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·,...11 *> .... 

~~ .... 

\ ..' 

[6771 8m WALTER scarr . 

But present still, though now unseenl 

When brightly shines the prosperous day, 

Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen 

To temper the deceitful ray. 

And oh, when stoops on Judah's path 

In shade and storm the frequent night, 

Be Thou, long-suHering, slow to wrath, 

A burning and a shining Iightl 

Our harps we left by Babers streams, 

The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn; 

No censer round our altar beams, 

And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn. 

But Thou hast said, The blood of goat, 

The flesh of rams I will not prize; 

A contrite heart, a humble thought, 

Are Mine accepted sacr:Ulce. 

Ivanhoe 

"Anna-Marie, Love, Up Is the Sun" 

Knight: Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun, 

Anna-Marie, love, morn is begun, 

Mists are dispersing, love, birds singing free, 

Up in the morning, love, Anna-Marie. 

Anna-Marie, love, up in the morn, 

The hunter is winding blithe sounds on his horn, 

The echo rings merry from rock and from tree, 

'Tis time to arouse thee, love, Anna-Marie. 

Wamba: 0 Tybalt, love, Tybalt, awake me not yet, 

Around my soft pillow while softer dreams flit; 

For what are the joys that in waking we prove, 

Compared with these visions, 0 Tybalt! my love? 

Let the birds to the rise of the mist carol shrill, 

Let the hunter blowout his loud horn on the hill, 

Softer sounds, softer pleasures, in slumber I prove, 

But think not I dream of thee, Tybalt, my love, 

Ivanhoe 

....... 

. 'W, 

I

•• • 

sm WALTER SCOTI' [678] 

"March, March . .. " 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 

Why the deil dinna ye march forward in orderl 

March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, 

All the blue bonnets are bound for the Border. 

Many a banner spread 

Flutters above your head, 

Many a crest that is famous in story. 

Mount and make ready then, 

Sons of the mountain glen, 

Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory. 

Come from the hills where your hirsels are ,azing, 

Come from the glen of the buck and the' roe; 

Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, 

Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. 

Trumpets are sounding, 

War-steeds are bounding, 

Stand to your arms,imd march in good order, 

England shall many a day , 

Tell of the bloody fray, 

When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. 

The Mouastery 

...... .. 

\ 

"Woman's Faith ... " 

Woman's faith, and woman's trust 

Write the characters in dust; 

Stamp, them on the running stream,' 

Print them on the moon's pale beam, 

And each evanescent letter 

Shall\be clearer, firmer, better, 

And more permanent, I ween, 

Than the thing those letters mean. 

I have strained the spider's thread 1 

'Gainst the promise of a maid; 

I have weighed a grain of sand 

'Gainst'her plight of heart and hand; 

~' .

4@$ 

(679] 8m WALTER SCOTT 

I told my true love of the token, 

How her faith proved light, and her word was broken: 

Again her word and truth she plight, 

And I believed them again ere night. 

The Betrothed 

Aamdeut 

mariaer meetetb 

tJuwpllIIltI 

...... 

to • wedcIiar 

teat,adde. 

tliuethoae. 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 

(177.1-1834) 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 

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 oHI unhand me, grey-beard loonl" 

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.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE [680] 

wind and fair 

weather, till it 

reached the 

line. 

The Sun came up upon the left, 

Out of the sea came hel 

And he shone bright, and on the right 

Went down into the sea. 

The Wedding- 

Guest heareth 

the bridal 

music; but 

the Mariner 

continueth 

his tale. 

The ship 

driven bya 

storm toward 

the south pole. 

The land of 

ice, and of 

fearful sounds 

where no 

living thing 

was to be seen. 

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 Hed. 

And now there came both mist and snow, 

And it grew wondrous cold: 

And ice, mast-high, came Boating by, 

As green as emerald. 

And through the drifts the snowy difts 

Did send a dismal sheen: 

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken- 

The ice was all between. 

t, 

'.,..

[ 6 8 11 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLElUDGE 

The ice was here, the ice was there, 

The ice was all around: 

Itcracked and growled, and roared and howled, 

Like noises in a swoundl 

Till a great 

sea-bird, 

called the 

Albatross, 

came through 

the snow.fog, 

(ad was 

received with 

great ioy and 

hospitality. 

And 101 the 

Albatross 

proveth a bird 

of good omen, 

and followeth 

the ship as it 

returned 

northward 

through fog 

md Boating 

ice. The 

ancient 

Mariner 

inhospitably 

lcilIeth the 

pious bird of 

good omen. 

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 Hew. 

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 hollol 

In mist or cloud, or mast or shroud, 

It perched for vespers nine; 

Whiles all the nights, through fog-smoke white, 

Glimmered the white Moon-shine." 

"God save thee, ancient Marinerl 

From the fiends, that plague thee thus 1 

Why look'st thou soP"-With my cross-bow 

I shot the ALBATROSS. 

PART n 

The Sun now rose upon the right: 

Out of the sea came he, 

Still hid in mist, and on the left 

Went down into the sea. 

And the good south wind still blew behind, 

But no sweet hird did follow, 

Nor any day for food or play 

Came to the mariners' hollol


His shipmates 

cry out against 

the ancient 

Mariner, for 

killing the 

bird of good 

luck. 

But when the 

fog cleared 

011, they 

justify the 

same, and 

thus make 

themselves 

accomplices 

in the crime. 

The faiI 

breeze con· 

tinues; the ship 

enters the 

Pacinc Ocean, 

and sails northward, 

even 

till it reaches 

the Line. 

The ship hath 

been suddenly 

becalmed. 

And I had done a hellish thing, 

And it would work 'em woe: 

For all averred, I had killed the bird 

That made the breeze to blow. 

Ah wretchI said they. the bird to slay, 

That made the breeze to blow! 

Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, 

The glorious Sun upnst: 

Then all averred, I had killed the bird 

That brought the fog and mist. 

'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, 

That bring the fog and mist. 

The fair breeze blew, the white foam Hew, 

The furrow followed free; 

We were the mst that ever burst 

Into that silent sea. 

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 

'Twas sad as sad could be; 

And we did speak only to break 

The silence of the seal 

All in a hot and copper sky, 

The bloody Sun, at noon, 

Right up above the mast did stand 

No bigger than the Moon. 

Day after day, day after day, 

We stuck, nor breath nor motion; 

As idle as a painted ship 

Upon a painted ocean. 

And the Albatross 

begins to 

be avenged. 

Water, water, every where, 

And all the boards did shrink; 

Water, water, every where, 

Nor any drop to drink. 

The very deep did rot: 0 Christl 

That ever this should bel

A Spirit had 

tolIowed 

them; one 01 

the invisible 

inhabitants 01 

this planet, 

neither de- 

[ 683] SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 

Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 

Upon the slimy sea. 

About, about~ in reel and rout, 

The death-fires danced at night; 

The water, like a witch's oils, 

Burnt green, and blue and white. 

And some in dreams assured were 

Of the Spirit that plagued us so; 

Nine fathom deep he had followed us 

From the land of mist and snow. 

parted souls nor angels; concerning whom the learned Jew, Josephus, and 

the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael PseIIus, may be consulted. They 

are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more. 

The shipmates 

in their sore 

distress, would 

fain throw the 

whole guilt on 

And every tongue, through utter drought, 

Was withered at the root; 

We could not speak, no more than if 

We had been choked with soot. 

Ah! well-a-dayl what evil looks 

Had I from old and youngl 

Instead of the cross, the Albatross 

About my neck was hung. 

the ancient Mariner; in sign whereot they hang the dead sea-bird round 

his necl. 

The ancient 

Mariner beholdeth 

a sign 

in the element 

afar oil. 

PART In 

There passed a weary time. Each throat 

Was parched, and glazed each eye. 

A weary timel A weary timel 

How glazed each weary eye, 

When looking westward, I beheld 

A something in the sky.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLElUDGE 

[684 J 

At its nearer 

approach, it 

seemeth him 

to be a ship; 

and at a dear 

ransom he 

freeth his 

speech from 

the handsot 

thirst. 

ABash 

of loy; 

And horror 

follows. For 

can it be II 

ship that 

comes onward 

without wind 

or tide? 

It seemeth 

him but the 

skeleton ot 

a ship. 

And its ribs 

are seen as 

bars on the 

~"" ......... ""'/. +h. 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! 

And still it neared and neared: 

As if it dodged a water-sprite, 

It plunged and tacked and veered. 

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 

We could not laugh nor wail; 

Through utter drought all dumb we stood! 

I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 

And cried, A sail! a sail! 


Agape they heard me call: 

Gramercyl they for joy did grin, 

And all at once their breath drew in, 

As they were drinking all. 

Seel Seel (I cried) she tacks no morel 

Hither to work us weal; 

Without a breeze, without a tide, 

She steadies with upright keel! 

The western wave was all a-flame. 

The day was well nigh done! 

Almost upon the western wave 

Rested the broad bright Sun; 

When that strange shape drove suddenly 

Betwixt us and the Sun. 

And straight the Sun was Hecked with bars, 

(Heaven's Mother send us gracel) 

As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 

With broad and burning face. 

Alasl (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 

How fast she nears and nears! 

Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,

A Spirit bad 

tollowed 

them; one of 

the invisible 

inhabitants of 

this planet, 

neither de- 

[ 68 3 J SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



About, about; in reel and rout, 








parted souls nor angels; concerning whom the learned lew, Josephus, and 

the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael Psel1l1s, may be consulted. They 

are very numerous, and there is no climate Or element without one or more. 





Ahl well-a-dayl what evil looks 

Had I from old and youngl 

Instead of the cross, the Albatross 

About my neck was hung. 

The shipnIlItes 

in their sore 


fIIin throw the 


the ancient Mariner; in sign whereof they hang the dead sea·bird round 

his neck. 

The ancient 

Mariner be· 

holdeth a sign 


afar off. 

PART m 



A weary timel A weary time! 



A something in the sky. 

At first it seemed a little speck,

p 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE [684 1 

At its nearer 

approach, it 

seemethhim 

to be a ship; 

and at a dear 

ransom he 

{reeth his 

speech from 

the handsot 

thirst. 

ABash 

of ioy; 

And horror 

foUows. For 

can it be a 

ship that 


without wiud 

or tide? 

It seemeth 

him but the 

skeleton of 

a ship. 

And its ribs 

are seen as 

bars on the 

faecol the 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wistl 







I bit my arm, 1 sucked the blood, 

And cried, A saill a saill 



Gramercy! they for joy did grin, 



See! Seel (I cried) she tacks no morel 




The western wave was all a-flame. 

The day was well nigh done! 





And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, 

(Heaven's Mother send us graceJ) 



Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 

How fast she nears and nears! 

Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 

T ..,-~ __ -",1 ... ,."" I"t'U'ClQ'l'nP1'A.qP

A Spirit had 

tollowed 

them; one of 

the invisible 

inhabitants of 

this planet, 

neitberde- 

[ 688 J SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEllIDGE 



About, about; in reel and rout, 








parted souls nor angels; concerning whom the learned lew, Josephus, and 

tbe Platonic Constantinopo/itan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. They 

are very numerous, and there is no climate or dement witbout one or more. 





Ahl well-a-day! what evil looks 

Had I from old and young! 

Instead of the cross, the Albatross 

About my neck was hung. 

The shipmates 

in their sore 


bin throw the 


the ancient Mariner; in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round 

his neclc. 

The ancient 

Mariner beholdeth 

a sign 


afar off. 

PART m 



A weary time! A weary timet 



A something in the sky. 

At first it seemed a little speck, 

And then it -.m"r! ., ....;"h

f 


At its nearer 

approach, it 

seemethhim 

to be a ship; 

and at a dear 

ransom he 

freeth his 

speech from 

the bonds or 

thirst. 

ABash 

of joy; 

And horror 

follows. For 

can it bea 

ship that 


without wind 

or tidel 

It seemeth 

him but the 

skeleton of 

a ship. 

And its ribs 

are seen as 

bars on the 

face of the 

setting Sun. 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wistl 







I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 

And cried. A sail! a saill 



Gramercyl they for joy did grin, 



Seel Seel (1 cried) she tacks no morel 




The western wave was all a-Harne. 

The day was well nigh donel 





And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, 

(Heaven's Mother send us gracel) 



Alasl (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 

How fast she nears and nearsI 

Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 

Like restless gossameresP


mate, and no 

other on 

board the 

skeleton ship. 

Like vessel, 

like crew/ 

Death and 

Life-in-Death 

have diced tor 

the ship's 

crew, and she 

( the latter) 

winneth the 

ancient 

Mariner. 

No twilight 

within the 

courts ot the 

Sun. 

At the rising 

of the Moon, 

One after 

another, 

His shipmates 

drop down 

dead. 

And is that Woman all her crew? 

Is that a DEATH? and are there two? 

Is DEATH that woman's mate? 

Her lips were red, her looks were free, 

Her locks were yellow as gold. 

Her skin was white as leprosy, 

The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she, 

Who thicks man's blood with cold. 

The naked hulk alongside came, 

And the twain welte casting dice; 

'The game is done! I've wonl I've wonl' 

Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out: 

At one stride comes the dark; 

With far-off whisper, o'er the sea, 

Off shot the spectre-bark. 

We listened and looked Sideways up! 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 

My life-blood seemed to sipl 

The stars were dim, and thick the night, 

The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed 

white; 

From the sails the dew did drip 

Till clomb above the eastern bar 

The horned Moon, with one bright star 

Within the nether tip. 

One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, 

Too quick for groan or sigh, 

Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, 

And cursed me with his eye. 

Four times fifty living men, 

(And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 

With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 

They dropped down one by one.

= 


But Life-in 

Death begins 

her work on 

the ancient 

Mariner. 

The Wedding 

Guest feareth 

that a Spirit 

is talking to 

him; 

But the ancient 

Mariner 

assureth him 

of his bodily 

life, and proceedeth 

to relate 

his horrible 

penance. 

He despiseth 

the creatures 

of the calm, 

And envieth 

that they 

should live, 

and so many 

lie dead. 

The souls did from their bodies fly, 

They fled to bliss or woe! 

And every soul, it passed me by, 

Like the whizz of my cross-bowl 

PART IV 

"} fear thee, ancient Marinerl 

I fear thy skinny hand! 

And thou art long, and lank, and brown, 

As is the ribbed sea-sand. 

I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 

And thy skinny hand, so brown." 

Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guestl 

This body dropt not down. 

Alone, alone, all, all alone, 

Alone on a wide wide seal 

And never a saint took pity on 

My soul in agony. 

The many men, so beautifulI 

And they all dead did lie: 

And a thousand thousand slimy things 

Lived on; and so did I. 

I looked upon the rotting sea, 

And drew my eyes away; 

I looked upon the rotting deck, 

And there the dead men lay. 

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; 

But or ever a prayer had gusht, 

A wicked whisper came, and made 

My heart as dry as dust. 

I closed my lids, and kept them close, 

And the balls like pulses beat; 

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the 

sky 

Lay like a load on my weary eye, 

And the dead were at my feet.


But the curse 

liveth for him 

in the eye of 

the dead men. 

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 

Nor rot nor reek did they: 

The look with which they looked on me 

Had never passed away. 

In his loneliness 

and 

fixedness he 

yeameth towards 

the 

journeying 

Moon, and 

the stars that 

still sojourn, 

yet still move 

onward; and 

everywhere 

the blue sky 

belongs to 

An orphan's curse would drag to hell 

A spirit from on high; 

But oh! more horrible than that 

Is the curse in a dead man's eyer 

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 

And yet I could not die. 

The moving Moon went up the sky, 

And no where did abide: 

Softly she was going up, 

And a star or two beside- 

Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 

Like April hoar-frost spread; 

But where the ship's huge shadow lay, 

The charmed water burnt alway 

A still and awful red. 

them, and is their appointed rest, and their native country and their own 

natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly 

expected and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival. 

By the light 

of the Moon 

he beholdeth 

God's creatures 

of the 

great calm. 

Beyond the shadow of the ship, 

I watched the water-snakes: 

They moved in tracks of shining white, 

And when they reared, the elfish light 

Fell off in hoary flakes. 

Within the shadow of the ship 

I watched their rich attire: 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 

They coiled and swam; and every track 

Was a flash of golden fire. 

Their beauty 

and their 

happiness. 

He blesseth 

o happy living things! no tongue 

Their beauty might declare: 

A spring of love gushed from my heart,

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE (688] 

them in his 

heart. 

The spell 

begins to 

break. 

And I blessed them unaware: 

Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 

And I blessed them unaware. 

The self-same moment I could pray; 

And from my neck so free 

The Albatross fell off, and sank 

Like lead into the sea. 

PART v 

Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, 

Beloved from pole to pole! 

To Mary Queen the praise be givenl 

She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 

That slid into my soul. 

By grace of 

the holy 

Mother, the 

ancient 

Mariner is 

refreshed 

with rain. 

The silly buckets on the deck, 

That had so long remained, 

I dreamt that they were filled with dew; 

And when I awoke, it rained. 

My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 

My garments all were dank; 

Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 

And still my body drank. 

I moved, and could not feel my limbs: 

I was so light-almost 

I thought that I had died in sleep, 

And was a blessed ghost. 

He heareth 

sounds and 

seeth strange 

sights and 

commotions in 

the sky and 

the element. 

And soon I heard a roaring wind: 

It did not come anear; 

But with its sound it shook the sails, 

That were so thin and sere. 

The upper air burst into lifel 

And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 

To and fro they were hurried about I 

And to and fro, and in and out, 

The wan stars danced between.


And the coming wind did roar more loud, 

And the sails did sigh like sedge; 

And the rain poured down from one black 

cloud; 

The Moon was at its edge. 

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 

The Moon was at its side: 

Like waters shot from some high crag, 

The lightning fell with never a jag, 

A river steep and wide. 

The bodies of 

the ship's crew 

are inspired 

lIlld the ship 

moves on; 

The loud wind never reached the ship, 

Yet now the ship moved onl 

Beneath the lightning and the Moon 

The dead men gave a groan. 

They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 

Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; 

It had been strange, even in a dream, 

To have seen those dead men rise. 

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; 

Yet never a breeze up-blew; 

The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, 

Where they were wont to do; 

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools 

We were a ghastly crew. 

The body of my brother's son 

Stood by me, knee to knee: 

The body and I pulled at one rope, 

But he said nought to me. 

But not by the 

souls of the 

men, nor by 

daemons ot 

earth or 

middle air, 

but by a 

blessed troop 

of angelic 

spirits sent 

down by the 

"I fear thee, ancient Marinerl" 

Be calm, thou Wedding-Guestl 

'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, 

Which to their corses came again, 

But a troop of spirits blest: 

For when it dawned-they dropped their arms, 

And clustered round the mast;


[690 J 

invocation of 

the guardian 

saint. 

Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, 

And from their bodies passed. 

Around, around, Hew each sweet sound, 

Then darted to the Sun; 

Slowly the sounds came back again, 

Now mixed, now one by one. 

Sometimes, a-dropping from the sky 

I heard the sky-lark sing; 

Sometimes all little birds that are, 

How they seemed to fill the sea and air 

With their sweet jargoningl 

And now 'twas like all instruments, 

Now like a lonely Hute; 

And now it is an angel's song, 

That makes the heavens be mute. 

It ceased; yet still the sails made on 

A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 

In the leafy month of June, 

That to the sleeping woods all night 

Singeth a quiet tune. 

Yet noon we qUietly sailed on, 

Yet never a breeze did breathe: 

Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 

Moved onward from beneath. 

The lonesome 

Spirit from 

the south pole 

carries on the 

ship as tar as 

the Line, in 

obedience to 

the angelic 

troop. but still 

requireth 

vengeance. 

Under the keel nine fathom deep, 

From the land of mist and snow, 

The spirit slid: and it was he 

That made the ship to go. 

The sails at noon left off their tune, 

And the ship stood still also. 

The Sun, right up above the mast, 

Had fixed her to the ocean: 

But in a minute she 'gan stir,

[691] SAMUEL TAYLOR COLElUOOE 

With a short uneasy motion 

Backwards and forwards half her length 

With a short uneasy motion. 

The Polar 

Spirit's fellow 

daemons, the 

invisible inhabitants 

of 

the element, 

take part in 

his wrong; 

and two of 

them relate, 

one to the 

other, that 

penance long 

and heavy for 

the ancient 

Mariner hath 

been accorded 

to the Polar 

Spirit, who 

retumeth 

southward. 

Then like a pawing horse let go, 

She made a sudden bound: 

It flung the blood into my head, 

And I fell down in a swound. 

How long in that same fit I lay, 

I have not to declare; 

But ere my living life returned, 

I heard and in my soul discerned 

Two voices in the air. 

"Is it he?" quoth one, "Is this the man? 

By him who died on cross, 

With his cruel bow he laid full low 

The harmless Albatross. 

The spirit who bideth by himseH 

In the land of mist and snow, 

He loved the bird that loved the man 

Who shot him with his bow." 

The other was a softer voice, 

As soft as honey-dew: 

Quoth he: "The man hath penance done, 

And penance more will do." 

PART VI 

First Voice: 

"But tell me, tell mel speak again, 

Thy soft response renewing- 

What makes that ship drive on so fast? 

What is the ocean doing? 

Second Voice: 

"Still as a slave before his lord, 

The ocean hath no blast~


His great bright eye most silently 

Up to the Moon is cast- 

The Mariner 

hath been 

cast into a 

trance, for the 

angelic power 

causeth the 

vessel to 

drive north· 

ward faster 

than human 

life could 

endure. 

If he may know which way to go; 

For she guides him smooth or grim. 

See, brothers, seel how graciously 

She looketh down on him." 

First Voice: 

"But why drives on that ship so fast, 

Without or wave or wind?" 

Second Voice: 

"The air is cut away before, 

And closes from behind. 

Fly, brother, flyl more high, more highl 

Or we shall be belated: 

For slow and slow that ship will go, 

When the Mariner's trance is abated." 

The supernatural 

motion 

is retarded; 

the 

Mariner 

awakes and 

his penance 

begins anew. 

I woke, and we were sailing on 

As in a gentle weather: 

'Twas night, cahn night, the moon was high; 

The dead men stood together. 

All stood together on the deck, 

For a chamel-dungeon fitter: 

All fixed on me their stony eyes, 

That in the Moon did glitter. 

The pang, the curse, with which they died, 

Had never passed away: 

I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 

Nor turn them up to pray. 

The curse is 

fiually expiated. 

And now this spell was snapt: once more 

I viewed the ocean green, 

And looked far forth, yet little saw 

Of what had else been seen


[694 J 

The angelic 

spiIits leave 

the dead 

bodies, 

And appear in 

their own 

forms of light. 

And the bay was white with silent light, 

Till rising from the same, 

Full many shapes, that shadows were, 

In crimson colours came. 

A little distance from the prow 

Those crimson shadows were: 

I turned my eyes upon the deck 

Dh, Christ! what saw I there! 

Each corse lay Bat, lifeless and flat, 

And, by the holy rood! 

A man all light, a seraph-man, 

On every corse there stood. 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand: 

It was a heavenly sight! 

They stood as signals to the land, 

Each one a lovely light; 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand, 

No voice did they impart- 

No voice; but ohl the silence sank 

Like music on my heart. 

But soon I heard the dash of oars, 

I heard the Pilot's cheer; 

My head was turned perforce away 

And I saw a boat appear. 

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, 

I heard them coming fast: 

Dear Lord in Heavenl it was a joy 

The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third-I heard his voice: 

It is the Hermit goodl 

He singeth loud his godly hymns 

That he makes in the wood. 

He'll shrieve my soJJ, he'll wasb away 

The Albatross's blood.

[ 693 1 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDCll 

Like one, that on a lonesome road 

Doth walk in fear and dread, 

And having once turned round walks on, 

And turns no more his head; 

Because he knows, a frightful fiend 

Doth close behind him tread. 

But soon there breathed a wind on me, 

Nor sound nor motion made: 

Its path was not upon the sea, 

In ripple or in shade. 

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 

Like a meadow-gale of spring- 

It mingled strangely with my fears, 

Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

Swiftly, swiftly Hew the ship, 

Yet she sailed softly too: 

Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze 

On me alone it blew. 

And the 

ancient 

MlIIiner beholdeth 

his 

native 

country. 

Ohl dream of joyl is this indeed 

The light-house top I see? 

Is this the hill? is this the kirk? 

Is this mine own countree? 

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, 

And I with sobs did pray- 

o let me be awake, my Godl 

Or let me sleep alway. 

The harbour-bay was clear as glass, 

So smoothly it was strewn! 

And on the bay the moonlight lay, 

And the shadow of the Moon. 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 

That stands above the rock: 

The moonlight steeped in silentness 

The steady weathercock.

