
A silent smithy, a silent inn, nor fails
In the bare moonlight or the thick-furred gloom,
In tempest or the night of nightingales,
To turn the cross-roads to a ghostly room.
And it would be the same were no house near.
Over all sorts of weather, men, and times,
Aspens must shake their leaves and men may hear
But need not listen, more than to my rhymes.
Whatever wind blows, while they and I have leaves
We cannot other than an aspen be
That ceaselessly, unreasonably grieves,
Or so men think who like a different tree.
BY EDWARD THOMAS
Not for That City
BY CHARLOTTE MEW
Not for that city of the level sun,
Its golden streets and glittering gates ablaze—
The shadeless, sleepless city of white days,
White nights, or nights and days that are as one—
We weary, when all is said , all thought, all done.
We strain our eyes beyond this dusk to see
What, from the threshold of eternity
We shall step into. No, I think we shun
The splendour of that everlasting glare,
The clamour of that never-ending song.
And if for anything we greatly long,
It is for some remote and quiet stair
Which winds to silence and a space for sleep
Too sound for waking and for dreams too deep.
BY CHARLOTTE MEW
BY CHARLOTTE MEW
Not for that city of the level sun,
Its golden streets and glittering gates ablaze—
The shadeless, sleepless city of white days,
White nights, or nights and days that are as one—
We weary, when all is said , all thought, all done.
We strain our eyes beyond this dusk to see
What, from the threshold of eternity
We shall step into. No, I think we shun
The splendour of that everlasting glare,
The clamour of that never-ending song.
And if for anything we greatly long,
It is for some remote and quiet stair
Which winds to silence and a space for sleep
Too sound for waking and for dreams too deep.
BY CHARLOTTE MEW
The Plain Sense of Things
BY WALLACE STEVENS
After the leaves have fallen, we return
To a plain sense of things. It is as if
We had come to an end of the imagination,
Inanimate in an inert savoir.
It is difficult even to choose the adjective
For this blank cold, this sadness without cause.
The great structure has become a minor house.
No turban walks across the lessened floors.
The greenhouse never so badly needed paint.
The chimney is fifty years old and slants to one side.
A fantastic effort has failed, a repetition
In a repetitiousness of men and flies.
Yet the absence of the imagination had
Itself to be imagined. The great pond,
The plain sense of it, without reflections, leaves,
Mud, water like dirty glass, expressing silence
Of a sort, silence of a rat come out to see,
The great pond and its waste of the lilies, all this
Had to be imagined as an inevitable knowledge,
Required, as a necessity requires.
BY WALLACE STEVENS
BY WALLACE STEVENS
After the leaves have fallen, we return
To a plain sense of things. It is as if
We had come to an end of the imagination,
Inanimate in an inert savoir.
It is difficult even to choose the adjective
For this blank cold, this sadness without cause.
The great structure has become a minor house.
No turban walks across the lessened floors.
The greenhouse never so badly needed paint.
The chimney is fifty years old and slants to one side.
A fantastic effort has failed, a repetition
In a repetitiousness of men and flies.
Yet the absence of the imagination had
Itself to be imagined. The great pond,
The plain sense of it, without reflections, leaves,
Mud, water like dirty glass, expressing silence
Of a sort, silence of a rat come out to see,
The great pond and its waste of the lilies, all this
Had to be imagined as an inevitable knowledge,
Required, as a necessity requires.
BY WALLACE STEVENS
Songs for the People
BY FRANCES ELLEN WATKINS HARPER
Let me make the songs for the people,
Songs for the old and young;
Songs to stir like a battle-cry
Wherever they are sung.
Not for the clashing of sabres,
For carnage nor for strife;
But songs to thrill the hearts of men
With more abundant life.
Let me make the songs for the weary,
Amid life’s fever and fret,
Till hearts shall relax their tension,
And careworn brows forget.
Let me sing for little children,
Before their footsteps stray,
Sweet anthems of love and duty,
To float o’er life’s highway.
I would sing for the poor and aged,
When shadows dim their sight;
Of the bright and restful mansions,
Where there shall be no night.
Our world, so worn and weary,
Needs music, pure and strong,
To hush the jangle and discords
Of sorrow, pain, and wrong.
Music to soothe all its sorrow,
Till war and crime shall cease;
And the hearts of men grown tender
Girdle the world with peace.
FRANCES ELLEN WATKINS HARPER
BY FRANCES ELLEN WATKINS HARPER
Let me make the songs for the people,
Songs for the old and young;
Songs to stir like a battle-cry
Wherever they are sung.
Not for the clashing of sabres,
For carnage nor for strife;
But songs to thrill the hearts of men
With more abundant life.
Let me make the songs for the weary,
Amid life’s fever and fret,
Till hearts shall relax their tension,
And careworn brows forget.
Let me sing for little children,
Before their footsteps stray,
Sweet anthems of love and duty,
To float o’er life’s highway.
I would sing for the poor and aged,
When shadows dim their sight;
Of the bright and restful mansions,
Where there shall be no night.
Our world, so worn and weary,
Needs music, pure and strong,
To hush the jangle and discords
Of sorrow, pain, and wrong.
Music to soothe all its sorrow,
Till war and crime shall cease;
And the hearts of men grown tender
Girdle the world with peace.
FRANCES ELLEN WATKINS HARPER
Interim
Lola Ridge, 1873
The earth is motionless
And poised in space …
A great bird resting in its flight
Between the alleys of the stars.
It is the wind’s hour off ….
The wind has nestled down among the corn ….
The two speak privately together,
Awaiting the whirr of wings.
Lola Ridge
Lola Ridge, 1873
The earth is motionless
And poised in space …
A great bird resting in its flight
Between the alleys of the stars.
It is the wind’s hour off ….
The wind has nestled down among the corn ….
The two speak privately together,
Awaiting the whirr of wings.
Lola Ridge
The Grasshopper
BY RICHARD LOVELACE
To My Noble Friend, Mr. Charles Cotton
O thou that swing’st upon the waving hair
Of some well-fillèd oaten beard,
Drunk every night with a delicious tear
Dropped thee from heaven, where now th’ art reared;
The joys of earth and air are thine entire,
That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly;
And, when thy poppy works, thou dost retire
To thy carved acorn-bed to lie.
Up with the day, the sun thou welcom’st then,
Sport’st in the gilt-plats of his beams,
And all these merry days mak’st merry men,
Thyself, and melancholy streams.
But ah, the sickle! Golden ears are cropped;
Ceres and Bacchus bid good night;
Sharp, frosty fingers all your flowers have topped,
And what scythes spared, winds shave off quite.
Poor verdant fool, and now green ice! thy joys,
Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass,
Bid us lay in ’gainst winter rain, and poise
Their floods with an o’erflowing glass.
Thou best of men and friends! we will create
A genuine summer in each other’s breast,
And spite of this cold time and frozen fate,
Thaw us a warm seat to our rest.
Our sacred hearths shall burn eternally,
As vestal flames; the North Wind, he
Shall strike his frost-stretched wings, dissolve, and fly
This Etna in epitome.
Dropping December shall come weeping in,
Bewail th’usurping of his reign:
But when in showers of old Greek we begin,
Shall cry he hath his crown again!
Night, as clear Hesper, shall our tapers whip
From the light casements where we play,
And the dark hag from her black mantle strip,
And stick there everlasting day.
Thus richer than untempted kings are we,
That, asking nothing, nothing need:
Though lords of all what seas embrace, yet he
That wants himself is poor indeed.​
RICHARD LOVELACE
BY RICHARD LOVELACE
To My Noble Friend, Mr. Charles Cotton
O thou that swing’st upon the waving hair
Of some well-fillèd oaten beard,
Drunk every night with a delicious tear
Dropped thee from heaven, where now th’ art reared;
The joys of earth and air are thine entire,
That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly;
And, when thy poppy works, thou dost retire
To thy carved acorn-bed to lie.
Up with the day, the sun thou welcom’st then,
Sport’st in the gilt-plats of his beams,
And all these merry days mak’st merry men,
Thyself, and melancholy streams.
But ah, the sickle! Golden ears are cropped;
Ceres and Bacchus bid good night;
Sharp, frosty fingers all your flowers have topped,
And what scythes spared, winds shave off quite.
Poor verdant fool, and now green ice! thy joys,
Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass,
Bid us lay in ’gainst winter rain, and poise
Their floods with an o’erflowing glass.
Thou best of men and friends! we will create
A genuine summer in each other’s breast,
And spite of this cold time and frozen fate,
Thaw us a warm seat to our rest.
Our sacred hearths shall burn eternally,
As vestal flames; the North Wind, he
Shall strike his frost-stretched wings, dissolve, and fly
This Etna in epitome.
Dropping December shall come weeping in,
Bewail th’usurping of his reign:
But when in showers of old Greek we begin,
Shall cry he hath his crown again!
Night, as clear Hesper, shall our tapers whip
From the light casements where we play,
And the dark hag from her black mantle strip,
And stick there everlasting day.
Thus richer than untempted kings are we,
That, asking nothing, nothing need:
Though lords of all what seas embrace, yet he
That wants himself is poor indeed.​
RICHARD LOVELACE
The Ivy Green
By Charles Dickens
Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,
That creepeth o’er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim:
And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he.
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
To his friend the huge Oak Tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men’s graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant, in its lonely days,
Shall fatten upon the past:
For the stateliest building man can raise,
Is the Ivy’s food at last.
Creeping on, where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Dickens
By Charles Dickens
Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,
That creepeth o’er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim:
And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he.
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
To his friend the huge Oak Tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men’s graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant, in its lonely days,
Shall fatten upon the past:
For the stateliest building man can raise,
Is the Ivy’s food at last.
Creeping on, where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Dickens
Trumpet-man
David Conolly
Walked our streets, he did.
and breathed our air.
No - more than that,
he took our breath
and sent it flying back
into the world,
transformed.
So strong, so pure that sound:
blues for the broken,
rhythm to set feet tapping.
Crowds, as usual,
still hurry past.
What do they care that
it's his birthday?
But some stop -
the homeless,
the misfits -
and smile, and dance.
They recognise the tune.
Happy Birthday, trumpet-man.
Thanks for the melody.
David Conolly
David Conolly
Walked our streets, he did.
and breathed our air.
No - more than that,
he took our breath
and sent it flying back
into the world,
transformed.
So strong, so pure that sound:
blues for the broken,
rhythm to set feet tapping.
Crowds, as usual,
still hurry past.
What do they care that
it's his birthday?
But some stop -
the homeless,
the misfits -
and smile, and dance.
They recognise the tune.
Happy Birthday, trumpet-man.
Thanks for the melody.
David Conolly
To Mrs K____, On Her Sending Me an English Christmas Plum-Cake at Paris
By Helen Maria Williams
What crowding thoughts around me wake,
What marvels in a Christmas-cake!
Ah say, what strange enchantment dwells
Enclosed within its odorous cells?
Is there no small magician bound
Encrusted in its snowy round?
For magic surely lurks in this,
A cake that tells of vanished bliss;
A cake that conjures up to view
The early scenes, when life was new;
When memory knew no sorrows past,
And hope believed in joys that last! —
Mysterious cake, whose folds contain
Life’s calendar of bliss and pain;
That speaks of friends for ever fled,
And wakes the tears I love to shed.
Oft shall I breathe her cherished name
From whose fair hand the offering came:
For she recalls the artless smile
Of nymphs that deck my native isle;
Of beauty that we love to trace,
Allied with tender, modest grace;
Of those who, while abroad they roam,
Retain each charm that gladdens home,
And whose dear friendships can impart
A Christmas banquet for the heart!
Helen Maria Williams
By Helen Maria Williams
What crowding thoughts around me wake,
What marvels in a Christmas-cake!
Ah say, what strange enchantment dwells
Enclosed within its odorous cells?
Is there no small magician bound
Encrusted in its snowy round?
For magic surely lurks in this,
A cake that tells of vanished bliss;
A cake that conjures up to view
The early scenes, when life was new;
When memory knew no sorrows past,
And hope believed in joys that last! —
Mysterious cake, whose folds contain
Life’s calendar of bliss and pain;
That speaks of friends for ever fled,
And wakes the tears I love to shed.
Oft shall I breathe her cherished name
From whose fair hand the offering came:
For she recalls the artless smile
Of nymphs that deck my native isle;
Of beauty that we love to trace,
Allied with tender, modest grace;
Of those who, while abroad they roam,
Retain each charm that gladdens home,
And whose dear friendships can impart
A Christmas banquet for the heart!
Helen Maria Williams
De Profundis
BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
Oh why is heaven built so far,
Oh why is earth set so remote?
I cannot reach the nearest star
That hangs afloat.
I would not care to reach the moon,
One round monotonous of change;
Yet even she repeats her tune
Beyond my range.
I never watch the scatter'd fire
Of stars, or sun's far-trailing train,
But all my heart is one desire,
And all in vain:
For I am bound with fleshly bands,
Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope;
I strain my heart, I stretch my hands,
And catch at hope.
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
Oh why is heaven built so far,
Oh why is earth set so remote?
I cannot reach the nearest star
That hangs afloat.
I would not care to reach the moon,
One round monotonous of change;
Yet even she repeats her tune
Beyond my range.
I never watch the scatter'd fire
Of stars, or sun's far-trailing train,
But all my heart is one desire,
And all in vain:
For I am bound with fleshly bands,
Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope;
I strain my heart, I stretch my hands,
And catch at hope.
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
The Mower to the Glow-Worms
BY ANDREW MARVELL
Ye living lamps, by whose dear light
The nightingale does sit so late,
And studying all the summer night,
Her matchless songs does meditate;
Ye country comets, that portend
No war nor prince’s funeral,
Shining unto no higher end
Than to presage the grass’s fall;
Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame
To wand’ring mowers shows the way,
That in the night have lost their aim,
And after foolish fires do stray;
Your courteous lights in vain you waste,
Since Juliana here is come,
For she my mind hath so displac’d
That I shall never find my home.
ANDREW MARVELL
BY ANDREW MARVELL
Ye living lamps, by whose dear light
The nightingale does sit so late,
And studying all the summer night,
Her matchless songs does meditate;
Ye country comets, that portend
No war nor prince’s funeral,
Shining unto no higher end
Than to presage the grass’s fall;
Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame
To wand’ring mowers shows the way,
That in the night have lost their aim,
And after foolish fires do stray;
Your courteous lights in vain you waste,
Since Juliana here is come,
For she my mind hath so displac’d
That I shall never find my home.
ANDREW MARVELL
The Song of the Ungirt Runners
BY CHARLES HAMILTON SORLEY
We swing ungirded hips,
And lightened are our eyes,
The rain is on our lips,
We do not run for prize.
We know not whom we trust
Nor whitherward we fare,
But we run because we must
Through the great wide air.
The waters of the seas
Are troubled as by storm.
The tempest strips the trees
And does not leave them warm.
Does the tearing tempest pause?
Do the tree-tops ask it why?
So we run without a cause
'Neath the big bare sky.
The rain is on our lips,
We do not run for prize.
But the storm the water whips
And the wave howls to the skies.
The winds arise and strike it
And scatter it like sand,
And we run because we like it
Through the broad bright land.
CHARLES HAMILTON SORLEY
BY CHARLES HAMILTON SORLEY
We swing ungirded hips,
And lightened are our eyes,
The rain is on our lips,
We do not run for prize.
We know not whom we trust
Nor whitherward we fare,
But we run because we must
Through the great wide air.
The waters of the seas
Are troubled as by storm.
The tempest strips the trees
And does not leave them warm.
Does the tearing tempest pause?
Do the tree-tops ask it why?
So we run without a cause
'Neath the big bare sky.
The rain is on our lips,
We do not run for prize.
But the storm the water whips
And the wave howls to the skies.
The winds arise and strike it
And scatter it like sand,
And we run because we like it
Through the broad bright land.
CHARLES HAMILTON SORLEY
Modern Love: XXII
BY GEORGE MEREDITH
What may the woman labour to confess?
There is about her mouth a nervous twitch.
'Tis something to be told, or hidden:—which?
I get a glimpse of hell in this mild guess.
She has desires of touch, as if to feel
That all the household things are things she knew.
She stops before the glass. What sight in view?
A face that seems the latest to reveal!
For she turns from it hastily, and tossed
Irresolute, steals shadow-like to where
I stand; and wavering pale before me there,
Her tears fall still as oak-leaves after frost.
She will not speak. I will not ask.
We are League-sundered by the silent gulf between.
Yon burly lovers on the village green,
Yours is a lower, and a happier star!
GEORGE MEREDITH
BY GEORGE MEREDITH
What may the woman labour to confess?
There is about her mouth a nervous twitch.
'Tis something to be told, or hidden:—which?
I get a glimpse of hell in this mild guess.
She has desires of touch, as if to feel
That all the household things are things she knew.
She stops before the glass. What sight in view?
A face that seems the latest to reveal!
For she turns from it hastily, and tossed
Irresolute, steals shadow-like to where
I stand; and wavering pale before me there,
Her tears fall still as oak-leaves after frost.
She will not speak. I will not ask.
We are League-sundered by the silent gulf between.
Yon burly lovers on the village green,
Yours is a lower, and a happier star!
GEORGE MEREDITH
The Enkindled Spring
BY D. H. LAWRENCE
This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.
I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.
And I, what fountain of fire am I among
This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed
About like a shadow buffeted in the throng
Of flames, a shadow that's gone astray, and is lost.
D. H. LAWRENCE
BY D. H. LAWRENCE
This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.
I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.
And I, what fountain of fire am I among
This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed
About like a shadow buffeted in the throng
Of flames, a shadow that's gone astray, and is lost.
D. H. LAWRENCE
The Lake Isle of Innisfree
BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
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 grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
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 grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
I dwell in Possibility – (466)
By Emily Dickinson
I dwell in Possibility –
A fairer House than Prose –
More numerous of Windows –
Superior – for Doors –
Of Chambers as the Cedars –
Impregnable of eye –
And for an everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky –
Of Visitors – the fairest –
For Occupation – This –
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise –
Emily Dickinson
By Emily Dickinson
I dwell in Possibility –
A fairer House than Prose –
More numerous of Windows –
Superior – for Doors –
Of Chambers as the Cedars –
Impregnable of eye –
And for an everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky –
Of Visitors – the fairest –
For Occupation – This –
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise –
Emily Dickinson
Sonnet 7: How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth
By John Milton
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to manhood am arriv'd so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure ev'n
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n:
All is, if I have grace to use it so
As ever in my great Task-Master's eye.
John Milton
By John Milton
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to manhood am arriv'd so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure ev'n
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n:
All is, if I have grace to use it so
As ever in my great Task-Master's eye.
John Milton
A Complaint
By William Wordsworth
There is a change—and I am poor;
Your love hath been, nor long ago,
A fountain at my fond heart's door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And flow it did; not taking heed
Of its own bounty, or my need.
What happy moments did I count!
Blest was I then all bliss above!
Now, for that consecrated fount
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,
What have I? shall I dare to tell?
A comfortless and hidden well.
A well of love—it may be deep—
I trust it is,—and never dry:
What matter? if the waters sleep
In silence and obscurity.
—Such change, and at the very door
Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.
William Wordsworth
By William Wordsworth
There is a change—and I am poor;
Your love hath been, nor long ago,
A fountain at my fond heart's door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And flow it did; not taking heed
Of its own bounty, or my need.
What happy moments did I count!
Blest was I then all bliss above!
Now, for that consecrated fount
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,
What have I? shall I dare to tell?
A comfortless and hidden well.
A well of love—it may be deep—
I trust it is,—and never dry:
What matter? if the waters sleep
In silence and obscurity.
—Such change, and at the very door
Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.
William Wordsworth
La Belle Dame sans Merci: A Ballad
By John Keats
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered 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 cheeks 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 looked 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 sidelong would she bend, 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 wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed—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;
They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
Thee hath in thrall!’
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
John Keats
By John Keats
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered 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 cheeks 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 looked 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 sidelong would she bend, 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 wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed—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;
They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
Thee hath in thrall!’
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
John Keats
Speech: “To be, or not to be, that is the questionâ€
By William Shakespeare
(from Hamlet, spoken by Hamlet)
To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause—there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
William Shakespeare
By William Shakespeare
(from Hamlet, spoken by Hamlet)
To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause—there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
William Shakespeare
To An Old Mate
By Henry Lawson
Old Mate! In the gusty old weather,
When our hopes and our troubles were new,
In the years spent in wearing out leather,
I found you unselfish and true --
I have gathered these verses together
For the sake of our friendship and you.
You may think for awhile, and with reason,
Though still with a kindly regret,
That I've left it full late in the season
To prove I remember you yet;
But you'll never judge me by their treason
Who profit by friends -- and forget.
I remember, Old Man, I remember --
The tracks that we followed are clear --
The jovial last nights of December,
The solemn first days of the year,
Long tramps through the clearings and timber,
Short partings on platform and pier.
I can still feel the spirit that bore us,
And often the old stars will shine --
I remember the last spree in chorus
For the sake of that other Lang Syne,
When the tracks lay divided before us,
Your path through the future and mine.