[ 695] SAMUEL TAYLOR COLElUDGE 

The Hermit 

ot the Wood, 

PART VII 

This Hennit good lives in that wood 

Which slopes down to the sea. 

How loudly his sweet voice he rears I 

He loves to ta1k with marineres 

That come from a far countree. 

He kneels at mom, and noon, and eve 

He hath a cushion plump; 

It is the moss that wholly hides 

The rotted old oak-stump. 

The skiH-boat neared; I heard them talk, 

"Why, this is strange, I trowl 

Where are those lights so many and fair, 

That signal made but now?" 

Approacheth 

the ship with 

wonder. 

"Strange, by my faith'" the Hermit said 

"And they answered not our cheer! 

The planks look warpedl and see those sailsl 

How thin they are and sere! 

I never saw aught like to them, 

Unless perchance it were 

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 

My forest-brook along; 

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 

And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 

That eats the she-wolfs young." 

"Dear Lordi it hath a fiendish look 

(The Pilot made reply) 

I am a-feared" -"Push on, push onl" 

Said the Hennit cheerily. 

The boat came closer to the ship, 

But I nor spake nor stirred; 

The boat came close beneath the ship. 

And straight a sound was heard.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE [6961 

The ship 

suddenly 

siuketb. 

The ancient 

Mariner is 

saved in the 

Pilot's boat. 

Under the water it rumbled on, 

Still louder and more dread: 

It reached the ship, it split the bay; 

The ship went down like lead. 

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, 

Which sky and ocean smote, 

Like one that hath been seven days drowned 

My body lay afloat; 

But swift as dreams, myself I found 

Within the Pilot's boat. 

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 

The boat spun round and round; 

And all was still, save that tbe hill 

Was telling of the sound. 

I moved my lips-the Pilot shrieked 

And fell down in a fit; 

The holy Hermit raised his eyes, 

And prayed where he did sit. 

I took the oars: the Pilot's boy, 

Who now doth crazy go, 

Laughed loud and long, and all the while 

His eyes went to and fro. 

"Hal hal" quoth he, "full plain 1 see, 

The Devil knows how to row," 

And now, all in my own countree, 

1 stood on the firm landI 

The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, 

And scarcely he could stand, 

The ancient 

Mariner 

earnestly entreatetb 

the 

Hermit to 

shrieve him; 

and the 

penance of 

lite falls on 

him. 

"0 shrieve me, shrieve me, holy manl" 

The Hermit crossed his brow. 

"Say quick," quoth he, "1 bid thee say 

What manner of man art thou? 

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 

With a woful agony,

[ 69 7] SAMUEL TAYLOR COLElUDGE 

Whioh forced me to begin my tale; 

And then it left me free. 

And ever and 

anon through 

out his future 

life an agony 

constraineth 

him to travel 

from land to 

land; 

Sinoe then, at an uncertain hour, 

That agony returns: 

And till my ghastly tale is told, 

This heart within me burns. 

I pass, like night, from land to land; 

I have strange power of speech; 

That moment that his face I see, 

I know the man that must hear me: 

To him my tale I teach. 

What loud uproar bursts from that doorl 

The wedding-guests are there; 

But in the garden-bower the bride 

And bride-maids singing are: 

And hark the little vesper bell. 

Which biddeth me to prayerl 

o Wedding-GuestI this soul hath been 

Alone on a wide wide sea: 

So lonely 'twas, that God himself 

Scarce seemed there to be. 

o sweeter than the marriage-feast, 

'Tis sweeter far to me, 

To walk together to the kirk 

With a goodly companyl- 

And to teach, 

by his own 

example, love 

and reverence 

to aU things 

that God made 

and Ioveth. 

To walk together to the kirk, 

And all together pray, 

While each to his great Father bends. 

Old men, and babes, and loving friends 

And youths and maidens gayl 

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 

To thee, thou Wedding-Guestl 

He prayeth well, who loveth well 

Both man and bird and beast.

I 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE [698) 

He prayeth best, who loveth best 

All things both great and small; 

For the dear God who loveth us, 

He made and loveth all. 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 

Whose beard with age is hoar, 

Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest 

Turned from the bridegroom's door. 

He went like one that hath been stunned, 

And is of sense forlorn: 

A sadder and a wiser man, 

He rose the morrow mom. 

FROM Christabe1 

A little child, a limber elf, 

Singing, dancing to itself, 

A fairy thing with red round cheeks, 

That always finds, and never seeks, 

Makes such a vision to the sight 

As fills a father's eyes with light; 

And pleasures How in so thick and fast 

Upon his heart, that he at last 

Must needs express his love's excess 

With words of unmeant bitterness. 

Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together 

Thoughts so all unlike each other; 

To mutter and mock a broken charm, 

To dally with wrong that does no harm. 

Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty 

At each wild word to feel within 

A sweet recoil of love and pity. 

And what, if in a world of sin 

(0 sorrow and shame should this be truel) 

Such giddiness of heart and brain 

Comes seldom save from rage and pain, 

So talks as it's most used to do.

[ 6991 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEBlDGE 

Kubla Khan 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 

A stately pleasure-dome decree: 

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 

Through caverns measureless to man 

Down to a sunless sea. 

So twice Bve miles of fertile ground 

With walls and towers were girdled round: 

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, 

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; 

And here were forests ancient as the hills, 

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But ohl that deep romantic chasm which slanted 

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! 

A savage placel as holy and enchanted 

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 

By woman wailing for her demon-Ioverl 

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, 

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 

A mighty fountain momently was forced: 

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: 

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 

It Hung up momently the sacred river. 

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, 

Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: 

And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 

Ancestral voices prophesying warl 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 

Floated midway on the waves; 

Where was heard the mingled measure 

From the fountain and the caves. 

It was a miracle of rare device, 

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of icel

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLElUDGE {7001 

A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once I saw: 

It was an Abyssinian maid, 

And on her dulcimer she played, 

Singing of Monnt Abora. 

Could I revive within me 

Her symphony and song, 

To snch a deep delight 'twould win me, 

That with music loud and long, 

I would build that dome in air, 

That snnny domel those caves of icel 

And all who heard should see them there, 

And all should cry, Bewarel Bewarel 

His Bashing eyes, his floating hairl 

Weave a circle ronnd him thrice, 

And close your eyes with holy dread, 

For he on honey-dew hath fed, 

And drunk the milk of Paradise. 

"Hear, Sweet Spirit ... " 

Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell, 

Lest a blacker charm compell 

So shall the midnight breezes swell 

With thy deep long-lingering knell. 

And at evening evennore, 

In a chapel on the shore, 

Shall the channter, sad and saintly, 

Yellow tapers burning faintly, 

Doleful masses chaunt for thee, 

Miserere Dominel 

Harkl the cadence dies away 

On the quiet moonlight sea: 

The boatmen rest their oars and say, 

Miserere Dominel 

Remorse

, 

[701] 10SEPH BLANCO WHlTB 

JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE 

To Night 

Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew 

Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, 

Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 

This gloriOUS canopy of light and blue? 

Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, 

Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 

Hesperus with the host of heaven came, 

And 10! Creation widened in man's view. 

Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed 

Within thy beams, 0 sunl or who could find, 

Whilst:fly and leaf and insect stood revealed, 

That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind! 

Why do we then shun death with anxious strife? 

If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life? 

CHARLES LAMB 

The Old Familiar Faces 

I have had playmates, I have had companions, 

In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days 

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, 

Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies 


I loved a Love once, fairest among women: 

Closed are the doors on me, I must not see her 


I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: 

Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; 

Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

.. 

CHARLES LAMB [102] 

Ghost-like I paced round the hauuts of my childhood, 

Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, 

Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, 

Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? 

So might we talk of the old familiar faces- 

How some they have died, and some they have left me, 

And some are taken from me; all are departed- 

All, all are gone, the old famniar faces. 

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 

Proem to Hellenics 

Come back, ye wandering Muses, come back home, 

Ye seem to have forgotten where it lies: 

Come, let us walk upon the silent sands 

Of Simois, where deep footrnarks show long strides; 

Thence we may mount perhaps to higher ground, 

Where Aphrodite from Athene won 

The golden apple, and Here too, 

And happy Ares shouted far below. 

Or would ye rather choose the grassy vale 

Where flows Anapos through anemones, 

HyaCinths, and narcissuses, that bend 

To show their rival beauty in the stream? 

Bring with you each her lyre, and each in tum 

Temper a graver with a lighter song. 

To Robert Browning 

There is delight in singing, though none hear 

Beside the singer; and there is delight 

In praising, though the praiser sit alone 

And see the praised far off him, far above.

[708] WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 

Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's, 

Therefore on him no speech; and short for thee, 

Browningl Since Chaucer was alive and hale, 

No man hath walked along our roads with step 

So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue 

So varied in discourse. But warmer climes 

Give brighter plumage, stronger wing; the breeze 

Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on 

Beyond Sorrento and Amaffi, where 

The Siren waits thee, singing song for song. 

On Catullus 

Tell me not what too well I know 

About the bard of Sirmio . . . 

Yes, in Thalia's son 

Such stains there are • • • as when a Grace 

Sprinkles another's laughing face 

With nectar, and runs on. 

To Shelley 

Shelleyl whose song so sweet was sweetest here, 

We knew each other little; now I walk 

Along the same green path, along the shore 

Of Lerici, along the sandy plain 

Trending from Lucca to the Pisan pines, 

Under whose shadow scattered camels lie, 

The old and young, and rarer deer uplift 

Their knotty branches o'er high-feathered fern. 

Regions of happiness I I greet ye well; 

Your solitudes, and not your cities, stayed 

My steps among you; for with you alone 

Conversed I, and with those ye bore of old. 

He who beholds the skies of Italy 

SeeS" ancient Rome reHected, sees beyond, 

Into more glorious Hellas, nurse of Gods 

And godlike men: dwarfs people other lands. 

Frown not, maternal Englandl thy weak child 

Kneels at thy feet, and owns in shame a lie.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR [704] 

Dying Speech of an Old Philosopher 

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife: 

Nature I loved. and next to Nature, Art: 

I warmed both hands before the fire of Life; 

It sinks; and I am ready to depart. 

FROM "In Clementinls Artless Mien" 

In Clementina's artless mien 

Lucilla asks me what I see, 

And are the roses of sixteen 

Enough for me? 

Lucilla asks, if that he all, 

Have I not culled as sweet before . 

Ah yes, Lucillal and their fall 

I still deplore. 

"Fate! I Have Asked ... " 

Fatel I have asked few things of thee, 

And fewer have to ask. 

Shortly, thou knowest, I shall be 

No more ... then can thy task. 

If one be left on earth so late 

Whose love is like the past, 

Tell her in whispers, gentle Fate, 

Not even love must last. 

Tell her, I leave the noisy feast 

Of life, a little tired; 

Amidst its pleasures few possest 

And many undesired. 

Tell her, with steady pace to come 

And, where my laurels lie, 

To throw the freshest on the tomb 

When it has caught her sigh.


Tell her, to stand some steps apart 

From others, on that day, 

And check the tear (if tear should start) 

Too precious for dull clay. 

"Sweet Was the Song . .. " 

Sweet was the song that Youth sang once, 

And passing sweet was the response; 

But there are accents sweeter far 

When Love leaps down our evening star, 

Holds back the blighting wings of Time, 

Melts with his breath the crusty rime, 

And looks into our eyes, and says, 

"Come, let us talk of fonner days." 

"Years, Many Parti-Coloured Years'" 

Years, many parti-coloured years, 

Some have crept on, and some have flown, 

Since flrst before me fell those tears 

I never could see fall alone. 

Years, not so many, are to come, 

Years not so varied, when from you 

One more will fall: when, carried home, 

I see it not, nor hear adieuI 

"Ah, What Avails ... " 

Ah, what avails the sceptred race, 

Ah, what the fonn divine! 

What every virtue, every gracel 

Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 

May weep, but never see, 

A night of memories and sighs 

I consecrate to thee.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR [706) 

"Past Ruined Ilion ... " 

Past ruined Ilion Helen lives, 

Alcestis rises from the shades; 

Verse calls them forth; 'tis verse that gives 

Immortal youth to mortal maids. 

Soon shall Ohlivion's deepening veil 

Hide all the peopled hills you see, 

The gay, the proud, while lovers hail 

In distant ages you and me. 

The tear for fading beauty check, 

For passing glory cease to sigh; 

One form shall rise above the wreck, 

One name, Ianthe, shall not die. 

Ianthe's Troubles 

From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass 

Like little ripples down a sunny river; 

Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass, 

Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever. 

"Twenty Years Hence ... " 

Twenty years hence my eyes may grow 

If not quite dim, yet rather so, 

Still yours from others they shall know 

Twenty years hence. 

Twenty years hence though it may hap 

That I be called to take a nap 

In a cool cell where thunder-clap 

Was never heard; 

There breathe but o'er my arch of grass 

A not too sadly sighed Alas, 

And I shall catch, ere you can pass, 

That winged word.

[7071 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 

"Proud Word You Never Spoke ..." 

Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak 

Four not exempt from pride some future day. 

Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek 

Over my open volume you will say, 

"This man loved mel" then rise and trip away. 

"Do You Remember Me? .. " 

"Do you remember me? or are you proud?" 

Lightly advancing through her star-trimmed crowd, 

Ianthe said, and looked into my eyes. 

"A yes, a yes, to both: for Memory 

Where you but once have been must ever be, 

And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise." 

"Well I Remember ... " 

Well I remember how you smiled 

To see me write your name upon 

The soft sea-sand . . . "01 what a child! 

You think you're writing upon stone!" 

I have since written what no tide 

Shall ever wash away, what men 

Unborn shall read o'er ocean wide 

And find Ianthe's name again. 

Dirce 

Stand close around, ye Stygian set, 

With Dirce in one boat conveyed! 

Or Charon, seeing, may forget, 

That he is old and she a shade.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR [708J 

A Foreign Ruler 

He says, My reign is peace, so slays 

A thousand in the dead of night. 

Are you all happy now? he says, 

And those he leaves behind cry quite. 

He swears he will have no contention, 

And sets all nations by the ears; 

He shouts aloud, No intervention! 

Invades, and drowns them all in tears. 

FROM Regeneration 

We are what suns and winds and waters make us; 

The mountains are our sponsors, and the rills 

Fashion and win their nursling with their smiles. 

But where the land is dim from tyranny, 

There tiny pleasures occupy the place 

Of glOries and of duties; as the feet 

Of fabled faeries when the sun goes down 

Trip o'er the grass where wrestlers strove by day. 

Then Justice, called the eternal one above, 

Is more inconstant than the buoyant form 

That bursts into existence from the froth 

Of ever-varying ocean: what is best 

Then becomes worst; what loveliest, most deformed. 

The heart is hardest in the softest climes, 

The passions flourish, the affections die. 

FROM Corinna to Tanagra 

Tanagra! think not I forget 

Thy beautifully-storied streets: 

Be sure my memory bathes yet 

In clear Thermodon, and yet greets 

The blithe and liberal shepherd-boy, 

Whose sunny bosom swells with joy 

vVhen we accept his matted rushes 

Upheaved with sylvan fruit; away he bounds, and blushes.


I promise to bring back with me 

What thou with transport wilt receive, 

The only proper gift for thee, 

Of which no mortal shall bereave 

In later times thy monldering walls, 

Until the last old turret falls; 

A crown, a crown from Athens won, 

A crown no God can wear, beside Latona's son. 

1. 

FROM Pericles and Aspasia 

Beautyl thou art a wanderer on the earth. 

And hast no temple in the fairest isle 

Or city over-sea, where wealth and mirth 

And all the Graces, all the Muses, smile. 

Thou art a wanderer, Beautyllike the rays 

That now upon the platan, now upon 

The sleepy lake, glance quick or idly gaze, 

And now are manifold and now are none. 

In more than one bright form hast thou appeared, 

In more than one sweet dialect hast thou spoken: 

Beautyl thy spells the heart within me heard, 

Grieved that they bound it, grieves that they are broken. 

2. 

"Artemidoral Gods invisible, 

While thou art lying faint along the couch, 

Have tied the sandal to thy veined feet, 

And stand beside thee, ready to convey 

Thy weary steps where other rivers How. 

Refreshing shades will waft thy weariness 

Away, and voices like thine own come nigh 

Soliciting, nor vainly, thy embrace."

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR [710] 

Artemidora sighed, and would have pressed 

The hand now pressing hers, but was too weak. 

Fate's shears were over her dark hair unseen 

While thus Elpenor spake: he looked into 

Eyes that had given light and life erewhile 

To those above them, those now dim with tears 

And watchfulness. Again he spake of joy 

Eternal. At that word, that sad word, foy, 

Faithful and fond her bosom heaved once more, 

Her head fell back: one sob, one loud deep sob 

Swelled through the darkened chamber; 'twas not hers: 

With her that old boat incorruptible, 

Unwearied, undiverted in its course, 

Had plashed the water up the farther strand. 

To Poets 

My children I speak not ill of one another; 

I do not ask you not to hate; 

Cadets must envy every elder hrother, 

The little poet must the great. 

"Leaf after Leaf ... " 

Leaf after leaf drops off, flower after flower, 

Some in the chill, some in the warmer hour: 

Alike they flourish and alike they fall, 

And earth who nourished them receives them all. 

Should we, her wiser sons, be less content 

To sink into her lap when life is spent? 

THOMAS MOORE 

"The Harp That Once ... " 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 

The soul of music shed, 

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls 

As if the soul were fled.

[711] THOMAS MOORE 

So sleeps the pride of former days, 

So glory's thrill is o'er, 

And hearts, that once beat high for praise, 

Now feel that pulse no more. 

No more to chiefs and ladies bright 

The harp of Tara swells: 

The chord alone, that breaks at night. 

Its tale of ruin tells. 

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, 

The only throb she gives, 

Is when some heart indignant breaks, 

To show that still she lives. 

HAt the Mid Hour of Night ... " 

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I Hy 

To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; 

And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air 

To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, 

And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky. 

Then I sing the wild song it once was raptnre to hear, 

When our voices commingling breathed like one on the ear; 

And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, 

I think, 0 my lovel 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls 

Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. 

Child's Song 

I have a garden of my own, 

Shining with Howers of every hue; 

I loved it dearly while alone, 

But I shall love it more with you: 

And there the golden bees shall come, 

In summer time at break of morn, 

And wake us with their busy hum 

Around the Siba's fragrant thorn.

THOMAS MOORE [712J 

I have a fawn from Aden's land, 

On leafy buds and berries nursed; 

And you shall feed him from your hand, 

Though he may start with fear at first, 

And I will lead you where he lies 

For shelter in the noon-tide heat; 

And you may touch his sleeping eyes, 

And feel his little silvery feet. 

JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT. 

The Nile 

(1784-1859) 

It flows through old hushed Egypt and its sands, 

Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream, 

And times and things, as in that vision, seem 

Keeping along it their eternal stands, 

Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands 

That roamed through the young world, the glory extreme 

Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam, 

The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands. 

Then comes a mightier silence, stem and strong, 

As of a world left empty of its throng, 

And the void weighs on us; and then we wake, 

And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along 

Twixt villages, and think how we shall take 

Our own calm journey on for human sake. 

The Fish, the Man, and the Spirit 

TO A FISH 

You strange, astonished-looking, angle-faced, 

Dreary-mouthed. gaping wretches of the sea, 

Gulping salt water everlastingly, 

Cold-blooded, though with red your blood be graced, 

And mute, though dwellers in the roaring waste; 

And you, all shapes beside, that fishy be, 

Some round, some flat, some long, all devilry, 

Legless, unlOving, infamously chaste:

[713) LEIGH HUNT 

o scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights, 

What is't ye do? What life lead? eh, dull goggles? 

How do ye vary your vile days and nights? 

How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but joggles 

In ceaseless wash? Still nought but gapes, and bites, 

And drinks, and stares, diversified with boggles? 

A FISH ANSWERS 

Amazing monster I that, for aught I know, 

With the first sight of thee didst make our race 

For ever starel 0 Bat and shocking face, 

Grimly divided £rom the breast belowl 

Thou that on dry land horribly dost go 

With a split body and most ridiculous pace, 

Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace, 

Long-useless-flnned, haired, upright, unwet, slow! 

o breather of unbreathable, sword-sharp air, 

How canst exist? How bear thyself, thou dry 

And dreary sloth? What particle canst share 

Of the only blessed life, the watery? 

I sometimes see of ye an actual pair 

Go byllinked fln by fin! most odiously. 

THE FISH TURNS INTO A MAN, AND THEN 

INTO A SPIRIT, AND AGAIN SPEAKS 

Indulge thy smiling scorn, if smiling still, 

o manl and loathe, but with a sort of love; 

For diHerence must its use by difference prove, 

And, in sweet clang, the spheres with music fill. 

One of the spirits am I, that at his will 

Live in whate'er has life-fish, eagle, dove 

No hate, no pride, beneath nought, nor above, 

A visitor of the rounds of God's sweet skill. 

Man's life is warm, glad, sad, 'twixt loves and graves. 

Boundless in hope, honoured with pangs austere, 

Heaven-gazing; and his angel-wings he craves: 

The fish is swift, small-needling, vague yet clear, 

A cold, sweet, silver life, wrapped in round waves, 

Quickened with touches of transporting fear.

LEIGH HUNT [714J 

Rondeau 

Jenny kissed me when we met, 

Jumping from the chair she sat in; 

Time, you thief, who love to get 

Sweets into your list, put that in: 

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, 

Say that health and wealth have missed me. 

Say I'm growing old, but add 

Jenny kissed me. 

THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 

Song 

In his last bin Sir Peter lies, 

Who knew not what it was to frown: 

Death took him mellow, by surprise, 

And in his cellar stopped him down. 

Through all our land we could not boast 

A knight more gay, more prompt than he, 

To rise and fill a bumper toast, 

And pass it round with three times three. 

None better knew the feast to sway, 

Or keep Mirth's boat in better trim; 

For Nature had but little clay 

Like that of which she moulded him. 

The meanest guest that graced his board 

Was there the freest of the free, 

His bumper toast when Peter poured, 

And passed it round with three times three. 

He kept at true good humour's mark 

The social flow of pleasure's tide: 

He never made a brow look dark, 

Nor caused a tear, but when he died. 

No sorrow round his tomb should dwell: 

More pleased his gay old ghost would be, 

For funeral song, and passing bell, 

To hear no sound but three times three. 

Headlong HaIl

[715] THOMAS LOVE PEACOCI[ 

A Catch 

Seamen threel What men be yeP 

Gotham's three wise men we be. 

Whither in your bowl so free? 

To rake the moon from out the sea. 

The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. 

And our ballast is old wine; 

And your ballast is old wine. 

Who art thou, so fast adriftP 

I am he they call Old Care. 

Here on board we will thee lift. 

No: I may not enter there. 

Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree, 

In a bowl Care may not be; 

In a bowl Care may not be. 

Fear ye not the waves that roll? 

No: in charmed bowl we swim. 

What the charm that Boats the bowl? 

Water may not pass the brim. 

The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. 

And our ballast is old wine; 

And your ballast is old wine. 

Nightmare Abbey 

Song 

It was a friar of orders free, 

A friar of Rubygill: 

At the greenwood-tree a vow made he. 

But he kept it very ill: 

A vow made he of chastity, 

But he kept it very ill. 

He kept it, perchance, in the conscious shade 

Of the bounds of the forest wherein it was made: 

But he roamed where he listed, as free as the wind, 

And he left his good vow in the forest behind: 

For its woods out of sight were his vow out of mind, 

With the friar of Rubygill.

THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK [716] 

In lonely hut himself he shut, 

The friar of Rubygill; 

Where the ghostly elf absolved himself, 

To follow his own good will: 

And he had no lack of canary sack, 

To keep his conscience still. 

And a damsel well knew, when at lonely midnight 

It gleamed on the waters, his Signal-lamp-light: 

"Overl Over!" she warbled with nightingale throat, 

And the friar sprung forth at the magical note, 

And she crossed the dark stream in his trim ferry-boat, 

With the friar of Rubygill. 

Maid Marian 

"Not Drunk Is He ... " 

Not drunk is he, who from the floor 

Can rise alone, and still drink more; 

But drunk is he, who prostrate lies, 

Without the power to drink or rise. 

The Mis/ortunes of Elphin 

FROM The War-Song of Dinas Vawr 

The mountain sheep are sweeter, 

But the valley sheep are fatter; 

We therefore deemed it meeter 

To carry off the latter. 

Chorus 

The Misfortunes of Elphin 

If I drink water while this doth last, 

May I never again drink wine: 

For how can a man, in his life of a span, 

Do anything better than dine? 

Well dine and drink, and say if we think 

That anything better can be; 

And when we have dined, wish all mankind 

May dine as well as we.

[717] THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 

And though a good wish will fill no dish, 

And brim no cup with sack, 

Yet thoughts will spring, as the glasses ring, 

To illume our studious track. 

On the brilliant dreams of our hopeful schemes 

The light of the flask shall shine; 

And we'll sit till day, but well find the way 

To drench the world with wine. 

Crotchet Castle 

Love and Age 

1 played with you 'mid cowslips blowing, 

When 1 was six and you were four; 

When garlands weaving. flower-balls thrOwing, 

Were pleasures soon to please no more. 

Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather, 

With little playmates, to and fro, 

}Ve wandered hand in hand together; 

But that was sixty years ago. 

( 

You grew a lovely roseate maiden, 

A,nd still our early love was strong; 

Still with no care our days were laden. 

They glided joyously along; 

Then I did love you, very dearly, 

How dearly words want power to show; 

I thought your heart was touched as nearly; 

But that was fifty years ago. 

. 

Then other lovers came around you, 

Your beauty grew from year to year, 

And many a splendid circle found you 

The centre of its glittering sphere. 

I saw you then, first vows forsaking, 

On rank and wealth your hand bestow; 

Ob, then 1 thought my beart was breaking, 

But that was forty years ago.

THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK [718] 

And 'I loved on, to wed another: 

No cause she gave me to repine; 

And when I heard you were a mother, 

I did not wish the children mine. 

My own young flock, in fair progression, 

Made up a pleasant Christmas row: 

My joy in them was past expression. 

But that was thirty years ago. 

You grew a matron plump and comely, 

You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze; 

My earthly lot was far more homely; 

But I too had my festal days. 

No merrier eyes have ever glistened 

Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow, 

Than when my youngest child was christened: 

But that was twenty years ago. 

Time passed. My eldest girl was married, 

And I am now a grandsire grey; 

One pet of four years old I've carried 

Among the wild-flowered meads to play. 

In our old fields of childish pleasure, 

Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, 

She fills her basket's ample measure, 

And that is not ten years ago. 

But though first love's impassioned blindness 

Has passed away in colder light, 

I still have thought of you with kindness, 

And shall do, till our last good-night. 

The ever-rolling silent hours 

Will bring a time we shall not know, 

When our young days of gathering flowers 

Will be an hundred years ago. 

Gryll Grange

[719] THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK' 

Glee-The Ghosts 

In life three ghostly friars were we, 

And now three friarly ghosts we be. 

Around our shadowy table placed, 

The spectral bowl before us floats; 

With wine that none but ghosts can taste, 

We wash our unsubstantial throats. 

Three merry ghosts-three merry ghosts-three merry ghosts 

are we: 

Let the ocean be Port, and we'll think it good sport 

To be laid in that Red Sea. 

With songs that jovial spectres chaunt, 

Our old refectory still we haunt. 

The traveller hears our midnight mirth: 

"0 listl" he cries, "the haunted choirl 

The merriest ghost that wa1ks the earth, 

Is sure the ghost of a ghostly friar." 

Three merry ghosts-three merry ghosts-three merry ghosts 

are we: 

Let the ocean be Port, and ~e'll think it good sport 

To be laid in that Red Sea. 

Melincourt 

GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LoRD BYRON 

FROM To Woman 

Womanl experience might have told me, 

That all must love thee who behold thee: 

Surely experience might have taught 

Thy finest promises are nought: 

But, placed in all thy charms before me, 

All I forget but to adore thee. 

Oh memoryl thou choicest blessing 

When joined with hope, when still possessing; 

But how much cursed by every lover 

When hope is fled and passion's over.

) 

LORD BYRON [720] 

"Farewell! Ii Ever Fondest Prayer" 

Farewelll if ever fondest prayer 

For other's weal availed on high, 

Mine will not all be lost in air, 

But waft thy name beyond the sky. 

'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to Sigh: 

Ohl more than tears of blood can tell, 

When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, 

Are in that word-Farewel1!-Farewell\ 

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry; 

But in my breast and in my brain, 

Awake the pangs that pass not by, 

The thoughts that ne'er shall sleep again. 

My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, 

Thongh grief and passion there rebel: 

I only know we loved in vain- 

I only feel-Farewelll-Farewelll 

"When We Two Parted" 

When we two parted 

In silence and tears, 

Half broken-hearted 

To sever for years, 

Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss; 

Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow 

It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 

Thy vows are all broken, 

And light is thy fame; 

I hear thy name spoken, 

And share in its shame.

[7211 LORD BYRON 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear; 

A shudder comes o'er me 

Why wert thou so dear? 

They know not I knew thee, 

Who knew thee too weII 

Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met 

In silence I grieve 

That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 

If I should meet thee 

After long years, 

How should I greet thee? 

With silence and tears. 

"Remember Thee! Remember Theel" 

Remember thee! remember theel 

Till Lethe quench life's burning stream 

Remorse and shame shall cling to thee, 

And haunt thee like a feverish dreaml 

Remember thee I Aye, doubt it not. 

Thy husband too shall think of thee: 

By neither shalt thou be forgot, 

Thou false to him, thou fiend to mel 

FROM Stanzas 

Could Love for ever 

Run like a river, 

And Time's endeavour 

Be tried in vain 

No other pleasure 

With this could measure

LOIm BYRON [722] 

And like a treasure 

We'd hug the chain. 

But since our sighing 

Ends not in dying, 

And, formed for flying, 

Love plumes his wing; 

Then for this reason 

Let's love a season: 

But let that season be only Spring. 

When lovers parted 

Feel broken-hearted, 

And, all hopes thwarted, 

Expect to die; 

A few years older, 

Ahl how much colder 

They might behold her 

For whom they sighl 

When linked together 

In every weather 

They pluck Love's feather 

From out his wing 

He'll stay for ever 

But sadly shiver 

Without his plumage when past the Spring. 

WaU not, fond lover I 

Till years are over, 

And then recover, 

As from a dream. 

While each bewailing 

The other's failing, 

With wrath and railing, 

All hideous seem 

While first decreasing, 

Yet not quite ceasing, 

Wait not till teasing 

AIl passion blight: 

Ifonce diminished 

Love's reign is finished- 

Then part in friendship-and bid good-night.

[728] LOIID BYRON 

"So We'll GQ No More a Roving't 

So we'll go no more a roving 

So late into the night, 

Though the heart be still as loving, 

And the moon be still as bright. 

For the sword outwears the sheath, 

And the soul wears out the breast, 

And the heart must pause to breathe. 

And Love itself have rest. 

Though the night was made for lOving, 

And the day returns too soon, 

Yet we'll go no ~ore a roving 

By the light of the moon. 

1. 

FROM Childe Harold's Pilgrimage 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 

And Belgium's capital had gathered then 

Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; 

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when 

Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, 

And all went merry as a marriage bell- 

But hushl harkl a deep sound strikes like a rising Imelll 

Did ye not hear it? No, 'twas but the wind, 

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; 

On with the dancellet joy be unconHned; 

No sleep till mom, when youth and pleasure meet 

To chase the glOwing hours with flying feet- 

But harkl-that heavy sound breaks in once more 

As if the clouds its echo would repeat; 

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! 

Arm! Arml it is-it is-the caunon's opening roarl


Ahl then and there was hurrying to and fro, 

And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 

And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 

Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; 

And there were sudden partings, such as press 

The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 

Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess 

If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 

Since upon night so sweet such awful mom could rise I 

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, 

The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 

Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 

And the deep thunder peel on peel afar; 

And near, the beat of the alarming drum 

Roused up the soldier ere the moming star; 

While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, 

Or whispering with white lips-"The foel They come! they 

come!" 

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, 

Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 

Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 

Over the unretuming brave-alas I 

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 

Of living valour, rolling on the foe 

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, 

The midnight brought the Signal-sound of strife, 

The mom the marshalling in arms-the day 

Battle's magnificently-stem arrayl 

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 

The earth is covered thick with other clay, 

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 

Rider and horse-friend, foe-in one red burial blentl

[725] LORD BYRON 

2. 

The castled crag of Drachen£els 

Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 

Whose breast of waters broadly swells 

Between the banks which bear the vine; 

And hills all rich with blossomed trees, 

And fields which promise com and wine, 

And scattered cities crowning these, 

Whose far white walls along them shine, 

Have strewed a scene, which I should see 

With double joy wert thou with me. 

And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes 

And hands which offer early flowers, 

Walk smiling o'er this paradise; 

Above, the frequent feudal towers 

Through green leaves lift their walls of gray; 

And many a rock which steeply lowers, 

And noble arch in proud decay, 

Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers; 

But one thing want these banks of Rhine 

Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine. 

I send the lilies given to me; 

Though long before thy hand they touch, 

I know that they must withered be, 

But yet reject them not as such; 

For I have cherished them as dear, 

Because they yet may meet thine eye, 

And guide thy soul to mine even here, 

When thou behold'st them, drooping nigh, 

And know'st ""hem gathered by the Rhine, 

And offered from my heart to thine! 

The river nobly foams and flows, 

The charm of this enchanted ground, 

And all its thousand turns disclose 

Some fresher beauty varying rOllOQ: 

The haughtiest breast its wish might bound


3. 

4. 

Through life to dwell delighted here; 

Nor could on earth a spot be found 

To nature and to me so dear, 

Could thy dear eyes in following mine 

Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine I 

I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs, 

A palace and a prison on each hand; 

I saw from out the wave her structures rise 

As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: 

A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 

Around me, and a dying glory smiles 

O'er the far times, when many a subject land 

Looked to the winged Lion's marble piles, 

Where Venice sat in state, throned on her hundred isles! 

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 

Rising with her tiara of proud towers 

At airy distance, with majestic motion, 

A ruler of the waters and their powers. 

And such she was-her daughters had their dowers 

From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 

Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers: 

In purple was she robed, and of her feast 

Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased. 

In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, 

And silent rows the songless gondolier; 

Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 

And music meets not always now the ear; 

Those days are gone, but beauty still is here; 

States fall, arts fade, but Nature doth not die, 

Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 

The pleasant place of all festivity, 

The revel of the earth, the masque of Italyl 

Egeria, sweet creation of some heart 

Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 

As thine ideal breast! whate'er thou art 

Or wert-a young Aurora of the air,

[727J LORD BYRON 

The nympholepsy of some fond despair, 

Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, 

Who found a more than common votary there 

Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth, 

Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. 

The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled 

With thine ElYSian water-drops; the face 

Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, 

Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, 

Whose green, wild margin now no more erase 

Art's works; nor must the delicate waters sleep 

Prisoned in marble; bubbling from the base 

Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 

The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy creep# 

Fantastically tangled. The green hills 

Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass 

The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 

Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass; 

Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class, 

Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 

Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass: 

The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, 

Kissed by the breath of heaven, seems coloured by its skies. 

5. 

Oh Love! no habitant of earth thou art 

An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, 

A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart 

But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see 

The naked eye, thy form, as it should be; 

The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, 

Even with its own desiring phantasy, 

And to a thought such shape and image given, 

As haunts the unquenched soul-parched-wearied-wrungand 

riven.

LOllD BYRON [728] 

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, 

And fevers into false creation-where, 

Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? 

In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? 

Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 

Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, 

The unreached paradise of our despair, 

Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, 

And overpowers the page where it would bloom again? 

Who loves, raves-'tis youth's frenzy; but the cure 

Is bitterer still. As.charm by charm unwinds 

Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 

Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's 

Ideal shape of such; yet still it binds 

The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, 

Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds; 

The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, 

Seems ever near the prize-wealthiest when most undone. 

We wither from our youth, we gasp away 

Sick-sick-unfound the boon-unslaked the thirst, 

Though to the last, in verge of our decay, 

Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first 

But all too late-so are we doubly cursed. 

Love, fame, ambition, avarice-'tis the same, 

Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst- 

For all are meteors with a diHerent name, 

And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. 

6. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 

There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 

There is' society where none intrudes, 

By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: 

I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 

From these our interviews, in which I steal 

From all I may be or have been before, 

To mingle with the universe, and feel 

What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal.


Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll! 

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; 

Man marks the earth with ruin, his control 

Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain 

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 

A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 

When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 

Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. 

1. 

FROM Don Juan 

• . . 'Tis sweet to hear 

At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep 

The song and oar of Adria"s gondolier, 

By distance mellowed, o'er the waters sweep; 

'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear; 

'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 

From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high 

The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. 

'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dogs honest bark 

Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home; 

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 

Our coming. and look brighter when we come; 

'Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark, 

Or lulled by falling waters; sweet the hum 

Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, 

The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes 

In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, 

Purple and gushing; sweet are our escapes 

From civic revelry to rural mirth; 

Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps, 

Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth, 

Sweet is revenge-especially to women, 

Pillage to soldiers. prize-money to seamen.

i 

LORD BnON [730] 

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, 

Is first and passionate love-it stands alone, 

Like Adam's recollection of his fall; 

The tree of knowledge has been plucked-all's known 

And life yields nothing further to recall 

Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, 

No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 

Fire which Prometheus filched for us from heaven. 

2. 

They tell me 'tis decided; you depart: 

'Tis wise-'tis well, but not the less a pain; 

I have no further claim on your young heart, 

Mine is the victim, and would be again; 

To love too much has been the only art 

I used-I write in haste, and if a stain 

Be on this sheet, 'tis not what it appears; 

My eyeballs bum and throb, but have no tears. 

I loved, I love you, for this love have lost 

State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem, 

And yet can not regret what it hath cost, 

So dear is still the memory of that dream; 

Yet, if I name my guilt, 'tis not to boast, 

None can deem harsh1ier of me than I deem: 

I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest 

I've nothing to reproach, or to request. 

Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 

'Tis woman's whole existence; man may range 

The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart; 

Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange 

Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, 

And few there are whom these cannot estrange; 

Men have all these resources, we but one, 

To love again, and be again undone. 

You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride, 

Beloved and loving many: all is o'er 

For me on earth, except some years to hide 

My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core;

[781] LOJU) BYRON 

These I could bear, but cannot cast aside 

The passion which still rages as before 

And so farewell-forgive me, love me-No, 

That word is idle now-but let it go. 

My breast has been all weakness, is so yet; 

But still I think I can collect my mind; 

My blood still rushes where my spirit's set, 

As roll the waves before the settled wind; 

My heart is feminine, nor can forget- 

To all, except one image, madly blind; 

So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, 

As vibrates my fond beart to my fixed soul. 

I have no more to say, but linger still, 

And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, 

And yet I may as well the task fulfll, 

My misery can scarce be more complete: 

I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill; 

Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet, 

And I must even survive this last adieu, 

And bear with life, to love and pray for youl 

8. 

'Tis pleasing to be schooled in a strange tongue 

By female lips and eyes-that is, I mean, 

When both the teacher and the taught are young, 

As was the case, at least, where I have been; 

They smile so when one's right, and wben one's wrong 

They smile still more, and then there intervene 

Pressure of hands. perhaps even a chaste kiss- 

I learned the little that I know by this. 

4. 

It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded 

Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill, 

Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded, 

Circling all nature, hushed, and dim, and still,


With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded 

On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill 

Upon the other, and the rosy sky, 

With one star sparkling through it like an eye. 

And thus they wandered forth, and hand in hand, 

Over the shining pebbles and the shells, 

Glided along the smooth and hardened sand, 

And in the worn and wild receptacles 

Worked by the storms, yet worked as it were planned 

In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells, 

They turned to rest; and, each clasped by an arm, 

Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm. 

They looked up to the sky, whose floating glow 

Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright; 

They gazed upon the glittering sea below, 

Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight; 

They heard the wave's splash, and the wind so low, 

And saw each other's dark eyes darting light 

Into each other-and, beholding this, 

Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss; 

A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love, 

And beauty, all concentrating like rays 

Into one focus, kindled from above; 

Such kisses as belong to early days, 

Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move, 

And the blood's lava, and the pulse a blaze, 

Each kiss a heart-quake-for a kiss's strength, 

I think, it must be reckoned by its length. 

By length I mean duration; theirs endured 

Heaven knows how long-no doubt they never reckoned; 

And if they had, they could not have secured 

The sum of their sensations to a second: 

They had not spoken; but they felt allured, 

As if their souls and lips each other beckoned, 

Which, being joined, like swarming bees they clung 

Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung.

1733 ] LORD BYRON 

They were alone, but not alone as they 

Who shut in chambers think it loneliness; 

The silent ocean, and the starlight bay, 

The twilight glow which momentIy grew less, 

The voiceless sands and dropping caves, that lay 

Around them, made them to each other press, 

As if there were no life beneath the sky 

Save theirs, and that their life could never die. 

They feared no eyes nor ears on that lone beach, 

They felt no terrors from the night, they were 

All in all to each other: though their speech 

Was broken words, they thought a language there 

And all the burning tongues the passions teach 

Found in one sigh the best interpreter 

Of nature's oracle-first love-that all 

Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall. 

Haidee spoke not of scruples, asked no vows, 

Nor offered any; she had never heard 

Of plight and promises to be a spouse, 

Or perils by a loving maid incurred; 

She was all which pure ignorance allows, 

And flew to her young mate like a young bird; 

And, never having dreamed of falsehood, she 

Had not one word to say of constancy. 

She loved and was beloved-she adored 

And she was worshipped; after nature's fashion 

Their intense souls, into each other poured, 

If souls could die, had perished in that passion 

But by degrees their senses were restored, 

Again to be o'ercome, again to dash on; 

And, beating 'gainst his bosom, Haidee's heart 

Felt as if never more to beat apart. 

Alasl they were so young, so beautiful, 

So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour 

Was that in which the heart is always full, 

And, having o'er itself no further power,


Prompts deeds eternity can not annul, 

But pays off moments in an endless shower 

Of hell-me-all prepared for people giving 

Pleasure or pain to one another living. 

Alasl for Juan and Haideel they were 

So loving and so lovely-till then never, 

Excepting our mst parents, such a pair 

Had run the risk of being damned for ever; 

And Haidee, being devout as well as fair, 

Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river, 

And hell and purgatory-but forgot 

Just in the very crisis she should not. 

They look upon each other, and their eyes 

Gleam in the moonlight; and her white arm clasps 

Round Juan's head, and his around her lies 

Half buried in the tresses which it grasps; 

She sits upon his knee, and drinks his Sighs, 

He hers, until they end in broken gasps; 

And thus they form a group that's quite antique, 

Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek. 

And when those deep and burning moments passed, 

And Juan sunk: to sleep within her arms, 

She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, 

Sustained his head upon her bosom's charms; 

And now and then her eye to heaven is cast, 

And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms, 

Pillowed on her o'erBowing heart, which pants 

With all it granted, and with all it grants. 

An infant when it gazes on the light, 

A child the moment when it drains the breast, 

A devotee when soars the Host in Sight, 

An Arab with a stranger for a guest, 

A sailor when the prize has struck in fight, 

A miser Blling his most hoarded chest, 

Feel rapture; but not such true joy are reaping 

As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping.

[735] LOlID BYRON 

For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved, 

All that it hath of life with us is liviug; 

So gentle, stirless, helpless and unmoved, 

And all unconscious of the joy 'tis giviug; 

All it hath felt, inflicted, passed and proved, 

Hushed into depths beyond the watcher's diviug; 

There lies the thing we love with all its errors 

And all its charms, like death without its terrors. 

5. 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 

Where grew the arts of war and peace, 

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprungl 

Eternal summer gilds them yet, 

But all, except their sun, is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse, 

The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 

Have found the fame your shores refuse; 

Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds which echo further west 

Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest." 

The mountains look on Marathon, 

And Marathon looks on the sea; 

And musing there an hour alone, 

I dreamed that Greece might still be free; 

And standing on the Persians' grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sate on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below, 

And men in nations-all were hisl 

He counted them at break of day- 

And when the sun set where were they?


And where are they? and where art thou. 

My country? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now- 

The heroic bosom beats no morel 

And must thy lyre. so long divine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine? 

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 

Though linked among a fettered race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 

Even as I sing, suffuse my face; 

For what is left the poet here? 

For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear. 

Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 

Must we but blush? Our fathers bled. 

Earth! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan deadl 

Of the three hundred grant but three 

To make a new Thermopylael 

What, silent still? and silent all? 

Ahl no-the voices of the dead 

Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, "Let one living head, 

But one arise-we come, we comel" 

'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain-in vain: strike other chords; 

Fill high the cup with Samian winer 

Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vinel 

Hark! rising to the ignoble call 

How answers each bold Bacchanal! 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 

Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 

The nobler and the manlier one? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave 

Think ye he meant them for a slave?

[767 J LORD BYRON 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

We will not think of themes like these! 

It made Anacreon's song divine: 

He served-hut served Polycrates 

A tyrant; but our masters then 

Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend; 

That tyrant was Miltiadesl 

Ohl that the present hour would lend 

Another despot of the kind! 

Such chains as his were sure to bind. 


On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 

Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore; 

And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 

The Heracleidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks 

They have a king who buys and sells: 

In native swords, and native ranks, 

The only hope of courage dwells; 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 

Would break your shield, however broad. 


Our virgins dance beneath the shade 

I see their glorious black eyes shine; 

But gazing on each glowing maid, 

My own the burning tear-drop laves, 

To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 

Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; 

There, swan-like, let me sing and die; 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!


On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sixth Year 

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 

Since others it hath ceased to move; 

Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 

Still let me lovel 

My days are in the yellow leaf; 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone; 

The worm, the canker, and the grief 

Are mine alone! 

The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic isle; 

No torch is kindled at its blaze 

A funeral pile. 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 

The exalted portion of the pain 

And power of love, I cannot share, 

But wear the chain. 

But 'tis not thus-and 'tis not here- 

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, 

Where glory decks the hero's bier, 

Or binds his brow. 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 

Glory and Greece, around me see! 

The Spartan, bome upon his shield, 

Was not more free. 

Awake! (not Greece-she is awakel) 

Awake, my spirit! Think through whom 

Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, 

And then strike home I 

Tread those reviving passions down, 

Unworthy manhoodl unto thee 

Indifferent should the smile or frown 

Of beauty be.


If thou regret'st thy youth, why live? 

The land of honourable death 

Is here-up to the field, and give 

Away thy breathl 

Seek out-less often sought than found 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best; 

Then look around, and choose thy ground, 

And take thy rest. 

Missolonghi, January 22, 1824 

CHARLES WOLFE 

To Mary 

If I had thought thou couldst have died, 

I might not weep for thee; 

But I forgot, when by thy side, 

That thou couldst mortal be: 

It never through my mind had past 

The time would e'er be o'er, 

And I on thee should look my last, 

And thou shouldst smile no morel 

And still upon that face I look, 

And think 'twill smile again; 

And still the thought I will not brook, 

That I must look in vain. 

But when I speak-thou dost not say 

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; 

And now I feel; as well I may, 

Sweet Mary, thou art deadl 

If thou wouldst stay , e'en as thou art, 

All cold and all serene- 

I still might press thy silent heart, 

And where thy smiles have been.

CHARLES WOLFE [740J 

While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, 

Thou seemest still mine own; 

But there-I lay thee in the grave, 

And now I am alonel 

I do not think, where' er thou art, 

Thou hast forgotten me; 

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart 

In thinking too of thee: 

Yet there was round thee such a dawn 

Of light ne'er seen before, 

As fancy never could have drawn, 

And never can restore I 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

1. 

2. 

FROM Prometheus Unbound 

Fourth Spirit: 

On a poet's lips I slept 

Dreaming like a love-adept 

In the sound his breathing kept; 

Nor seeks nor Gods he mortal blisses, 

But feeds on the aerial kisses 

Of shapes that haunt thought's wildernesses. 

He will watch from dawn to gloom 

The lake-reHected sun illume 

The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom, 

Nor heed nor see, what things they be; 

But from these create he can 

Forms more real than living man, 

Nurslings of immortalityl 

Semichorua I of Spirits: 

The path through which that lovely twain 

Have passed, by cedar, pine, and yew, 

And each dark tree that ever grew, 

Is curtained out from Heaven's wide blue;

[741J PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

Nor sun, nor moon, nor wind, nor rain 

Can pierce its interwoven bowers, 

Nor anght, save where some cloud of dew, 

Drifted along the earth-creeping breeze, 

Between the trunks of the hoar trees, 

Hangs each a pearl in the pale flowers 

Of the green laurel, blown anew; 

And bends, and then fades silently, 

One frail and fair anemone: 

Or when some star of many a one 

That climbs and wanders through steep night, 

Has found the cleft through which alone 

Beams fall from high those depths upon 

Ere it is borne away, away, 

By the swift Heavens that cannot stay, 

It scatters drops of golden light, 

Like lines of rain that ne'er unite: 

And the gloom divine is all around, 

And underneath is the mossy ground. 