Through the frost-wind that cut like whip-lashes,
Through the ever-blind haze of the drought --
And in fancy at times by the flashes
Of light in the darkness of doubt --
I have followed the tent poles and ashes
Of camps that we moved further out.
You will find in these pages a trace of
That side of our past which was bright,
And recognise sometimes the face of
A friend who has dropped out of sight --
I send them along in the place of
The letters I promised to write.
Lawson Henry
By Henry Lawson
Old Mate! In the gusty old weather,
When our hopes and our troubles were new,
In the years spent in wearing out leather,
I found you unselfish and true --
I have gathered these verses together
For the sake of our friendship and you.
You may think for awhile, and with reason,
Though still with a kindly regret,
That I've left it full late in the season
To prove I remember you yet;
But you'll never judge me by their treason
Who profit by friends -- and forget.
I remember, Old Man, I remember --
The tracks that we followed are clear --
The jovial last nights of December,
The solemn first days of the year,
Long tramps through the clearings and timber,
Short partings on platform and pier.
I can still feel the spirit that bore us,
And often the old stars will shine --
I remember the last spree in chorus
For the sake of that other Lang Syne,
When the tracks lay divided before us,
Your path through the future and mine.
Through the frost-wind that cut like whip-lashes,
Through the ever-blind haze of the drought --
And in fancy at times by the flashes
Of light in the darkness of doubt --
I have followed the tent poles and ashes
Of camps that we moved further out.
You will find in these pages a trace of
That side of our past which was bright,
And recognise sometimes the face of
A friend who has dropped out of sight --
I send them along in the place of
The letters I promised to write.
Lawson Henry
Voices of the Air
By Katherine Mansfield
But then there comes that moment rare
When, for no cause that I can find,
The little voices of the air
Sound above all the sea and wind.
The sea and wind do then obey
And sighing, sighing double notes
Of double basses, content to play
A droning chord for the little throats—
The little throats that sing and rise
Up into the light with lovely ease
And a kind of magical, sweet surprise
To hear and know themselves for these—
For these little voices: the bee, the fly,
The leaf that taps, the pod that breaks,
The breeze on the grass-tops bending by,
The shrill quick sound that the insect makes.
Katherine Mansfield
By Katherine Mansfield
But then there comes that moment rare
When, for no cause that I can find,
The little voices of the air
Sound above all the sea and wind.
The sea and wind do then obey
And sighing, sighing double notes
Of double basses, content to play
A droning chord for the little throats—
The little throats that sing and rise
Up into the light with lovely ease
And a kind of magical, sweet surprise
To hear and know themselves for these—
For these little voices: the bee, the fly,
The leaf that taps, the pod that breaks,
The breeze on the grass-tops bending by,
The shrill quick sound that the insect makes.
Katherine Mansfield
The Wood-Pile
By Robert Frost
Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day,
I paused and said, 'I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther—and we shall see.'
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went through. The view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tall slim trees
Too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather—
The white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
Carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled—and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year's cutting,
Or even last year's or the year's before.
The wood was gray and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labor of his ax,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.
Robert Frost
By Robert Frost
Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day,
I paused and said, 'I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther—and we shall see.'
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went through. The view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tall slim trees
Too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather—
The white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
Carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled—and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year's cutting,
Or even last year's or the year's before.
The wood was gray and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labor of his ax,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.
Robert Frost
On First Looking into Chapman's Homer
BY John Keats
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 did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I 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.
Keats
BY John Keats
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 did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I 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.
Keats
The Road Not Taken
By Robert Frost
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.
Robert Frost
By Robert Frost
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.
Robert Frost
I started Early – Took my Dog – (656)
By Emily Dickinson
I started Early – Took my Dog –
And visited the Sea –
The Mermaids in the Basement
Came out to look at me –
And Frigates – in the Upper Floor
Extended Hempen Hands –
Presuming Me to be a Mouse –
Aground – opon the Sands –
But no Man moved Me – till the Tide
Went past my simple Shoe –
And past my Apron – and my Belt
And past my Boddice – too –
And made as He would eat me up –
As wholly as a Dew
Opon a Dandelion's Sleeve –
And then – I started – too –
And He – He followed – close behind –
I felt His Silver Heel
Opon my Ancle – Then My Shoes
Would overflow with Pearl –
Until We met the Solid Town –
No One He seemed to know –
And bowing – with a Mighty look –
At me – The Sea withdrew –
Emily Dickinson
By Emily Dickinson
I started Early – Took my Dog –
And visited the Sea –
The Mermaids in the Basement
Came out to look at me –
And Frigates – in the Upper Floor
Extended Hempen Hands –
Presuming Me to be a Mouse –
Aground – opon the Sands –
But no Man moved Me – till the Tide
Went past my simple Shoe –
And past my Apron – and my Belt
And past my Boddice – too –
And made as He would eat me up –
As wholly as a Dew
Opon a Dandelion's Sleeve –
And then – I started – too –
And He – He followed – close behind –
I felt His Silver Heel
Opon my Ancle – Then My Shoes
Would overflow with Pearl –
Until We met the Solid Town –
No One He seemed to know –
And bowing – with a Mighty look –
At me – The Sea withdrew –
Emily Dickinson
Song: “Where the bee sucks, there suck Iâ€
By William Shakespeare
(from The Tempest)
Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
William Shakespeare
By William Shakespeare
(from The Tempest)
Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
William Shakespeare
A Song of Rain
By C.J. Dennis
Because a little vagrant wind veered south from China Sea;
Or else, because a sun-spot stirred; and yet again, maybe
Because some idle god in play breathed on an errant cloud,
The heads of twice two million folk in gratitude are bowed.
Patter, patter ... Boolconmatta,
Adelaide and Oodnadatta,
Pepegoona, parched and dry
Laugh beneath a dripping sky.
Riverina's thirsting plain
Knows the benison of rain.
Ararat and Arkaroola
Render thanks with Tantanoola
For the blessings they are gaining,
And it's raining -- raining -- raining!
Because a heaven-sent monsoon the mists before it drove;
Because things happened in the moon; or else, because High Jove,
Unbending, played at waterman to please a laughing boy,
The hearts through all a continent are raised in grateful joy.
Weeps the sky at Wipipee
Far Farina's folk are dippy
With sheer joy, while Ballarat
Shouts and flings aloft its hat.
Thirsty Thackaringa yells;
Taltabooka gladly tells
Of a season wet and windy;
Men rejoice on Murrindindie;
Kalioota's ceased complaining;
For it's raining -- raining -- raining!
Because a poor bush parson prayed an altruistic prayer,
Rich with unselfish fellow-love that Heaven counted rare;
And yet, mayhap, because one night a meteor was hurled
Across the everlasting blue, the luck was with our world.
On the wilds of Winininnie
Cattle low and horses whinny,
Frolicking with sheer delight.
From Beltana to The Bight,
In the Mallee's sun-scorched towns,
In the sheds on Darling Downs,
In the huts at Yudnapinna,
Tents on Tidnacoordininna,
To the sky all heads are craning --
For it's raining -- raining -- raining!
Because some strange, cyclonic thing has happened -- God knows where --
Men dream again of easy days, of cash to spend and spare.
The ring fair Clara coveted, Belinda's furs are nigh,
As clerklings watch their increments fall shining from the sky.
Rolls the thunder at Eudunda;
Leongatha, Boort, Kapunda
Send a joyous message down;
Sorrows, flooded, sink and drown.
Ninkerloo and Nerim South
Hail the breaking of the drouth;
From Toolangi's wooded mountains
Sounds the song of plashing fountains;
Sovereign Summer's might is waning;
It is raining -- raining -- raining!
Because the breeze blew sou'-by-east across the China Sea;
Or else, because the thing was willed through all eternity
By gods that rule the rushing stars, or gods long aeons dead,
The earth is made to smile again, and living things are fed.
Mile on mile from Mallacoota
Runs the news, and far Baroota
Speeds it over hill and plain,
Till the slogan of the rain
Rolls afar to Yankalilla;
Wallaroo and Wirrawilla
Shout it o'er the leagues between,
Telling of the dawning green.
Frogs at Cocoroc are croaking,
Booboorowie soil is soaking,
Oodla Wirra, Orroroo
Breathe relief and hope anew.
Wycheproof and Wollongong
Catch the burden of the song
That is rolling, rolling ever
O'er the plains of Never Never,
Sounding in each mountain rill,
Echoing from hill to hill ...
In the lonely, silent places
Men lift up their glad, wet faces,
And their thanks ask no explaining --
It is raining -- raining -- raining!
C.J. Dennis
By C.J. Dennis
Because a little vagrant wind veered south from China Sea;
Or else, because a sun-spot stirred; and yet again, maybe
Because some idle god in play breathed on an errant cloud,
The heads of twice two million folk in gratitude are bowed.
Patter, patter ... Boolconmatta,
Adelaide and Oodnadatta,
Pepegoona, parched and dry
Laugh beneath a dripping sky.
Riverina's thirsting plain
Knows the benison of rain.
Ararat and Arkaroola
Render thanks with Tantanoola
For the blessings they are gaining,
And it's raining -- raining -- raining!
Because a heaven-sent monsoon the mists before it drove;
Because things happened in the moon; or else, because High Jove,
Unbending, played at waterman to please a laughing boy,
The hearts through all a continent are raised in grateful joy.
Weeps the sky at Wipipee
Far Farina's folk are dippy
With sheer joy, while Ballarat
Shouts and flings aloft its hat.
Thirsty Thackaringa yells;
Taltabooka gladly tells
Of a season wet and windy;
Men rejoice on Murrindindie;
Kalioota's ceased complaining;
For it's raining -- raining -- raining!
Because a poor bush parson prayed an altruistic prayer,
Rich with unselfish fellow-love that Heaven counted rare;
And yet, mayhap, because one night a meteor was hurled
Across the everlasting blue, the luck was with our world.
On the wilds of Winininnie
Cattle low and horses whinny,
Frolicking with sheer delight.
From Beltana to The Bight,
In the Mallee's sun-scorched towns,
In the sheds on Darling Downs,
In the huts at Yudnapinna,
Tents on Tidnacoordininna,
To the sky all heads are craning --
For it's raining -- raining -- raining!
Because some strange, cyclonic thing has happened -- God knows where --
Men dream again of easy days, of cash to spend and spare.
The ring fair Clara coveted, Belinda's furs are nigh,
As clerklings watch their increments fall shining from the sky.
Rolls the thunder at Eudunda;
Leongatha, Boort, Kapunda
Send a joyous message down;
Sorrows, flooded, sink and drown.
Ninkerloo and Nerim South
Hail the breaking of the drouth;
From Toolangi's wooded mountains
Sounds the song of plashing fountains;
Sovereign Summer's might is waning;
It is raining -- raining -- raining!
Because the breeze blew sou'-by-east across the China Sea;
Or else, because the thing was willed through all eternity
By gods that rule the rushing stars, or gods long aeons dead,
The earth is made to smile again, and living things are fed.
Mile on mile from Mallacoota
Runs the news, and far Baroota
Speeds it over hill and plain,
Till the slogan of the rain
Rolls afar to Yankalilla;
Wallaroo and Wirrawilla
Shout it o'er the leagues between,
Telling of the dawning green.
Frogs at Cocoroc are croaking,
Booboorowie soil is soaking,
Oodla Wirra, Orroroo
Breathe relief and hope anew.
Wycheproof and Wollongong
Catch the burden of the song
That is rolling, rolling ever
O'er the plains of Never Never,
Sounding in each mountain rill,
Echoing from hill to hill ...
In the lonely, silent places
Men lift up their glad, wet faces,
And their thanks ask no explaining --
It is raining -- raining -- raining!
C.J. Dennis
Snow flakes. (45)
BY EMILY DICKINSON
I counted till they danced so
Their slippers leaped the town –
And then I took a pencil
To note the rebels down –
And then they grew so jolly
I did resign the prig –
And ten of my once stately toes
Are marshalled for a jig!
Emily Dickinson
BY EMILY DICKINSON
I counted till they danced so
Their slippers leaped the town –
And then I took a pencil
To note the rebels down –
And then they grew so jolly
I did resign the prig –
And ten of my once stately toes
Are marshalled for a jig!
Emily Dickinson
Letter from Town: The Almond Tree
By D. H. Lawrence, 1885 - 1930
You promised to send me some violets. Did you forget?
White ones and blue ones from under the orchard hedge?
Sweet dark purple, and white ones mixed for a pledge
Of our early love that hardly has opened yet.
Here there’s an almond tree—you have never seen
Such a one in the north—it flowers on the street, and I stand
Every day by the fence to look up for the flowers that expand
At rest in the blue, and wonder at what they mean.
Under the almond tree, the happy lands
Provence, Japan, and Italy repose,
And passing feet are chatter and clapping of those
Who play around us, country girls clapping their hands.
You, my love, the foremost, in a flowered gown,
All your unbearable tenderness, you with the laughter
Startled upon your eyes now so wide with hereafter,
You with loose hands of abandonment hanging down.
DHLawrence
By D. H. Lawrence, 1885 - 1930
You promised to send me some violets. Did you forget?
White ones and blue ones from under the orchard hedge?
Sweet dark purple, and white ones mixed for a pledge
Of our early love that hardly has opened yet.
Here there’s an almond tree—you have never seen
Such a one in the north—it flowers on the street, and I stand
Every day by the fence to look up for the flowers that expand
At rest in the blue, and wonder at what they mean.
Under the almond tree, the happy lands
Provence, Japan, and Italy repose,
And passing feet are chatter and clapping of those
Who play around us, country girls clapping their hands.
You, my love, the foremost, in a flowered gown,
All your unbearable tenderness, you with the laughter
Startled upon your eyes now so wide with hereafter,
You with loose hands of abandonment hanging down.
DHLawrence
La Belle Dame sans Merci: A Ballad
By John Keats
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
Thesedgehas withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Sohaggardand 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 cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in themeads, 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 looked at me as she did love,
Andmade sweet moan
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
Andhoney wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
‘I love thee true’.
She took me to herElfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed—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;
They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
Thee hathin thrall!’
I saw their starved lips in thegloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
And this is why Isojournhere,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
John Keats
By John Keats
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
Thesedgehas withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Sohaggardand 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 cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in themeads, 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 looked at me as she did love,
Andmade sweet moan
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
Andhoney wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
‘I love thee true’.
She took me to herElfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed—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;
They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
Thee hathin thrall!’
I saw their starved lips in thegloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
And this is why Isojournhere,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
John Keats
Winter: A Dirge
By Robert Burns
The wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.
The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,
The joyless winter-day,
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!
Thou Pow’r Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,
Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want (O, do Thou grant
This one request of mine!)
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.
Robert Burns
By Robert Burns
The wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.
The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,
The joyless winter-day,
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!
Thou Pow’r Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,
Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want (O, do Thou grant
This one request of mine!)
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.
Robert Burns
From: Auguries of Innocence
By William Blake
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
William Blake
By William Blake
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
William Blake
from Beachy Head
By Charlotte Smith
On thy stupendous summit, rock sublime!
That o’er the channel reared, half way at sea
The mariner at early morning hails,
I would recline; while Fancy should go forth,
And represent the strange and awful hour
Of vast concussion; when the Omnipotent
Stretched forth his arm, and rent the solid hills,
Bidding the impetuous main flood rush between
The rifted shores, and from the continent
Eternally divided this green isle.
Imperial lord of the high southern coast!
From thy projecting head-land I would mark
Far in the east the shades of night disperse,
Melting and thinned, as from the dark blue wave
Emerging, brilliant rays of arrowy light
Dart from the horizon; when the glorious sun
Just lifts above it his resplendent orb.
Advances now, with feathery silver touched,
The rippling tide of flood; glisten the sands,
While, inmates of the chalky clefts that scar
Thy sides precipitous, with shrill harsh cry,
Their white wings glancing in the level beam,
The terns, and gulls, and tarrocks, seek their food,
And thy rough hollows echo to the voice
Of the gray choughs, and ever restless daws,
With clamor, not unlike the chiding hounds,
While the lone shepherd, and his baying dog,
Drive to thy turfy crest his bleating flock.
The high meridian of the day is past,
And Ocean now, reflecting the calm Heaven,
Is of cerulean hue; and murmurs low
The tide of ebb, upon the level sands.
The sloop, her angular canvas shifting still,
Catches the light and variable airs
That but a little crisp the summer sea,
Dimpling its tranquil surface.
Charlotte Smith
By Charlotte Smith
On thy stupendous summit, rock sublime!
That o’er the channel reared, half way at sea
The mariner at early morning hails,
I would recline; while Fancy should go forth,
And represent the strange and awful hour
Of vast concussion; when the Omnipotent
Stretched forth his arm, and rent the solid hills,
Bidding the impetuous main flood rush between
The rifted shores, and from the continent
Eternally divided this green isle.
Imperial lord of the high southern coast!
From thy projecting head-land I would mark
Far in the east the shades of night disperse,
Melting and thinned, as from the dark blue wave
Emerging, brilliant rays of arrowy light
Dart from the horizon; when the glorious sun
Just lifts above it his resplendent orb.
Advances now, with feathery silver touched,
The rippling tide of flood; glisten the sands,
While, inmates of the chalky clefts that scar
Thy sides precipitous, with shrill harsh cry,
Their white wings glancing in the level beam,
The terns, and gulls, and tarrocks, seek their food,
And thy rough hollows echo to the voice
Of the gray choughs, and ever restless daws,
With clamor, not unlike the chiding hounds,
While the lone shepherd, and his baying dog,
Drive to thy turfy crest his bleating flock.
The high meridian of the day is past,
And Ocean now, reflecting the calm Heaven,
Is of cerulean hue; and murmurs low
The tide of ebb, upon the level sands.
The sloop, her angular canvas shifting still,
Catches the light and variable airs
That but a little crisp the summer sea,
Dimpling its tranquil surface.
Charlotte Smith
Fireflies in the Garden
By Robert Frost
Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
(And they were never really stars at heart)
Achieve at times a very star-like start.
Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.
Robert Frost
By Robert Frost
Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
(And they were never really stars at heart)
Achieve at times a very star-like start.
Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.
Robert Frost
Song
By James Joyce
My love is in a light attire
Among the apple trees,
Where the gay winds do most desire
To run in companies.
There, where the gay winds stay to woo
The young leaves as they pass,
My love goes slowly, bending to
Her shadow on the grass.
And where the sky’s a pale blue cup
Over the laughing land,
My love goes lightly, holding up
Her dress with dainty hand.
James Joyce
By James Joyce
My love is in a light attire
Among the apple trees,
Where the gay winds do most desire
To run in companies.
There, where the gay winds stay to woo
The young leaves as they pass,
My love goes slowly, bending to
Her shadow on the grass.
And where the sky’s a pale blue cup
Over the laughing land,
My love goes lightly, holding up
Her dress with dainty hand.
James Joyce
Doreen
by C.J. Dennis
“I WISH’T yeh meant it, Bill.†Oh, ’ow me ’eart
Went out to ’er that ev’nin’ on the beach.
I knoo she weren’t no ordinary tart,
My little peach!
I tell yeh, square an’ all, me ’eart stood still
To ’ear ’er say, “I wish’t yeh meant it, Bill.â€
To ’ear ’er voice! Its gentle sorter tone,
Like soft dream-music of some Dago band.
An’ me all out; an’ ’oldin’ in me own
’Er little ’and.
An’ ’ow she blushed! O, strike! it was divine
The way she raised ’er shinin’ eyes to mine.
’Er eyes! Soft in the moon; such boshter eyes!
An’ when they sight a bloke…O, spare me days!
’E goes all loose inside; such glamour lies
In ’er sweet gaze.
It makes ’im all ashamed uv wot ’e’s been
To look inter the eyes of my Doreen.
The wet sands glistened, an’ the gleamin’ moon
Shone yeller on the sea, all streakin’ down.
A band was playin’ some soft, dreamy choon;
An’ up the town
We ’eard the distant tram-cars whir an’ clash.
An’ there I told ’er ’ow I’d done me dash.
“I wish’t yeh meant it.†’Struth! And did I, fair?
A bloke ’ud be a dawg to kid a skirt
Like ’er. An’ me well knowin’ she was square.
It ’ud be dirt!
’E’d be no man to point wiv ’er, an’ kid.
I meant it honest; an’ she knoo I did.
She knoo. I’ve done me block in on ’er, straight.
A cove ’as got to think some time in life
An’ get some decent tart, ere it’s too late,
To be ’is wife.
But, Gawd! ’Oo would ‘a’ thort it could ‘a’ been
My luck to strike the likes of ’er?…Doreen!
Aw, I can stand their chuckin’ off, I can.
It’s ’ard; an’ I’d delight to take ’em on.
The dawgs! But it gets that way wiv a man
When ’e’s fair gone.
She’ll sight no stoush; an’ so I ’ave to take
Their mag, an’ do a duck fer ’er sweet sake.
Fer ’er sweet sake I’ve gone and chucked it clean:
The pubs an’ schools an’ all that leery game.
Fer when a bloke ’as come to know Doreen,
It ain’t the same.
There’s ’igher things, she sez, for blokes to do.
An’ I am ’arf believin’ that it’s true.