Semichorus II: 

There the voluptuous nightingales, 

Are awake through all the broad noonday. 

When one with bliss or sadness fails, 

And through the windless ivy-boughs, 

Sick with sweet love, droops dying away 

On its mate's music-panting bosom; 

Another from the swinging blossom, 

Watching to catch the languid close 

Of the last strain, then lifts on high 

The wings of the weak melody, 

'Till some new strain of feeling bear 

The song, and all the woods are mute; 

When there is heard through the dim air 

The rush of wings, and rising there 

Like many a lake-surrounded Hute, 

Sounds overflow the listener's brain 

So sweet, that joy is almost pain.

PERCY lIYSSHE SHELLEY [742] 

3. 

Voice in the Air, Singing: 

Life of Life! thy lips enkindle 

With their love the breath between them: 

And thy smiles before they dwindle 

Make the cold air fire: then screen them 

In those looks, where whoso gazes 

Faints, entangled in their mazes. 

Child of Light! thy limbs are burning 

Through the vest which seems to hide them; 

As the radiant lines of morning 

Through the clouds ere they divide them; 

And this atmosphere divinest 

Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. 

Fair are others: none beholds thee, 

But thy voice sounds low and tender 

Like the fairest, for it folds thee 

From the sight, that liquid splendour, 

And all feel, yet see thee never, 

As I feel now, lost for ever! 

Lamp of Earth! where' er thou movest 

Its dim shapes are clad with brightness, 

And the souls of whom thou Iovest 

Wa1k upon the winds with lightness, 

Till they fail, as I am failing, 

Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailingl 

Asia: 

My soul is an enchanted boat, 

Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float 

Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing: 

And thine doth like an angel sit 

Beside a helm conducting it, 

Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing. 

It seems to float ever, for ever, 

Upon that many-winding river, 

Between mountains, woods, abysses, 

A paradise of wildernessesl

[7481 PERcY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

Till, like one in slmnber bound, 

Borne to the ocean, I Hoat down, around, 

Into a sea profound, of ever ever-spreading sound: 

Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions 

In music's most serene dominions; 

Catching the winds that fan that happy heaven. 

And we sail on, away, afar, 

Without a course, without a star, 

But, by the instinct of sweet music driven; 

Till through Elysian garden islets 

By thee, most beautiful of pilots, 

Where never mortal pinnace glided, 

The boat of my desire is guided: 

Realms where the air we breathe is love, 

Which in the winds and on the waves doth move, 

Harmonizing this earth with what we feel above. 

We have passed Age's icy caves, 

And Manhood's dark and tossing waves, 

And Youth's smooth ocean, smiling to betray: 

Beyond the glassy guHs we Hee 

Of shadow-peopled Infancy, 

Through Death and Birth, to a diviner day; 

A paradise of vaulted bowers, 

Lit by downward-gazing Howers, 

And watery paths that wind between 

Wildernesses calm and green, 

Peopled by shapes too bright to see, 

And rest, having beheld; somewhat like thee; 

Which walk upon the sea, and chant melodiously! 

FROM Lines Written among the Euganean Hills 

'Mid the mountains Euganean 

I stood listening to the paean 

With which the legioned rooks did hail 

The sun's uprise majestical; 

Gathering round with wings all hoar,

; 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY [744] 

Through the dewy mist they soar 

Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven 

Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, 

Flecked with fire and azure, lie 

In the unfathomable sky, 

So their plumes of purple grain, 

Starred with drops of golden rain, 

Gleam above the sunlight woods, 

As in silent multitndes 

On the mOrnings fitful gale 

Through the broken mist they sail, 

And the vapours cloven and gleaming 

Follow, down the dark steep streaming, 

Till all is bright, and clear, and still, 

Round the solitary hill. 

Beneath is spread like a green sea 

The waveless plain of Lombardy, 

Bounded by the vaporous air, 

Islanded by cities fair; 

Underneath Day's azure eyes 

Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, 

A peopled labyrinth of walls, 

Amphitrite's destined haIls, 

Which her hoary sire now paves 

With his blue and beaming waves. 

Lol the sun upsprings behind, 

Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined 

On the level quivering line 

Of the waters crystalline; 

And before that chasm of light, 

As within a furnace bright, 

Column, tower, and dome, and spire, 

Shine like obelisks of fire, 

Pointing with inconstant motion 

From the altar of dark ocean 

To the sapphire-tinted skies; 

As the Hames of sacri6ce 

From the marble shrines did rise, 

As to pierce the dome of gold 

Where Apollo spoke of old.

[745J PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

Stanzas Written in Dejection, near Naples 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear, 

The waves are dancing fast and bright, 

Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 

The purple noon's transparent might, 

The breath of the moist earth is light, 

Around its unexpanded buds; 

Like many a voice of one delight, 

The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, 

The City's voice itself, is soft like Solitude's. 

I see the Deep's untrampled floor 

With green and purple seaweeds strown; 

I see the waves upon the shore, 

Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown: 

I sit upon the sands alone, 

The lightning of the noontide ocean 

Is flashing round me, and a tone 

Arises from its measured motion, 

How sweetl did any heart now share in my emotion. 

Alasl I have nor hope nor health, 

Nor peace within nor calm around, 

Nor that content surpassing wealth 

The sage in meditation found, 

And walked with inward glory crowned 

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. 

Others I see whom these surround 

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; 

To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. 

Yet now despair itself is mild, 

Even as the winds and waters are; 

I could lie down like a tired child, 

And weep away the life of care 

Which I have borne and yet must bear, 

Till death like sleep might steal on me, 

And I might feel in the warm air 

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 

Break o'er my dying brain its last monotony.


Some might lament that I were cold, 

As I, when this sweet day is gone, 

Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, 

Insults with this untimely moan; 

They might lament-for I am one 

Whom men love not,-and yet regret 

Unlike this day, which. when the suu 

Shall on its stainless glory set, 

Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. 

Song to the Men of England 

Men of England, wherefore plough 

For the lords who lay ye low? 

Wherefore weave with toil and care 

The rich robes your tyrants wear? 

Wherefore feed, and clothe. and save, 

From the cradle to the grave, 

Those ungrateful drones who would 

Drain your sweat-nay, drink your blood? 

Wherefore, Bees of England, forge 

Many a weapon, chain. and scourge, 

That these stingless drones may spoil 

The forced produce of your toil? 

Have ye leisure, comfort, calm, 

Shelter, food, love's gentle bahn? 

Or what is it ye buy so dear 

With your pain and with your fear? 

The seed ye sow, another reaps; 

The wealth ye find, another keeps; 

The robes ye weave, another wears; 

The arms ye forge, another bears. 

Sow seed,-but let no tyrant reap; 

Find wealth,-let no impostor heap; 

Weave robes,-let not the idle wear; 

Forge arms,-in your defence to bear.

[747] PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells; 

In halls ye deck another dwells. 

Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see 

The steel ye tempered glance on yeo 

With plough and spade, and hoe and loom, 

Trace your grave, and build your tomb, 

And weave your winding-sheet, till fair 

England be your sepulchre. 

FROM To the Lord Chancellor 

Oh, let a father's curse be on thy soul, 

And let a daughter's hope be on thy tomb; 

Be both, on thy gray head, a leaden cowl 

To weigh thee down to thine approaching dooml 

I curse thee by a parent's outraged love, 

By hopes long cherished and too lately lost, 

By gentle feelings thou couldst never prove, 

By griefs which thy stem nature never crossed; 

By those infantine smiles of happy light, 

Which were a fire within a stranger's hearth, 

Quenched even when kindled, in untimely night 

Hiding the promise of a lovely birth: 

By those unpractised accents of young speech, 

Which he who is a father thought to frame 

To gentlest lore, such as the wisest teach- 

Thou strike the lyre of mindl-oh, grief and shamel 

By all the happy see in chUdren's growth- 

That undeveloped Hower of budding years 

Sweetness and sadness interwoven both, 

Source of the sweetest hopes and saddest £ears- 

By all the days, under an hireling's care, 

Of dull constraint and bitter heaviness, 

o wretched ye if any ever were, 

Sadder than orphans, yet not fatherlessl

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY [748J 

By the false cant which on their innocent lips 

Must hang like poison on an opening bloom, 

By the dark creeds which cover with eclipse 

Their pathway from the cradle to the tomb- 

By all the hate which checks a father's love- 

By all the scorn which kills a father's care- 

By those most impious hands which dared remove 

Nature's high bounds-by thee-and by despair- 

I curse thee-though I hate thee not.-O slaveI 

If thou couldst quench the earth-consuming Hell 

Of which thou art a daemon, on thy grave 

This curse should be a blessing. Fare thee weIll 

Ode to the West Wind 

I 

o wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, 

Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 

Pestilence-stricken multitudes: 0 thou, 

Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, 

Each like a corpse within its grave, until 

Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 

(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 

With living hues and odours plain and hill: 

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; 

Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hearl


n 

Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion, 

Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, 

Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread 

On the blue surface of thine aery surge, 

Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge 

Of the horizon to the zenith's height, 

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 

Of the dying year, to which this closing night 

Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 

Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere 

Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh, hearl 

1II 

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams 

The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 

Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, 

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, 

And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 

Qnivering within the wave's intenser day, 

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers 

So sweet, the sense faints picturing theml Thou 

For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 

The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 

The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, 

And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hearl

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY [7501 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; 

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; 

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 

The impulse of thy strength, only less free 

Than thou, 0 uncontrollable! If even 

I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

IV 

The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven, 

As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 

Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven 

As thns with thee in prayer in my sore need. 

Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! 

I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleedl 

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed 

One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. 

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is; 

What if my leaves are falling like its own! 

The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 

v 

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, 

Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit nerce, 

My spirit! Be thou me, impetuons one! 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 

Like withered leaves to quicken a new birthl 

And, by the incantation of this verse, 

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth 

Ashes and sparks, my words among mankindl 

Be through my lips to unawakened earth 

The trumpet of a prophecy! 0, Wind, 

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?


The Indian Serenade 

I arise from dreams of thee 

In the first sweet sleep of night. 

When the winds are breathing low, 

And the stars are shining bright: 

I arise from dreams of thee, 

And a spirit in my feet 

Hath led me-who knows how? 

To thy chamber window, Sweet! 

The wandering airs they faint 

On the dark, the silent stream 

The Champak odours fail 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream; 

The nightingale's complaint, 

It dies upon her heart; 

As I must on thine, 

Oh, beloved as thou artl 

Oh lift me from the grassl 

I diel I faintl I fail! 

Let thy love in kisses rain 

On my lips and eyelids pale. 

My cheek is cold and white, alasl 

My heart beats loud and fast: 

Ohl press it to thine own again, 

Where it will break at last. 

Love's Philosophy 

The fountains mingle with the river 

And the rivers with the Ocean, 

The winds of Heaven mix for ever 

With a sweet emotion; 

Nothing in the world is single; 

All things by a law divine 

In one another's being mingle. 

Why not I with thine?

PERCY BYSSBE SHELLEY [752] 

See the mountains kiss high Heaven 

And the waves clasp one another; 

No sister flower would be forgiven 

If it disdained its brother; 

And the sunlight clasps the earth 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea: 

What are all these kissings worth 

If thou kiss not me? 

The Cloud 

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,

[7581 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 

The Spirit he loves remains; 

And,l 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 moming 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 aery nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden with white Bre laden, 

Whom mortals call the Moon, 

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 

By the midnight breezes strewn; 

And whenever 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 the calm 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,

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY [754} 

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. 

To- 

I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden, 

Thou neadest not fear mine; 

My spirit is too deeply laden 

Ever to burthen thine. 

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion, 

Thou needest not fear mine; 

Innocent is the heart's devotion 

With which I worship thine. 

To the Moon 

Art thou pale for weariness 

Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, 

Wandering companionless 

Among the stars that have a different birth, 

And ever changing, like a joyless eye 

That finds no object worth its constancy?

[755] PERCY BYSSBE SHELLEY 

The World' s Wanderers 

Tell me, thou Star, whose wings of light 

Speed thee in thy fiery Hight, 

In what cavern of the night 

Will thy pinions close now? 

Tell me, Moon, thou pale and gray 

Pilgrim of Heaven's homeless way, 

In what depth of night or day 

Seekest thou repose now? 

Weary Wind, who wanderest 

Like the world's rejected guest, 

Hast thou still some secret nest 

On the tree or billow? 

Good-Night 

Good-night? ahl no; the hour is ill 

Which severs those it should unite; 

Let us remain together still, 

Then it will be good night. 

How can I call the lone night good, 

Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight? 

Be it Dot said, thought, understood 

Then it will be-good night. 

To hearts which near each other move 

From evening close to morning light, 

The night is good; because, my love, 

They never say good-night. 

To Night 

Swiftly walk o'er the western wave, 

Spirit of Nightl 

Out of the misty eastern cave 

Where, all the long and lone daylight,

I~-------------------- 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (756] 

Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, 

Which make thee terrible and dear, 

Swift be thy flight. 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, 

Star-inwroughtl 

Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; 

Kiss her until she be wearied out, 

Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, 

Touching all with thine opiate wand- 

Come, long-sought! 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 

I sighed for thee; 

When light rode high, and the dew was gone, 

And noon lay heavy on Hower and tree, 

And the weary Day turned to his rest, 

Lingering like an unloved guest, 

I sighed for thee. 

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 

Wouldst thou me? 

Thy sweet child Sleep, the fUmy-eyed, 

Murmured like a noontide bee, 

Shall I nestle near thy side? 

Wouldst thou me?-And I replied, 

No, not theel 

Death will come when thou art dead, 

Soon, too soon- 

Sleep will come when thou art fled; 

Of neither would I ask the boon 

I ask of thee, beloved Night 

Swift be thine approaching flight, 

Come soon, soonl

(757] PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

To- 

Music, when soft voices die, 

Vibrates in the memory- 

Odours, when sweet violets sicken, 

Live within the sense they quicken. 

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, 

Are heaped for the beloved's bed; 

And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, 

Love itself shall slumber on. 

Mutability 

The flower that smiles to-day 

1ro-morrowdies; 

All that we wish to stay 

1rempts and then flies. 

What is the world's delight? 

Lightning that mocks the night, 

Brief even as bright. 

Virtue, how frail it isl 

Friendship how rarel 

Love, how it sells poor bliss 

For proud despair! 

But we, though soon they fall, 

Survive their joy, and all 

Which ours we call. 

Whilst skies are blue and bright, 

Whilst flowers are gay, 

Whilst eyes that change ere night 

Make glad the day; 

Whilst yet the calm hours creep, 

Dream thou-and from thy sleep 

Then wake to weep.


To- 

One word is too often profaned 

For me to profane it, 

One feeling too falsely disdained 

For thee to disdain it; 

One hope is too like despair 

For prudence to smother, 

And pity from thee more dear 

Than that from another. 

I can give not what men call love, 

But wilt thou accept not 

The worship the heart lifts above 

And the heavens reject not, 

The desire of the moth for the star, 

Of the night for the morrow, 

The devotion to something afar 

From the sphere of our sorrow? 

Lines: "When the Lamp Is Shattered" 

When the lamp is shattered 

The light in the dust lies dead 

When the cloud is scattered 

The rainbow's glory is shed. 

When the lute is broken, 

Sweet tones are remembered not; 

When the lips have spoken, 

Loved accents are soon forgot. 

As music and splendour 

Survive not the lamp and the lute, 

The heart's echoes render 

No song when the spirit is mute: 

No song but sad dirges, 

Like the wind through a ruined cell, 

Or the mournful surges 

That ring the dead seaman's knell.

[759 } PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

When hearts have once mingled 

Love leaves the well-built nest; 

The weak one is singled 

To endure what it once possessed. 

o Lovel who bewailest 

The frailty of all things here, 

Why choose you the frailest 

For your cradle, your home, and your bier? 

Its passions will rock thee 

As the storms rock the ravens on high; 

Bright reason will mock thee, 

Like the sun from a wintry sky. 

From thy nest every rafter 

Will rot, and thine eagle home 

Leave thee naked to laughter, 

When leaves fall and cold winds come. 

To Stella 

Thou wert the morning star among the living, 

Ere thy fair light had Bed; 

Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus, giving 

New splendour to the dead. 

From the Greek of PLATO 

FROM Adonais 

I weep for Adonais-he is deadl 

0, weep for Adonaisl though our tears 

Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a headl 

And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years 

To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers, 

And teach them thine own sorrow, say: "With me 

Died Adonaisj till the Future dares 

Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be 

An echo and a light unto eternity'"

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLJ!:Y [760] 

Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay, 

When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies 

In darkness? where was lorn Urania 

When Adonais died? With veiled eyes, 

'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise 

She sate, while one, with soft enamoured hreath, 

Rekindled all the fading melodies, 

With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath. 

He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of Death. 

Oh, weep for Adonais-he is dead! 

Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep! 

Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed 

Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep 

Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep; 

For he is gone, where all things wise and fair 

Descend;-oh, dream not that the amorous Deep 

Will yet restore him to the vital air; 

Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair. 

Most musical of mourners, weep again! 

Lament anew, Urania!-He died, 

Who was the Sire of an immortal strain, 

Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride, 

The priest, the slave, and the libemcide, 

Trampled and mocked with many a loathed rite 

Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified, 

Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite 

Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of light. 

Most musical of mourners, weep anew! 

Not all to that bright station dared to climb; 

And happier they their happiness who knew, 

Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time 

In which suns perished: others more sublime, 

Struck by the envious wrath of man or god, 

Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime; 

And some yet live, treading the thorny road 

Which leads. through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode.

[7611 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perished 

The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew 

Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished. 

And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew; 

Most musical of mourners, weep anewl 

The extreme hope, the loveliest and the last, 

The bloom, whose petals nipped before they blew 

Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste; 

The broken lily lies-the storm is overpast. 

All he had loved, and moulded into thought, 

From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound, 

Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 

Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound, 

Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground, 

Dimmed the aerial eyes that kindle day; 

Afar the melancholy thunder moaned, 

Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, 

And the wild Winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay. 

Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, 

And feeds her grief with his remembered lay, 

And will no more reply to winds or fountains, 

Or amorous birds perched on the young green spray, 

Or herdsman's hom, or bell at closing day; 

Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear 

Than those for whose disdain she pined away 

Into a shadow of all sounds:-a drear 

Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear. 

Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down 

Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were, 

Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown, 

For whom should she have waked the sullen year? 

To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear 

Nor to himseH Narcissus, as to both 

Thou, Adonais: wan they stand and sere 

Amid the faint companions of their youth, 

With all dew turned to tears; odour, to sighing ruth.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY [762J 

Peace, peacel he is not dead, he doth not sleep 

He hath awakened from the dream of life 

'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep 

With phantoms and unprofitable strife, 

And in mad trance, strike with our spirit's knife 

Invulnerable nothings.-We decay 

Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief 

Convulse us and consume us day by day, 

And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay. 

He has outsoared the shadow of our night; 

Envy and calumny and hate and pain, 

And that unrest which men miscall delight, 

Can touch him not and torture not again; 

From the contagion of the world's slow stain 

He is secure, and now can never mourn 

A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain; 

Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, 

With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. 

He lives, he wakes-'tis Death is dead, not he; 

Mourn not for Adonais.-Thou young Dawn, 

Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee 

The spirit thou lamentest is not gone; 

Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moanl 

Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air, 

Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown 

O'er the abandoned Earth, now leave it bare 

Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despairl 

He is made one with Nature: there is heard 

His voice in all her music, from the moan 

Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird; 

He is a presence to be felt and known 

In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, 

Spreading itself where'er that Power may move 

Which has withdrawn his being to its own; 

Which wields the world with never-wearied love, 

Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.

[7631 PERCY BYSSBE SHELLEY 

He is a portion of that loveliness 

Which once he made more lovely: he doth bear 

His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress 

Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling there, 

All new successions to the forms they wear; 

Torturing th'unwilling dross that checks its Hight 

To its own likeness, as each mass may bear; 

And bursting in its beauty and its might 

From trees and beasts and men into the Heaven's light. 

Go thou to Rome,-at once the Paradise, 

The grave, the city, and the wilderness; 

And where its wrecks like shattered mountains rise, 

And flOWering weeds, and fragrant copses dress 

The bones of Desolation's nakedness 

Pass, till the spirit of the spot shall lead 

Thy footsteps to a slope of green access 

Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead 

A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread; 

And grey walls moulder round, on which dull Time 

Feeds, like slow B.re upon a hoary brand; 

And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime, 

Pavilioning the dust of him who planned 

This refuge for his memory, doth stand 

Like flame transformed to marble; and beneath, 

A field is spread, on which a newer band 

Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of death, 

Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath. 

Here pause: these graves are all too young as yet 

To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned 

Its charge to each; and if the seal is set, 

Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind, 

Break it not thoul too surely shalt thou find 

Thine own well full, if thou returnest home, 

Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter wind 

Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. 

What Adonais is, why fear we to become?


The One remains, the many change and pass; 

Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly; 

Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, 

Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 

Until Death tramples it to fragments.-Die, 

If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek! 

Follow, where all is fledl-Rome's azure sky, 

Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words are weak 

The glory they transfuse with fltting truth to speak. 

The breath whose might I have invoked in song 

Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven, 

Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng 

Whose sails were never to the tempest given; 

The massy earth and sphered skies are rivenl 

I am borne darkly, fearfully afar; 

Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of Heaven, 

The soul of Adonais, like a star, 

Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. 

JOHN CLARE 

Written in Northampton County Asylum 

I aml yet what I am who cares, or knows? 

My friends forsake me like a memory lost. 

I am the self-consurner of my woes; 

They rise and vanish, an oblivious host, 

Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost. 

And yet I am-I live-though I am tossed 

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, 

Into the living sea of waking dream, 

Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys, 

But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem 

And all that's dear. Even those I loved the best 

Are strange-nay, they are stranger than the rest

[765 J JOHN CLARE 

I long for scenes where man has never trod- 

For scenes where woman never smiled or wept 

There to abide with my Creator, God, 

And sleep as I in childbood sweetly slept, 

Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie, 

The grass below; above, the vaulted sky. 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 

Thanatopsis 

To him who in the love of Nature holds 

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 

A various language; for his gayer hours 

She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 

And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 

Into his darker musings, with a mild 

And healing sympathy, that steals away 

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 

Over thy spirit, and sad images 

Of the stem agony, and shroud, and pall, 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 

Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart; 

Go forth, under the open sky, and list 

To Nature's teachings, while from all around 

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air 

Comes a still voice-Yet a few days, and thee 

The all*beholding sun shall see no more 

In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, 

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, 

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 

Thine individual being, shalt thou go 

To mix for ever with the elements, 

To be a brother to the insensible rock 

And to the sluggish clod, which the rode swain

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT [7661 

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 

Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish 

Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 

With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings, 

The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good, 

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 

All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 

Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,-the vales 

Stretching in pensive quietness between; 

The venerable woods-rivers that move 

In majesty, and the complaining brooks 

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, 

Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, 

Are but the solemn decorations all 

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 

Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 

The globe are but a handful to the tribes 

That slumber in its bosom.-Take the wings 

Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, 

Or lose thyself in the contiguous woods 

Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, 

Save his own dashings-yet the dead are there: 

And millions in those solitudes, since first 

The Hight of years began, have laid them down 

In their last sleep-the dead reign there alone. 

So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw 

In silence from the living, and no friend 

Take note of thy departure? All that breathe 

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 

When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 

Plod on, and each one as before will chase 

His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave 

Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 

And make their bed with thee. As the long train 

Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes

[ 767 ] WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 

In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 

The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man 

Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, 

By those, who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 

The innnmerable caravan, which moves 

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 

His chamber in the silent halls of death, 

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at rught, 

Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed, 

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

"Oh Fairest of the Rural Maidsl" 

Oh fairest of the rural maidsl 

Thy birth was in the forest shades; 

Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, 

Were all that met' thine infant eye. 

Thy sports, thy wanderings. when a child, 

Were ever in the sylvan wild; 

And all the beauty of the place 

Is in thy heart and on thy face. 

The twilight. of the trees and rocks 

Is in the light shade of thy locks; 

Thy step is as the wind, that weaves 

Its playful way among the leaves. 

Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene 

And silent waters heaven is seen; 

Their lashes are the herbs that look 

On their young figures in the brook. 

The forest depths. by foot unpressed, 

Are not more sinless than thy breast; 

The holy peace, that fills the air 

Of those calm solitudes, is there.

'WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 

[ 768 J 

Dante 

Who, mid the grasses of the field, 

That spring beneath our careless feet, 

First found the shining stems that yield 

The grains of life-sustaining wheat: 

Who first, upon the furrowed land, 

Strewed the bright grains to sprout, and grow 

And ripen for the reaper's hand- 

We know not, and we cannot know. 

But well we know the hand that brought 

And scattered, far as sight can reach, 

The seeds of free and living thought 

On the broad field of modem speech. 

Mid the white hills that round us lie, 

We cherish that Great Sower's fame, 

And, as we pile the sheaves on high, 

With awe we utter Dante's name. 

Six centuries, since the poet's birth, 

Have come and Bitted o'er our sphere: 

The richest harvest reaped on earth 

Crowns the last century's closing year. 

JOHN KEATS 

Dedication 

(TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ.) 

Glory and Loveliness have passed away; 

For if we wander out in early mom, 

No wreathed incense do we see upbome 

Into the east to meet the smiling day: 

No crowd of nymphs soft-voiced and young and gay, 

In woven baskets bringing ears of com, 

Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn

[769] JOHN KEATS 

The shrine of flora in her early May. 

But there are left delights as high as these, 

And I shall ever bless my destiny, 

That in a time when under pleasant trees 

Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free, 

A leafy luxury, seeing I could please, 

With these poor offerings, a man like thee. 

On First Looking into Chapman's Home1 

Much have I travelled 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-browed 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 stared at the Paoifle-and all his men 

Look'd at each other with a wild surmise 

Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 

To a Nightingale 

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, 

Being but too happy in thy 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.

JOHN BEATS [770] 

o for a draught of vintage, that hath been 

Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, 

Tasting of Flora and the country-green, 

Dance, and Proven~l song, and sun-burnt 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 grey 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, 

Clustered 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;

[771] JOHN DATS 

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; 

Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves; 

And mid-May's eldest child, 

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 

The murmurous haunt of flies on suuuuer eves. 

Darkling I listen; and for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 

Called 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 ecstasyl 

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain 

To thy high requiem become a sod. 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Birdl 

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 com; 

The same that oft-times hath 

Charmed 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. 

Adieul the fancy cannot cheat so well 

As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 

Adieu! adieul 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 OATS [772] 

On a Grecian Urn 

'Thou still unravished bride of quietness I 

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, 

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: 

What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 

Of deities or mortals, or of both, 

In Tempe or the dales ofAxcady? 

What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? 

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 0n; 

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, 

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 fairl 

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that canuot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; 

And, happy melodist, unwearied, 

For ever piping songs for ever new; 

More happy love I more happy, happy love I 

For ever warm and still to be enjoyed, 

For ever panting and for ever young; 

All breathing human passion far above, 

That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed. 

A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 

Who are these coming to the sacrmce? 

To what green altar, 0 mysterious priest, 

Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, 

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?


What little town by river or sea-shore, 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 

Is emptied of its folk, this pious mom? 

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 shapel Fair attitudel with brede 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought. 

With forest branches and the trodden weed; 

Thou, silent forml 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. 

To Psyche 

o Goddessl hear these tuneless numbers, wrung 

By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, 

And pardon that thy secrets should be sung. 

Even into thy own soft-conched ear: 

Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see 

The winged Psyche with awakened eyes? 

I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly, 

And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, 

Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side 

In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof 

Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran 

A brooklet, scarce espied: 

'Mid hushed, cool-rooted Howers 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 touched not, but had not bade adieu 

As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,

JOHN KEATS [774] 

And ready still past kisses to outnumber 

At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: 

The winged boy I knew; 

But who wast thou, 0 happy, happy dove? 

His Psyche true! 

o latest-born and loveliest vision far 

Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy! 

Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-regioned star, 

Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; 

Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, 

Nor altar heaped 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-mouthed prophet dreaming. 

o brightestl 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 retired 

From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, 

Fluttering among the faint Olympians, 

I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. 

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-mouthed 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-clustered trees 

Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; 

And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, 

The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep;

[775] JOHN XEATI 

And in the midst of this wide quietness 

A rosy sanctuary will I dress 

With the wreathed 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 Bowers, 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 inl 

To the Poets 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 

Ye have left your souls on earth! 

Have ye souls in heaven too, 

Double-lived in regions new? 

Yes, and those of heaven commune 

With the spheres of SUD and moon; 

With the noise of fountains wondrous, 

And the parle of voices thund'rous; 

With the whisper of heaven's trees 

And one another, in soft ease 

Seated on Elysian lawns 

Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; 

Underneath large blue-bells tented, 

Where the daisies are rose-scented, 

And the rose herself has got 

Perfume which on earth is not: 

Where the nightingale doth sing 

Not a senseless, tranc6d thing, 

But divine, melodious truth, 

Philosophic numbers smooth; 

Tales and golden histories 

Of heaven and its mysteries. 

Thus ye live on high, and then 

On the earth ye live again; 

And the souls ye left behind you 

Teach us, here, the way to find you,

JOHN :KEATS [7761 

Where your other souls are joying 

Never slumbered, never cloying. 

Here, your earth-born souls still speak 

To mortals, of their little week; 

Of their sorrows and delights; 

Of their passions and their spites; 

Of their glory and their shame; 

What does strengthen, and what maim 

Thus ye teach us, every day, 

Wisdom, though Hed far away. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 

Ye have left your souls on earthl 

Ye have souls in heaven too, 

Double-lived in regions newl 

Lines on the Mermaid Tavern 

Souls of poets dead and gone, 

What Elysium have ye known, 

Happy neld or mossy cavern, 

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 

Have ye tippled drink more fine 

Than mine host's Canary wine? 

Or are fruits of Paradise 

Sweeter than those dainty pies 

Of venison? 0 generous foodl 

Drest as though bold Robin Hood 

Would, with his maid Marian, 

Sup and bowse from hom and can. 

I have heard that on a day 

Mine host's Sign-board Hew away, 

Nobody knew whither, till 

An Astrologer's old quill 

To a sheepskin gave the story 

Said he saw you in your glory, 

Underneath a new old-sign 

Sipping beverage divine, 

And pledging with contented smack 

The Mermaid in the Zodiac.


Souls of poets dead and gone, 

What Elysium have ye known, 

Happy field or mossy cavern, 

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 

To Autumn 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulnessl 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing snn; 

Conspiring with him how to load and bless 

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves rnn; 

To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, 

And flll all fruit with ripeness to the core; 

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, 

And still more, later flowers for the bees, 

Until they think warm days will never cease, 

For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may flnd 

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 

Or on a self-reaped furrow sound asleep, 

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers, 

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 

Steady thy laden head across a brook; 

Or by a cider-press, with patient look, 

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours 

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? 

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, 

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dymg day, 

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; 

Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn 

Among the river sallows, borne aloft 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with.treble soft 

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft, 

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.


On Melancholy 

No, nol go not to Lethe, neither twist 

Wolfs-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; 

Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed 

By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; 

Make not your rosary of yew-berries, 

Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be 

Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl 

A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; 

For shade to shade will come too drowsily, 

And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. 

But when the melancholy fit shall fall 

Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, 

That fosters the droop-headed Bowers all, 

And hides the green hill in an April shroud; 

Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, 

Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, 

Or on the wealth of globed peonies; 

Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, 

Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, 

And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. 

She dwells with Beauty-Beauty that must die; 

And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips 

Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, 

Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: 

Ay, in the very temple of Delight 

Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine, 

Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue 

Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine: 

His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, 

And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

[7791 JOHN ][EATS 

S

JOHN KEATS (180 ] 

o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 

So haggard and so woe-begone? 

The squirref s granary is full, 

And the harvest's done. 

1 see a my 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. 

1 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 sawall 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 lulled me asleep, 

And there I dreamed-ah, woe betide I 

The latest dream I ever dreamed 

On the cold hill's side.

[781} JOHN ltEATS 

I saw pale kings and princes too, 

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; 

They cried-"La Belle Dame sans Merci 

Hath thee in thrall!" 

I saw their starved lips in the gioam, 

With horrid warning gaped wide. 

And I awoke and found me here, 

On the cold hurs side. 

And this is why I sojourn here, 

Alone and palely lOitering, 

Though the sedge is withered from the lake, 

And no birds sing. 

FROM The Eve of St. Agnes 

Out went the taper as she hurried in; 

Its little smoke in pallid moonshine died: 

She closed the door, she panted. all akin 

To spirits of the air. and visions wide: 

No uttered syllable, or, woe betide! 

But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 

Paining with eloquence her balmy side; 

As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 

Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stilled, in her dell. 

A casement high and triple-arched there was, 

All garlanded with carven imageries, 

Of fruits and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, 

And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 

Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, 

As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings; 

And in the midst. 'mong thousand heraldries, 

And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 

A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and kings. 

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, 

And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast. 

As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon; 

Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,

JOHN XEATS [782] 

And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 

And on her hair a glory, like a saint: 

She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, 

Save wings, for heaven:-Porphyro grew faint: 

She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. 

Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, 

Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; 

Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; 

Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees 

Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: 

Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, 

Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, 

In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 

But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 

In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay, 

Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed 

Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; 

Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day; 

Blissfully havened both from joy and pain; 

Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims pray; 

Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, 

As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 

Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, 

Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 

And listened to her breathing, if it chanced 

To wake into a slumberous tenderness; 

Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, 

And breathed himself: then from the closet crept, 

Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 

And over the hushed carpet, silent, stept, 

And 'tween the curtains peeped, where lot-how fast she slept I 

Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon 

Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 

A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon 

A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: 

o for some drowsy Morphean amulet!

[783] JOHN DATS 

The boisterous, midnight, restive clarion, 

The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 

Affray his ears, though but in dying tone: 

The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, 

In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered, 

While he from forth the closet brought a heap 

Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; 

With jellies soother than the creamy curd, 

And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon; 

Manna, and dates, in argosy transferred 

From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one 

From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon. 

These delicates he heaped with glowing hand 

On golden dishes and in baskets bright 

Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand 

In the retired quiet of the night, 

Filling the chilly room with perfume light. 

"And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! 

Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite: 

Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, 

Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." 

Thus whispering, his warm unnerved arm 

Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 

By the dusk curtains:-'twas a midnight charm 

Impossible to melt as iced stream: 

The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; 

Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies: 

It seemed he never, never could redeem 

From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes; 

So mused awhile, entailed in woofed phantasies. 

1. 

FROM Isabella or The Pot of Basil 

Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabell 

Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye! 

They could not in the sell-same mansion dwell 

Without some stir of heart, some malady;

JOHN XEATS [784] 

They could not sit at meals but feel how well 

It soothed each to be the other by; 

They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep, 

But to each other dream, and nightly weep. 

With every mom their love grew tenderer, 

With every eve deeper and tenderer still; 

He might not in house, field, or garden stir, 

But her full shape would all his seeing IDI; 

And his continual voice was pleasanter 

To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill; 

Her lute-string gave an echo of his name, 

She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same. 

He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch, 

Before the door had given her to his eyes; 

And from her chamber-window he would catch 

Her beauty farther than the falcon spies; 

And constant as her vespers would he watch, 

Because her face was turned to the same skies; 

And with sick longing all the night outwear, 

To hear her morning-step upon the stair. 

A whole long .month of May in this sad plight 

Made their cheeks paler by the break of June: 

"To-morrow will I how to my delight, 

To-morrow will I ask my lady's hoon." 

"0 may I never see another night, 

Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love's tune." 

So spake they to their pillows; but, alas, 

Honeyless days and nights did he let pass; 

Until sweet Isabella's untouched cheek 

Fell sick within the rose's just domain, 

Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth seek 

By every lull to cool her infant's pain; 

"How ill she isl" said he, "I may not speak 

And yet I will, and tell my love all plain: 

If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears, 

And at the least 'twill startle off her cares."


So said he one fair morning, and all day 

His heart beat awfully against his side; 

And to his heart he inwardly did pray 

For power to speak; but still the ruddy tide 

Stilled his voice, and pulsed resolve away 

Fevered his high conceit of such a bride, 

Yet brought him to the meekness of a child: 

Alas! when passion is both meek and wild I 

So once more he had waked and anguished 

A dreary night of love and misery, 

If Isabel's quick eye had not been wed 

To every symbol on his forehead high; 

She saw it waxing very pale and dead, 

And straight all flushed; so, lisped tenderly, 

"Lorenzol"-here she ceased her timid quest, 

But in her tone and look he read the rest. 

"0 Isabellal I can half perceive 

That I may speak my grief into thine ear; 

If thou didst ever anything believe, 

Believe how I love thee, believe how near 

My soul is to its doom: I would not grieve 

Thy hand by unwelcome pressing. would not fear 

Thine eyes by gazing; but I cannot live 

Another night, and not my passion shrive. 

"Love: thou art leading me from wintry cold, 

Ladyl thou leadest me to summer clime, 

And I must taste the blossoms that unfold 

In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time." 

So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold, 

And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme: 

Great bliss was with them, and great happiness 

Grew, like a lusty flower in June's caress. 

Parting they seemed to tread upon the air, 

Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart 

Only to meet again more close, and share 

The inward fragrance of each other's heart.

JOHN KEATS 

f786j 

She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair 

Sang, of delicious love and honeyed dart; 

He with light steps went up a western hill, 

And bade the sun farewell, and joyed his fill. 

All close they met again, before the dusk 

Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil, 

All close they met, all eves, before the dusk 

Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil, 

Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk, 

Unknown of any, free from whispering tale. 

Ab! better had it been for ever so, 

Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe. 

Were they unhappy then?-It cannot be- 

Too many tears for lovers have been shed, 

Too many sighs give we to them in fee, 

Too much of pity after they are dead, 

Too many doleful stories do we see, 

Whose matter in bright gold were best be read; 

Except in such a page where Theseus' spouse 

Over the pathless waves towards him bows. 

But for the general award of love, 

The little sweet doth kill much bitterness; 

Though Dido silent is in under-grove, 

And Isabella's was a great distress, 

Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove 

Was not embalmed, this truth is not the less 

Even bees, the little alrnsmen of spring-bowers, 

Know there is richest juice in poison-Howers. 

2. 

o Melancholy, linger here awhile! 

o Music, Music, breathe despondingly! 

o Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle, 

Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us-O sigh! 

Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile; 

Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily, 

And make a pale light in your cypress glooms, 

Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs.

'" 

[787} JOHN KEATS 

Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe, 

From the deep throat of sad Melpomenel 

Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go, 

And touch the strings into a mystery; 

Sound mournfully upon the winds and low; 

For simple Isabel is soon to be 

Among the dead: She withers, like a palm 

Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm. 

o leave the palm to wither by itself; 

Let not quick Winter chill its dying hourl 

It may not be-those Baiilites of pelf, 

Her brethren, noted the continual shower 

From her dead eyes; and many a curious elf, 

Among her kindred, wondered that such dower 

Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside 

By one marked out to be a Noble's bride. 

And furthermore, her brethren wondered much 

Why she sat drooping by the Basil green, 

And why it flourished, as by magic touch; 

Greatly they wondered what the thing might mean: 

They could not surely give belief, that such 

A very nothing would have power to wean 

Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay, 

And even remembrance of her love's delay. 

Therefore they watched a time when they might sift 

This hidden whim; and long they watched in vain; 

For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift, 

And seldom felt she any hunger-pain: 

And when she left, she hurried back, as swift 

As bird on wing to breast its eggs again: 

And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there 

Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair. 

Yet they contrived to steal the Basil-pot, 

And to examine it in secret place: 

The thing was vile with green and livid spot, 

And yet they knew it was Lorenzo's face:

JOHN lI:EATS [788] 

The guerdon of their murder they had got, 

And so left Florence in a moment's space, 

Never to turn again.-Away they went, 

With blood upon their heads, to banishment. 

o Melancholy, turn thine eyes awayl 

o Music, Music, breathe despondinglyl 

o Echo, Echo, on some other day, 

From isles Lethean, sigh to us-O sigh! 

Spirits of grief, sing not your "Well-a-wayt" 

For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die; 

Will die a death too lone and incomplete, 

Now they have ta'en away her Basil sweet. 

And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, 

Imploring for her Basil to the last. 

No heart was there in Florence but did mourn 

In pity of her love, so overcast. 

And a sad ditty of this story borne 

From mouth to mouth through all the country pass'd: 

Still is the burthen sung-"O cruelty, 

To steal my Basil-pot away from mel" 

1. 

FROM Endymion 

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 Howery 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

[789] JOHN lI:EATS 

For simple sheep; and such are daHodils 

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. 

Nor do we merely feel these essences 

For one short hour; no, even as the trees 

That whisper round a temple become soon 

Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, 

The passion poesy, glories infinite, 

Haunt us till they become a cheering light 

Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, 

That, whether there be shine, or gloom 0'ercast, 

They always must be with us, or we die. 

2. 

And, truly, I would rather be struck dumb 

Than speak against this ardent listlessness: 

For I have ever thought that it might bless 

The world with benefits unknOwingly; 

As does the nightingale, up-perched high, 

And cloistered among cool and bunched leaves 

She sings but to her love, nor e'er conceives 

How tiptoe Night holds back her dark-grey hood. 

Just so may love, although 'tis understood 

The mere commingling of passionate breath, 

Produce more than our searching witnesseth: 

What I know not: but who, of men, can tell 

That flowers would bloom, or that green fruit would swell 

To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail, 

The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale, 

The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones, 

The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones, 

Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet, 

H human souls did never kiss and greet?

JOHN KEATS [790J 

3. 

4. 

o sovereign power of lover 0 grief! 0 balml 

All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm, 

And shadowy, through the mist of passed years: 

For others, good or bad, hatred and tears, 

Have become indolent; but touching thine, 

One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine, 

One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days. 

The woes of Troy, towers smothering o'er their blaze, 

Stiff-holden shields, far-piercing spears, keen blades, 

Struggling, and blood, and shrieks-all dimly fades 

Into some 'backward comer of the brain; 

Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain 

The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet. 

Hence, pageant historyl hence, gilded cheat! 

Swart planet in the universe of deedsl 

Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds 

Along the pebbled shore of memory! 

Many old rotten-timbered boats there be 

Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified 

To goodly vessels; many a sail of pride, 

And golden-keeled, is left unlaunched and dry. 

But wherefore this? What care, though owl did fly 

About the great Athenian admiral's mast? 

What care, though striding Alexander past 

The Indus with his Macedonian numbers? 

Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers 

The glutted Cyclops, what care?-Juliet leaning 

Amid her window-flowers,-sighing,-weaning 

Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow, 

Doth more avail than these: the silver flow 

Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen, 

Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den, 

Are things to brood on with more ardency 

Than the death-day of empires. 

Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side, 

I sat a-weeping: what enamoured bride


Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds, 

But hides and shrouds 

Beneath dark palm-trees by a river sideP 

And as I sat, over the light blue hills 

There came a noise of revellers: the rills 

Into the wide stream came of purple hue 

'Twas Bacchus and his crewl 

The earnest trumpet spake, and sUver thrnIs 

From kissing cymbals made a merry din 

'Twas Bacchus and his kindl 

Like to a moving vintage down they came, 

Crowned with green leaves, and faces all on flame; 

All madly dancing through the pleasant valley, 

To scare thee, Melancholyl 

o then, 0 then, thou wast a simple namel 

And I forgot thee, as the berried holly 

By shepherds is forgotten, when in June, 

Tall chestnuts keep away the sun and moon: 

I rushed into the follyl 

Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood, 

TriBing his ivy-dart, in dancing mood, 

With sidelong laughing; 

And little rills of crimson wine imbrued 

His plump white arms, and shoulders, enough white 

For Venus' pearly bite; 

And near him rode SUenus on his ass, 

Pelted with flowers as he on did pass 

TipsUy quaffing. 

Whence came ye, merry Damsels, whence came ye, 

So many, and so many, and such glee? 

Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left 

Your nuts in oak-tree cIeft? 

"For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree; 

For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms, 

And cold mushrooms;


For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth; 

Great god of breathless cups and chirping mirthl 

Come hither, fair lady, and joined be 

To our mad minstrelsy!" 

Over wide streams and mountains great we went, 

And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent, 

Onward the tiger and the leopard pants, 

With Asian elephants: 

Onward these myriads-with song and dance, 

With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' prance, 

Web-footed alligators, crocodiles, 

Bearing upon their scaly backs, in 61es, 

Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil 

Of seamen, and stout galley-rowers' toil: 

With toying oars and silken sails they glide, 

Nor care for wind and tide. 

Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' manes, 

From rear to van they scour about the plains; 

A three days' journey in a moment done; 

And always, at the rising of the sun, 

About the wilds they hunt with spear and hom, 

On spleenful unicorn. 

I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown 

Before the vine-wreath crownl 

I saw parched Abyssinia rouse and sing 

To the silver cymbals' ringl 

I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce 

Old Tartary the fierce I 

The kings of Ind their jewel-sceptres vail, 

And from their treasures scatter pearled hail; 

Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans, 

And all his priesthood moans, 

Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning pale. 

Into these regions came I, follOwing him, 

Sick-hearted, weary-so I took a whim 

To stray away into these forests drear, 

Alone, without a peer: 

And I have told thee all thou mayest hear.

[793} JOHN KEATS 

1. 

FROM Hyperion 

As when, upon a tranced summer-night, 

Those green-robed senators of mighty woods, 

Tall oaks, branch-cha.rmed by the earnest stars, 

Dream, and so dream all night without a stir, 

Save from one gradual solitary gust 

Which comes upon the silence, and dies off, 

As if the ebbing air had but one wave: 

So came these words and went; the while in tears 

She touched her fair large forehead to the ground, 

Just where her falling hair might be outspread 

A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet. 

o leave them, Muse! 0 leave them to their woes 

For thou art weak to sing such tumults dire: 

A solitary sorrow best befits 

Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief. 

Leave them, 0 Musel for thou anon wilt find 

Many a fallen old Divinity 

Wandering in vain about bewildered shores. 

Meantime touch piously the Delphic harp, 

And not a wind of heaven but will breathe 

In aid soft warble from the Dorian flute; 

For 101 'tis for the Father of all verse. 

Flush everything that hath a vermeil hue, 

Let the rose glow intense and warm the air, 

And let the clouds of even and of mom 

Float in voluptuous fleeces o'er the hills; 

Let the red wine within the goblet boil, 

Cold as a bubbling well; let faint-lipped shells, 

On sands or in great deeps, vermilion turn 

Through all their labyrinths; and let the maid 

Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss surprised. 

Chief isle of the embowered Cyclades, 

Rejoice, 0 Delos, with thine olives green, 

And poplars, and lawn-shading palms, and beech, 

In which the Zephyr breathes the loudest song, 

And hazels thick dark-stemmed beneath the shade: 

Apollo is once more the golden theme!

JOHN KEATS [794J 

"Bright Start Would I Were Steadfast as Thou Art" 

Bright start would I were steadfast as thou art 

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, 

And watching. with etemallids 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 steadfast, still unchangeable, 

Pillowed 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. 

GEORGE DARLEY 

Siren Chorus 

Troop home to silent grots and caves, 

Troop homel and mimic as you go 

The mournful winding of the waves 

Which to their dark abysses How. 

At this sweet hour all things beside 

In amorous pairs to covert creep, 

The swans that brush the evening tide 

Homeward in snowy couples keep. 

In his green den the murmuring seal 

Close by his sleek companion lies, 

While singly we to bedward steal, 

And close in fruitless sleep our eyes. 

In bowers of love men take their rest, 

In loveless bowers we sigh alone, 

With bosom·friends are others blest, 

But we have nonel but we have none!

[795] HARTLEY COLERIDGE 

HARTLEY COLERIDGE 

Song 

She is not fair to outward view 

As many maidens be, 

Her loveliness I never knew 

Until she smiled on me; 

Ohl then I saw her eye was bright, 

A well of love, a spring of light. 

But now her looks are coy and cold, 

To mine they ne'er reply, 

And yet I cease not to behold 

The love-light in her eye: 

Her very frowns are fairer far 

Than smiles of other maidens are. 

THOMAS HOOD 

Autumn 

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn 

Stand shadowless like Silence, listening 

To silence, for no lonely bird would sing 

Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, 

Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn; 

Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright 

With tangled gossamer that fell by night, 

Pearling his coronet of golden -mm. 

Where are the songs of Summer? With the sun, 

Oping the dusky eyelids of the south, 

Till shade and silence waken up as one, 

And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth. 

Where are the merry birds? Away, away, 

On panting wings through the inclement skies, 

Lest owls should prey 

Undazzled at noonday, 

And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.

THOMAS HOOD [796] 

Where are the blossoms of Summer? In the west, 

Blushing their last to the last sunny hours, 

When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest 

Like tearful Proserpine, snatched from her flowers 

To a most gloomy breast. 

Where is the pride of Summer-the green prime 

The many, many leaves all twinkling? Three 

On the mossed elm; three on the naked lime 

Trembling-and one upon the old oak tree. 