Yes, ’igher things—that wus the way she spoke;
An’ when she looked at me I sorter felt
That bosker feelin’ that comes o’er a bloke,
An’ makes ’im melt;
Makes ’im all ’ot to maul ’er, an’ to shove
’Is arms about ’er…Bli’me? but it’s love!
That’s wot it is. An’ when a man ’as grown
Like that ’e gets a sorter yearn inside
To be a little ’ero on ’is own;
An’ see the pride
Glow in the eyes of ’er ’e calls ’is queen;
An’ ’ear ’er say ’e is a shine champeen.
“I wish’t yeh meant it,†I can ’ear ’er yet,
My bit o’ fluff! The moon was shinin’ bright,
Turnin’ the waves all yeller where it set—
A bonzer night!
The sparklin’ sea all sorter gold an’ green;
An’ on the pier the band—O, ’Ell!…Doreen!
C. J. Dennis
by C.J. Dennis
“I WISH’T yeh meant it, Bill.†Oh, ’ow me ’eart
Went out to ’er that ev’nin’ on the beach.
I knoo she weren’t no ordinary tart,
My little peach!
I tell yeh, square an’ all, me ’eart stood still
To ’ear ’er say, “I wish’t yeh meant it, Bill.â€
To ’ear ’er voice! Its gentle sorter tone,
Like soft dream-music of some Dago band.
An’ me all out; an’ ’oldin’ in me own
’Er little ’and.
An’ ’ow she blushed! O, strike! it was divine
The way she raised ’er shinin’ eyes to mine.
’Er eyes! Soft in the moon; such boshter eyes!
An’ when they sight a bloke…O, spare me days!
’E goes all loose inside; such glamour lies
In ’er sweet gaze.
It makes ’im all ashamed uv wot ’e’s been
To look inter the eyes of my Doreen.
The wet sands glistened, an’ the gleamin’ moon
Shone yeller on the sea, all streakin’ down.
A band was playin’ some soft, dreamy choon;
An’ up the town
We ’eard the distant tram-cars whir an’ clash.
An’ there I told ’er ’ow I’d done me dash.
“I wish’t yeh meant it.†’Struth! And did I, fair?
A bloke ’ud be a dawg to kid a skirt
Like ’er. An’ me well knowin’ she was square.
It ’ud be dirt!
’E’d be no man to point wiv ’er, an’ kid.
I meant it honest; an’ she knoo I did.
She knoo. I’ve done me block in on ’er, straight.
A cove ’as got to think some time in life
An’ get some decent tart, ere it’s too late,
To be ’is wife.
But, Gawd! ’Oo would ‘a’ thort it could ‘a’ been
My luck to strike the likes of ’er?…Doreen!
Aw, I can stand their chuckin’ off, I can.
It’s ’ard; an’ I’d delight to take ’em on.
The dawgs! But it gets that way wiv a man
When ’e’s fair gone.
She’ll sight no stoush; an’ so I ’ave to take
Their mag, an’ do a duck fer ’er sweet sake.
Fer ’er sweet sake I’ve gone and chucked it clean:
The pubs an’ schools an’ all that leery game.
Fer when a bloke ’as come to know Doreen,
It ain’t the same.
There’s ’igher things, she sez, for blokes to do.
An’ I am ’arf believin’ that it’s true.
Yes, ’igher things—that wus the way she spoke;
An’ when she looked at me I sorter felt
That bosker feelin’ that comes o’er a bloke,
An’ makes ’im melt;
Makes ’im all ’ot to maul ’er, an’ to shove
’Is arms about ’er…Bli’me? but it’s love!
That’s wot it is. An’ when a man ’as grown
Like that ’e gets a sorter yearn inside
To be a little ’ero on ’is own;
An’ see the pride
Glow in the eyes of ’er ’e calls ’is queen;
An’ ’ear ’er say ’e is a shine champeen.
“I wish’t yeh meant it,†I can ’ear ’er yet,
My bit o’ fluff! The moon was shinin’ bright,
Turnin’ the waves all yeller where it set—
A bonzer night!
The sparklin’ sea all sorter gold an’ green;
An’ on the pier the band—O, ’Ell!…Doreen!
C. J. Dennis
Song: “Under the greenwood treeâ€
BY William Shakespeare
(from As You Like It)
Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i’ the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
William Shakespeare
BY William Shakespeare
(from As You Like It)
Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i’ the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
William Shakespeare
On Virtue
By Phillis Wheatley
O thou bright jewel in my aim I strive
To comprehend thee. Thine own words declare
Wisdom is higher than a fool can reach.
I cease to wonder, and no more attempt
Thine height t’explore, or fathom thy profound.
But, O my soul, sink not into despair,
Virtue is near thee, and with gentle hand
Would now embrace thee, hovers o’er thine head.
Fain would the heaven-born soul with her converse,
Then seek, then court her for her promised bliss.
Auspicious queen, thine heavenly pinions spread,
And lead celestial Chastity along;
Lo! now her sacred retinue descends,
Arrayed in glory from the orbs above.
Attend me, Virtue, thro’ my youthful years!
O leave me not to the false joys of time!
But guide my steps to endless life and bliss.
Greatness, or Goodness, say what I shall call thee,
To give an higher appellation still,
Teach me a better strain, a nobler lay,
O Thou, enthroned with Cherubs in the realms of day!
Phillis Wheatley
By Phillis Wheatley
O thou bright jewel in my aim I strive
To comprehend thee. Thine own words declare
Wisdom is higher than a fool can reach.
I cease to wonder, and no more attempt
Thine height t’explore, or fathom thy profound.
But, O my soul, sink not into despair,
Virtue is near thee, and with gentle hand
Would now embrace thee, hovers o’er thine head.
Fain would the heaven-born soul with her converse,
Then seek, then court her for her promised bliss.
Auspicious queen, thine heavenly pinions spread,
And lead celestial Chastity along;
Lo! now her sacred retinue descends,
Arrayed in glory from the orbs above.
Attend me, Virtue, thro’ my youthful years!
O leave me not to the false joys of time!
But guide my steps to endless life and bliss.
Greatness, or Goodness, say what I shall call thee,
To give an higher appellation still,
Teach me a better strain, a nobler lay,
O Thou, enthroned with Cherubs in the realms of day!
Phillis Wheatley
Among the Rocks
By Robert Browning
Oh, good gigantic smile o’ the brown old earth,
This autumn morning! How he sets his bones
To bask i’ the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet
For the ripple to run over in its mirth;
Listening the while, where on the heap of stones
The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet.
That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true;
Such is life’s trial, as old earth smiles and knows.
If you loved only what were worth your love,
Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you:
Make the low nature better by your throes!
Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!
Robert Browning
By Robert Browning
Oh, good gigantic smile o’ the brown old earth,
This autumn morning! How he sets his bones
To bask i’ the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet
For the ripple to run over in its mirth;
Listening the while, where on the heap of stones
The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet.
That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true;
Such is life’s trial, as old earth smiles and knows.
If you loved only what were worth your love,
Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you:
Make the low nature better by your throes!
Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!
Robert Browning
Serenity
By Edward Rowland Sill
Brook,
Be still,—be still!
Midnight’s arch is broken
In thy ceaseless ripples.
Dark and cold below them
Runs the troubled water,—
Only on its bosom,
Shimmering and trembling,
Doth the glinted star-shine
Sparkle and cease.
Life,
Be still,—be still!
Boundless truth is shattered
On thy hurrying current.
Rest, with face uplifted,
Calm, serenely quiet;
Drink the deathless beauty—
Thrills of love and wonder
Sinking, shining, star-like;
Till the mirrored heaven
Hollow down within thee
Holy deeps unfathomed,
Where far thoughts go floating,
And low voices wander
Whispering peace.
Edward_Roland_Sill
By Edward Rowland Sill
Brook,
Be still,—be still!
Midnight’s arch is broken
In thy ceaseless ripples.
Dark and cold below them
Runs the troubled water,—
Only on its bosom,
Shimmering and trembling,
Doth the glinted star-shine
Sparkle and cease.
Life,
Be still,—be still!
Boundless truth is shattered
On thy hurrying current.
Rest, with face uplifted,
Calm, serenely quiet;
Drink the deathless beauty—
Thrills of love and wonder
Sinking, shining, star-like;
Till the mirrored heaven
Hollow down within thee
Holy deeps unfathomed,
Where far thoughts go floating,
And low voices wander
Whispering peace.
Edward_Roland_Sill
Interim
By Lola Ridge
The earth is motionless
And poised in space …
A great bird resting in its flight
Between the alleys of the stars.
It is the wind’s hour off ….
The wind has nestled down among the corn ….
The two speak privately together,
Awaiting the whirr of wing
Lola Ridge
By Lola Ridge
The earth is motionless
And poised in space …
A great bird resting in its flight
Between the alleys of the stars.
It is the wind’s hour off ….
The wind has nestled down among the corn ….
The two speak privately together,
Awaiting the whirr of wing
Lola Ridge
Constancy
By George Herbert
Who is the honest man?
He that doth still and strongly good pursue,
To God, his neighbour, and himself most true:
Whom neither force nor fawning can
Unpin, or wrench from giving all their due.
Whose honesty is not
So loose or easy, that a ruffling wind
Can blow away, or glittering look it blind:
Who rides his sure and even trot,
While the world now rides by, now lags behind.
Who, when great trials come,
Nor seeks, nor shuns them; but doth calmly stay,
Till he the thing and the example weigh:
All being brought into a sum,
What place or person calls for, he doth pay.
Whom none can work or woo
To use in any thing a trick or sleight;
For above all things he abhors deceit:
His words and works and fashion too
All of a piece, and all are clear and straight.
Who never melts or thaws
At close temptations: when the day is done,
His goodness sets not, but in dark can run:
The sun to others writeth laws,
And is their virtue; Virtue is his Sun.
Who, when he is to treat
With sick folks, women, those whom passions sway,
Allows for that, and keeps his constant way:
Whom others’ faults do not defeat;
But though men fail him, yet his part doth play.
Whom nothing can procure,
When the wide world runs bias from his will,
To writhe his limbs, and share, not mend the ill.
This is the Marksman, safe and sure,
Who still is right, and prays to be so still.
George Herbert
By George Herbert
Who is the honest man?
He that doth still and strongly good pursue,
To God, his neighbour, and himself most true:
Whom neither force nor fawning can
Unpin, or wrench from giving all their due.
Whose honesty is not
So loose or easy, that a ruffling wind
Can blow away, or glittering look it blind:
Who rides his sure and even trot,
While the world now rides by, now lags behind.
Who, when great trials come,
Nor seeks, nor shuns them; but doth calmly stay,
Till he the thing and the example weigh:
All being brought into a sum,
What place or person calls for, he doth pay.
Whom none can work or woo
To use in any thing a trick or sleight;
For above all things he abhors deceit:
His words and works and fashion too
All of a piece, and all are clear and straight.
Who never melts or thaws
At close temptations: when the day is done,
His goodness sets not, but in dark can run:
The sun to others writeth laws,
And is their virtue; Virtue is his Sun.
Who, when he is to treat
With sick folks, women, those whom passions sway,
Allows for that, and keeps his constant way:
Whom others’ faults do not defeat;
But though men fail him, yet his part doth play.
Whom nothing can procure,
When the wide world runs bias from his will,
To writhe his limbs, and share, not mend the ill.
This is the Marksman, safe and sure,
Who still is right, and prays to be so still.
George Herbert
Swallows
By Leonora Speyer
They dip their wings in the sunset,
They dash against the air
As if to break themselves upon its stillness:
In every movement, too swift to count,
Is a revelry of indecision,
A furtive delight in trees they do not desire And in grasses that shall not know their weight.
They hover and lean toward the meadow
With little edged cries;
And then,
As if frightened at the earth’s nearness, They seek the high austerity of evening sky And swirl into its depth.
Leonora Speyer
By Leonora Speyer
They dip their wings in the sunset,
They dash against the air
As if to break themselves upon its stillness:
In every movement, too swift to count,
Is a revelry of indecision,
A furtive delight in trees they do not desire And in grasses that shall not know their weight.
They hover and lean toward the meadow
With little edged cries;
And then,
As if frightened at the earth’s nearness, They seek the high austerity of evening sky And swirl into its depth.
Leonora Speyer
Tall
Nettles
By Edward Thomas
TALL nettles cover up, as they have done
These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough
Long worn out, and the roller made of stone:
Only the elm butt tops the nettles now.
This corner of the farmyard I like most:
As well as any bloom upon a flower
I like the dust on the nettles, never lost
Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.
Edward Thomas
By Edward Thomas
TALL nettles cover up, as they have done
These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough
Long worn out, and the roller made of stone:
Only the elm butt tops the nettles now.
This corner of the farmyard I like most:
As well as any bloom upon a flower
I like the dust on the nettles, never lost
Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.
Edward Thomas
A Gift
by Leonora Speyer
I Woke: —
Night, lingering, poured upon the world
Of drowsy hill and wood and lake
Her moon-song,
And the breeze accompanied with hushed fingers
On the birches.
Gently the dawn held out to me
A golden handful of bird’s-notes.
Leonora Speyer
by Leonora Speyer
I Woke: —
Night, lingering, poured upon the world
Of drowsy hill and wood and lake
Her moon-song,
And the breeze accompanied with hushed fingers
On the birches.
Gently the dawn held out to me
A golden handful of bird’s-notes.
Leonora Speyer
Old
Wine
by Margaret Widdemer
If I could lift
My heart but high enough
My heart could fill with love:
But ah, my heart
Too still and heavy stays
Too brimming with old days.
Margaret Widdemer
by Margaret Widdemer
If I could lift
My heart but high enough
My heart could fill with love:
But ah, my heart
Too still and heavy stays
Too brimming with old days.
Margaret Widdemer
From: A Dream of the Unknown
by P. B. Shelley
I DREAM’D that as I wander’d by the way
Bare winter suddenly was changed to spring,
And gentle odours led my steps astray,
Mix’d with a sound of waters murmuring
Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,
But kiss’d it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,
Daisies, those pearl’d Arcturi of the earth,
The constellated flower that never sets;
Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth
The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets—
Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth—
Its mother’s face with heaven-collected tears,
When the low wind, its playmate’s voice, it hears.
And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour’d may,
And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
Was the bright dew yet drain’d not by the day;
And wild roses, and ivy serpentine
With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;
And flowers azure, black, and streak’d with gold,
Fairer than any waken’d eyes behold.
P. B. Shelley
by P. B. Shelley
I DREAM’D that as I wander’d by the way
Bare winter suddenly was changed to spring,
And gentle odours led my steps astray,
Mix’d with a sound of waters murmuring
Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,
But kiss’d it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,
Daisies, those pearl’d Arcturi of the earth,
The constellated flower that never sets;
Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth
The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets—
Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth—
Its mother’s face with heaven-collected tears,
When the low wind, its playmate’s voice, it hears.
And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour’d may,
And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
Was the bright dew yet drain’d not by the day;
And wild roses, and ivy serpentine
With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;
And flowers azure, black, and streak’d with gold,
Fairer than any waken’d eyes behold.
P. B. Shelley
Passers-by
by Carl Sandburg
Passers-by,
Out of your many faces
Flash memories to me
Now at the day end
Away from the sidewalks
Where your shoe soles traveled
And your voices rose and blent
To form the city’s afternoon roar
Hindering an old silence.
Passers-by,
I remember lean ones among you,
Throats in the clutch of a hope,
Lips written over with strivings,
Mouths that kiss only for love,
Records of great wishes slept with,
Held long
And prayed and toiled for:
Yes,
Written on
Your mouths
And your throats
I read them
When you passed by.
Carl Sandburg
by Carl Sandburg
Passers-by,
Out of your many faces
Flash memories to me
Now at the day end
Away from the sidewalks
Where your shoe soles traveled
And your voices rose and blent
To form the city’s afternoon roar
Hindering an old silence.
Passers-by,
I remember lean ones among you,
Throats in the clutch of a hope,
Lips written over with strivings,
Mouths that kiss only for love,
Records of great wishes slept with,
Held long
And prayed and toiled for:
Yes,
Written on
Your mouths
And your throats
I read them
When you passed by.
Carl Sandburg
Sunday
Evening in the Common
By John Hall Wheelock
LOOK—on the topmost branches of the world
The blossoms of the myriad stars are thick;
Over the huddled rows of stone and brick,
A few, sad wisps of empty smoke are curled
Like ghosts, languid and sick.
One breathless moment now the city’s moaning
Fades, and the endless streets seem vague and dim;
There is no sound around the whole world’s rim,
Save in the distance a small band is droning
Some desolate old hymn.
Van Wyck, how often have we been together
When this same moment made all mysteries clear;
—The infinite stars that brood above us here,
And the gray city in the soft June weather,
So tawdry and so dear!
John Hall Wheelock
By John Hall Wheelock
LOOK—on the topmost branches of the world
The blossoms of the myriad stars are thick;
Over the huddled rows of stone and brick,
A few, sad wisps of empty smoke are curled
Like ghosts, languid and sick.
One breathless moment now the city’s moaning
Fades, and the endless streets seem vague and dim;
There is no sound around the whole world’s rim,
Save in the distance a small band is droning
Some desolate old hymn.
Van Wyck, how often have we been together
When this same moment made all mysteries clear;
—The infinite stars that brood above us here,
And the gray city in the soft June weather,
So tawdry and so dear!
John Hall Wheelock
Where
They Lived
By Thomas Hardy
Dishevelled leaves creep down
Upon that bank to-day,
Some green, some yellow, and some pale brown;
The wet bents bob and sway;
The once warm slippery turf is sodden
Where we laughingly sat or lay.
The summerhouse is gone,
Leaving a weedy space;
The bushes that veiled it once have grown
Gaunt trees that interlace,
Through whose lank limbs I see too clearly
The nakedness of the place.
And where were hills of blue,
Blind drifts of vapour blow,
And the names of former dwellers few,
If any, people know,
And instead of a voice that called, “Come in, Dears,â€
Time calls, “Pass below!â€
Thomas Hardy
By Thomas Hardy
Dishevelled leaves creep down
Upon that bank to-day,
Some green, some yellow, and some pale brown;
The wet bents bob and sway;
The once warm slippery turf is sodden
Where we laughingly sat or lay.
The summerhouse is gone,
Leaving a weedy space;
The bushes that veiled it once have grown
Gaunt trees that interlace,
Through whose lank limbs I see too clearly
The nakedness of the place.
And where were hills of blue,
Blind drifts of vapour blow,
And the names of former dwellers few,
If any, people know,
And instead of a voice that called, “Come in, Dears,â€
Time calls, “Pass below!â€
Thomas Hardy
A
narrow fellow in the grass
By Emily Dickinson
A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides;
You may have met him-did you not
His notice sudden is,
The grass divides as with a comb,
A spotted shaft is seen,
And then it closes at your feet,
And opens further on.
He likes a boggy acre,
A floor too cool for corn,
But when a boy and barefoot,
I more than once at noon
Have passed, I thought, a whip lash,
Unbraiding in the sun,
When stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled and was gone.
Several of nature’s people
I know, and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality.
But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,
Without a tighter breathing,
And zero at the bone.
Emily Dickinson
By Emily Dickinson
A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides;
You may have met him-did you not
His notice sudden is,
The grass divides as with a comb,
A spotted shaft is seen,
And then it closes at your feet,
And opens further on.
He likes a boggy acre,
A floor too cool for corn,
But when a boy and barefoot,
I more than once at noon
Have passed, I thought, a whip lash,
Unbraiding in the sun,
When stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled and was gone.
Several of nature’s people
I know, and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality.
But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,
Without a tighter breathing,
And zero at the bone.
Emily Dickinson
Song
of the Witches: “Double, double toil and troubleâ€
By William Shakespeare
(from Macbeth)
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg and howlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Cool it with a baboon’s blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.
William Shakespeare
By William Shakespeare
(from Macbeth)
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg and howlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Cool it with a baboon’s blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.
William Shakespeare
Willow
Poem
by William Carlos Williams
It is a willow when summer is over,
a willow by the river
from which no leaf has fallen nor
bitten by the sun
turned orange or crimson.
The leaves cling and grow paler,
swing and grow paler
over the swirling waters of the river
as if loath to let go,
they are so cool, so drunk with
the swirl of the wind and of the river-
oblivious to winter,
the last to let go and fall
into the water and on the ground.
William Carlos Williams
by William Carlos Williams
It is a willow when summer is over,
a willow by the river
from which no leaf has fallen nor
bitten by the sun
turned orange or crimson.
The leaves cling and grow paler,
swing and grow paler
over the swirling waters of the river
as if loath to let go,
they are so cool, so drunk with
the swirl of the wind and of the river-
oblivious to winter,
the last to let go and fall
into the water and on the ground.
William Carlos Williams
A Hymn to the Moon
(Written in an Arbour)
By Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
Thou silver deity of secret night,
Direct my footsteps through the woodland shade;
Thou conscious witness of unknown delight,
The Lover’s guardian, and the Muse’s aid!
By thy pale beams I solitary rove,
To thee my tender grief confide;
Serenely sweet you gild the silent grove,
My friend, my goddess, and my guide.
E’en thee, fair queen, from thy amazing height,
The charms of young Endymion drew;
Veil’d with the mantle of concealing night;
With all thy greatness and thy coldness too.
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
(Written in an Arbour)
By Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
Thou silver deity of secret night,
Direct my footsteps through the woodland shade;
Thou conscious witness of unknown delight,
The Lover’s guardian, and the Muse’s aid!
By thy pale beams I solitary rove,
To thee my tender grief confide;
Serenely sweet you gild the silent grove,
My friend, my goddess, and my guide.
E’en thee, fair queen, from thy amazing height,
The charms of young Endymion drew;
Veil’d with the mantle of concealing night;
With all thy greatness and thy coldness too.
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
The Cliffside Path
(from A Midsummer Holiday and Other Poems, 1884)
By Algernon Charles Swimburne
Seaward goes the sun, and homeward by the down
We, before the night upon his grave be sealed.
Low behind us lies the bright steep murmuring town,
High before us heaves the steep rough silent field.
Breach by ghastlier breach, the cliffs collapsing yield:
Half the path is broken, half the banks divide;
Flawed and crumbled, riven and rent, they cleave and slide
Toward the ridged and wrinkled waste of girdling sand
Deep beneath, whose furrows tell how far and wide
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of the strand.
Star by star on the unsunned waters twiring down,
Golden spear-points glance against a silver shield.
Over banks and bents, across the headland’s crown,
As by pulse of gradual plumes through twilight wheeled,
Soft as sleep, the waking wind awakes the weald.
Moor and copse and fallow, near or far descried.
Feel the mild wings move, and gladden where they glide:
Silence, uttering love that all things understand,
Bids the quiet fields forget that hard beside
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of the strand.
Yet may sight, ere all the hoar soft shade grow brown,
Hardly reckon half the rifts and rents unhealed
Where the scarred cliffs downward sundering drive and drown,
Hewn as if with stroke of swords in tempest steeled,
Wielded as the night’s will and the wind’s may wield.
Crowned and zoned in vain with flowers of autumn-tide,
Soon the blasts shall break them, soon the waters hide,
Soon, where late we stood, shall no man ever stand.
Life and love seek harbourage on the landward side:
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of the strand.
Friend, though man be less than these, for all his pride,
Yet, for all his weakness, shall not hope abide?
Wind and change can wreck but life and waste but land:
Truth and trust are sure, though here till all subside
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of the strand.
Algernon Charles Swimburne
(from A Midsummer Holiday and Other Poems, 1884)
By Algernon Charles Swimburne
Seaward goes the sun, and homeward by the down
We, before the night upon his grave be sealed.
Low behind us lies the bright steep murmuring town,
High before us heaves the steep rough silent field.
Breach by ghastlier breach, the cliffs collapsing yield:
Half the path is broken, half the banks divide;
Flawed and crumbled, riven and rent, they cleave and slide
Toward the ridged and wrinkled waste of girdling sand
Deep beneath, whose furrows tell how far and wide
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of the strand.
Star by star on the unsunned waters twiring down,
Golden spear-points glance against a silver shield.
Over banks and bents, across the headland’s crown,
As by pulse of gradual plumes through twilight wheeled,
Soft as sleep, the waking wind awakes the weald.
Moor and copse and fallow, near or far descried.
Feel the mild wings move, and gladden where they glide:
Silence, uttering love that all things understand,
Bids the quiet fields forget that hard beside
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of the strand.
Yet may sight, ere all the hoar soft shade grow brown,
Hardly reckon half the rifts and rents unhealed
Where the scarred cliffs downward sundering drive and drown,
Hewn as if with stroke of swords in tempest steeled,
Wielded as the night’s will and the wind’s may wield.
Crowned and zoned in vain with flowers of autumn-tide,
Soon the blasts shall break them, soon the waters hide,
Soon, where late we stood, shall no man ever stand.
Life and love seek harbourage on the landward side:
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of the strand.
Friend, though man be less than these, for all his pride,
Yet, for all his weakness, shall not hope abide?
Wind and change can wreck but life and waste but land:
Truth and trust are sure, though here till all subside
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of the strand.
Algernon Charles Swimburne
The Candle
by Katherine Mansfield
By my bed, on a little round table,
The Grandmother placed a candle.
She gave me three kisses telling me they were three dreams
And tucked me in just where I loved being tucked.
Then she went out of the room and the door was shut.
I lay still, waiting for my three dreams to talk;
But they were silent.
Suddenly I remembered giving her three kisses back.
Perhaps, by mistake, I had given my three little dreams.
I sat up in bed.
The room grew big, oh, bigger far than a church.
The wardrobe, quite by itself, as big as a house.
And the jug on the washstand smiled at me:
It was not a friendly smile.
I looked at the basket-chair where my clothes lay folded:
The chair gave a creak as though it were listening for something.
Perhaps it was coming alive and going to dress in my clothes.
But the awful thing was the window:
I could not think what was outside.
No tree to be seen, I was sure,
No nice little plant or friendly pebbly path.
Why did she pull the blind down every night?
It was better to know.
I crunched my teeth and crept out of bed.
I peeped through a slit of blind.
There was nothing at all to be seen
But hundreds of friendly candles all over the sky
In remembrance of frightened children.
I went back to bed …
The three dreams started singing a little song.
Katherine Mansfield
by Katherine Mansfield
By my bed, on a little round table,
The Grandmother placed a candle.
She gave me three kisses telling me they were three dreams
And tucked me in just where I loved being tucked.
Then she went out of the room and the door was shut.
I lay still, waiting for my three dreams to talk;
But they were silent.
Suddenly I remembered giving her three kisses back.
Perhaps, by mistake, I had given my three little dreams.
I sat up in bed.
The room grew big, oh, bigger far than a church.
The wardrobe, quite by itself, as big as a house.
And the jug on the washstand smiled at me:
It was not a friendly smile.
I looked at the basket-chair where my clothes lay folded:
The chair gave a creak as though it were listening for something.
Perhaps it was coming alive and going to dress in my clothes.
But the awful thing was the window:
I could not think what was outside.
No tree to be seen, I was sure,
No nice little plant or friendly pebbly path.
Why did she pull the blind down every night?
It was better to know.
I crunched my teeth and crept out of bed.
I peeped through a slit of blind.
There was nothing at all to be seen
But hundreds of friendly candles all over the sky
In remembrance of frightened children.
I went back to bed …
The three dreams started singing a little song.
Katherine Mansfield
A Palinode
By Edmund Bolton
As withereth the primrose by the river,
As fadeth summer’s sun from gliding fountains,
As vanisheth the light-blown bubble ever,
As melteth snow upon the mossy mountains:
So melts, so vanishes, so fades, so withers
The rose, the shine, the bubble and the snow
Of praise, pomp, glory, joy - which short life gathers -
Fair praise, vain pomp, sweet glory, brittle joy.
The withered primrose by the mourning river,
The faded summer’s sun from weeping fountains,
The light-blown bubble, vanishéd for ever,
The molten snow upon the naked mountains,
  Are emblems that the treasures we up-lay
  Soon wither, vanish, fade and melt away.
For as the snow, whose lawn did overspread
The ambitious hills, which giant-like did threat
To pierce the heaven with their aspiring head,
Naked and bare doth leave their craggy seat;
Whenas the bubble, which did empty fly
The dalliance of the undiscernéd wind,
On whose calm rolling waves it did rely,
Hath shipwreck made, where it did dalliance find;
And when the sunshine, which dissolved the snow,
Coloured the bubble with a pleasant vary,
And made the rathe and timely primrose grow,
Swarth clouds withdrawn (which longer time do tarry) -
  Oh, what is praise, pomp, glory, joy, but so
  As shine by fountains, bubbles, flowers or snow?
Edmund Bolton
By Edmund Bolton
As withereth the primrose by the river,
As fadeth summer’s sun from gliding fountains,
As vanisheth the light-blown bubble ever,
As melteth snow upon the mossy mountains:
So melts, so vanishes, so fades, so withers
The rose, the shine, the bubble and the snow
Of praise, pomp, glory, joy - which short life gathers -
Fair praise, vain pomp, sweet glory, brittle joy.
The withered primrose by the mourning river,
The faded summer’s sun from weeping fountains,
The light-blown bubble, vanishéd for ever,
The molten snow upon the naked mountains,
  Are emblems that the treasures we up-lay
  Soon wither, vanish, fade and melt away.
For as the snow, whose lawn did overspread
The ambitious hills, which giant-like did threat
To pierce the heaven with their aspiring head,
Naked and bare doth leave their craggy seat;
Whenas the bubble, which did empty fly
The dalliance of the undiscernéd wind,
On whose calm rolling waves it did rely,
Hath shipwreck made, where it did dalliance find;
And when the sunshine, which dissolved the snow,
Coloured the bubble with a pleasant vary,
And made the rathe and timely primrose grow,
Swarth clouds withdrawn (which longer time do tarry) -
  Oh, what is praise, pomp, glory, joy, but so
  As shine by fountains, bubbles, flowers or snow?
Edmund Bolton
III (from Mont Blanc)
By Percy Bysshe Shelley
Some say that gleams of a remoter world
Visit the soul in sleep, that death is slumber,
And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber
Of those who wake and live. I look on high;
Has some unknown omnipotence unfurl’d
The veil of life and death? or do I lie
In dream, and does the mightier world of sleep
Spread far around and inaccessibly
Its circles? For the very spirit fails,
Driven like a homeless cloud from steep to steep
That vanishes among the viewless gales!
Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky,
Mont Blanc appears - still, snowy, and serene;
Its subject mountains their unearthly forms
Pile around it, ice and rock; broad vales between
Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps,
Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread
And wind among the accumulated steeps;
A desert peopled by the storms alone,
Save when the eagle brings some hunter’s bone,
And the wolf tracks her there - how hideously
Its shapes are heap’d around! rude, bare, and high,
Ghastly, and scarr’d, and riven. Is this the scene
Where the old Earthquake-daemon taught her young
Ruin? Were these their toys? or did a sea
Of fire envelop once this silent snow?
None can reply - all seems eternal now.
The wilderness has a mysterious tongue
Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild,
So solemn, so serene, that man may be,
But for such faith, with Nature reconcil’d;
Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal
Large codes of fraud and woe; not understood
By all, but which the wise, and great, and good
Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
By Percy Bysshe Shelley
Some say that gleams of a remoter world
Visit the soul in sleep, that death is slumber,
And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber
Of those who wake and live. I look on high;
Has some unknown omnipotence unfurl’d
The veil of life and death? or do I lie
In dream, and does the mightier world of sleep
Spread far around and inaccessibly
Its circles? For the very spirit fails,
Driven like a homeless cloud from steep to steep
That vanishes among the viewless gales!
Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky,
Mont Blanc appears - still, snowy, and serene;
Its subject mountains their unearthly forms
Pile around it, ice and rock; broad vales between
Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps,
Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread
And wind among the accumulated steeps;
A desert peopled by the storms alone,
Save when the eagle brings some hunter’s bone,
And the wolf tracks her there - how hideously
Its shapes are heap’d around! rude, bare, and high,
Ghastly, and scarr’d, and riven. Is this the scene
Where the old Earthquake-daemon taught her young
Ruin? Were these their toys? or did a sea
Of fire envelop once this silent snow?
None can reply - all seems eternal now.
The wilderness has a mysterious tongue
Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild,
So solemn, so serene, that man may be,
But for such faith, with Nature reconcil’d;
Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal
Large codes of fraud and woe; not understood
By all, but which the wise, and great, and good
Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Redbirds
By Sara Teasdale
Redbirds, redbirds,
Long and long ago,
What a honey-call you had
In hills I used to know;
Redbud, buckberry,
Wild plum-tree
And proud river sweeping
Southward to the sea,
Brown and gold in the sun
Sparkling far below,
Trailing stately round her bluffs
Where the poplars grow -
Redbirds, redbirds,
Are you singing still
As you sang one May day
On Saxton’s Hill?
Sara Teasdale
By Sara Teasdale
Redbirds, redbirds,
Long and long ago,
What a honey-call you had
In hills I used to know;
Redbud, buckberry,
Wild plum-tree
And proud river sweeping
Southward to the sea,
Brown and gold in the sun
Sparkling far below,
Trailing stately round her bluffs
Where the poplars grow -
Redbirds, redbirds,
Are you singing still
As you sang one May day
On Saxton’s Hill?
Sara Teasdale
From "The Princess"
By Lord Alfred Tennyson
Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height:
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang),
In height and cold, the splendour of the hills?
But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease
To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine,
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire;
And come, for Love is of the valley, come,
For Love is of the valley, come thou down
And find him; by the happy threshold, he,
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize,
Or red with spirted purple of the vats,
Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk
With Death and Morning on the silver horns,
Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine,
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice,
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors:
But follow; let the torrent dance thee down
To find him in the valley; let the wild
Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill
Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke
That like a broken purpose waste in air:
So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales
Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth
Arise to thee; the children call, and I
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound,
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro’ the lawn,
The moan of doves is immemorial elms,
And murmuring of innumerable bees.
Lord Alfred Tennyson
By Lord Alfred Tennyson
Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height:
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang),
In height and cold, the splendour of the hills?
But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease
To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine,
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire;
And come, for Love is of the valley, come,
For Love is of the valley, come thou down
And find him; by the happy threshold, he,
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize,
Or red with spirted purple of the vats,
Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk
With Death and Morning on the silver horns,
Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine,
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice,
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors:
But follow; let the torrent dance thee down
To find him in the valley; let the wild
Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill
Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke
That like a broken purpose waste in air:
So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales
Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth
Arise to thee; the children call, and I
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound,
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro’ the lawn,
The moan of doves is immemorial elms,
And murmuring of innumerable bees.
Lord Alfred Tennyson
Love and Friendship
Emily Brontë
Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree-
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?
The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who will call the wild-briar fair?
Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holly’s sheen,
That when December blights thy brow
He still may leave thy garland green.
Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë
Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree-
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?
The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who will call the wild-briar fair?
Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holly’s sheen,
That when December blights thy brow
He still may leave thy garland green.
Emily Brontë
The Wind Sleepers
By H. D.
Whiter
than the crust
left by the tide,
we are stung by the hurled sand
and the broken shells.
We no longer sleep
in the wind-
we awoke and fled
through the city gate.
Tear-
tear us an altar,
tug at the cliff-boulders,
pile them with the rough stones-
we no longer
sleep in the wind,
propitiate us.
Chant in a wail
that never halts,
pace a circle and pay tribute
with a song.
When the roar of a dropped wave
breaks into it,
pour meted words
of sea-hawks and gull
sand sea-birds that cry
discords.
H. D.
By H. D.
Whiter
than the crust
left by the tide,
we are stung by the hurled sand
and the broken shells.
We no longer sleep
in the wind-
we awoke and fled
through the city gate.
Tear-
tear us an altar,
tug at the cliff-boulders,
pile them with the rough stones-
we no longer
sleep in the wind,
propitiate us.
Chant in a wail
that never halts,
pace a circle and pay tribute
with a song.
When the roar of a dropped wave
breaks into it,
pour meted words
of sea-hawks and gull
sand sea-birds that cry
discords.
H. D.
Sonnet 23
By William Shakespeare
As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,
And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,
O’ercharg’d with burthen of mine own love’s might.
O! let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
More than that tongue that more hath more express’d.
O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.
William Shakespeare
By William Shakespeare
As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,
And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,
O’ercharg’d with burthen of mine own love’s might.
O! let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
More than that tongue that more hath more express’d.
O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.
William Shakespeare
Rondeau
by Jessie Redmon Fauset
When April’s here and meadows wide
Once more with spring’s sweet growths are pied
I close each book, drop each pursuit,
And past the brook, no longer mute,
I joyous roam the countryside.
Look, here the violets shy abide
And there the mating robins hide -
How keen my sense, how acute,
When April’s here!
And list! down where the shimmering tide
Hard by that farthest hill doth glide,
Rise faint strains from shepherd’s flute,
Pan’s pipes and Berecyntian lute.
Each sight, each sound fresh joys provide
When April’s here.
Jessie Redmon Fauset
by Jessie Redmon Fauset
When April’s here and meadows wide
Once more with spring’s sweet growths are pied
I close each book, drop each pursuit,
And past the brook, no longer mute,
I joyous roam the countryside.
Look, here the violets shy abide
And there the mating robins hide -
How keen my sense, how acute,
When April’s here!
And list! down where the shimmering tide
Hard by that farthest hill doth glide,
Rise faint strains from shepherd’s flute,
Pan’s pipes and Berecyntian lute.
Each sight, each sound fresh joys provide
When April’s here.
Jessie Redmon Fauset
Hours
By Hazel Hall
I have known hours built like cities,
House on grey house, with streets between
That lead to straggling roads and trail off,
Forgotten in a field of green;
Hours made like mountains lifting
White crests out of the fog and rain,
And woven of forbidden music-
Hours eternal in their pain.
Life is a tapestry of hours
Forever mellowing in tone,
Where all things blend, even the longing
For hours I have never known.
Hazel Hall
By Hazel Hall
I have known hours built like cities,
House on grey house, with streets between
That lead to straggling roads and trail off,
Forgotten in a field of green;
Hours made like mountains lifting
White crests out of the fog and rain,
And woven of forbidden music-
Hours eternal in their pain.
Life is a tapestry of hours
Forever mellowing in tone,
Where all things blend, even the longing
For hours I have never known.
Hazel Hall
Long
Island Sound
By Emma Lazarus
I see it as it looked one afternoon
In August,- by a fresh soft breeze o’erblown.
The swiftness of the tide, the light thereon,
A far-off sail, white as a crescent moon.
The shining waters with pale currents strewn,
The quiet fishing-smacks, the Eastern cove,
The semi-circle of its dark, green grove.
The luminous grasses, and the merry sun
In the grave sky; the sparkle far and wide,
Laughter of unseen children, cheerful chirp
Of crickets, and low lisp of rippling tide,
Light summer clouds fantastical as sleep
Changing unnoted while I gazed thereon.
All these fair sounds and sights I made my own.
Emma Lazarus
By Emma Lazarus
I see it as it looked one afternoon
In August,- by a fresh soft breeze o’erblown.
The swiftness of the tide, the light thereon,
A far-off sail, white as a crescent moon.
The shining waters with pale currents strewn,
The quiet fishing-smacks, the Eastern cove,
The semi-circle of its dark, green grove.
The luminous grasses, and the merry sun
In the grave sky; the sparkle far and wide,
Laughter of unseen children, cheerful chirp
Of crickets, and low lisp of rippling tide,
Light summer clouds fantastical as sleep
Changing unnoted while I gazed thereon.
All these fair sounds and sights I made my own.
Emma Lazarus
A
Bird Song
By Christina Rossetti
It’s a year almost that I have not seen her:
Oh, last summer green things were greener,
Brambles fewer, the blue sky bluer.
It’s surely summer, for there’s a swallow:
Come one swallow, his mate will follow,
The bird race quicken and wheel and thicken.
Oh happy swallow whose mate will follow
O’er height, o’er hollow! I’d be a swallow,
To build this weather one nest together.
Christina Rossetti
By Christina Rossetti
It’s a year almost that I have not seen her:
Oh, last summer green things were greener,
Brambles fewer, the blue sky bluer.
It’s surely summer, for there’s a swallow:
Come one swallow, his mate will follow,
The bird race quicken and wheel and thicken.
Oh happy swallow whose mate will follow
O’er height, o’er hollow! I’d be a swallow,
To build this weather one nest together.
Christina Rossetti
There
may be chaos still around the world
by George Santayana
There may be chaos still around the world,
This little world that in my thinking lies;
For mine own bosom is the paradise
Where all my life’s fair visions are unfurled.
Within my nature’s shell I slumber curled,
Unmindful of the changing outer skies,
Where now, perchance, some new-born Eros flies,
Or some old Cronos from his throne is hurled.
I heed them not; or if the subtle night
Haunt me with deities I never saw,
I soon mine eyelid’s drowsy curtain draw
To hide their myriad faces from my sight.
They threat in vain; the whirlwind cannot awe
A happy snow-flake dancing in the flaw.
George Santayana
by George Santayana
There may be chaos still around the world,
This little world that in my thinking lies;
For mine own bosom is the paradise
Where all my life’s fair visions are unfurled.
Within my nature’s shell I slumber curled,
Unmindful of the changing outer skies,
Where now, perchance, some new-born Eros flies,
Or some old Cronos from his throne is hurled.
I heed them not; or if the subtle night
Haunt me with deities I never saw,
I soon mine eyelid’s drowsy curtain draw
To hide their myriad faces from my sight.
They threat in vain; the whirlwind cannot awe
A happy snow-flake dancing in the flaw.
George Santayana
The
Prairie Town
By Helen Santmyer
Lovers of beauty laugh at this grey town,
Where dust lies thick on ragged curb-side trees,
And compass-needle streets lead up and down
And lose themselves in empty prairie seas.
Here is no winding scented lane, no hill
Crowned with a steepled church, no garden wall
Of old grey stone where lilacs bloom, and fill
The air with fragrance when the May rains fall.
But here is the unsoftened majesty
Of the wide earth where all the wide streets end,
And from the dusty corner one may see
The full moon rise, and flaming sun descend.
The long main street, whence farmers’ teams go forth,
Lies like an old sea road, star-pointed north.