Where is the- Dryads' immortality? 

Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew, 

Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through 

In the smooth holly'S green eternity. 

The squirrel gloats on his accomplished hoard, 

The ants have brimmed theiP garners with ripe grain, 

And honey bees have stored 

The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells; 

The swallows all have winged across the main; 

And here the Autumn melancholy dwells, 

And Sighs her tearful spells, 

Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. 

Alone, alone, 

Upon a mossy stone, 

She sits and reckons up the dead and gone 

With the last leaves for a love-rosary, 

Whilst all the withered world looks drearily, 

Like a dim picture of the drowned past 

In the hushed mind's mysterious far away, 

Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last 

Into that distance, grey upon the grey. 

o go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded 

Under the languid downfall of her hair: 

She wears a coronal of flowers faded 

Upon her forehead, and a face of care; 

There is enough of withered everywhere 

To make her bower-and enough of gloom; 

There is enough of sadness to invite, 

Ifonly for the rose that died-whose doom 

Is Beauty's-she that with the living bloom

[797] mOMAS HOOD 

Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light; 

There is enough of sorrowing, and quite 

Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear 

Enough of chi)ly droppings for her bowl; 

Enough of fear and shadowy despair, 

To frame her cloudy prison for the soul. 

The Water Lady 

Alas, the moon should ever beam 

To show what man should never seel 

I saw a maiden on a stream, 

And fair was she! 

I stayed awhile, to see her throw 

Her tresses back, that all beset 

The fair horizon of her brow 

With clouds of jet. 

I stayed a little while to view 

Her cheek, that wore in place of red 

The bloom of water, tender blue, 

Daintily spread. 

I stayed to watch, a little space, 

Her parted lips if she would sing; 

The waters closed above her face 

With many a ring. 

And still I stayed a little more, 

Alasl she never comes again: 

I throw my flowers from the shore, 

And watch in vain. 

I know my life will fade away, 

I know that I must vainly pine, 

For I am made of mortal clay, 

But she's divine.

THOMAS HOOD [798] 

Sonnet 

It is not death, that sometime in a sigh 

This eloquent breath shall take its speechless Hight; 

That sometime these bright stars, that now reply 

In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night: 

That this warm conscious Hesh shall perish quite, 

And all life's ruddy springs forget to How; 

That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite 

Be lapped in alien clay, and laid below; 

It is not death to know this-but to know 

That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves 

In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go 

So duly and so oft-and when grass waves 

Over the past-away, there may be then 

No resurrection in the minds of men. 

Silence 

There is a silence where hath been no sound, 

There is a silence where no sound may be, 

In the cold grave-under the deep, deep sea, 

Or in wide desert where no life is found, 

Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound; 

No voice is hushed-no life treads silently, 

But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free, 

That never spoke, over the idle ground: 

But in green ruins, in the desolate walls 

Of antique palaces, where Man hath been, 

Though the dun fox, or wild hyena calls, 

And owls, that Hit continually between, 

Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan, 

There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.

[799] LOBD MACAULAY 

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY, LoRD MACAULAY 

Epitaph on a Jacobite 

To my true king I offered free from stain 

Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain. 

For him I threw lands, honours, wealth, away, 

And one dear hope that was more prized than they. 

For him I languished in a foreign clime, 

Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime; 

Heard on Laverrua ScargiIl's whispering trees, 

And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees; 

Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep, 

Each morning started from the dream to weep; 

Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave 

The resting place I asked, an early grave. 

o thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, 

From that proud country which was once mine own, 

By those white cliffs I never more must see, 

By that dear language which I spake like thee, 

Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear 

O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here. 

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED 

(1802-1839) 

FROM The Belle of the Ball-Room 

Our love was like most other loves; 

A little glow, a little shiver, 

A rose-bud, and a pair of gloves, 

And "Fly not yet"-upon the river; 

Some jealousy of some one's heir, 

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, 

A miniature, a lock of hair, 

The usual vows,-and then we parted. 

We parted; months and years rolled by; 

We met again four summers after: 

Our parting was all sob and sigh; 

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter:

W. M. PRAED [800] 

For in my heart's most secret cell 

There had been many other lodgers; 

And she was not the ball-room's Belle, 

But only-Mrs. Something Rogersl 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

(1803-188~) 

HAnd When I Am Entombed ... " 

And when I am entombed in my place, 

Be it remembered of a single man, 

He never, thongh he dearly loved his race, 

For fear of human eyes swerved from his plan. 

FROM Ode Inscribed to W. H. Channing 

The God who made New Hampshire 

Taunted the lofty land 

With little men; 

Small bat and wren 

House in the oak: 

If earth-fire cleave 

The upheaved land, and bury the folk, 

The southern crocodile would grieve. 

Virtue palters; Right is hence; 

Freedom praised, but hid; 

Funeral eloquence 

Rattles the coffin-lid. 

The horseman serves the horse, 

The neatherd serves the neat, 

The merchant serves the purse, 

The eater serves his meat; 

'Tis the day of the chattel, 

Web to weave, and com to grind; 

Things are in the saddle, 

And ride mankind.

(801] RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

There are two laws discrete, 

Not reconciled, 

Law for man, and law for thing; 

The last builds town and fleet, 

But it ruus wild, 

And doth the man unking. 

Let man serve law for man; 

Live for friendship, live for love, 

For truth's and harmony's behoof; 

The state may follow how it can, 

As Olympus follows Jove. 

Yet do not I implore 

The wrinkled shopman to my sounding woods, 

Nor bid the unwilling seuator 

Ask votes of thrushes in the solitudes. 

Every one to his choseu work; 

Foolish hands may mix: and mar; 

Wise and sure the issue are. 

Round they roll till dark is light, 

Sex to sex, and eveu to odd; 

The over-god 

Who marries Right to Might 

Who peoples, unpeoples, 

He who exterminates 

Races by stronger races, 

Black by white faces, 

Knows to bring honey 

Out of the lion; 

Grafts geutlest scion 

On pirate and Turk. 

Forbearance 

Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? 

Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk? 

At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse? 

Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust?

RALPH WALDO EMERSON (8021 

And loved so well a high behavior, 

In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained, 

Nobility more nobly to repay? 

0, be my friend, and teach me to be thine! 

Give All to Love 

Give all to love; 

Obey thy heart; 

Friends, kindred, days, 

Estate, good-fame, 

Plans, credit and the Muse, 

Nothing refuse. 

'Tis a brave master; 

Let it have scope: 

Follow it utterly, 

Hope beyond hope: 

High and more high 

It dives into noon, 

With wing unspent, 

Untold intent; 

But it is a god, 

Knows its own path 

And the outlets of the sky. 

It was never for the mean; 

It requireth courage stout. 

Souls above doubt, 

Valor unbending, 

It will reward, 

They shall return 

More than they were, 

And ever ascending. 

Leave all for love; 

Yet, hear me, yet, 

One word more thy heart behoved, 

One pulse more of firm endeavor,

[80S] 

BALPH WALDO EMElISON 

Keep thee to-day, 

To-morrow, forever, 

Free as an Arab 

Of thy beloved. 

Cling with life to the maid; 

But when the surprise, 

First vague shadow of surmise, 

Flits across her bosom young, 

Of a joy apart from thee, 

Free be she, fancy-free; 

Nor thou detain her vesture's hem, 

Nor the palest rose she Hung 

From her sununer diadem. 

Though thou loved her as thyself, 

As a self of purer clay, 

Though her parting dims the day, 

Stealing grace from all alive; 

Heartily know, 

When half-gods go, 

The gods arrive. 

Bacchus 

Bring me wine, but wine which never grew 

In the belly of the grape, 

Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through 

Under the Andes to the Cape, 

Suffer no savor of the earth to scape. 

Let its grapes the morn salute 

From a nocturnal root, 

Which feels the acrid juice 

Of Styx and Erebus; 

And turns the woe of Night 

By its own craft, to a more rich delight.

RALPH WALDO EMEBSON [804] 

We buy ashes for bread; 

We buy diluted wine; 

Give me of the true, 

Whose ample leaves and tendrils curled 

Among the silver hills of heaven 

Draw everlasting dew; 

Wine of wine, 

Blood of the world, 

Form of forms, and mould of statures, 

That I intoxicated, 

And by the draught assimilated, 

May float at pleasure through all natures; 

The bird-language rightly spell, 

And that which roses say so well. 

Wine that is shed 

Like the torrents of the sun 

Up the horizon walls, 

Or like the Atlantic streams, which run 

When the South Sea calls. 

Water and bread, 

Food which needs no transmuting, 

Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting, 

Wine which is already man, 

Food which teach and reason can. 

Wine which Music is, 

Music and wine are one, 

That I, drinking this, 

Shall hear far Chaos talk with me; 

Kings unborn shall walk with me; 

And the poor grass shall plot and plan 

What it will do when it is man. 

Quickened so, will I unlock 

Every crypt of every rock. 

I thank the joyful juice 

For all I know; 

Winds of remembering 

Of the ancient being blow, 

And seeming-solid walls of use 

Open and How.

[805 J RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

Pour, Bacchusl the remembering wine; 

Retrieve the loss of me and minel 

Vine for vine be antidote, 

And the grape requite the lotel 

Haste to cure the old despair, 

Reason in Nature's lotus drenched, 

The memory of ages quenched; 

Give them again to shine; 

Let wine repair what this undid; 

And where the infection slid, 

A dazzling memory revive; 

Refresh the faded tints, 

Recut the aged prints, 

And write myoId adventures with the peD 

Which on the first day drew, 

Upon the tablets blue, 

The dancing Pleiads and eternal men. 

FROM Concord Hymn 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 

Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, 

Here once the embattled farmers stood 

And fired the shot heard round the world. 

The foe long since in silence slept; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; 

And Time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 

Days 

Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, 

MufBed and dumb like barefoot dervishes, 

And marching single in an endless file, 

Bring diadems and fagots in their hands. 

To each they offer gifts after his will,

RALPH WALDO EMERSON [806] 

Bread, kingdoms. stars. and sky that holds them all. 

I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp, 

Forgot my morning wishes, hastily 

Took a few herbs and apples. and the Day 

Turned and departed silently. I, too late, 

Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn. 

April 

The April winds are magical 

And thrill our tuneful frames; 

The garden walks are passional 

To bachelors and dames. 

The hedge is gemmed with diamonds, 

The air with Cupids full, 

The cobweb clues of Rosamond 

Guide lovers to the pool. 

Each dimple in the water, 

Each leaf that shades the rock 

Can cozen, pique and Batter, 

Can parley and provoke. 

Goodfellow, Puck and goblins, 

Know more than any book. 

Down with your doleful problems, 

And court the sunny brook. 

The south-winds are quick-Witted, 

The schools are sad and slow, 

The masters quite omitted 

The lore we care to know. 

Heroism 

Ruby wine is drunk by knaves, 

Sugar spends to fatten slaves, 

Rose and vine-leaf deck buffoons; 

Thunder-clouds are Jove's festoons, 

Drooping oft in wreaths of dread, 

Lightning-knotted round his head;

[807] RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

The hero is not fed on sweets, 

Daily his own heart he eats; 

Chambers of the great are jails, 

And head-winds right for royal sails. 

Brahma 

If the red slayer think he slays, 

Or if the slain think he is slain, 

They know not well the subtle ways 

I keep. and pass, and turn again. 

Far or forgot to me is near; 

Shadow and sunlight are the same; 

The vanished gods to me appear; 

And one to me are shame and fame. 

They reckon ill who leave me out; 

When me they fly. I am the wings; 

I am the doubter and the doubt, 

And I the hymn the Brahmin sings. 

The strong gods pine for my abode, 

And pine in vain the sacred Seven; 

But thou, meek lover of the goodl 

Find me, and turn thy back on heaven. 

THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES 

Song 

How many times do I love thee, dear? 

Tell me how many thoughts there be 

In the atmosphere 

Of a new-fall'n year, 

Whose white and sable hours appear 

The latest Hake of Eternity: 

So many times do I love thee, dear.

THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES 

[ 8 0 8 J 

How many times do I love again? 

Tell me how many beads there are 

In a sUver chain 

Of evening rain, 

Unravelled from the tumbling main, 

And threading the eye of a yellow star: 

So many times do I love again. 

Dream-Pedlary 

If there were dreams to sell 

What would you buy? 

Some cost a passing bell; 

Some a light sigh, 

That shakes from Life's fresh crown 

Only a roseleaf down. 

If there were dreams to sell, 

Merry and sad to tell, 

And the crier rung the bell, 

What would you buy? 

A cottage lone and still, 

With bowers nigh, 

Shadowy, my woes to still, 

Until I die. 

Such pearl from Life's fresh crown 

Fain would I shake me down. 

Were dreams to have at will, 

This would best heal my ill, 

This would I buy. 

But there were dreams to sell, 

mdidst thou buy; 

Life is a dream, they tell, 

Waking. to die. 

Dreaming a dream to prize, 

Is wishing ghosts to rise; 

And, if I had the spell 

To call the buried, well, 

Which one would I? 

Torrismond

[ 809 J THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES 

If there are ghosts to raise, 

What shall I call, 

Out of hell's murky haze, 

Heaven's blue hall? 

Raise my loved longlost boy 

To lead me to his joy. 

There are no ghosts to raise; 

Out of death lead no ways; 

Vain is the call. 

Know'st thou not ghosts to sue? 

No love thou hast. 

Else lie, as I will do, 

And breathe thy last. 

So out of Life's fresh crown 

Fall like a rose-leaf down. 

Thus are the ghosts to woo; 

Thus are all dreams made true, 

Ever to lastl 

Love-in-Idleness 

He: "Shall I be your mst love, lady, shall I be your first? 

Ohl then 111 fall before you down on my velvet knee 

And deeply bend my rosy head and press it upon thee, 

And swear that there is nothing more for which my heart doth 

thirst, 

But a downy kiss and pink 

Between your lips' soft chink." 

She: "Yes, you shall be my mst love, boy, and you shall be my 

mst, 

And I will raise you up again unto my bosom's fold; 

And when you kisses many a one on lip and cheek have told, 

111 let you loose upon the grass, to leave me if you durst; 

And so wel1 toy away 

The night beside the day." 

He: "But let me be your second love, but let me be your 

second, 

For then 111 tap so gently, dear, upon your window pane,

THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES [ 8 1 0 ] 

And creep between the curtains in, where never man has 

lain, 

And never leave thy gentle side till the morning star hath 

beckoned, 

Within the silken lace 

Of thy young arms' embrace." 

She: "Well thou shalt be my second love, yes, gentle boy, my 

second, 

And I will wait at eve for thee within my lonely bower, 

And yield unto thy kisses, like a bud to April's shower, 

From moonset till the tower-clock the hour of dawn hath 

reckoned, 

And lock thee with my arms 

All silent up in charms." 

He: "No, I will be thy third love, lady, aye, I will be the third, 

And break upon thee, bathing, in woody place alone, 

And cateb thee to my saddle and ride o'er stream and stone, 

And press thee well, aud kiss thee well, and never speak a 

word, 

Till thou hast yielded up 

The first taste of love's cup." 

She: "Then thou shalt not be my first love, boy, nor my second, 

nor my third; 

If thou'rt the Hrst, 111 laugh at thee and pierce thy flesh 

with thorns; 

If the second, from my chamber pelt with jeering laugh and 

scorns; 

And if thou darest be the third, I'll draw my dirk unheard 

And cut thy heart in two, 

And then die, weeping you." 

Song 

Who tames the lion now? 

Who smooths Jove's wrinkles now? 

Who is the reckless wight 

That in the horrid middle

[ 8 11 ] THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES 

Of the deserted night 

Doth play upon man's brain. 

As on a wanton fiddle, 

The mad and magic strain, 

The reeling tripping sound, 

To which the world goes round? 

Sing heighl hoI diddle! 

And then say- 

Love, quotha, Love? Nay, nayl 

It is a spirit fine 

Of ale or ancient wine, 

Lord Alcohol, the drunken fay, 

Lord Alcohol alway! 

Who maketh pipe-clay man 

Think all that nature can? 

Who dares the gods to flout, 

Lay fate beneath the table, 

And make him stammer out 

A thousand monstrous things, 

For history a fable, 

Dish-clouts for kings? 

And send the world along 

Singing a ribald song 

Of heighho! Babel? 

Who, I pray- 

Love, quotha, Love? Nay, nayl 

It is a spirit fine 

Of ale or ancient wine, 

Lord Alcohol, the drunken fay, 

Lord Alcohol alwayl 

The Phantom-Wooer 

A ghost, that loved a lady fair, 

Ever in the starry air 

Of midnight at her pillow stood; 

And, with a sweetness skies above 

The luring words of human love, 

Her soul the phantom wooed.

THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES [ 8 1 2 ] 

Sweet and sweet is their poisoned note, 

The little snakes' of sUver throat, 

In mossy skulls that nest and lie, 

Ever singing, "Die, ohl die." 

Young soul put off your flesh, and come 

With me into the quiet tomb, 

Our bed is lovely, dark, and sweet; 

The earth will swing us, as she goes, 

Beneath our coverlid of snows, 

And the warm leaden sheet. 

Dear and dear is their poisoned note, 

The little snakes' of sUver throat, 

In mossy skulls that nest and lie, 

Ever singing, "Die, ohl die." 

Song 

Strew not earth with empty stars, 

Strew it not with roses, 

Nor feathers from the crest of Mars, 

N or summer's idle posies. 

'Tis not the primrose-sandalled moon, 

Nor cold and sUent morn, 

Nor he that climbs the dusty noon, 

Nor mower war with scythe that drops, 

Stuck with helmed and turbanned tops 

Of enemies new shorn. 

Ye cups, ye lyres, ye trumpets know, 

Pour your music, let it How, 

'Tis Bacchus' son who walks below. 

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN 

Dark Rosaleen 

o my dark Rosaleen, 

Do not sigh, do not weepl 

The priests are on the ocean green, 

They march along the deep.

[ 8 1 3 ] JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN 

There's wine from the royal Pope, 

Upon the ocean green; 

And Spanish ale shall give you hope, 

My dark Rosaleenl 

My own Rosaleenl 

Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, 

Shall give you health and help, and hope, 

My dark Rosaleen. 

Over hills and through dales, 

Have I roamed for your sake; 

All yesterday I sailed with sails 

On river and on lake. 

The Erne, at its highest flood, 

I dashed across unseen, 

For there was lightning in my blood, 

My dark Rosaleen! 


Ohl there was lightning in my blood, 

Red lightning lightened through my blood, 


All day long in unrest, 

To and fro do I move, 

The very soul within my breast 

Is wasted for you, lovel 

The heart in my bosom faints 

To think of you, my Queen, 

My life of life, my saint of saints, 

My dark Rosaleen! 


To hear your sweet and sad complaints, 

My life, my love, my saint of saints, 


Woe and pain, pain and woe, 

Are my lot, night and noon, 

To see your bright face clouded so, 

Like to the mournful moon. 

But yet will I rear your throne 

Again in golden sheen;

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN [ 8 1 4 1 

'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, 



'Tis you shall have the golden throne. 

'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, 


Over dews, over sands, 

Will I By for your weal: 

Your holy, delicate white hands 

Shall girdle me with steel. 

At home in your emerald bowers, 

From morning's dawn till e'en, 

You'll pray for me, my Hower of Bowers, 


My fond Rosaleenl 

You'll think of me through daylight's hours, 

My virgin Bower, my Bower of Bowers, 

My dark .Rosaleenl 

I could scale the blue air, 

I could plough the high hills, 

Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer, 

To heal your many illsl 

And one beamy smile from you 

Would Boat like light between 

My toils and me, my own, my true, 


My fond Rosaleenl 

Would give me life and soul anew, 

A second life, a soul anew, 


01 the Erne shall run red 

With redWldance of blood, 

The earth shall rock beneath our tread, 

And Bames wrap hill and wood, 

And gun-peal, and slogan cry 

Wake many a glen serene,

[ 8 1 5 1 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN 

Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, 



The Judgment Hour must first be nigh 

Ere you can fade, ere you can die, 


ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 

Sonnets from the Portuguese 

I 

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 Hung 

A shadow across me. Straightway 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." 

VI 

Co from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand 

Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore 

Alone upon the threshold of my door 

Of individual life, I shall command 

The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 

Serenely in the sunshine as before, 

Without the sense of that which I forbore 

Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land 

Doom takes to part ..tS, leaves thy heart in mine 

With pulses that beat double. What I do

E. B. BROWNING (816] 

And what I dream include thee, as the wine 

Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue 

God for myseJf, He hears that name of thine, 

And sees within my eyes the tears of two. 

XIV 

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, Beloved, 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 therebyl 

But love me for love's sake, that evermore 

Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity. 

XXII 

When our two souls stand up erect and strong, 

Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, 

Until the lengthening wings break into fire 

At either curved point,-what bitter wrong 

Can the earth do to us, that we should not long 

Be here contented? Think. In mounting higher, 

The angels would press on us and aspire 

To drop some golden orb of pedect song 

Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay 

Rather on earth, Beloved,-where the unfit 

Contrarious moods of men recoil away 

And isolate pure spirits, and permit 

A place to stand and love in for a day. 

With darkness and the death-hour rounding it. 

xxvm 

My letters! all dead paper, mute and whitel 

And yet they seem alive and quivering 

Against my tremulous hands which loose the string

[817] E. B. BROWNING 

And let them drop down on my knee to-night. 

This said,-he wished to have me in his sight 

Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring 

To come and touch my hand • . • a simple thing, 

Yet I wept for itl-this, ... the paper's light. 

Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailed 

As if God's future thundered on my past. 

This said, I am thine-and so its ink has paled 

With lying on my heart that beat too fast. 

And this . . . 0 Love, thy words have ill availed 

If, what this said, I dared repeat at lastl 

XXXII 

The nrst time that the sun rose on thine oath 

To love me, I looked forward to the moon 

To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon 

And quickly tied to make a lasting troth. 

Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe; 

And, looking on myself, I seemed not one 

For such man's love I-more like an out-of-tune 

Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth 

To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste, 

Is laid down at the flrst ill-sounding note. 

I did not wrong myself so, but I placed 

A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float 

'Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced, 

And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat. 

xxxv 

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange 

And be all to me? Shall I never miss 

Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss 

That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange, 

When I look up, to drop on a new range 

Of walls and floors, another home than this? 

Nay, wilt thou nIl that place by me which is 

Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change? 

That's hardest. If to conquer love, has tried, 

To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove; 

For grief indeed is love and grief beside.

I!:. B. BROWNING [818] 

Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love. 

Yet love me-wilt thou? Open thine heart wide, 

And fold within the wet wings of thy dove. 

xxxvm 

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed 

The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; 

And ever since, it grew more clean and white, 

Slow to world-greetings, quick with its "Oh, list," 

When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst 

I could not wear here, plainer to my sight, 

Than that mst kiss. The second passed in height 

The mst, and sought the forehead, and half missed, 

Half falling on the hair. 0 beyond meedl 

That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown, 

With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. 

The third upon my lips was folded down 

In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed, 

I have been proud and said, "My love, my own." 

XLm 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. 

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height 

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 

I love thee to the level of everyday's 

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. 

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; 

I love thee purely, as they tum from Praise. 

I love thee with the passion put to use 

In myoId 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 lifel-and, if God choose, 

I shall but love thee better after death.


The Cry of the Children 

Medea: Do ye hear the children weeping, 0 my brothers, 

Ere the sorrow comes with years? 

They are leaning their young heads against their 

mothers, 

And that cannot stop their tears. 

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, 

The young birds are chirping in the nest, 

The young fawns are playing with the shadows, 

The young flowers are blOWing toward the west 

But the young, young children, 0 my brothers, 

They are weeping bitterlyl 

They are weeping in the playtime of the others, 

In the country of the free. 

Do you question the young children in their sorrow, 

Why their tears are falling so? 

The old man may weep for his to-morrow 

Which is lost in Long Ago; 

The old tree is leafless in the forest, 

The old year is ending in the frost, 

The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, 

The old hope is hardest to be lost: 

But the young, young children, 0 my brothers, 

Do you ask them why they stand 

Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, 

In our happy Fatherland? 

They look up with their pale and sunken faces, 

And their looks are sad to see, 

For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses 

Down the cheeks of infancy; 

"Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary, 

Our young feet,'" they say, "are very weak; 

Few paces have we taken, yet are weary 

Our grave-rest is very far to seek:

E. B. BROWNlNG [820 ) 

Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children, 

For the outside earth is cold, 

And we young ones stand without, in our bewilder· 

ing, 

And the graves are for the old." 