Helen Santmyer
By Helen Santmyer
Lovers of beauty laugh at this grey town,
Where dust lies thick on ragged curb-side trees,
And compass-needle streets lead up and down
And lose themselves in empty prairie seas.
Here is no winding scented lane, no hill
Crowned with a steepled church, no garden wall
Of old grey stone where lilacs bloom, and fill
The air with fragrance when the May rains fall.
But here is the unsoftened majesty
Of the wide earth where all the wide streets end,
And from the dusty corner one may see
The full moon rise, and flaming sun descend.
The long main street, whence farmers’ teams go forth,
Lies like an old sea road, star-pointed north.
Helen Santmyer
To
Shakespeare
by Frances Anne Kemble
Oft, when my lips I open to rehearse
Thy wondrous spell of wisdom, and of power,
And that my voice, and thy immortal verse,
On listening ears, and hearts, I mingled pour,
I shrink dismayed – and awful doth appear
The vain presumption of my own weak deed;
Thy glorious spirit seems to mine so near,
That suddenly I tremble as I read –
Thee an invisible auditor I fear:
Oh, if it might be so, my master dear!
With what beseeching would I pray to thee,
To make me equal to my noble task,
Succor from thee, how humbly would I ask,
Thy worthiest works to utter worthily.
Frances Anne Kemble
by Frances Anne Kemble
Oft, when my lips I open to rehearse
Thy wondrous spell of wisdom, and of power,
And that my voice, and thy immortal verse,
On listening ears, and hearts, I mingled pour,
I shrink dismayed – and awful doth appear
The vain presumption of my own weak deed;
Thy glorious spirit seems to mine so near,
That suddenly I tremble as I read –
Thee an invisible auditor I fear:
Oh, if it might be so, my master dear!
With what beseeching would I pray to thee,
To make me equal to my noble task,
Succor from thee, how humbly would I ask,
Thy worthiest works to utter worthily.
Frances Anne Kemble
From
the Telephone
by Florence Ripley Mastin
Out of the dark cup
Your voice broke like a flower.
It trembled, swaying on its taut stem.
The caress in its touch
Made my eyes close.
Florence Ripley Mastin
by Florence Ripley Mastin
Out of the dark cup
Your voice broke like a flower.
It trembled, swaying on its taut stem.
The caress in its touch
Made my eyes close.
Florence Ripley Mastin
Habit
by Hazel Hall
Last night when my work was done,
And my estranged hands
Were becoming mutually interested
In such forgotten things as pulses,
I looked out of a window
Into a glittering night sky.
And instantly
I began to feather-stitch a ring around the moon.
Hazel Hall
by Hazel Hall
Last night when my work was done,
And my estranged hands
Were becoming mutually interested
In such forgotten things as pulses,
I looked out of a window
Into a glittering night sky.
And instantly
I began to feather-stitch a ring around the moon.
Hazel Hall
Looks
By Peter Kirkpatrick
A photo album shows us half a life
ago, bliss kittens of the night, bowtied,
in drag, in tight jeans and tee-shirts — half a life
before we kissed and breakfasted: an age.
These are the slim acquaintances we were,
these leaner, lesser bodies that we led
through thumping pubs and on to garbled parties,
and in and out of other people’s lives,
until they steadied in each other’s gaze.
Tonight we’re flirting with the past again,
and with each other, old and new. But which
is which? These recent, ageing beings or
those faded, younger frames, dressed in the past?
And should we even care? For as you turn
another page that shows the ways we’ve changed
I see no doubts, no hesitations, no
false steps in this long practised dance of ours,
only the Then and Now. The many stumbles
in between, when we were making do, making
it up, losing the plot, ignoring prompts
(unstaged scenarios as surely ours
as these more studied moves): those likenesses,
exposed to memory, lack this fixity,
or rest, unedited, beneath other beds.
Now as you pass the book and trade a glance
I try to catch a stranger in a kiss.
Only you’re there before me, knowing the look.
Peter Kirkpatrick
Peter Kirkpatrick is a poet and academic, and teaches Australian Literature in the Department of English at the University of Sydney. He has published two collections, Wish You Were Here (Five Islands, 1996) and Westering (Puncher & Wattmann, 2006), and the chapbook Australian Gothic and Other Poems (Picaro, 2012).
By Peter Kirkpatrick
A photo album shows us half a life
ago, bliss kittens of the night, bowtied,
in drag, in tight jeans and tee-shirts — half a life
before we kissed and breakfasted: an age.
These are the slim acquaintances we were,
these leaner, lesser bodies that we led
through thumping pubs and on to garbled parties,
and in and out of other people’s lives,
until they steadied in each other’s gaze.
Tonight we’re flirting with the past again,
and with each other, old and new. But which
is which? These recent, ageing beings or
those faded, younger frames, dressed in the past?
And should we even care? For as you turn
another page that shows the ways we’ve changed
I see no doubts, no hesitations, no
false steps in this long practised dance of ours,
only the Then and Now. The many stumbles
in between, when we were making do, making
it up, losing the plot, ignoring prompts
(unstaged scenarios as surely ours
as these more studied moves): those likenesses,
exposed to memory, lack this fixity,
or rest, unedited, beneath other beds.
Now as you pass the book and trade a glance
I try to catch a stranger in a kiss.
Only you’re there before me, knowing the look.
Peter Kirkpatrick
Peter Kirkpatrick is a poet and academic, and teaches Australian Literature in the Department of English at the University of Sydney. He has published two collections, Wish You Were Here (Five Islands, 1996) and Westering (Puncher & Wattmann, 2006), and the chapbook Australian Gothic and Other Poems (Picaro, 2012).
The Juggler
By Todd Turner
Beneath the perpetual orbit
of spinning worlds, haphazardly
balanced upon the east-west
axis of a rocking plank,
a man juggles a quintet
of earth’s most principal form.
Five glittering orbs go up,
willing the onlookers awake
as the spun trajectory arcs
and cascades in a formula fit
for the confines of geometry,
or the mute notation of plotted
notes graphed in the minds
of those who map them out
across the horizontal lines of a stave.
Todd Turner
Todd Turner’s first collection of poetry Woodsmoke was recently published by Black Pepper Publishing.
By Todd Turner
Beneath the perpetual orbit
of spinning worlds, haphazardly
balanced upon the east-west
axis of a rocking plank,
a man juggles a quintet
of earth’s most principal form.
Five glittering orbs go up,
willing the onlookers awake
as the spun trajectory arcs
and cascades in a formula fit
for the confines of geometry,
or the mute notation of plotted
notes graphed in the minds
of those who map them out
across the horizontal lines of a stave.
Todd Turner
Todd Turner’s first collection of poetry Woodsmoke was recently published by Black Pepper Publishing.
A
Crossing
By Paul Kane
What is it about
form that lets the life within
find its expression
without even uttering
a word or marking a page?
Winter’s frozen stream
affords us a step across
to the other side,
while in spring, a flowing stream
corrugates in the shallows.
Questions of crossing
cross the mind like shadows or
scorings on a wall.
Every face is emphatic
with the form that life has led.
This is what woke me
in the pale light this morning,
a mere strand of words
chasing after a form to
give them life, and life a form.
Paul Kane
Paul Kane has published five collections of poems, including Work Life (Turtle Point Press, 2007), and a poetry and music CD with sound artist Katie O’Looney, Seven Catastrophes in Four Movements (Farpoint Recordings, 2013). His awards include fellowships from the NEH, the Guggenheim Foundation, and the Bogliasco Foundation. He is poetry editor of Antipodes and general editor of the Braziller Series of Australian Poets. He teaches at Vassar College.
By Paul Kane
What is it about
form that lets the life within
find its expression
without even uttering
a word or marking a page?
Winter’s frozen stream
affords us a step across
to the other side,
while in spring, a flowing stream
corrugates in the shallows.
Questions of crossing
cross the mind like shadows or
scorings on a wall.
Every face is emphatic
with the form that life has led.
This is what woke me
in the pale light this morning,
a mere strand of words
chasing after a form to
give them life, and life a form.
Paul Kane
Paul Kane has published five collections of poems, including Work Life (Turtle Point Press, 2007), and a poetry and music CD with sound artist Katie O’Looney, Seven Catastrophes in Four Movements (Farpoint Recordings, 2013). His awards include fellowships from the NEH, the Guggenheim Foundation, and the Bogliasco Foundation. He is poetry editor of Antipodes and general editor of the Braziller Series of Australian Poets. He teaches at Vassar College.
Binsey Poplars
felled 1879
By Gerard Manley Hopkins
My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled,
Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun,
All felled, felled, are all felled;
Of a fresh and following folded rank
Not spared, not one
That dandled a sandalled
Shadow that swam or sank
On meadow & river & wind-wandering weed-winding bank.
O if we but knew what we do
When we delve or hew —
Hack and rack the growing green!
Since country is so tender
To touch, her being só slender,
That, like this sleek and seeing ball
But a prick will make no eye at all,
Where we, even where 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.
Binsey Poplars
felled 1879
By Gerard Manley Hopkins
My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled,
Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun,
All felled, felled, are all felled;
Of a fresh and following folded rank
Not spared, not one
That dandled a sandalled
Shadow that swam or sank
On meadow & river & wind-wandering weed-winding bank.
O if we but knew what we do
When we delve or hew —
Hack and rack the growing green!
Since country is so tender
To touch, her being só slender,
That, like this sleek and seeing ball
But a prick will make no eye at all,
Where we, even where 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.
Binsey Poplars
I Have a Rendezvous With Life
by Countee Cullen
I have a rendezvous with Life,
In days I hope will come,
Ere youth has sped, and strength of mind,
Ere voices sweet grow dumb.
I have a rendezvous with Life,
When Spring’s first heralds hum.
Sure some would cry it’s better far
To crown their days with sleep
Than face the road, the wind and rain,
To heed the calling deep.
Though wet nor blow nor space I fear,
Yet fear I deeply, too,
Lest Death should meet and claim me ere
I keep Life’s rendezvous.
Countee Cullen
by Countee Cullen
I have a rendezvous with Life,
In days I hope will come,
Ere youth has sped, and strength of mind,
Ere voices sweet grow dumb.
I have a rendezvous with Life,
When Spring’s first heralds hum.
Sure some would cry it’s better far
To crown their days with sleep
Than face the road, the wind and rain,
To heed the calling deep.
Though wet nor blow nor space I fear,
Yet fear I deeply, too,
Lest Death should meet and claim me ere
I keep Life’s rendezvous.
Countee Cullen
Meeting at Night
By Robert Browning
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 joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
Robert Browning
By Robert Browning
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 joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
Robert Browning
To
the Cuckoo
By William Wordsworth
O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear;
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off, and near.
Though babbling only to the Vale
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
O blessèd Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for Thee!
William Wordsworth
By William Wordsworth
O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear;
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off, and near.
Though babbling only to the Vale
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
O blessèd Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for Thee!
William Wordsworth
Places (III. Winter
Sun)
by Sara Teasdale
(Lenox)
There was a bush with scarlet berries,
And there were hemlocks heaped with snow,
With a sound like surf on long sea-beaches
They took the wind and let it go.
The hills were shining in their samite,
Fold after fold they flowed away;
"Let come what may," your eyes were saying,
"At least we two have had to-day."
Sara Teasdale
by Sara Teasdale
(Lenox)
There was a bush with scarlet berries,
And there were hemlocks heaped with snow,
With a sound like surf on long sea-beaches
They took the wind and let it go.
The hills were shining in their samite,
Fold after fold they flowed away;
"Let come what may," your eyes were saying,
"At least we two have had to-day."
Sara Teasdale
Travel
By Edna St. Vincent Millay
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’ll not be knowing;
Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take,
No matter where it’s going.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
By Edna St. Vincent Millay
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’ll not be knowing;
Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take,
No matter where it’s going.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Summer in the South
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
The oriole sings in the greening grove
As if he were half-way waiting,
The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green,
Timid and hesitating.
The rain comes down in a torrent sweep
And the nights smell warm and piney,
The garden thrives, but the tender shoots
Are yellow-green and tiny.
Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,
Streams laugh that erst were quiet,
The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue
And the woods run mad with riot.
Paul Laurence Dunbar
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
The oriole sings in the greening grove
As if he were half-way waiting,
The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green,
Timid and hesitating.
The rain comes down in a torrent sweep
And the nights smell warm and piney,
The garden thrives, but the tender shoots
Are yellow-green and tiny.
Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,
Streams laugh that erst were quiet,
The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue
And the woods run mad with riot.
Paul Laurence Dunbar
On Viewing the Skull
and Bones of a Wolf
by Alexander Posey
How savage, fierce and grim!
His bones are bleached and white.
But what is death to him?
He grins as if to bite.
He mocks the fate
That bade, ’’Begone.’’
There’s fierceness stamped
In ev’ry bone.
Let silence settle from the midnight sky
Such silence as you’ve broken with your cry;
The bleak wind howl, unto the ut’most verge
Of this mighty waste, thy fitting dirge.
Alexander Posey
by Alexander Posey
How savage, fierce and grim!
His bones are bleached and white.
But what is death to him?
He grins as if to bite.
He mocks the fate
That bade, ’’Begone.’’
There’s fierceness stamped
In ev’ry bone.
Let silence settle from the midnight sky
Such silence as you’ve broken with your cry;
The bleak wind howl, unto the ut’most verge
Of this mighty waste, thy fitting dirge.
Alexander Posey
Tanka
by Sadakichi Hartmann
I.
Winter? Spring? Who knows?
White buds from the plumtrees wing
And mingle with the snows.
No blue skies these flowers bring,
Yet their fragrance augurs Spring.
II.
Oh, were the white waves,
Far on the glimmering sea
That the moonshine laves,
Dream flowers drifting to me,
I would cull them, love, for thee.
III.
Moon, somnolent, white,
Mirrored in a waveless sea,
What fickle mood of night
Urged thee from heaven to flee
And live in the dawnlit sea?
IV.
Like mist on the leas,
Fall gently, oh rain of Spring
On the orange trees
That to Ume’s casement cling--
Perchance, she’ll hear the love-bird sing.
V.
Though love has grown cold
The woods are bright with flowers,
Why not as of old
Go to the wildwood bowers
And dream of--bygone hours!
VI.
Tell, what name beseems
These vain and wandering days!
Like the bark of dreams
That from souls at daybreak strays
They are lost on trackless ways.
Sadakichi Hartmann
by Sadakichi Hartmann
I.
Winter? Spring? Who knows?
White buds from the plumtrees wing
And mingle with the snows.
No blue skies these flowers bring,
Yet their fragrance augurs Spring.
II.
Oh, were the white waves,
Far on the glimmering sea
That the moonshine laves,
Dream flowers drifting to me,
I would cull them, love, for thee.
III.
Moon, somnolent, white,
Mirrored in a waveless sea,
What fickle mood of night
Urged thee from heaven to flee
And live in the dawnlit sea?
IV.
Like mist on the leas,
Fall gently, oh rain of Spring
On the orange trees
That to Ume’s casement cling--
Perchance, she’ll hear the love-bird sing.
V.
Though love has grown cold
The woods are bright with flowers,
Why not as of old
Go to the wildwood bowers
And dream of--bygone hours!
VI.
Tell, what name beseems
These vain and wandering days!
Like the bark of dreams
That from souls at daybreak strays
They are lost on trackless ways.
Sadakichi Hartmann
The Fall
By William Barnes
The length o’ days ageän do shrink
An’ flowers be thin in meäd, among
The eegrass a-sheenèn bright, along
Brook upon brook, an’ brink by brink.
Noo starlèns do rise in vlock on wing—
Noo goocoo in nest-green leaves do sound—
Noo swallows be now a-wheelèn round—
Dip after dip, an’ swing by swing.
The wheat that did leätely rustle thick
Is now up in mows that still be new,
An’ yollow bevore the sky o’ blue—
Tip after tip, an’ rick by rick.
While now I can walk a dusty mile
I’ll teäke me a day, while days be clear,
To vind a vew friends that still be dear,
Feäce after feäce, an’ smile by smile.
William Barnes
By William Barnes
The length o’ days ageän do shrink
An’ flowers be thin in meäd, among
The eegrass a-sheenèn bright, along
Brook upon brook, an’ brink by brink.
Noo starlèns do rise in vlock on wing—
Noo goocoo in nest-green leaves do sound—
Noo swallows be now a-wheelèn round—
Dip after dip, an’ swing by swing.
The wheat that did leätely rustle thick
Is now up in mows that still be new,
An’ yollow bevore the sky o’ blue—
Tip after tip, an’ rick by rick.
While now I can walk a dusty mile
I’ll teäke me a day, while days be clear,
To vind a vew friends that still be dear,
Feäce after feäce, an’ smile by smile.
William Barnes
The Sound of Trees
By Robert Frost
I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.
Robert Frost
By Robert Frost
I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.
Robert Frost
My Childhood Home I See Again
by Abraham Lincoln
My childhood home I see again,
And sadden with the view;
And still, as memory crowds my brain,
There's pleasure in it too.
O Memory! thou midway world
'Twixt earth and paradise,
Where things decayed and loved ones lost
In dreamy shadows rise,
And, freed from all that's earthly vile,
Seem hallowed, pure, and bright,
Like scenes in some enchanted isle
All bathed in liquid light.
As dusky mountains please the eye
When twilight chases day;
As bugle-notes that, passing by,
In distance die away;
As leaving some grand waterfall,
We, lingering, list its roar--
So memory will hallow all
We've known, but know no more.
Near twenty years have passed away
Since here I bid farewell
To woods and fields, and scenes of play,
And playmates loved so well.
Where many were, but few remain
Of old familiar things;
But seeing them, to mind again
The lost and absent brings.
The friends I left that parting day,
How changed, as time has sped!
Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray,
And half of all are dead.
I hear the loved survivors tell
How nought from death could save,
Till every sound appears a knell,
And every spot a grave.
I range the fields with pensive tread,
And pace the hollow rooms,
And feel (companion of the dead)
I'm living in the tombs.
Abraham Lincoln
by Abraham Lincoln
My childhood home I see again,
And sadden with the view;
And still, as memory crowds my brain,
There's pleasure in it too.
O Memory! thou midway world
'Twixt earth and paradise,
Where things decayed and loved ones lost
In dreamy shadows rise,
And, freed from all that's earthly vile,
Seem hallowed, pure, and bright,
Like scenes in some enchanted isle
All bathed in liquid light.
As dusky mountains please the eye
When twilight chases day;
As bugle-notes that, passing by,
In distance die away;
As leaving some grand waterfall,
We, lingering, list its roar--
So memory will hallow all
We've known, but know no more.
Near twenty years have passed away
Since here I bid farewell
To woods and fields, and scenes of play,
And playmates loved so well.
Where many were, but few remain
Of old familiar things;
But seeing them, to mind again
The lost and absent brings.
The friends I left that parting day,
How changed, as time has sped!
Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray,
And half of all are dead.
I hear the loved survivors tell
How nought from death could save,
Till every sound appears a knell,
And every spot a grave.
I range the fields with pensive tread,
And pace the hollow rooms,
And feel (companion of the dead)
I'm living in the tombs.
Abraham Lincoln
Sonnet XL: Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all
By William Shakespeare
Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all:
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call—
All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;
But yet be blamed if thou this self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robb’ry, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet love knows it is a greater grief
To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes.
William Shakespeare
By William Shakespeare
Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all:
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call—
All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;
But yet be blamed if thou this self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robb’ry, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet love knows it is a greater grief
To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes.
William Shakespeare
Deep mists of longing blur the land
By Christopher Brennan
Deep mists of longing blur the land
as in your late October eve:
almost I think your hand might leave
its old caress upon my hand —
for sure this floating world of dream
hath touch'd that far reality
of memory's heaven; nor would I deem
the chance a strange one, if to thee
my feet should stray ere fall the night,
or, reaching to that lucent shore,
these eyes should wake on tenderer light
to greet the spring and thee once more.
Christopher Brennan
By Christopher Brennan
Deep mists of longing blur the land
as in your late October eve:
almost I think your hand might leave
its old caress upon my hand —
for sure this floating world of dream
hath touch'd that far reality
of memory's heaven; nor would I deem
the chance a strange one, if to thee
my feet should stray ere fall the night,
or, reaching to that lucent shore,
these eyes should wake on tenderer light
to greet the spring and thee once more.
Christopher Brennan
Santa Claus
By Andrew Barton (‘Banjo’) Paterson
"Halt! Who goes there?" The sentry's call
Rose on the midnight air
Above the noises of the camp,
The roll of wheels, the horses' tramp.
The challenge echoed over all --
"Halt! Who goes there?"
A quaint old figure clothed in white,
He bore a staff of pine,
And ivy-wreath was on his head.
"Advance, O friend," the sentry said,
"Advance, for this is Christmas Night,
And give the countersign."
"No sign or countersign have I.
Through many lands I roam
The whole world over far and wide.
To exiles all at Christmastide
From those who love them tenderly
I bring a thought of home.
"From English brook and Scottish burn,
From cold Canadian snows,
From those far lands ye hold most dear
I bring you all a greeting here,
A frond of a New Zealand fern,
A bloom of English rose.
"From faithful wife and loving lass
I bring a wish divine,
For Christmas blessings on your head."
"I wish you well," the sentry said,
"But here, alas! you may not pass
Without the countersign."
He vanished -- and the sentry's tramp
Re-echoed down the line.
It was not till the morning light
The soldiers knew that in the night
Old Santa Claus had come to camp
Without the countersign.
Andrew Barton (‘Banjo’) Paterson
By Andrew Barton (‘Banjo’) Paterson
"Halt! Who goes there?" The sentry's call
Rose on the midnight air
Above the noises of the camp,
The roll of wheels, the horses' tramp.
The challenge echoed over all --
"Halt! Who goes there?"
A quaint old figure clothed in white,
He bore a staff of pine,
And ivy-wreath was on his head.
"Advance, O friend," the sentry said,
"Advance, for this is Christmas Night,
And give the countersign."
"No sign or countersign have I.
Through many lands I roam
The whole world over far and wide.
To exiles all at Christmastide
From those who love them tenderly
I bring a thought of home.
"From English brook and Scottish burn,
From cold Canadian snows,
From those far lands ye hold most dear
I bring you all a greeting here,
A frond of a New Zealand fern,
A bloom of English rose.
"From faithful wife and loving lass
I bring a wish divine,
For Christmas blessings on your head."
"I wish you well," the sentry said,
"But here, alas! you may not pass
Without the countersign."
He vanished -- and the sentry's tramp
Re-echoed down the line.
It was not till the morning light
The soldiers knew that in the night
Old Santa Claus had come to camp
Without the countersign.
Andrew Barton (‘Banjo’) Paterson
An Ocean Musing
By Henrietta Cordelia Ray
Far, far out lie the white sails all at rest;
Like spectral arms they seem to touch and cling
Unto the wide horizon. Not a wing
Of truant bird glides down the purpling west;
No breeze dares to intrude, e’en on a quest
To fan a lover’s brow; the waves to sing
Have quite forgotten till the deep shall fling
A bow across its vibrant chords. Then, lest
One moment of the sea’s repose we lose,
Nor furnish Fancy with a thousand themes
Of unimagined sweetness, let us gaze
On this serenity, for as we muse,
Lo! all is restless motion: life’s best dreams
Give changing moods to even halcyon days.
Henrietta Cordelia Ray
By Henrietta Cordelia Ray
Far, far out lie the white sails all at rest;
Like spectral arms they seem to touch and cling
Unto the wide horizon. Not a wing
Of truant bird glides down the purpling west;
No breeze dares to intrude, e’en on a quest
To fan a lover’s brow; the waves to sing
Have quite forgotten till the deep shall fling
A bow across its vibrant chords. Then, lest
One moment of the sea’s repose we lose,
Nor furnish Fancy with a thousand themes
Of unimagined sweetness, let us gaze
On this serenity, for as we muse,
Lo! all is restless motion: life’s best dreams
Give changing moods to even halcyon days.
Henrietta Cordelia Ray
The morns are meeker than they were - (32)
By Emily Dickinson
The morns are meeker than they were -
The nuts are getting brown -
The berry’s cheek is plumper -
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf -
The field a scarlet gown -
Lest I sh'd be old-fashioned
I’ll put a trinket on.
Emily Dickinson
By Emily Dickinson
The morns are meeker than they were -
The nuts are getting brown -
The berry’s cheek is plumper -
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf -
The field a scarlet gown -
Lest I sh'd be old-fashioned
I’ll put a trinket on.
Emily Dickinson
Ode
By Arthur O'Shaughnessy
We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers
And sitting by desolate streams;
World losers and world forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.
With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world’s great cities.
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire’s glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song’s measure
Can trample an empire down.
We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o’erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world’s worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.
Arthur O'Shaughnessy
By Arthur O'Shaughnessy
We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers
And sitting by desolate streams;
World losers and world forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.
With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world’s great cities.
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire’s glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song’s measure
Can trample an empire down.
We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o’erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world’s worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.
Arthur O'Shaughnessy
Mutability ["We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon"]
By Percy Bysshe Shelley
I.
We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed and gleam and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly! yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost for ever:—
II.
Or like forgotten lyres whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.
III.
We rest—a dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise—one wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep,
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:—
IV.
It is the same!—For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free;
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but Mutability.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
By Percy Bysshe Shelley
I.
We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed and gleam and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly! yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost for ever:—
II.
Or like forgotten lyres whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.
III.
We rest—a dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise—one wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep,
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:—
IV.
It is the same!—For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free;
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but Mutability.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge
This Sycamore, oft musical with bees,—
Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long unharmed
May all its agèd boughs o'er-canopy
The small round basin, which this jutting stone
Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring,
Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath,
Send up cold waters to the traveller
With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease
Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance,
Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's Page,
As merry and no taller, dances still,
Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount.
Here Twilight is and Coolness: here is moss,
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.
Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree.
Drink, Pilgrim, here; Here rest! and if thy heart
Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh
Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,
Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees!
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge
This Sycamore, oft musical with bees,—
Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long unharmed
May all its agèd boughs o'er-canopy
The small round basin, which this jutting stone
Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring,
Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath,
Send up cold waters to the traveller
With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease
Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance,
Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's Page,
As merry and no taller, dances still,
Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount.
Here Twilight is and Coolness: here is moss,
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.
Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree.
Drink, Pilgrim, here; Here rest! and if thy heart
Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh
Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,
Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees!
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Autumn at Taos
By D. H. Lawrence
Over the rounded sides of the Rockies, the aspens of autumn,
The aspens of autumn,
Like yellow hair of a tigress brindled with pines.
Down on my hearth-rug of desert, sage of the mesa,
An ash-grey pelt
Of wolf all hairy and level, a wolf's wild pelt.
Trot-trot to the mottled foot-hills, cedar-mottled and pinion;
Did you ever see an otter?
Silvery-sided, fish-fanged, fierce-faced, whiskered, mottled.
When I trot my little pony through the aspen-trees of the canyon,
Behold me trotting at ease betwixt the slopes of the golden
Great and glistening-feathered legs of the hawk of Horus;
The golden hawk of Horus
Astride above me.
But under the pines
I go slowly
As under the hairy belly of a great black bear.
Glad to emerge and look back
On the yellow, pointed aspen-trees laid one on another like feathers,
Feather over feather on the breast of the great and golden
Hawk as I say of Horus.
Pleased to be out in the sage and the pine fish-dotted foothills,
Past the otter's whiskers,
On to the fur of the wolf-pelt that strews the plain.
And then to look back to the rounded sides of the squatting Rockies.
Tigress brindled with aspen,
Jaguar-splashed, puma-yellow, leopard-livid slopes of America.
Make big eyes, little pony,
At all these skins of wild beasts;
They won't hurt you.
Fangs and claws and talons and beaks and hawk-eyes
Are nerveless just now.
So be easy.
D.H. Lawrence
By D. H. Lawrence
Over the rounded sides of the Rockies, the aspens of autumn,
The aspens of autumn,
Like yellow hair of a tigress brindled with pines.
Down on my hearth-rug of desert, sage of the mesa,
An ash-grey pelt
Of wolf all hairy and level, a wolf's wild pelt.
Trot-trot to the mottled foot-hills, cedar-mottled and pinion;
Did you ever see an otter?
Silvery-sided, fish-fanged, fierce-faced, whiskered, mottled.
When I trot my little pony through the aspen-trees of the canyon,
Behold me trotting at ease betwixt the slopes of the golden
Great and glistening-feathered legs of the hawk of Horus;
The golden hawk of Horus
Astride above me.
But under the pines
I go slowly
As under the hairy belly of a great black bear.
Glad to emerge and look back
On the yellow, pointed aspen-trees laid one on another like feathers,
Feather over feather on the breast of the great and golden
Hawk as I say of Horus.
Pleased to be out in the sage and the pine fish-dotted foothills,
Past the otter's whiskers,
On to the fur of the wolf-pelt that strews the plain.
And then to look back to the rounded sides of the squatting Rockies.
Tigress brindled with aspen,
Jaguar-splashed, puma-yellow, leopard-livid slopes of America.
Make big eyes, little pony,
At all these skins of wild beasts;
They won't hurt you.
Fangs and claws and talons and beaks and hawk-eyes
Are nerveless just now.
So be easy.
D.H. Lawrence
The Ecchoing Green
By William Blake
The sun does arise,
And make happy the skies.
The merry bells ring
To welcome the Spring.
The sky-lark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around,
To the bells’ cheerful sound.
While our sports shall be seen
On the Ecchoing Green.
Old John, with white hair
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk,
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say.
‘Such, such were the joys.
When we all girls & boys,
In our youth-time were seen,
On the Ecchoing Green.’
Till the little ones weary
No more can be merry
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end:
Round the laps of their mothers,
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest,
Are ready for rest;
And sport no more seen,
On the darkening Green.
William Blake
By William Blake
The sun does arise,
And make happy the skies.
The merry bells ring
To welcome the Spring.
The sky-lark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around,
To the bells’ cheerful sound.
While our sports shall be seen
On the Ecchoing Green.
Old John, with white hair
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk,
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say.
‘Such, such were the joys.
When we all girls & boys,
In our youth-time were seen,
On the Ecchoing Green.’
Till the little ones weary
No more can be merry
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end:
Round the laps of their mothers,
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest,
Are ready for rest;
And sport no more seen,
On the darkening Green.
William Blake
On a Drop of Dew
By Andrew Marvell
See how the orient dew,
Shed from the bosom of the morn
Into the blowing roses,
Yet careless of its mansion new,
For the clear region where ’twas born
Round in itself incloses:
And in its little globe’s extent,
Frames as it can its native element.
How it the purple flow’r does slight,
Scarce touching where it lies,
But gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light,
Like its own tear,
Because so long divided from the sphere.
Restless it rolls and unsecure,
Trembling lest it grow impure,
Till the warm sun pity its pain,
And to the skies exhale it back again.
So the soul, that drop, that ray
Of the clear fountain of eternal day,
Could it within the human flow’r be seen,
Remembering still its former height,
Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green,
And recollecting its own light,
Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express
The greater heaven in an heaven less.
In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away:
So the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day,
Dark beneath, but bright above,
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go,
How girt and ready to ascend,
Moving but on a point below,
It all about does upwards bend.
Such did the manna’s sacred dew distill,
White and entire, though congealed and chill,
Congealed on earth : but does, dissolving, run
Into the glories of th’ almighty sun.
Andrew Marvell
By Andrew Marvell
See how the orient dew,
Shed from the bosom of the morn
Into the blowing roses,
Yet careless of its mansion new,
For the clear region where ’twas born
Round in itself incloses:
And in its little globe’s extent,
Frames as it can its native element.
How it the purple flow’r does slight,
Scarce touching where it lies,
But gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light,
Like its own tear,
Because so long divided from the sphere.
Restless it rolls and unsecure,
Trembling lest it grow impure,
Till the warm sun pity its pain,
And to the skies exhale it back again.
So the soul, that drop, that ray
Of the clear fountain of eternal day,
Could it within the human flow’r be seen,
Remembering still its former height,
Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green,
And recollecting its own light,
Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express
The greater heaven in an heaven less.
In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away:
So the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day,
Dark beneath, but bright above,
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go,
How girt and ready to ascend,
Moving but on a point below,
It all about does upwards bend.
Such did the manna’s sacred dew distill,
White and entire, though congealed and chill,
Congealed on earth : but does, dissolving, run
Into the glories of th’ almighty sun.
Andrew Marvell
Ode on a Grecian Urn
By John Keats
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-fring'd 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 this 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."
John Keats
By John Keats
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-fring'd 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 this 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."
John Keats
A Time to Talk
By Robert Frost
When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, 'What is it?'
No, not as there is a time talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.
Robert Frost
By Robert Frost
When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, 'What is it?'
No, not as there is a time talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.
Robert Frost
Sonnet LXV: Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
By William Shakespeare
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
But sad mortality o’er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out
Against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall time’s best jewel from time’s chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
William Shakespeare
By William Shakespeare
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
But sad mortality o’er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out
Against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall time’s best jewel from time’s chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
William Shakespeare
Strings in the Earth and Air
By James Joyce
Strings in the earth and air
Make music sweet;
Strings by the river where
The willows meet.
There's music along the river
For Love wanders there,
Pale flowers on his mantle,
Dark leaves on his hair.
All softly playing,
With head to the music bent,
And fingers straying
Upon an instrument.
James Joyce
By James Joyce
Strings in the earth and air
Make music sweet;
Strings by the river where
The willows meet.
There's music along the river
For Love wanders there,
Pale flowers on his mantle,
Dark leaves on his hair.
All softly playing,
With head to the music bent,
And fingers straying
Upon an instrument.
James Joyce
The Sign-Post
By Edward Thomas
The dim sea glints chill. The white sun is shy,
And the skeleton weeds and the never-dry,
Rough, long grasses keep white with frost
At the hilltop by the finger-post;
The smoke of the traveller’s-joy is puffed
Over hawthorn berry and hazel tuft.
I read the sign. Which way shall I go?
A voice says: You would not have doubted so
At twenty. Another voice gentle with scorn
Says: At twenty you wished you had never been born.
One hazel lost a leaf of gold
From a tuft at the tip, when the first voice told
The other he wished to know what ’twould be
To be sixty by this same post. “You shall see,â€
He laughed—and I had to join his laughter—
“You shall see; but either before or after,
Whatever happens, it must befall,
A mouthful of earth to remedy all
Regrets and wishes shall freely be given;
And if there be a flaw in that heaven
’Twill be freedom to wish, and your wish may be
To be here or anywhere talking to me,
No matter what the weather, on earth,
At any age between death and birth,
To see what day or night can be,
The sun and the frost, the land and the sea,
Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring,—
With a poor man of any sort, down to a king,
Standing upright out in the air
Wondering where he shall journey, O where?â€
Edward Thomas
By Edward Thomas
The dim sea glints chill. The white sun is shy,
And the skeleton weeds and the never-dry,
Rough, long grasses keep white with frost
At the hilltop by the finger-post;
The smoke of the traveller’s-joy is puffed
Over hawthorn berry and hazel tuft.
I read the sign. Which way shall I go?
A voice says: You would not have doubted so
At twenty. Another voice gentle with scorn
Says: At twenty you wished you had never been born.
One hazel lost a leaf of gold
From a tuft at the tip, when the first voice told
The other he wished to know what ’twould be
To be sixty by this same post. “You shall see,â€
He laughed—and I had to join his laughter—
“You shall see; but either before or after,
Whatever happens, it must befall,
A mouthful of earth to remedy all
Regrets and wishes shall freely be given;
And if there be a flaw in that heaven
’Twill be freedom to wish, and your wish may be
To be here or anywhere talking to me,
No matter what the weather, on earth,
At any age between death and birth,
To see what day or night can be,
The sun and the frost, the land and the sea,
Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring,—
With a poor man of any sort, down to a king,
Standing upright out in the air
Wondering where he shall journey, O where?â€
Edward Thomas
Old Man Platypus
By A.B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson
Far from the trouble and toil of town,
Where the reed beds sweep and shiver,
Look at a fragment of velvet brown -
Old Man Platypus drifting down,
Drifting along the river.
And he plays and dives in the river bends
In a style that is most elusive;
With few relations and fewer friends,
For Old Man Platypus descends
From a family most exclusive.
He shares his burrow beneath the bank
With his wife and his son and daughter
At the roots of the reeds and the grasses rank;
And the bubbles show where our hero sank
To its entrance under water.
Safe in their burrow below the falls
They live in a world of wonder,
Where no one visits and no one calls,
They sleep like little brown billiard balls
With their beaks tucked neatly under.
And he talks in a deep unfriendly growl
As he goes on his journey lonely;
For he's no relation to fish nor fowl,
Nor to bird nor beast, nor to horned owl;
In fact, he's the one and only!
A.B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson
By A.B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson
Far from the trouble and toil of town,
Where the reed beds sweep and shiver,
Look at a fragment of velvet brown -
Old Man Platypus drifting down,
Drifting along the river.
And he plays and dives in the river bends
In a style that is most elusive;
With few relations and fewer friends,
For Old Man Platypus descends
From a family most exclusive.
He shares his burrow beneath the bank
With his wife and his son and daughter
At the roots of the reeds and the grasses rank;
And the bubbles show where our hero sank
To its entrance under water.
Safe in their burrow below the falls
They live in a world of wonder,
Where no one visits and no one calls,
They sleep like little brown billiard balls
With their beaks tucked neatly under.
And he talks in a deep unfriendly growl
As he goes on his journey lonely;
For he's no relation to fish nor fowl,
Nor to bird nor beast, nor to horned owl;
In fact, he's the one and only!
A.B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson
A Red, Red Rose
By Robert Burns
O my Luve is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve is like the melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.
Robert Burns
By Robert Burns
O my Luve is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve is like the melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.
Robert Burns
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
By William Wordsworth
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.
William Wordsworth
By William Wordsworth
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.
William Wordsworth
Gathering Leaves
By Robert Frost
Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.
I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.
But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.
I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?
Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.
Next to nothing for use.
But a crop is a crop,
And who's to say where
The harvest shall stop?
Robert Frost
By Robert Frost
Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.
I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.
But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.
I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?
Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.
Next to nothing for use.
But a crop is a crop,
And who's to say where
The harvest shall stop?
Robert Frost
Summer Moods
by John Clare
I love at eventide to walk alone
Down narrow lanes o’erhung with dewy thorn
Where from the long grass underneath, the snail,
Jet black, creeps out and sprouts his timid horn.
I love to muse o’er meadows newly mown
Where withering grass perfumes the sultry air;
Where bees search round, with sad and weary drone
In vain for flowers that bloomed but newly there;
While in the juicy corn the hidden quail
Cries “wet my foot!†and hid as thoughts unborn;
The fairy-like and seldom-seen landrail
Utters “craik, craik†like voices underground,
Right glad to meet the evening’s dewy veil
And see the light fade into gloom around.
John Clare
by John Clare
I love at eventide to walk alone
Down narrow lanes o’erhung with dewy thorn
Where from the long grass underneath, the snail,
Jet black, creeps out and sprouts his timid horn.
I love to muse o’er meadows newly mown
Where withering grass perfumes the sultry air;
Where bees search round, with sad and weary drone
In vain for flowers that bloomed but newly there;
While in the juicy corn the hidden quail
Cries “wet my foot!†and hid as thoughts unborn;
The fairy-like and seldom-seen landrail
Utters “craik, craik†like voices underground,
Right glad to meet the evening’s dewy veil
And see the light fade into gloom around.
John Clare
You are now entering
By Ashleigh Young
It must be nearly empty,
it must begin at a one-way railway station.
A carriage rolls through the construction sites
past the moth-coloured buildings with the half-
hearted mural of men hacking trees.
The carriage climbs the long slope to the bridge.
Here passengers may turn their heads to the left
to view the river stuck in the ground like an IV line.
It must be the past or the future
because the Northerner no longer runs at this time,
beaming through paddocks of headstones
past houses left out like milk tokens
towards a light that isn’t day, only an older, frailer night.
The town rolls on its back.
Its eyes open, one by one,
unconvinced of light’s relevance
or why anyone should wait for it.
Ashleigh Young is a writer and editor who lives in Wellington, New Zealand. “You Are Now Entering†is from her first collection of poetry, Magnificent Moon (Victoria University Press, 2012).
Ashleigh Young
By Ashleigh Young
It must be nearly empty,
it must begin at a one-way railway station.
A carriage rolls through the construction sites
past the moth-coloured buildings with the half-
hearted mural of men hacking trees.
The carriage climbs the long slope to the bridge.
Here passengers may turn their heads to the left
to view the river stuck in the ground like an IV line.
It must be the past or the future
because the Northerner no longer runs at this time,
beaming through paddocks of headstones
past houses left out like milk tokens
towards a light that isn’t day, only an older, frailer night.
The town rolls on its back.
Its eyes open, one by one,
unconvinced of light’s relevance
or why anyone should wait for it.
Ashleigh Young is a writer and editor who lives in Wellington, New Zealand. “You Are Now Entering†is from her first collection of poetry, Magnificent Moon (Victoria University Press, 2012).
Ashleigh Young
Trees in the Garden
by D. H. Lawrence
Ah in the thunder air
how still the trees are!
And the lime-tree, lovely and tall, every leaf silent
hardly looses even a last breath of perfume.
And the ghostly, creamy coloured little tree of leaves
white, ivory white among the rambling greens
how evanescent, variegated elder, she hesitates on the green grass
as if, in another moment, she would disappear
with all her grace of foam!
And the larch that is only a column, it goes up too tall to see:
and the balsam-pines that are blue with the grey-blue blueness of
things from the sea,
and the young copper beech, its leaves red-rosy at the ends
how still they are together, they stand so still
in the thunder air, all strangers to one another
as the green grass glows upwards, strangers in the silent garden.
D H Lawrence
by D. H. Lawrence
Ah in the thunder air
how still the trees are!
And the lime-tree, lovely and tall, every leaf silent
hardly looses even a last breath of perfume.
And the ghostly, creamy coloured little tree of leaves
white, ivory white among the rambling greens
how evanescent, variegated elder, she hesitates on the green grass
as if, in another moment, she would disappear
with all her grace of foam!