"True," say the children, "it may happen 

That we die before our time: 

Little Alice died last year, her grave is shapen 

Like a snowball, in the rime. 

We looked into the pit prepared to take her: 

Was no room for any work in the close clayl 

From the sleep wherein she Heth none will wake her, 

Crying, 'Get up, little Alicel it is day: 

If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, 

With your ear down, little Alice never cries; 

Could we see her face, be sure we should not know 

her, 

For the smile has time for growing in her eyes: 

And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in 

The shroud by the kirk-chime. 

It is good when it happens," say the children, 

"That we die before our time." 

Alas, alas, the children I They are seeking 

Death in life, as best to have: 

They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, 

With a cerement from the grave. 

Go out, children, from the mine and from the city, 

Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do; 

Pluck you handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty, 

Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through I 

But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows 

Like our weeds anear the mine? 

Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, 

From your pleasures fair and nnel 

"For oh," say the children, "we are weary 

And we cannot run or leap; 

If we cared for any meadows, it were merely 

To drop down in them and sleep.


Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping, 

We fall upon our faces, trying to go; 

And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping 

The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. 

For, all ru.y, we drag our burden tiring 

Through the coal-dark, underground; 

Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron 

In the factories, round and round. 

"For all day the wheels are droning, turning; 

Their wind comes in our faces, 

Till our hearts turn, our heads with pulses burning, 

And the walls turn in their places; 

Turns the sky in the high window, blank and reeling, 

Turns the long light that drops adown the wall, 

Tum the black flies that crawl along the ceiling: 

All are turning, all the day, and we with all. 

And all day, the iron wheels are droning, 

And sometimes we could pray, 

'0 ye wheels' (breaking out in a mad moaning) 

'StopI be silent ror to-dayt' .. 

Ayl be silent! Let them hear each other breathing 

For a moment, mouth to mouth! 

Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing 

Of their tender human youthl 

Let them feel that this cold metallic motion 

Is not all the life God fashions or reveals: 

Let them prove their living souls against the notion 

That they live in you, or under you, 0 wheelsl 

Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, 

Grinding life down from its mark; 

And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, 

Spin on blindly in the dark. 

Now tell the poor young children, 0 my brothers, 

To look up to Him, and pray, 

So the blessed One who blesseth all the others, 

Will bless them another day.

E. B. BROWNING [822] 

They answer, "Who is God that He should hear us, 

While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred? 

When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us 

Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word. 

And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) 

Strangers speaking at the door: 

Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, 

Hears our weeping any more? 

"Two words, indeed, of praying we remember, 

And at midnight's hour of harm, 

'Our Father', looking upward in the chamber, 

We say softly for a charm. 

We know no other words except 'Our Father', 

And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, 

God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, 

And hold both within His right hand which is 

strong. 

'Our Fatherl' H He heard us, He would surely 

(For they call Him good and mild) 

Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, 

'Come and rest with me, my child: 

"But, nol" say the children, weeping faster, 

"He is speechless as a stone: 

And they tell us, of His image is the master 

Who commands us to work on. 

Go tol" say the children,-"up in Heaven, 

Dark, wheel.like, turning clouds are all we find. 

Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving: 

We look up for God; but tears have made us 

blind." 

Do you hear the children weeping and disproving, 

o my brothers, what ye preach? 

For God's possible is taught by His world's loving, 

And the children doubt of each. 

And well may the children weep before you! 

They are weary ere they run; 

They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory 

Which is brighter than the sun.


They know the grief of man, without its wisdom; 

They sink in man's despair, without its cahn; 

Axe slaves. without the liberty in Christdom, 

Axe martyrs, by the pang without the pahn: 

Axe worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly 

The harvest of its memories cannot reap, 

Axe orphans of the earthly love and heavenly. 

Let them weepllet them weepl 

They look up with their pale and sunken faces, 

And their look is dread to see, 

For they mind you of their angels in high places, 

With eyes turned on Deity. 

"How long," they say, "how long, 0 cruel nation, 

Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's 

heart,- 

Stille down with a mailed heel its palpitation, 

And tread onward to your throne amid the mart? 

Our blood splashes upward, 0 gold-heaper, 

And your purple shows your pathl 

But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper 

Than the strong man in his wrath." 

lfENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 

Hymn to the Night 

I heard the trailing garments of the Night 

Sweep through her marble haIls! 

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light 

From the celestial walls! 

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 

Stoop o'er me from above; 

The cahn, majestic presence of the Night, 

As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, 

The manifold soft chimes, 

That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, 

Like some old poet's rhymes. 

(1807-188~)

H. W. LONGFELLOW [824} 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 

My spirit drank repose; 

The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, 

From those deep cisterns flows. 

o holy Night! from thee I learn to bear 

What man has borne before! 

Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 

And they complain no more. 

PeaceI PeaceI Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! 

Descend with broad-winged flight, 

The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, 

The best-beloved Nightl 

Serenade 

Stars of the summer night! 

Far in yon azure deeps, 

Hide, hide your golden light! 

She sleeps! 

My lady sleeps! 

SleepsI 

Moon of the summer nightl 

Far down yon western steeps, 

Sink, sink in silver light! 

She sleeps! 

My lady sleeps I 

Sleepsl 

Wind of the summer nightl 

Where yonder woodbine creeps. 

Fold, fold thy pinions light! 

She sleeps! 

My lady sleepsl 

Sleeps!

[825l H. W. LONGFELLOW 

Dreams of the summer nightl 

Tell her, her lover keeps 

Watchl while in slumbers light 

She sleeps! 

My lady sleeps I 

Sleeps! 

The Spanish Student 

Suspiria 

Take them, 0 Deathl and bear away 

Whatever thou canst call thine own! 

Thine image, stamped upon this clay, 

Doth give thee that;, but that alone! 

Take them, 0 Gravel and let them lie 

Folded upon thy narrow shelves, 

As garments by the soul laid by, 

And precious only to ourselvesl 

Take them, 0 great Eternityl 

Onr little life is but a. gust 

That bends the branches of thy tree, 

And trails its blossoms in the dust! 

My Lost Youth 

Often I think of the beautiful town 

That is seated by the sea; 

Often in thought go up and down 

The pleasant streets of that dear old town, 

And my youth comes back to me. 

And a verse of a Lapland song 

Is haunting my memory still: 

"A boy's will is the wind's will, 

And the thoughts of youth are long. long thoughts."

H. W. LONGFELLOW [826] 

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, 

And catch, in sudden gleams, 

The sheen of the faNurrounding seas, 

And islands that were the Hesperides 

Of all my boyish dreams. 

And the burden of that old song, 

It murmurs and whispers still: 


And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I remember the black wharves and the slips, 

And the sea-tides tossing free; 

And Spanish sallors with bearded lips, 

And the beauty and mystery of the ships, 

And the magic of the sea. 

And the voice of the wayward song 

Is singing and saying still: 



I remember the bulwarks by the shore, 

And the fort upon the hill; 

The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, 

The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, 

And the bugle wild and shrill. 

And the music of that old song 

Throbs in my memory still: 



I remember the sea-fight far away, 

How it thundered o'er the tidel 

And the dead captains, as they lay 

In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay, 

Where they in battle died. 

And the sound of that mournful song 

Goes through me with a thrill: 


And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

[827] H. W. LONGFELLOW 

I can see the breezy dome of groves, 

The shadows of Deering's Woods; 

And the friendships old and the early loves 

Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves 

In quiet neighborhoods. 

And the verse of that sweet old song, 

It Butters and murmurs still: 



I remember the gleams and glooms that dart 

Across the school-boy's brain; 

The song and the silence in the heart, 

That in part are prophecies, and in part 

Are longings wild and vain. 

And the voice of that fitful song 

Sings on, and is never still: 



There are things of which I may not speak; 

There are dreams that cannot die; 

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, 

And bring a pallor into the cheek, 

And a mist before the eye. 

And the words of that fatal song 

Come over me like a chill: 



Strange to me now are the forms I meet 

When I visit the dear old town; 

But the native air is pure and sweet, 

And the trees that 0'ershadow each well-known street, 

As they balance up and down, 

Are singing the beautiful song, 

Are sighing and whispering still: 


And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

H. W. LONGFELLOW [828] 

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, 

And with JOY that is almost pain 

My heart goes back to wander there, 

And among the dreams of the days that were, 

I find my lost youth again. 

And the strange and beautiful song, 

The groves are repeating it still: 

" A boy's will is the wind's will, 


"Some Day, Some Day" 

Some day, some day, 

o troubled breast, 

Shalt thou find rest. 

If Love in thee 

To grief give birth, 

Six feet of earth 

Can mOre than he; 

There calm and free 

And unoppressed 

Shalt thou find rest. 

The unattained 

In 1i£e at last, 

When life is passed, 

Shall all be gained; 

And no more pained, 

No more distressed, 

Shalt thou find rest. 

Divina Commedia 

Oft have I seen at some cathedral door 

A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat, 

Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet 

Enter, and cross himself, and on the Hoor 

Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er; 

Far off the noises of the world retreat; 

The loud vociferations of the street

[829] H. W. LONGFELLOW 

Become an undistinguishable roar. 

So, as I enter here from day to day, 

And leave my burden at this minster gate, 

Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, 

The tumult of the time disconsolate 

To inarticulate murmurs dies away, 

While the eternal ages watch and wait. 

Ultima Thule 

(DEDICATION) 

With favoring winds o'er sunlit seas, 

We sailed for the Hesperides, 

The land where the golden apples grow; 

But that, ahl that was long ago. 

How far, since then, the ocean streams 

Have swept us from that land of dreams, 

That land of fiction and of truth, 

The lost Atlantis of our youthl 

Whither, ab, whither? Are not these 

The tempest-haunted Hebrides, 

Where sea-gulls scream, and breakers roar, 

And wreck and sea-weed line the shore? 

Ultima Thule! Utmost Islel 

Here in thy harbors for a while 

We lower our sails; a while we rest 

From the unending, endless quest. 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 

HI Call the Old Time Back ..." 

(1807-1892) 

I call the old time back: I bring these lays 

To thee, in memory of the summer days 

When, by our native streams and forest ways,

JOHN GREENLEAF WlUTTlER [8 3 0 1 

We dreamed them over; while the rivulets made 

Songs of their own, and the great pine-trees laid 

On warm noon-lights the masses of their shade. 

And she was with us, living o'er again 

Her life in ours, despite of years and pain, 

The autnmn's brightness after latter rain. 

Beautiful in her holy peace as one 

Who stands, at evening, when the work is done, 

Glormed in the setting of the sun! 

Her memory makes our common landscape seem 

Fairer than any of which painters dream, 

Lights the brown hills and sings in every stream; 

For she whose speech was always truth's pure gold 

Heard, not unpleased, its Simple legends told, 

And loved with us the beautiful and old. 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 

The Voiceless 

We count the broken lyres that rest 

Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, 

But o'er their silent sister's breast 

The wild-flowers who will stoop to number? 

A few can touch the magic string, 

And noisy Fame is proud to win them: 

Alas for those that never sing, 

But die with all their music in them! 

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone 

Whose song has told their hearts' sad story, 

Weep for the voiceless, who have known 

The cross without the crown of glory! 

Not where Leucadian breezes sweep 

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, 

But where the glistening night-dews weep 

On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.

[ 8 3 1 J OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 

o hearts that break and give no sign 

Save whitening lip and fading tresses, 

Till Death pours out his longed-for wine 

Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses, 

H singing breath or echoing chord 

To every hidden pang were given, 

What endless melodies were poured, 

As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven I 

Mter a Lecture on Keats 

The wreath that star-crowned Shelley gave 

Is lying on thy Roman grave, 

Yet on its turf young April sets 

Her store of slender violets; 

Though all the Gods their garlands shower, 

I too may bring one purple flower. 

Alasl what blossom shall I bring, 

That opens in my Northern spring? 

The garden beds have all run wild, 

So trim when I was yet a child; 

Flat plantains and unseemly stalks 

Have crept across the gravel walks; 

The vines are dead, long, long ago, 

The almond buds no longer blow. 

No more upon its mound I see 

The azure, plume-bound fleur-de-lis; 

Where once the tulips used to show, 

In straggling tufts the pansies grow; 

The grass has quenched my white-rayed gem, 

The flowering "Star of Bethlehem", 

Though its long blade of glossy green 

And pallid stripe may stilI be seen. 

Nature, who treads her nobles down, 

And gives their birthright to the clown, 

Has sown her base-born weedy things 

About the garden's queens and kings. 

Yet one sweet flower of ancient race 

Springs in the old familiar place. 

When snows were melting down the vale,

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES [ 8 3 2 1 

And Earth unlaced her icy mail, 

And March his stormy trumpet blew, 

And tender green came peeping through, 

I loved the earliest one to seek 

That broke the soil with emerald beak, 

And watch the trembling bells so blue 

Spread on the column as it grew. 

Meek child of earthl thou wilt not shame 

The sweet, dead poet's holy name; 

The God of music gave thee birth, 

Called from the crimson-spotted earth, 

Where, sobbing his young life away, 

His own fair Hyacinthus lay. 

The hyacinth my garden gave 

Shall lie upon that Roman gravel 

EDWARD FITZGERALD 

(18o

[ 833) EDW AlID FITZGERALD 

Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose, 

And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows; 

But still a Ruby gushes from the Vine, 

And many a Garden by the Water blows. 

And David's lips are lockt; but in divine 

High-piping Pehlev!, with "Winel Winel Winel 

Red Wine'''-the Nightingale cries to the Rose 

That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine. 

Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring 

Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling; 

The Bird of Time has but a little way 

To flutter-and the Bird is on the Wing. 

Whether at NaishapUr or Babylon, 

Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run, 

The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, 

The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one. 

Each Mom a thousand Roses brings, you say; 

Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday? 

And this first Summer month that brings the Rosp 

Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away. 

Well, let it take theml What have we to do 

With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru? 

Let Zal and Rustum thunder as they will, 

Or Ha.tim call to Supper-heed not you. 

With me along the strip of Herbage strown 

That just divides the desert from the sown, 

Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot 

And Peace to M{ilimud on his golden Throne! 

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, 

A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread-and Thou 

Beside me singing in the Wilderness 

Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enowl

EDWAHD Fl'J"?;GERALD [8341 

Some for the Glories of This World; and some 

Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come; 

Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, 

Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum! 

Look to the blOwing Rose about us-La, 

«Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow, 

At once the silken tassel of my Purse 

Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw." 

And those who husbanded the Golden grain, 

And those who flung it to the winds like Rain, 

Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd 

As, buried once, Men want dug up again. 

The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon 

Turns Ashes-or it prospers; and anon, 

Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face 

Lighting a little hour or two-was gone. 

Think, in this batter d Caravanserai 

Whose portals are alternate Night and Day, 

How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp 

Abode his destin'd Hour, and went his way. 

They say the Lion and the Lizard keep 

The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep; 

And Bahram, that great Hunter-the Wild Ass 

Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep. 

I sometimes think that never blows so red 

The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; 

That every Hyacinth the Garden wears 

Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head. 

And this reviving Herb whose tender Green 

Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean 

Ah, lean upon it lightlyI for who knows 

From what once lovely lip it springs unseenl

[835] EDWARD FITZGERALD 

Ab, my Beloved, flll the Cup that clears 

To-Day of past Regret and future Fears: 

To-11WfTow!-Why, To-morrow 1 may be 

Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years. 

For some we loved, the loveliest and the best 

That from his Vintage rolling Time has prest, 

Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, 

And one by one crept silently to rest. 

And we, that now make merry in the Room 

They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom, 

Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth 

Descend-ourselves to make a Couch-for whoml 

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, 

Before we too into the Dust descend; 

Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie, 

Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans Endl 

Alike for those who £or To-Day prepare, 

And those that after some To-Morrow stare, 

A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries, 

"Foolsl your reward is neither Here nor There." 

Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd 

Of the Two Worlds so learnedly are thrust 

Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn 

Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust. 

Myself when young did eagerly frequent 

Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument 

About it and about: but evermore 

Came out by that same door where in I went. 

With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow, 

And with my own hand wrought to make it grow; 

And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd 

"I came like Water, aud like Wind I go."

EDWABD FITZGERALD [836 ] 

Into this Universe, and Why not knowing, 

Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly Bowing; 

And out of it, as Wind along the Waste, 

I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing. 

What, without asking, hither hurried Whence? 

And, without asking, Whither hurried hencel 

Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine 

Must drown tbe memory of that insolenceI 

Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate 

I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate, 

And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road; 

But not the Master-knot of Human Fate. 

There was the Door to which I found no Key; 

There was the Veil througb which I could not see: 

Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee 

There was-and then no more of Thee and Me. 

Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn 

In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn; 

Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveaI'd 

And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn. 

Then of the Thee in Me who works behind 

The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find 

A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard, 

As from Without-"The Me Witbin Thee Blindl" 

Then, to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn 

I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn: 

And Lip to Lip it murmur'd-"While you live, 

Drinkl-for, once dead, you never shall return." 

I think the Vessel, that with fugitive 

Articulation answer'd, once did live 

And drink: and Ahl the passive Lip I kiss'd 

How many Kisses might it take-and give!

[837] EDWAHD FITZGERALD 

For I remember stopping by the way 

To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay, 

And with its all-obUterated Tongue 

It munnur'd-"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!" 

And has not such a Story from of Old 

Down Man's successive generations roU'd 

Of such a clod of saturated Earth 

Cast by the Maker into Human Mould? 

And not a drop that from our Cups we throw 

For Earth to drink of, but may steal below 

To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye 

There hidden-far beneath, and long ago. 

As then the TuUp for her morning sup 

Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up, 

Do you devoutly do the Uke, till Heav'n 

To Earth invert you-Uke an empty Cup. 

Perplext no more with Human or Divine, 

To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign, 

And lose your fingers in the tresses of 

The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine. 

And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press, 

End in what All begins and ends in-Yes: 

Think then you are To-Day what Yesterday 

You were-To-Morrow you shall not be less. 

So when that Angel of the darker Drink 

At last shall find you by the river-brink, 

And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul 

Forth to your Lips to quaff-you shall not shrink. 

Why. if the Soul can fUng the Dust aside, 

And naked on the Air of Heaven ride, 

Were't not a Shame-were't not a Shame for him 

In this clay carcase Crippled to abide?

EDWARD FITZGERALD [838] 

'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest 

A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest; 

The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash 

Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest. 

And fear not lest Existence closing your 

Account, and mine, should know the like no more; 

The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd 

Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour. 

When You and I behind the Veil are past, 

Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last, 

Which of our Coming and Departure heeds 

As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast. 

A Moment's Halt-a momentary taste 

Of Being from the Well amid the Waste 

And Lol-the phantom Caravan has reach'd 

The Nothing it set out from-Oh, make haste! 

Would you that spangle of Existence spend 

About The Secret-quick about it, Friendl 

A Hair perhaps divides the False and True 

And upon what, prithee, may life depend? 

A Hair perhaps divides the False and True-. 

Yes; and a single Alif were the clue- 

Could you but find it-to the Treasure-house, 

And peradventure to The Master too; 

Whose secret Presence, through Creation's veins 

Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains; 

Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi; and 

They change and perish all-but He remains; 

A moment guess'd-then back behind the Fold 

Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll'd 

Which, for the Pastime of Eternity, 

He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.

[839} EDWARD FlTZGERALD 

But if in vain, down on the stubborn Boor 

Of Earth, and up to Heav'n's unopening Door, 

You gaze To-Day, while You are You-how then 

To-Morrow, You when shall be You no more? 

Waste not your hour, nor in the vain pursuit 

Of This and That endeavour and dispute; 

Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape 

Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit. 

You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse 

I made a Second Marriage in my house; 

Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed, 

And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse. 

For "Is" and "Is-Not" though with Rule and Line 

And "Up-And-Down" by Logic I define, 

Of all that one should care to fathom, I 

Was never deep in anything but-Wine. 

Ah, but my Computations, People say, 

Reduced the Year to better Reckoning? Nay, 

'Twas only striking from the Calendar 

Unborn To-morrow and dead Yesterday. 

And lately, by the Tavern Door agape, 

Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape 

Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and 

He bid me taste of it; and 'twas-the Grapel 

The Grape that can with Logic absolute 

The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute: 

The Sovereign Alchemist that in a trice 

Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute: 

The mighty Mahmud, Allah-breathing Lord, 

That all the misbelieving and black Horde 

Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul 

Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.

EDWAlID l'ITZGERALD [840) 

Why, be this Juice the Growth of God, who dare 

Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare? 

A Blessing, we should use it, should we not? 

And if a Curse-why, then, Who set it there? 

I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must, 

Scared by some After-reckoning ta'en on trust, 

Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink, 

To fill the Cup-when crumbled into Dust! 

Oh threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise I 

One thing at least is certain-This Life flies; 

One thing is certain and the rest is Lies; 

The Flower that once has blown for ever dies. 

Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who 

Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through, 

Not one returns to tell us of the Road, 

Which to discover we must travel too. 

The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd 

Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd, 

Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep 

They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd. 

I sent my Soul through the Invisible. 

Some letter of the After-life to spell: 

And by and by my Soul return'd to me, 

And answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:" 

Heav'n but the Vision of fulfilI'd Desire, 

And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire, 

Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves, 

So late emerged from, shall so soon expire. 

We are no other than a moving row 

Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go 

Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held 

In Midnight by the Master of the Show;

[8411 EDWARD FITZGERALD 

But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays 

Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days; 

Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays, 

And one by one back in the Closet lays. 

The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, 

But Here or There as strikes the Player goes; 

And He that toss'd you down into the Field, 

He knows about it all-HE knows-HE knowsl 

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ. 

Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit 

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, 

Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it. 

And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky, 

Whereunder crawling ooop'd we live and die, 

Lift not your hands to It for help-for It 

As impotently moves as you or 1. 

With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead, 

And there of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed: 

And the first Morning of Creation wrote 

What the Last Dawn of ReckOning shall read. 

Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare; 

To-Morrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair: 

Drinkl for you know not whence you came, nor why: 

Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where. 

I tell you this-When, started from the Goal, 

Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal 

Of Heav'n Parwm and Mushtari they Hung. 

In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul 

The Vine had struck a fibre: which about 

If clings my being-let the Dervish Hout; 

Of my Base metal may be filed a Key 

That shall unlock the Door he howls without.

EDWARD FITZGERALD [842] 

And this I know: whether the one True Light 

Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me quite, 

One F1ash of It within the Tavern caught 

Better than in the Temple lost outright. 

Whatl out of Senseless Nothing to provoke 

A conscious Something to resent the yoke 

Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain 

Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke! 

'Whatl from his helpless Creature be repaid 

Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allay'd 

Sue for a Debt he never did contract, 

And cannot answer-Oh the sorry trade! 

Oh Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin 

Beset the Road I was to wander in, 

Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round 

Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sinl 

Oh Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make, 

And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake: 

For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man 

Is blacken'd-Man's forgiveness give-and take! 

As under cover of departing Day 

Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazan away, 

Once more within the Potter's house alone 

I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay. 

Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small, 

That stood along the floor and by the wa11; 

And some loquacious Vessels were; and some 

Listen'd perhaps, but never talk'd at all. 

Said one among them-"Surely not in vain 

My substance of the common Earth was ta'en 

And to this Figure moulded, to be broke, 

Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again,"

[843] EDWARD FITZGERALD 

Then said a Second-"Ne'er a peevish Boy 

Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy; 

And He that with his hand the Vessel made 

Will surely not in after Wrath destroy." 

After a momentary silence spake 

Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make; 

"They sneer at me for leaning all awry; 

What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?" 

Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot 

I think a SUfi pipkin-waxing hot 

"All this of Pot and Potter-Tell me then, 

Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?" 

"Why," said another, "Some there are who tell 

Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell 

The luckless Pots he marr'd in making-Pishl 

He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well." 

"Well," murmur'd one, "Let whoso make or buy, 

My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry: 

But fill me with the old familiar Juice, 

Methinks I might recover by and by." 

So while the Vessels one by one were speaking, 

The little Moon look'd in that all were seeking: 

And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother, Brotherl 

Now for the Porter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!" 

.. 

" " " 

" " 

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life prOvide, 

And wash the Body whence the Life has died, 

And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf, 

By some not unfrequented Garden-side. 

That ev'n my buried Ashes such a snare 

Of Vintage shall fling up into the Air 

As not a True-believer passing by 

But shall be overtaken unaware.

EDWAlU) FITZGERALD [844] 

Indeed the Idols I have loved so long 

Have done my credit in this World much wrong: 

Have drown'd my Glory in a shallow Cup, 

And sold my Reputation for a Song. 

Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before 

I swore-but was I sober when I swore? 

And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand 

My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore. 