And the larch that is only a column, it goes up too tall to see:
and the balsam-pines that are blue with the grey-blue blueness of
things from the sea,
and the young copper beech, its leaves red-rosy at the ends
how still they are together, they stand so still
in the thunder air, all strangers to one another
as the green grass glows upwards, strangers in the silent garden.
D H Lawrence
Fragment 1: Sea-ward, white gleaming thro' the busy scud
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Sea-ward, white gleaming thro' the busy scud
With arching Wings, the sea-mew o'er my head
Posts on, as bent on speed, now passaging
Edges the stiffer Breeze, now, yielding, drifts,
Now floats upon the air, and sends from far
A wildly-wailing Note.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Sea-ward, white gleaming thro' the busy scud
With arching Wings, the sea-mew o'er my head
Posts on, as bent on speed, now passaging
Edges the stiffer Breeze, now, yielding, drifts,
Now floats upon the air, and sends from far
A wildly-wailing Note.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Flowers
Morandi, 1924
By Luke Fischer
Apparition
on the threshold
quivering
like a muslin veil
Around the bouquet
hints of evening purple
little more than scents
of iris
The poppies
diaphanous wings
of butterflies
poised
Out of muted foliage
ray reed-like stems
lines which levitate
vanish reappear
The vase overcast teal
of a cloak ‘round
a herdsman
merging with the moors
All bathed in sun
ambient dust of an endless wheatfield
imprinted with dreams of the wind’s tread
perduring nap
Luke Fischer won the 2012 Overland Judith Wright Poetry Prize. His book of poems Paths of Flight (Black Pepper Publishing) is forthcoming later this year.
Luke Fischer
Morandi, 1924
By Luke Fischer
Apparition
on the threshold
quivering
like a muslin veil
Around the bouquet
hints of evening purple
little more than scents
of iris
The poppies
diaphanous wings
of butterflies
poised
Out of muted foliage
ray reed-like stems
lines which levitate
vanish reappear
The vase overcast teal
of a cloak ‘round
a herdsman
merging with the moors
All bathed in sun
ambient dust of an endless wheatfield
imprinted with dreams of the wind’s tread
perduring nap
Luke Fischer won the 2012 Overland Judith Wright Poetry Prize. His book of poems Paths of Flight (Black Pepper Publishing) is forthcoming later this year.
Luke Fischer
The Cat and the Moon
By William Butler Yeats
THE CAT went here and there
And the moon spun round like a top,
And the nearest kin of the moon
The creeping cat looked up.
Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon,
For wander and wail as he would
The pure cold light in the sky
Troubled his animal blood.
Minnaloushe runs in the grass,
Lifting his delicate feet.
Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance?
When two close kindred meet
What better than call a dance?
Maybe the moon may learn,
Tired of that courtly fashion,
A new dance turn.
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
From moonlit place to place,
The sacred moon overhead
Has taken a new phase.
Does Minnaloushe know that his pupils
Will pass from change to change,
And that from round to crescent,
From crescent to round they range?
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
Alone, important and wise,
And lifts to the changing moon
His changing eyes.
William Butler Yeats
By William Butler Yeats
THE CAT went here and there
And the moon spun round like a top,
And the nearest kin of the moon
The creeping cat looked up.
Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon,
For wander and wail as he would
The pure cold light in the sky
Troubled his animal blood.
Minnaloushe runs in the grass,
Lifting his delicate feet.
Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance?
When two close kindred meet
What better than call a dance?
Maybe the moon may learn,
Tired of that courtly fashion,
A new dance turn.
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
From moonlit place to place,
The sacred moon overhead
Has taken a new phase.
Does Minnaloushe know that his pupils
Will pass from change to change,
And that from round to crescent,
From crescent to round they range?
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
Alone, important and wise,
And lifts to the changing moon
His changing eyes.
William Butler Yeats
Poppies on the Wheat
by Helen Hunt Jackson
Along Ancona's hills the shimmering heat,
A tropic tide of air with ebb and flow
Bathes all the fields of wheat until they glow
Like flashing seas of green, which toss and beat
Around the vines. The poppies lithe and fleet
Seem running, fiery torchmen, to and fro
To mark the shore.
The farmer does not know
That they are there. He walks with heavy feet,
Counting the bread and wine by autumn's gain,
But I,--I smile to think that days remain
Perhaps to me in which, though bread be sweet
No more, and red wine warm my blood in vain,
I shall be glad remembering how the fleet,
Lithe poppies ran like torchmen with the wheat.
Helen Hunt Jackson
by Helen Hunt Jackson
Along Ancona's hills the shimmering heat,
A tropic tide of air with ebb and flow
Bathes all the fields of wheat until they glow
Like flashing seas of green, which toss and beat
Around the vines. The poppies lithe and fleet
Seem running, fiery torchmen, to and fro
To mark the shore.
The farmer does not know
That they are there. He walks with heavy feet,
Counting the bread and wine by autumn's gain,
But I,--I smile to think that days remain
Perhaps to me in which, though bread be sweet
No more, and red wine warm my blood in vain,
I shall be glad remembering how the fleet,
Lithe poppies ran like torchmen with the wheat.
Helen Hunt Jackson
On the Beach at Night Alone
By Walt Whitman
On the beach at night alone,
As the old mother sways her to and fro singing her husky song,
As I watch the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef of the universes and of the future.
A vast similitude interlocks all,
All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets,
All distances of place however wide,
All distances of time, all inanimate forms,
All souls, all living bodies though they be ever so different, or in different worlds,
All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes, the fishes, the brutes,
All nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages,
All identities that have existed or may exist on this globe, or any globe,
All lives and deaths, all of the past, present, future,
This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann’d,
And shall forever span them and compactly hold and enclose them.
Walt Whitman
By Walt Whitman
On the beach at night alone,
As the old mother sways her to and fro singing her husky song,
As I watch the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef of the universes and of the future.
A vast similitude interlocks all,
All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets,
All distances of place however wide,
All distances of time, all inanimate forms,
All souls, all living bodies though they be ever so different, or in different worlds,
All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes, the fishes, the brutes,
All nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages,
All identities that have existed or may exist on this globe, or any globe,
All lives and deaths, all of the past, present, future,
This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann’d,
And shall forever span them and compactly hold and enclose them.
Walt Whitman
A Glass of Water
by David Musgrave
Un seul verre d’eau éclaire le monde Cocteau
Behind the wedding couple, a mirror harbours
their reception.
Outside, from the verandah, the harbour mirrors
the exception
of city from sky, hills snug with houses
and a glass of water standing on the railing,
half empty or half full. In the failing
afternoon light
brightening buildings counterpoint the darkness,
glinting upside-
down inside the glass, and the newly-weds,
seen from outside
joining hand to hand for the wedding reel,
glide under its meniscus, head over heels.
David Musgrave
by David Musgrave
Un seul verre d’eau éclaire le monde Cocteau
Behind the wedding couple, a mirror harbours
their reception.
Outside, from the verandah, the harbour mirrors
the exception
of city from sky, hills snug with houses
and a glass of water standing on the railing,
half empty or half full. In the failing
afternoon light
brightening buildings counterpoint the darkness,
glinting upside-
down inside the glass, and the newly-weds,
seen from outside
joining hand to hand for the wedding reel,
glide under its meniscus, head over heels.
David Musgrave
“Hope†is the thing with feathers
By Emily Dickinson
“Hope†is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Emily Dickinson
By Emily Dickinson
“Hope†is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Emily Dickinson
Blue Hyacinths
By Adelaide Crapsey
In your
Curled petals what ghosts
Of blue headlands and seas,
What perfumed immortal breath sighing
Of Greece.
Adelaide Crapsey
By Adelaide Crapsey
In your
Curled petals what ghosts
Of blue headlands and seas,
What perfumed immortal breath sighing
Of Greece.
Adelaide Crapsey
From ‘Bell Birds’
By Thomas Henry Kendall
By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,
And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling;
It lives in the mountain where moss and the sedges
Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges.
Through brakes of the cedar and sycamore bowers
Struggles the light that is love to the flowers.
And, softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,
The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.
The silver-voiced bell-birds, the darlings of day-time,
They sing in September their songs of the May-time;
When shadows wax strong and the thunder-bolts hurtle,
They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle;
When rain and the sunbeams shine mingled together,
They start up like fairies that follow fair weather;
And straightway the hues of their feathers unfolden
Are the green and the purple, the blue and the golden
Bell Birds
By Thomas Henry Kendall
By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,
And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling;
It lives in the mountain where moss and the sedges
Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges.
Through brakes of the cedar and sycamore bowers
Struggles the light that is love to the flowers.
And, softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,
The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.
The silver-voiced bell-birds, the darlings of day-time,
They sing in September their songs of the May-time;
When shadows wax strong and the thunder-bolts hurtle,
They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle;
When rain and the sunbeams shine mingled together,
They start up like fairies that follow fair weather;
And straightway the hues of their feathers unfolden
Are the green and the purple, the blue and the golden
Bell Birds
The Kraken
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Below the thunders of the upper deep;
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy sides: above him swell
Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;
And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous grot and secret cell
Unnumber'd and enormous polypi
Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green.
There hath he lain for ages and will lie
Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;
Then once by man and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Below the thunders of the upper deep;
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy sides: above him swell
Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;
And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous grot and secret cell
Unnumber'd and enormous polypi
Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green.
There hath he lain for ages and will lie
Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;
Then once by man and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
After Apple-Picking
By Robert Frost
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
Robert Frost
By Robert Frost
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
Robert Frost
The Simplon Pass
By William Wordsworth
—Brook and road
Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass,
And with them did we journey several hours
At a slow step. The immeasurable height
Of woods decaying, never to be decayed,
The stationary blasts of waterfalls,
And in the narrow rent, at every turn,
Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn,
The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,
The rocks that muttered close upon our ears,
Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside
As if a voice were in them, the sick sight
And giddy prospect of the raving stream,
The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens,
Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light—
Were all like workings of one mind, the features
Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree,
Characters of the great Apocalypse,
The types and symbols of Eternity,
Of first and last, and midst, and without end.
The Simplon Pass
By William Wordsworth
—Brook and road
Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass,
And with them did we journey several hours
At a slow step. The immeasurable height
Of woods decaying, never to be decayed,
The stationary blasts of waterfalls,
And in the narrow rent, at every turn,
Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn,
The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,
The rocks that muttered close upon our ears,
Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside
As if a voice were in them, the sick sight
And giddy prospect of the raving stream,
The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens,
Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light—
Were all like workings of one mind, the features
Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree,
Characters of the great Apocalypse,
The types and symbols of Eternity,
Of first and last, and midst, and without end.
The Simplon Pass
The Argument of his Book
By Robert Herrick
I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July flowers.
I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal-cakes.
I write of youth, of love, and have access
By these to sing of cleanly wantonness.
I sing of dews, of rains, and piece by piece
Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris.
I sing of Time's trans-shifting; and I write
How roses first came red, and lilies white.
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
The court of Mab, and of the fairy king.
I write of Hell; I sing (and ever shall)
Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all.
Robert Herrick
By Robert Herrick
I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July flowers.
I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal-cakes.
I write of youth, of love, and have access
By these to sing of cleanly wantonness.
I sing of dews, of rains, and piece by piece
Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris.
I sing of Time's trans-shifting; and I write
How roses first came red, and lilies white.
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
The court of Mab, and of the fairy king.
I write of Hell; I sing (and ever shall)
Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all.
Robert Herrick
Fragment 9: The Netherlands
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Water and windmills, greenness, Islets green;
Willows whose Trunks beside the shadows stood
Of their own higher half, and willowy swamp:
Farmhouses that at anchor seem'd—in the inland sky
The fog-transfixing Spires— Water, wide water, greenness and green banks,
And water seen—
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Water and windmills, greenness, Islets green;
Willows whose Trunks beside the shadows stood
Of their own higher half, and willowy swamp:
Farmhouses that at anchor seem'd—in the inland sky
The fog-transfixing Spires— Water, wide water, greenness and green banks,
And water seen—
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Windy Nights
By Robert Louis Stevenson
Whenever the moon and stars are set,
Whenever the wind is high,
All night long in the dark and wet,
A man goes riding by.
Late in the night when the fires are out,
Why does he gallop and gallop about?
Whenever the trees are crying aloud,
And ships are tossed at sea,
By, on the highway, low and loud,
By at the gallop goes he.
By at the gallop he goes, and then
By he comes back at the gallop again.
Robert Louis Stevenson
By Robert Louis Stevenson
Whenever the moon and stars are set,
Whenever the wind is high,
All night long in the dark and wet,
A man goes riding by.
Late in the night when the fires are out,
Why does he gallop and gallop about?
Whenever the trees are crying aloud,
And ships are tossed at sea,
By, on the highway, low and loud,
By at the gallop goes he.
By at the gallop he goes, and then
By he comes back at the gallop again.
Robert Louis Stevenson
Autumn
By Amy Lowell
All day I have watched the purple vine leaves
Fall into the water.
And now in the moonlight they still fall,
But each leaf is fringed with silver.
Amy Lowell
By Amy Lowell
All day I have watched the purple vine leaves
Fall into the water.
And now in the moonlight they still fall,
But each leaf is fringed with silver.
Amy Lowell
Acquainted with the Night
By Robert Frost
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
Robert Frost
By Robert Frost
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
Robert Frost
Apex
By Mary Cresswell
We climbed ungloved, hand over hand,
the sour-needle pines
expecting to see the glacier from here.
We heard the clock strike (several times),
and the red-coated oompah band
belted out brass on the miniature pier.
Cold, cold, it was cold. The air was clear
as the sharp, untouchable snowline
at the next country over, that sealed-off land
which last week officially abolished time
in favour of space: It’s easier
to get a grip on - and, they said, to understand.
Mary Cresswell is a Wellington poet from Los Angeles; she lives on the Kapiti Coast. Her third book, Trace Fossils, was published by Steele Roberts in 2011.
Mary Cresswell
By Mary Cresswell
We climbed ungloved, hand over hand,
the sour-needle pines
expecting to see the glacier from here.
We heard the clock strike (several times),
and the red-coated oompah band
belted out brass on the miniature pier.
Cold, cold, it was cold. The air was clear
as the sharp, untouchable snowline
at the next country over, that sealed-off land
which last week officially abolished time
in favour of space: It’s easier
to get a grip on - and, they said, to understand.
Mary Cresswell is a Wellington poet from Los Angeles; she lives on the Kapiti Coast. Her third book, Trace Fossils, was published by Steele Roberts in 2011.
Mary Cresswell
Book 2, Epigram 8
By Thomas Bastard
Walking the fields a wantcatcher I spied,
To him I went, desirous of his game:
Sir, have you taken wants? Yes, he replied,
Here are a dozen, which were lately ta’en.
Then you have left no more. No more? quoth he.
Sir I can show you more: the more the worse;
And to his work he went, but 'twould not be,
For all the wants were crept into my purse.
Farewell friend wantcatcher, since 'twill not be,
Thou cannot catch the wants, but they catch me.
Thomas Bastard
By Thomas Bastard
Walking the fields a wantcatcher I spied,
To him I went, desirous of his game:
Sir, have you taken wants? Yes, he replied,
Here are a dozen, which were lately ta’en.
Then you have left no more. No more? quoth he.
Sir I can show you more: the more the worse;
And to his work he went, but 'twould not be,
For all the wants were crept into my purse.
Farewell friend wantcatcher, since 'twill not be,
Thou cannot catch the wants, but they catch me.
Thomas Bastard
New Corn
By T’ao Ch’ien (a.d. 365-427)
Translated by Arthur Waley
Swiftly the years, beyond recall.
Solemn the stillness of this fair morning.
I will clothe myself in spring-clothing
And visit the slopes of the Eastern Hill.
By the mountain-stream a mist hovers,
Hovers a moment, then scatters.
There comes a wind blowing from the south
That brushes the fields of new corn.
T’ao Ch’ien
By T’ao Ch’ien (a.d. 365-427)
Translated by Arthur Waley
Swiftly the years, beyond recall.
Solemn the stillness of this fair morning.
I will clothe myself in spring-clothing
And visit the slopes of the Eastern Hill.
By the mountain-stream a mist hovers,
Hovers a moment, then scatters.
There comes a wind blowing from the south
That brushes the fields of new corn.
T’ao Ch’ien
Beginning My Studies
By Walt Whitman
Beginning my studies the first step pleas'd me so much,
The mere fact consciousness, these forms, the power of motion,
The least insect or animal, the senses, eyesight, love,
The first step I say awed me and pleas'd me so much,
I have hardly gone and hardly wish'd to go any farther,
But stop and loiter all the time to sing it in ecstatic songs.
Walt Whitman
By Walt Whitman
Beginning my studies the first step pleas'd me so much,
The mere fact consciousness, these forms, the power of motion,
The least insect or animal, the senses, eyesight, love,
The first step I say awed me and pleas'd me so much,
I have hardly gone and hardly wish'd to go any farther,
But stop and loiter all the time to sing it in ecstatic songs.
Walt Whitman
Fragment 6: The Moon, how definite its orb!
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The Moon, how definite its orb!
Yet gaze again, and with a steady gaze—
'Tis there indeed,—but where is it not?—
It is suffused o'er all the sapphire Heaven,
Trees, herbage, snake-like stream, unwrinkled Lake,
Whose very murmur does of it partake
And low and close the broad smooth mountain
Is more a thing of Heaven than when
Distinct by one dim shade and yet undivided from the universal cloud
In which it towers, finite in height.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The Moon, how definite its orb!
Yet gaze again, and with a steady gaze—
'Tis there indeed,—but where is it not?—
It is suffused o'er all the sapphire Heaven,
Trees, herbage, snake-like stream, unwrinkled Lake,
Whose very murmur does of it partake
And low and close the broad smooth mountain
Is more a thing of Heaven than when
Distinct by one dim shade and yet undivided from the universal cloud
In which it towers, finite in height.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
A Crocodile
by Thomas Lovell Beddoes
Hard by the lilied Nile I saw
A duskish river-dragon stretched along,
The brown habergeon of his limbs enamelled
With sanguine almandines and rainy pearl:
And on his back there lay a young one sleeping,
No bigger than a mouse; with eyes like beads,
And a small fragment of its speckled egg
Remaining on its harmless, pulpy snout;
A thing to laugh at, as it gaped to catch
The baulking merry flies. In the iron jaws
Of the great devil-beast, like a pale soul
Fluttering in rocky hell, lightsomely flew
A snowy trochilus, with roseate beak
Tearing the hairy leeches from his throat.
Thomas Lovell Beddoes
by Thomas Lovell Beddoes
Hard by the lilied Nile I saw
A duskish river-dragon stretched along,
The brown habergeon of his limbs enamelled
With sanguine almandines and rainy pearl:
And on his back there lay a young one sleeping,
No bigger than a mouse; with eyes like beads,
And a small fragment of its speckled egg
Remaining on its harmless, pulpy snout;
A thing to laugh at, as it gaped to catch
The baulking merry flies. In the iron jaws
Of the great devil-beast, like a pale soul
Fluttering in rocky hell, lightsomely flew
A snowy trochilus, with roseate beak
Tearing the hairy leeches from his throat.
Thomas Lovell Beddoes
The Old Year
by John Clare
The Old Year's gone away
To nothingness and night:
We cannot find him all the day
Nor hear him in the night:
He left no footstep, mark or place
In either shade or sun:
The last year he'd a neighbour's face,
In this he's known by none.
All nothing everywhere:
Mists we on mornings see
Have more of substance when they're here
And more of form than he.
He was a friend by every fire,
In every cot and hall-
A guest to every heart's desire,
And now he's nought at all.
Old papers thrown away,
Old garments cast aside,
The talk of yesterday,
Are things identified;
But time once torn away
No voices can recall:
The eve of New Year's Day
Left the Old Year lost to all.
John Clare
by John Clare
The Old Year's gone away
To nothingness and night:
We cannot find him all the day
Nor hear him in the night:
He left no footstep, mark or place
In either shade or sun:
The last year he'd a neighbour's face,
In this he's known by none.
All nothing everywhere:
Mists we on mornings see
Have more of substance when they're here
And more of form than he.
He was a friend by every fire,
In every cot and hall-
A guest to every heart's desire,
And now he's nought at all.
Old papers thrown away,
Old garments cast aside,
The talk of yesterday,
Are things identified;
But time once torn away
No voices can recall:
The eve of New Year's Day
Left the Old Year lost to all.
John Clare
XXXII
By Emily Dickinson
From Complete Poems 1924
Part One: Life
HOPE is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Emily Dickinson
By Emily Dickinson
From Complete Poems 1924
Part One: Life
HOPE is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Emily Dickinson
Adlestrop
By Edward Thomas
Yes. I remember Adlestrop—
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.
The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop—only the name
And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.
And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
Edward Thomas
By Edward Thomas
Yes. I remember Adlestrop—
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.
The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop—only the name
And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.
And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
Edward Thomas
At the Zoo
by William Makepeace Thackeray
First I saw the white bear, then I saw the black;
Then I saw the camel with a hump upon his back;
Then I saw the grey wolf, with mutton in his maw;
Then I saw the wombat waddle in the straw;
Then I saw the elephant a-waving of his trunk;
Then I saw the monkeys—mercy, how unpleasantly they smelt!
William Makepeace Thackeray
by William Makepeace Thackeray
First I saw the white bear, then I saw the black;
Then I saw the camel with a hump upon his back;
Then I saw the grey wolf, with mutton in his maw;
Then I saw the wombat waddle in the straw;
Then I saw the elephant a-waving of his trunk;
Then I saw the monkeys—mercy, how unpleasantly they smelt!
William Makepeace Thackeray
The Darkling Thrush
By Thomas Hardy
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
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 be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless 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,
In 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.
Thomas Hardy
By Thomas Hardy
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
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 be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless 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,
In 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.
Thomas Hardy
On the Grasshopper and Cricket
By John Keats
The Poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper’s—he takes the lead
In summer luxury,—he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.
John Keats
By John Keats
The Poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper’s—he takes the lead
In summer luxury,—he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.
John Keats
To the Roaring Wind
by Wallace Stevens
What syllable are you seeking,
Vocalissimus,
In the distances of sleep?
Speak it.
Wallace Stevens
by Wallace Stevens
What syllable are you seeking,
Vocalissimus,
In the distances of sleep?
Speak it.
Wallace Stevens
The Tyger
by William Blake
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
William Blake
by William Blake
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
William Blake
A Slumber did my Spirit Seal
By William Wordsworth
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.
William Wordsworth
By William Wordsworth
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.
William Wordsworth
The Ship Starting
By Walt Whitman
Lo, the unbounded sea,
On its breast a ship starting, spreading all sails, carrying even
her moonsails.
The pennant is flying aloft as she speeds she speeds so stately—
below emulous waves press forward,
They surround the ship with shining curving motions and foam.
Walt Whitman
By Walt Whitman
Lo, the unbounded sea,
On its breast a ship starting, spreading all sails, carrying even
her moonsails.
The pennant is flying aloft as she speeds she speeds so stately—
below emulous waves press forward,
They surround the ship with shining curving motions and foam.
Walt Whitman
One am, First January, 2006
By Carol Jenkins
Each boat’s white light, paired with red,
glides towards The Spit,
some have high lamps so their decks
are magnified in a frail wash of white.
The voices and engines vibrating,
carry clear across Middle Harbour.
Returning after midnight fireworks,
they add themselves together, like days,
until a chain of light plots the stillness
of dark water from Wyargine Point to where
they are, again, nothing behind the trees.
Carol Jenkins is an Australian poet. Her first book of poetry Fishing in the Devonian (Puncher & Wattmann, 2008) was short listed for the 2009 Victorian Premier’s Literary Awards.
Carol Jenkins
By Carol Jenkins
Each boat’s white light, paired with red,
glides towards The Spit,
some have high lamps so their decks
are magnified in a frail wash of white.
The voices and engines vibrating,
carry clear across Middle Harbour.
Returning after midnight fireworks,
they add themselves together, like days,
until a chain of light plots the stillness
of dark water from Wyargine Point to where
they are, again, nothing behind the trees.
Carol Jenkins is an Australian poet. Her first book of poetry Fishing in the Devonian (Puncher & Wattmann, 2008) was short listed for the 2009 Victorian Premier’s Literary Awards.
Carol Jenkins
Flowers by the Sea
By William Carlos Williams
When over the flowery, sharp pasture’s
edge, unseen, the salt ocean
lifts its form—chicory and daisies
tied, released, seem hardly flowers alone
but color and the movement—or the shape
perhaps—of relentlessness, whereas
the sea is circled and sways
peacefully upon its plantlike stem
William Carlos Williams
By William Carlos Williams
When over the flowery, sharp pasture’s
edge, unseen, the salt ocean
lifts its form—chicory and daisies
tied, released, seem hardly flowers alone
but color and the movement—or the shape
perhaps—of relentlessness, whereas
the sea is circled and sways
peacefully upon its plantlike stem
William Carlos Williams
My Star
By Robert Browning 1812–1889
All that I know
Of a certain star,
Is, it can throw
(Like the angled spar)
Now a dart of red,
Now a dart of blue,
Till my friends have said
They would fain see, too,
My star that dartles the red and the blue!
Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled:
They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.
What matter to me if their star is a world?
Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.
Robert Browning
By Robert Browning 1812–1889
All that I know
Of a certain star,
Is, it can throw
(Like the angled spar)
Now a dart of red,
Now a dart of blue,
Till my friends have said
They would fain see, too,
My star that dartles the red and the blue!
Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled:
They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.
What matter to me if their star is a world?
Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.
Robert Browning
Ozymandias
By Percy Bysshe Shelley
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 yet 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 beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.â€
Percy Bysshe Shelley
By Percy Bysshe Shelley
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 yet 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 beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.â€
Percy Bysshe Shelley
The Eagle
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
XCVII
By Emily Dickinson
TO make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,—
One clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do
If bees are few.
(from Part Two: Nature, Complete Poems, 1924)
Emily Dickinson
By Emily Dickinson
TO make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,—
One clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do
If bees are few.
(from Part Two: Nature, Complete Poems, 1924)
Emily Dickinson
Bloom
By Elizabeth Allen
All day they have been drawing me back
to the kitchen table: a crossword question
I keep returning to, the answer just beyond
my tongue. I have been trying to find
their meaning: what they hold & signify,
what they expect & tell. What they can
know of me & what they can’t. Only
now that evening is coming in have I
tired of this frenzy & decided to let them
be flowers: cream lilies, red carnations,
white daisies, purple orchids & others
I do not know the names for, so cannot
show you. An odd jarring of colour in
a basket, like seeing yourself reflected
from many angles at once; the constancy
of body temperature, dry humour, wit,
gathered in together like friendships;
some about to open & some, almost:
Elizabeth Allen is a contemporary Australian poet. Her book of poems Body Language is published by Vagabond Press (Sydney, 2012).
Elizabeth Allen
By Elizabeth Allen
All day they have been drawing me back
to the kitchen table: a crossword question
I keep returning to, the answer just beyond
my tongue. I have been trying to find
their meaning: what they hold & signify,
what they expect & tell. What they can
know of me & what they can’t. Only
now that evening is coming in have I
tired of this frenzy & decided to let them
be flowers: cream lilies, red carnations,
white daisies, purple orchids & others
I do not know the names for, so cannot
show you. An odd jarring of colour in
a basket, like seeing yourself reflected
from many angles at once; the constancy
of body temperature, dry humour, wit,
gathered in together like friendships;
some about to open & some, almost:
Elizabeth Allen is a contemporary Australian poet. Her book of poems Body Language is published by Vagabond Press (Sydney, 2012).
Elizabeth Allen
Neither Out Far Nor In Deep
By Robert Frost
The people along the sand
All turn and look one way.
They turn their back on the land.
They look at the sea all day.
As long as it takes to pass
A ship keeps raising its hull;
The wetter ground like glass
Reflects a standing gull.
The land may vary more;
But wherever the truth may be -
The water comes ashore,
And the people look at the sea.
They cannot look out far.
They cannot look in deep.
But when was that ever a bar
To any watch they keep?
Robert Frost
By Robert Frost
The people along the sand
All turn and look one way.
They turn their back on the land.
They look at the sea all day.
As long as it takes to pass
A ship keeps raising its hull;
The wetter ground like glass
Reflects a standing gull.
The land may vary more;
But wherever the truth may be -
The water comes ashore,
And the people look at the sea.
They cannot look out far.
They cannot look in deep.
But when was that ever a bar
To any watch they keep?
Robert Frost
Sonnet 116
By William Shakespeare
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.
William Shakespeare
By William Shakespeare
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.
William Shakespeare
The Pike
By Amy Lowell
In the brown water,
Thick and silver-sheened in the sunshine,
Liquid and cool in the shade of the reeds,
A pike dozed.
Lost among the shadows of stems
He lay unnoticed.
Suddenly he flicked his tail,
And a green-and-copper brightness
Ran under the water.
Out from under the reeds
Came the olive-green light,
And orange flashed up
Through the sun-thickened water.
So the fish passed across the pool,
Green and copper,
A darkness and a gleam,
And the blurred reflections of the willows on the opposite bank
Received it.
Amy Lowell
By Amy Lowell
In the brown water,
Thick and silver-sheened in the sunshine,
Liquid and cool in the shade of the reeds,
A pike dozed.
Lost among the shadows of stems
He lay unnoticed.
Suddenly he flicked his tail,
And a green-and-copper brightness
Ran under the water.
Out from under the reeds
Came the olive-green light,
And orange flashed up
Through the sun-thickened water.
So the fish passed across the pool,
Green and copper,
A darkness and a gleam,
And the blurred reflections of the willows on the opposite bank
Received it.
Amy Lowell
Frogs in Chorus
by AB ‘Banjo’ Paterson
The chorus frogs in the big lagoon
Would sing their songs to the silvery moon.
Tenor singers were out of place,
For every frog was a double bass.
But never a human chorus yet
Could beat the accurate time they set.
The solo singer began the joke;
He sang, "As long as I live I'll croak,
Croak, I'll croak,"
And the chorus followed him: "Croak, croak, croak!"
The poet frog, in his plaintive tone,
Sang of a sorrow was all his own;
"How shall I win to my heart's desire?
How shall I feel my spirit's fire?"
And the solo frog in his deepest croak,
"To fire your spirit," he sang, "eat coke,
Coke, eat coke,"
And the chorus followed him: "Coke, coke, coke!"
The green frog sat in a swampy spot
And he sang the song of he knew not what.
"The world is rotten, oh cursed plight,
That I am the frog that must set it right.
How shall I scatter the shades that lurk?"
And the old man bullfrog sang, "Get work,
Work, get work,"
And the chorus followed him: "Work, work, work!"
The soaring spirits that fain would fly
On wings of hope to the starry sky
Must face the snarls of the jealous dogs,
For the world is ruled by its chorus frogs.
AB ‘Banjo’ Paterson
by AB ‘Banjo’ Paterson
The chorus frogs in the big lagoon
Would sing their songs to the silvery moon.
Tenor singers were out of place,
For every frog was a double bass.
But never a human chorus yet
Could beat the accurate time they set.
The solo singer began the joke;
He sang, "As long as I live I'll croak,
Croak, I'll croak,"
And the chorus followed him: "Croak, croak, croak!"
The poet frog, in his plaintive tone,
Sang of a sorrow was all his own;
"How shall I win to my heart's desire?
How shall I feel my spirit's fire?"
And the solo frog in his deepest croak,
"To fire your spirit," he sang, "eat coke,
Coke, eat coke,"
And the chorus followed him: "Coke, coke, coke!"
The green frog sat in a swampy spot
And he sang the song of he knew not what.
"The world is rotten, oh cursed plight,
That I am the frog that must set it right.
How shall I scatter the shades that lurk?"
And the old man bullfrog sang, "Get work,
Work, get work,"
And the chorus followed him: "Work, work, work!"
The soaring spirits that fain would fly
On wings of hope to the starry sky
Must face the snarls of the jealous dogs,
For the world is ruled by its chorus frogs.
AB ‘Banjo’ Paterson
The Ladder
by Bill Manhire
Too short to reach the roof,
too short to threaten important windows,
the ladder lies on its side
behind the house, out of sight.
The ladder lies in the grass,
a different grain in each of its rungs
(and wings on each rung
so where can you place your feet?).
And, as you can see, it is rotten.
Nevertheless, it longs to be lifted.
Bill Manhire is an award-winning New Zealand poet. He was New Zealand's inaugural Poet Laureate and his most recent book isThe Victims of Lightning(Victoria University Press, Wellington, 2010).
Bill Manhire
by Bill Manhire
Too short to reach the roof,
too short to threaten important windows,
the ladder lies on its side
behind the house, out of sight.
The ladder lies in the grass,
a different grain in each of its rungs
(and wings on each rung
so where can you place your feet?).
And, as you can see, it is rotten.
Nevertheless, it longs to be lifted.
Bill Manhire is an award-winning New Zealand poet. He was New Zealand's inaugural Poet Laureate and his most recent book isThe Victims of Lightning(Victoria University Press, Wellington, 2010).
Bill Manhire
Early Arrival Sydney
by Vivian Smith
Red cockatoo crests caught on coral trees:
my Sydney emblems. Dragging the land in view
our ship hauls glass and concrete to its side
as gulls fly up and snatch and scream and glide
away on a sea smeared with a trace of blue.
The neons flicker and the skyline wakes.
The orange suburbs float through miles of calm:
a pastel-coloured terrace shades its slope.
While five gulls fight for nothing on a rope,
the breeze picks out a single listless palm.
The city's like a room far undersea
with locked arcades where shadow-waves subside.
Grey windows bend great cloud-shapes as they pass.
Beyond these tiles, tunnels, iron, glass,
the flat waters of green inlets ride
where all the folded yachts are chained away.
But here the huge hotels still sway in space
with the exactness of a foreign place.
Vivian Smith is a widely published Australian poet. His most recent book is Here, There and Elsewhere (Giramondo, Sydney, 2012)
Vivian Smith
by Vivian Smith
Red cockatoo crests caught on coral trees:
my Sydney emblems. Dragging the land in view
our ship hauls glass and concrete to its side
as gulls fly up and snatch and scream and glide
away on a sea smeared with a trace of blue.
The neons flicker and the skyline wakes.
The orange suburbs float through miles of calm:
a pastel-coloured terrace shades its slope.
While five gulls fight for nothing on a rope,
the breeze picks out a single listless palm.
The city's like a room far undersea
with locked arcades where shadow-waves subside.
Grey windows bend great cloud-shapes as they pass.
Beyond these tiles, tunnels, iron, glass,
the flat waters of green inlets ride
where all the folded yachts are chained away.
But here the huge hotels still sway in space
with the exactness of a foreign place.
Vivian Smith is a widely published Australian poet. His most recent book is Here, There and Elsewhere (Giramondo, Sydney, 2012)
Vivian Smith
Summer Farm
by Norman MacCaig
Straws like tame lightnings lie about the grass
And hang zigzag on hedges. Green as glass
The water in the horse-trough shines.
Nine ducks go wobbling by in two straight lines.
A hen stares at nothing with one eye,
Then picks it up. Out of an empty sky
A swallow falls and, flickering through
The barn, dives up again into the dizzy blue.
I lie, not thinking, in the cool, soft grass,
Afraid of where a thought might take me - as
This grasshopper with plated face
Unfolds his legs and finds himself in space.
Self under self, a pile of selves I stand
Threaded on time, and with metaphysic hand
Lift the farm like a lid and see
Farm within farm, and in the centre, me.
Norman MacCaig
by Norman MacCaig
Straws like tame lightnings lie about the grass
And hang zigzag on hedges. Green as glass
The water in the horse-trough shines.
Nine ducks go wobbling by in two straight lines.
A hen stares at nothing with one eye,
Then picks it up. Out of an empty sky
A swallow falls and, flickering through
The barn, dives up again into the dizzy blue.
I lie, not thinking, in the cool, soft grass,
Afraid of where a thought might take me - as
This grasshopper with plated face
Unfolds his legs and finds himself in space.
Self under self, a pile of selves I stand
Threaded on time, and with metaphysic hand
Lift the farm like a lid and see
Farm within farm, and in the centre, me.
Norman MacCaig
The Last To Leave
By Leon Gellert
The guns were silent, and the silent hills
had bowed their grasses to a gentle breeze
I gazed upon the vales and on the rills,
And whispered, "What of these?' and "What of these?
These long forgotten dead with sunken graves,
Some crossless, with unwritten memories
Their only mourners are the moaning waves,
Their only minstrels are the singing trees
And thus I mused and sorrowed wistfully
I watched the place where they had scaled the height,
The height whereon they bled so bitterly
Throughout each day and through each blistered night
I sat there long, and listened - all things listened too
I heard the epics of a thousand trees,
A thousand waves I heard; and then I knew
The waves were very old, the trees were wise:
The dead would be remembered evermore-
The valiant dead that gazed upon the skies,
And slept in great battalions by the shore.
Leon Gellert
By Leon Gellert
The guns were silent, and the silent hills
had bowed their grasses to a gentle breeze
I gazed upon the vales and on the rills,
And whispered, "What of these?' and "What of these?
These long forgotten dead with sunken graves,
Some crossless, with unwritten memories
Their only mourners are the moaning waves,
Their only minstrels are the singing trees
And thus I mused and sorrowed wistfully
I watched the place where they had scaled the height,
The height whereon they bled so bitterly
Throughout each day and through each blistered night
I sat there long, and listened - all things listened too
I heard the epics of a thousand trees,
A thousand waves I heard; and then I knew
The waves were very old, the trees were wise:
The dead would be remembered evermore-
The valiant dead that gazed upon the skies,
And slept in great battalions by the shore.
Leon Gellert
The Australian
By William Henry Ogilvie
The bravest thing God ever made!
(A British Officer’s Opinion)
The skies that arched his land were blue,
His bush-born winds were warm and sweet,
And yet from earliest hours he knew
The tides of victory and defeat:
From fierce floods thundering at his birth,
From red droughts ravening while he played,
He learned no fear no foes on earth -
The bravest thing God ever made!
The bugles of the Motherland
Rang ceaselessly across the sea,
To call him and his lean brown band
To shape Imperial destiny.,
He went by youth’s grave purpose willed,
The goal unknown, the cost unweighed,
The promise of his blood fulfilled -
The bravest thing God ever made!
We know - it is our deathless pride! -
The splendour of his first fierce blow;
How, reckless, glorious, undenied,
He stormed those steel-lined cliffs we know!
And none who saw him scale the height
Behind his reeking bayonet blade
Would rob him of his title right -
The bravest thing God ever made!
Bravest, where half a world of men
Are brave beyond all earth’s rewards,
So stoutly none shall charge again
Till the last breaking of the swords;
Wounded or hale, won home from war,
Or yonder by the Lone Pine laid,
Give him his due for evermore -
The bravest thing God ever made!
William Henry Ogilvie
By William Henry Ogilvie
The bravest thing God ever made!
(A British Officer’s Opinion)
The skies that arched his land were blue,
His bush-born winds were warm and sweet,
And yet from earliest hours he knew
The tides of victory and defeat:
From fierce floods thundering at his birth,
From red droughts ravening while he played,
He learned no fear no foes on earth -
The bravest thing God ever made!
The bugles of the Motherland
Rang ceaselessly across the sea,
To call him and his lean brown band
To shape Imperial destiny.,
He went by youth’s grave purpose willed,
The goal unknown, the cost unweighed,
The promise of his blood fulfilled -
The bravest thing God ever made!
We know - it is our deathless pride! -
The splendour of his first fierce blow;
How, reckless, glorious, undenied,
He stormed those steel-lined cliffs we know!
And none who saw him scale the height
Behind his reeking bayonet blade
Would rob him of his title right -
The bravest thing God ever made!
Bravest, where half a world of men
Are brave beyond all earth’s rewards,
So stoutly none shall charge again
Till the last breaking of the swords;
Wounded or hale, won home from war,
Or yonder by the Lone Pine laid,
Give him his due for evermore -
The bravest thing God ever made!
William Henry Ogilvie
To a Mouse
BY ROBERT BURNS
On Turning up in Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785
(the poem has eight verses ; these are verses 2, 7 & 8)
....
I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!
....
But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!
Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e’e,
On prospects drear!
An’ forward tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!
BY ROBERT BURNS
BY ROBERT BURNS
On Turning up in Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785
(the poem has eight verses ; these are verses 2, 7 & 8)
....
I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!
....
But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!
Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e’e,
On prospects drear!
An’ forward tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!
BY ROBERT BURNS
The Australian Sunrise
By James Lister Cuthbertson
The Morning Star paled slowly, the Cross hung low to the sea,
And down the shadowy reaches the tide came swirling free,
The lustrous purple blackness of the soft Australian night
Waned in the grey awakening that heralded the light;
Still in the dying darkness, still in the forest dim
The pearly dew of the dawning clung to each giant limb,
Till the sun came up from ocean, red with the cold sea mist,
And smote on the limestone ridges, and the shining tree-tops kissed
Then the fiery Scorpion vanished, the magpie’s note was heard,
And the wind in the she-oak wavered and the honeysuckles stirred;
The airy golden vapour rose from the river breast,
The kingfisher came darting out of his crannied nest,
And the bullrushes and reed-beds put off their sallow grey
And burnt with cloudy crimson at the dawning of the day.
James Lister Cuthbertson
By James Lister Cuthbertson
The Morning Star paled slowly, the Cross hung low to the sea,
And down the shadowy reaches the tide came swirling free,
The lustrous purple blackness of the soft Australian night
Waned in the grey awakening that heralded the light;
Still in the dying darkness, still in the forest dim
The pearly dew of the dawning clung to each giant limb,
Till the sun came up from ocean, red with the cold sea mist,
And smote on the limestone ridges, and the shining tree-tops kissed
Then the fiery Scorpion vanished, the magpie’s note was heard,
And the wind in the she-oak wavered and the honeysuckles stirred;
The airy golden vapour rose from the river breast,
The kingfisher came darting out of his crannied nest,
And the bullrushes and reed-beds put off their sallow grey
And burnt with cloudy crimson at the dawning of the day.
James Lister Cuthbertson