And much as Wine has played the Infidel, 

And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour-Well, 

I wonder often what the Vintners buy 

One half so precious as the stuff they sell. 

Yet Ab, that Spring should vanish with the Rosel 

That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should closet 

The Nightingale that in the branches sang, 

Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knowsl 

Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield 

One glimpse-if dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd, 

To which the fainting Traveller might spring, 

As springs the trampled herbage of the fieldl 

Would but some winged Angel ere too late 

Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate, 

And make the stern Recorder otherwise 

Enregister, or quite obliterate! 

Ab Love! could you and I with Him conspire 

To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, 

Would not we shatter it to bits-and then 

Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire! 

• • 

Yon rising Moon that looks for us again- 

How oft hereafter will she wax and wane; 

How oft hereafter rising look for us 

Through this same Garden-and for one in vain1

1845 J EDWARD FITZGERALD 

And when like her, oh Saki, you shall pass 

Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass, 

And in your joyous errand reach the spot 

Where I made One-turn down an empty Glass! 

Tamam 

ALFRED TENNYSON, LORD TENNYSON 

( 1809-1 892;) 

Mariana 

Mariana in the mooted grange. 

-Measure for Measure 

With blackest moss the Hower-plots 

Were thickly crusted, one and all: 

The rusted nails fell from the knots 

That held the pear to the gable-wall. 

The broken sheds looked sad and strange, 

Unlifted was the clinking latch; 

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 

Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, "My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said; 

She said, "I am aweary, aweary, 

1 would that 1 were deadl" 

Her tears fell with the dews at even; 

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; 

She could not look on the sweet heaven, 

Either at morn or eventide. 

After the Hitting of the bats, 

When thickest dark did trance the sky, 

She drew her casement-curtllin by, 

And glanced athwart the glooming Hats. 

She only said, "The night is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said; 

She said, "I am aweary, aweary, 

1 would that 1 were dead!"

LOBD TENNYSON [846J 

Upon the middle of the night, 

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow; 

The cock sung out an hour ere light: 

From the dark fen the oxen's low 

Came to her: without hope of change, 

In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn, 

Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn 

About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, "The day is dreary, 



1 would that I were dead!" 

About a stone-cast from the wall 

A sluice with blackened waters slept, 

And o'er it many, round and small, 

The clustered marish-mosses crept. 

Hard by a poplar shook alway, 

All silver-green with gnarled bark: 

For leagues no other tree did mark 

The level waste, the rounding gray. 

She only said, "My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said; 

She said, "1 am aweary, aweary, 

I would that 1 were dead I" 

And ever when the moon was low, 

And the shrill winds were up and away, 

In the white curtain, to and fro, 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 

But when the moon was very low, 

And wild winds bound within their cell, 

The shadow of the poplar fell 

Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, "The night is dreary, 



1 would that 1 were dead!" 

All day within the dreamy house, 

The doors upon their hinges creaked;

[841J LORD TENNYSON 

The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse 

Behind the mouldering wainscot shrieked, 

Or from the crevice peered about. 

Old faces glimmered thro' the doors, 

Old footsteps trod the upper floors, 

Old voices called her from without. 

She only said, "My life is dreary, 


She said, "1 am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were deadl" 

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, 

The slow clock ticking, and the sound 

Which to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 

Her sense; but most she loathed the hour 

When the thick-moted sunbeam lay 

Athwart the chamber, and the day 

Was sloping toward his western bower. 

Then, said she, "1 am very dreary, 

He will not come," she said; 

She wept, "1 am aweary, aweary, 

Oh God, that I were deadl" 

Choric Song of the Lotos-Eaters 

There is sweet music here that softer falls 

Than petals from blown roses on the grass, 

Or night-dews on still waters between walls 

Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; 

Music that gentlier on the spirit lies 

Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes; 

Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful sides. 

Here are cool mosses deep, 

And through the moss the ivies creep. 

And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, 

And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

WIlD TENNYSON [848J 

Why are we weighed upon with heaviness, 

And utterly consumed with sharp distress, 

While all things else have rest from weariness? 

All things have rest: why should we toil alone, 

We only toil, who are the first of things, 

And make perpetual moan, 

Still from one sorrow to another thrown; 

Nor ever fold our wings, 

And cease from wanderings, 

Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; 

Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, 

"There is no joy but calm!" 

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? 

Lol in the middle of the wood, 

The folded leaf is wooed from out the bud 

With winds upon the branch, and there 

Grows green and broad, and takes no care, 

Sun-steeped at noon, and in the moon 

Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow 

Falls, and Hoats adown the air. 

Lol sweetened with the summer light, 

The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, 

Drops in a silent autumn night. 

All its allotted length of days 

The Hower ripens in its place, 

Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, 

Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 

Hateful is the dark-blue sky, 

Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 

Death is the end of life; ah, why 

Should life all labour be? 

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, 

And in a little while our lips are dumb. 

Let us alone. What is it that will last? 

All things are taken from us, and become 

Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.' 

Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 

To war with evil? Is there any peace 

In ever climbing up the climbing wave?

(849J LORD TENNYSON 

All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave 

In silence-ripen, fall, and cease: 

Give us long rest or death~ dark death, or dreamful ease. 

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, 

With half-shut eyes ever to seem 

Falling asleep in a half-dreaml 

To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, 

Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; 

To hear each other's whispered speech; 

Eating the Lotos day by day, 

To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, 

And tender curving lines of creamy spray; 

To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 

To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; 

To muse and brood and live again in memory, 

With those old faces of our infancy 

Heaped over with a mound of grass, 

Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! 

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, 

And dear the last embraces of our wives 

And their warm tears; but all hath suffered change; 

For surely now our household hearths are cold, 

Our sons inherit us, our looks are strange, 

And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. 

Or else the island princes over-bold 

Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings 

Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, 

And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. 

Is there confusion in the little isle? 

Let what is broken so remain. 

The Gods are hard to reconcile; 

'Tis hard to settle order once again. 

There is confusion worse than death, 

Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, 

Long labour unto aged breath, 

Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars 

And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.

LORD TENNYSON (850) 

But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, 

How sweet-while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly 

With half-dropt eyelid still, 

Beneath a heaven dark and holy, 

To watch the long bright river drawing slowly 

His waters from the purple hill- 

To hear the dewy echoes calling 

From cave to cave through the thick-twined vine 

To watch the emerald-coloured water falling 

Through many a woven acanthus-wreath divinel 

Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, 

Only to hear were sweet, stretched out beneath the pine. 

The Lotos blooms below the barren peak, 

The Lotos blows by every winding creek; 

All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone; 

Through every hollow cave and alley lone 

Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is 

blown. 

We have had enough of action, and of motion we, 

Rolled to starboard, rolled to larboard, when the surge was 

seething free, 

Where the wallOWing monster spouted his foam-fountains 

in the sea. 

Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, 

In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined 

On the hills like Cods together, careless of mankind. 

For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled 

Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly 

curled 

Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world; 

Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, 

Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and 

fiery sands, 

Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships and 

praying hands. 

But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song 

Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, 

Like a tale of little meaning though the words are strong; 

Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,

[851 ] LORD TENNYSON 

Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, 

Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; 

Till they perish and they suffer-some, 'tis whispered-down 

in hell 

Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, 

Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. 

Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore 

Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; 

0, rest, brother mariners, we will not wander more. 

CEnone 

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 

Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 

The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, 

Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, 

And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 

The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down 

Hang rich in Bowers, and far below them roars 

The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine 

In cataract after cataract to the sea. 

Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 

Stands up and takes the morning: but in front 

The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 

Troas and Ilion's columnd citadel, 

The crown of Troas. 

Hither came at noon 

Mournful

LORD TENNYSON [852) 

Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead. 

The purple flower droops: the golden bee 

Is lily-cradled: I alone awake. 

My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, 

My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, 

And I am all aweary of my life. 

"0 mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, 

Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 

Hear me, 0 Earth, hear me, 0 Hills, 0 Caves 

That house the cold crowned snakel 0 mountain brooks, 

I am the daughter of a River-God, 

Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all 

My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls 

Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 

A cloud that gathered shape: for it may be 

That, while I speak of it, a little while 

My heart may wander from its deeper woe. 

"0 mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, 


I waited underneath the dawning hills, 

Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, 

And dewy-dark aloft the mountain-pine: 

Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 

Leading a jet-black goat white-homed, white-hooved, 

Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 

"0 mother Ida, harken ere I die. 

Far off the torrent called me from the cleft: 

Far up the solitary morning smote 

The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes 

I sat alone: white-breasted like a star 

Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skin 

Drooped from his shoulder but his sunny hair 

Clustered about his temples like a God's: 

And his cheeks brightened as the foam-bow brightens 

When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart 

Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came.

[853) LORD TENNYSON 

"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 

He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm 

Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, 

That smelt ambrosially, and while I looked 

And listened, the full-Howing river of speech 

Came down upon my heart. 

" 'My own

LORD TENNYSON [854] 

"0 mother Ida, harken ere I rue. 

On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, 

And o'er him Howed a golden cloud, and leaned 

Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. 

Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom 

Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows 

Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods 

Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made 

ProHer of royal power, ample rule 

Unquestioned, overflowing revenue 

Wherewith to embellish state, 'from many a vale 

And river-sundered champaign clothed with corn, 

Or laboured mine undrainable of ore. 

Honour,' she said, 'and homage, tax and toll, 

From many an inland town and haven large, 

Mast-thronged beneath her shadowing citadel 

In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' 

"0 mother Ida, harken ere I die. 

Still she spake on and still she spake of power, 

'Which in all action is the end of all; 

Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred 

And throned of wisdom-from all neighbour crowns 

Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 

Fail from the sceptre-staH. Such boon from me, 

From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born, 

A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born, 

Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power 

Only, are likest gods, who have attained 

Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 

Above the thunder, with undying bliss 

In knowledge of their own supremacy.' 


She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit 

Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power 

Flattered his spirit; but Pallas where she stood 

Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs 

0'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear 

Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold,

[855 J LOEID TENNYSON 

The while, above, her full and earnest eye 

Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek 

Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. 

"'Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, 

These three alone lead life to sovereign power. 

Yet not for power (power of herself 

Would come uncalled for) but to live by law, 

Acting the law we live by without fear; 

And, because rigbt is right, to follow right 

Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence: 


Again she said: 'I woo thee not with gifts. 

Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 

To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am 

So shalt thou find me fairest. 

Yet, indeed, 

If gazing on divinity disrobed 

Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, 

Unbias'd by self-profit, ohl rest thee sure 

That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, 

So that my vigour, wedded to thy blood, 

Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, 

To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks, 

Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow 

Sinewed with action, and the full-grown will, 

Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 

Commeasure perfect freedom.' 

"Here she ceased, 

And Paris pondered, and I cried, '0 Paris, 

Give it to Pallasf but he heard me not, 

Or hea:r:ing would not hear me, woe is mel 

"Oh mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, 


Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, 

Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells, 

Withrosy slender fingers backward drew 

From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair 

Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat


And shoulder: from the violets her Ught foot 

Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form 

Between the shadows of the vine-bunches 

Floated the glowing sunUghts, as she moved. 


She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, 

The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh 

Half-whispered in his ear, 'I promise thee 

The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' 

She spoke and laughed: 1 shut my sight for fear: 

But when I looked, Paris had raised his arm, 

And I beheld great Here's angry eyes, 

As she withdrew into the golden cloud, 

And 1 was left alone within the bower; 

And from that time to this I am alone, 

And I shall be alone until I die. 

"Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die. 

Fairest-why fairest wife? am I not fair? 

My love hath told me so a thousand times. 

Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, 

When I past by, a wild and wanton pard, 

Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail 

Crouched fawning in the weed. Most loving is she? 

Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms 

Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest 

Close, close to thine in that quick-fallen dew 

Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains 

Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. 

"0 mother, hear me yet before I die. 

They came, they cut away my tallest pines, 

My tall dark pines, that plumed the craggy ledge 

High over the blue gorge, and all between 

The snowy peak and snow-white cataract 

Fostered the callow eaglet-from beneath 

Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn 

The panther's roar came mufHed, while I sat 

Low in the valley. Never, never more 

Shall lone (Enone see the morning mist

[8571 WIlD TENNYSON 

Sweep thro' them; never see them overlaid 

With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, 

Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. 


I wish that somewhere in the ruined folds, 

Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, 

Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her 

The Abominable, that uninvited came 

Into the fair Peleian banquet-hall, 

And cast the golden fruit upon the board, 

And bred this change; that I might speak my mind, 

And tell her to her face how much I hate 

Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. 


Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, 

In this green valley, under this green hill, 

Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? 

Sealed it with kisses? watered it with tears? 

o happy tears, and how unlike to thesel 

o happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face? 

o happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight? 

o death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, 

There are enough unhappy on this earth, 

Pass by the happy souls, that love to live: 

I pray thee, pass before my light of life, 

And shadow all my soul, that I may die. 

Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, 

Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die. 

"0 mother, hear me yet before I die. 

I will not die alone, for nery thoughts 

Do shape themselves within me, more and more, 

Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 

Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, 

Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly See 

My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother 

Conjectures of the features of her child 

Ere it is born: her childl-a shudder comes 

Across me: never child be born of me, 

Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyesl


"0 mother, hear me yet hefore I die. 

Hear me, 0 earth. I will not die alone, 

Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me 

Walking the cold and starless road of death 

Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 

With the Greek woman. I will rise and go 

Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth 

Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says 

A fire dances before her, and a sound 

Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 

What this may be I know not, but I know 

That, whatsoe' er I am by night and day, 

All earth and air seem only burning fire.". 

1. 

FROM The Princess 

The splendour falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story; 

The long light shakes across the lakes, 

And the wild cataract leaps in glory, 

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

o hark, 0 hear! how thin and clear, 

And thinner, clearer, farther going I 

0, sweet and far from cliff and scar 

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying, 

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

o love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or Held or river; 

Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 

And grow for ever and for ever. 

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes Hying, 

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.


2. 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 

Tears from the depth of some divine despair 

Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 

In looking on the happy autumn-Helds, 

And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, 

That brings our friends up from the under-world, 

Sad as the last which reddens over one 

That sinks with all we love below the verge: 

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 

The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; 

So sad, sO strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remembered kisses after death, 

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 

On lips that are for others; deep as love, 

Deep as first love, and wild with all regret: 

o Death in Life, the days that are no morel 

3. 

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 fire-By wakens: waken thou with me. 

Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost, 

And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. 

Now lies the Earth all Danae 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. 

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. 

4. 

Come down, 0 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 God 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 through the lawn, 

The moan of doves in immemorial elms, 

And murmuring of innumerable bees.


FROM In Memoriam 

xxxv 

Yet if some voice that man could trust 

Should murmur from the narrow house, 

"The cheeks drop in, the body bows; 

Man dies, nor is there hope in dustt 

Might I not say? "Yet even here 

But for one hour, 0 Love, I strive 

To keep so sweet a thing alive." 

But I should tum mine ears and hear 

The moanmgs of the homeless sea, 

The sound of streams that swift or slow 

Draw down .!Eonian hills, and sow 

The dust of continents to be; 

And Love would answer with a sigb, 

"The sound of that forgetful shore 

Will change my sweetness more and more, 

Half-dead to know that I shall die." 

LXXXII 

Dip down upon the northern shore, 

o sweet new-year delaying long; 

Thou doest expectant Nature wrong; 

Delaying long, delay no more. 

What stays thee from the clouded noons, 

Thy sweetness from its proper place? 

Can trouble live with April days, 

Or sadness in the summer moons? 

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, 

The little speedwell's darling blue, 

Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew, 

Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire.

LORD TENNYSON [8621 

o thou, new-year, delaying long, 

Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 

That longs to burst a frozen bud 

And Hood a fresber throat with song. 

xc 

When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, 

And rarely pipes the mounted thrush, 

Or underneath the barren bush 

Flits by the sea-blue bird of March; 

Come, wear the form by which I knew 

Thy spirit in time among thy peers; 

The hope of unaccomplished years 

Be large and lucid round thy brow. 

When summer's hourly-mellowing change 

May breathe, with many roses sweet, 

Upon the thousand waves of wheat 

That rippled round the lowly grange. 

Come; not in watches of the night, 

But where the sunbeam broodeth warm, 

Come, beauteous in thine after form, 

And like a finer light in light. 

CXIV 

Now fades the last long streak of snow, 

Now burgeons every maze of quick 

About the Howering squares, and thick 

By ashen roots the violets blow. 

Now rings the woodland loud and long, 

The distance takes a lovelier hue, 

And drowned in yonder living blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, 

The Hocks are whiter down the vale, 

And milkier every milky sail 

On winding stream or distant sea;

(863] LOm> TENNYSON 

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 

In yonder greening gleam, and fly 

The happy birds, that change their sky 

To build and brood, that live their llves 

From land to land; and in my breast 

Spring wakens too, and my regret 

Becomes an April violet, 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 

Ulysses 

It little proHts that an idle king, 

By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 

Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race, 

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. 

I cannot rest from travel; I will drink 

Life to the lees. All times I have enjoyed 

Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those 

That loved me, and alone: on shore, and wheu 

Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 

Vext the dim sea. I am become a name; 

For always roaming with a hungry heart 

Much have I seen and known,-cities of men 

And manners, climates, councils, governments, 

Myself not least, but honoured of them all, 

And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 

I am a part of all that I have met: 

Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough 

Gleams that untravelled world whose margin fades 

For ever and for ever when I move. 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 

To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! 

As though to breathe were lifel Life piled on life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 

Little remains; but every hour is saved 

From that eternal silence, something more,

WRD TENNYSON [8641 

A bringer of new things; and vile it were 

For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 

To follow knowledge like a sinking star, 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 

To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle, 

Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill 

This labour, by slow prudence to make mild 

A rugged people, and through soft degrees 

Subdue them to the useful and the good. 

Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 

Of common duties, decent not to fail 

In offices of tenderness, and pay 

Meet adoration to my household gods, 

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail; 

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, 

Souls that have toiled and wrought, and thought with me, 

That ever with a frolic welcome took 

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 

Free hearts, free foreheads,-you and I are old; 

Old age hath yet his honour and his toiL 

Death closes all; but something ere the end, 

Some work of noble note, may yet he done, 

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks; 

The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep 

Moans found with many voices. Come, my friends, 

'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 

Push off, and sitting well in order smite 

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds 

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 

Of all the western stars, until I die. 

It may he that the gulfs will wash us down; 

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 

Though much is taken, much abides; and though 

We are not now that strength which in old days 

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,

[865] LORD TENNYSON 

One equal temper of heroic hearts, 

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 

Crossing the Bar 

Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for mel 

And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

Too full for sound and foam. 

When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the darkl 

And may there be no sadness of farewell, 

When I embark; 

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 

I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crost the bar. 

EDGAR ALLAN POE 

The Raven 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and 

weary, 

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, 

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a 

tapping, 

As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door 

Only this, and nothing more."

EDGAR ALLAN POE [866 ] 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, 

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the 

floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow;-vainly I had sought to borrow 

From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost 

Lenore- 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 

Lenore- 

Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 

Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; 

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, 

" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; 

This it is, and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; 

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you" -here I opened wide the 

door; 

Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, 

fearing, 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream 

before; 

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, 

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 

"Lenorel" 

This I ,;vhisper~?, 

and an echo murmured back the word, 

Lenorel 

Merely this, and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning. 

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. 

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window 

lattice:

[867] EDGAR ALLAN POE 

Let me ~, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore 

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; 

'Tis the wind and nothing more.» 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and 

Hutter, 

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; 

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped O! 

stayed he; 

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber 

door- 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door 

Perched and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 

By the grave and stem decorum of the countenance it wore. 

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art 

sure no craven, 

Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly 

shore- 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian 

shore\" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so 

plainly, 

Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 

Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber 

door, 

With such name as "Nevermore." 

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. 

Nothing further then he uttered-not a feather then he 

fluttered- 

Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown 

before, 

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown 

before." 

Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

EDGAR ALLAN POE [868 ] 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 

"Doubtless," said I, "what it ntters is its only stock and store, 

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster 

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden 

bore- 

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 

Of 'Never-nevermore'," 

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust 

and door; 

Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird 

of yore 

Meant in croaking, "Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 

To the fowl whose nery eyes now burned into my bosom's 

core; 

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, 

But whose velvet violet lining with the lampligbt gloating o'er, 

She shall press, ab, nevermore! 

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an 

unseen censer 

Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted 

Hoor, 

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee-by these angels he 

hath sent thee 

Respite-respite and nepenthe, from the memories of Lenorel 

QuaH, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore," 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evill-prophet still, if bird or 

devill- 

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here 

ashore, 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted 

On this home by horror haunted-tell me truly. I implore

[869 ] EDGAR ALLAN POE 

Is there-is there balm in Gilead?-tell me-tell me, I implorel" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evill-prophet still, if bird or devil! 

By that Heaven that bends above us-by that God we both 

adore- 

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 

Lenore." 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore," 

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or nend," I shrieked, 

upstarting 

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian 

shore 1 

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath 

spokenl < 

Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door! 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and thy form from off my 

doorl" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

And the Raven, never Hitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is 

dreaming, 

And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on 

the Hoor; 

And my soul from out that shadow that lies Hoating on the 

Hoor 

Shall be lifted-nevermore I 

Ulalume 

The skies they were ashen and sober; 

The leaves they were crisped and sere 

The leaves they were withering and sere; 

It was night in the lonesome October 

Of my most immemorial year;

EDGAR ALLAN POE [870] 

It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, 

In the misty mid region of Weir- 

It was down by the dark tarn of Auber, 

In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 

Here once, through an alley Titanic, 

Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul 

Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. 

These were days when my heart was volcanic 

As the scoriae rivers that rolI- 

As the lavas that restlessly roll 

Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek 

In the ultimate clirnes of the pole- 

That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek 

In the realms of the boreal pole. 

Our talk had been serious and sober, 

But our thoughts they were palsied and sere 

Our memories were treacherous and sere- 

For we knew not the month was October, 

And we marked not the night of the year 

(Ah, night of all nights in the year!) 

We noted not the dim lake of Auber 

(Though once we had journeyed down here), 

Remembered not the dark tarn of Auber, 

Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 

And now, as the night was senescent, 

And star-dials pointed to mom 

As the star-dials hinted of mom 

At the end of our path a liquescent 

And nebulous lustre was born, 

Out of which a miraculous crescent 

Arose with a duplicate horn 

Astarte's bediamonded crescent 

Distinct with its duplicate horn. 

And I said-"She is warmer than Dian: 

She rolls through an ether of sighs 

She revels in a region of Sighs:


She has seen that the tears are not dry on 

These cheeks, where the worm never dies, 

And has come past the stars of the Lion 

To point out the path to the skies- 

To the Lethean peace of the skies- 

Come up, in despite of the Lion, 

To shine on us with her bright eyes 

Come up through the lair of the Lion, 

With love in her luminous eyes." 

But Psyche, uplifting her finger, 

Said-"Sadly this star I mistrust 

Her pallor I strangely mistrust: 

Oh hastenl-oh, let us not lingerl 

Oh, flyt-Iet us flyt-for we must." 

In terror she spoke. letting sink her 

Wings until they trailed in the dust- 

In agony sobbed, letting sink her 

Plumes till they trailed in the dust 

Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 

I replied-"This is nothing but dreaming: 

Let us on by this tremulous lightl 

Let us bathe in this crystalline lightl 

Its Sibyllic splendour is beaming 

With Hope and in Beauty to-night: 

Seel-it flickers up the sky through the nightl 

Ab, we safely may trust to its gleaming, 

And be sure it will lead us aright- 

We safely may trust to a gleaming 

That cannot but guide us aright, 

Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night." 

Thus I pacmed Psyche and kissed her, 

And tempted her out of her gloom 

And conquered her scruples and gloom; 

And we passed to the end of the vista, 

But were stopped by the door of a tomb 

By the door of a legended tomb;

f 

EDGAR ALLAN POE 

[87.2J 

And I said-"What is written, sweet siste.-, 

On the door of this legended tomb?" 

She replied-"Ulalume-Ulalume 

'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalumel" 

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober 

As the leaves that were crisped and sere 

As the leaves that were withering and sere, 

And I cried-"It was surely October 

On this very night of last year 

That I journeyed-I journeyed down here 

That I brought a dread burden down here 

On this night of all nights in the year, 

Ab, what demon has tempted me here? 

Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber 

This misty mid region of Weir- 

Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, 

This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." 

The Valley of Unrest 

Once it smiled a silent dell 

Where the people did not dwell; 

They had gone unto the wars, 

Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, 

Nightly, from their azure towers, 

To keep watch above the flowers, 

In the midst of which all day 

The red sunlight lazily lay. 

Now each visitor shall confess 

The sad valley's restlessness. 

Nothing there is motionless 

Nothing save the airs that brood 

Over the magic solitude. 

Ab, by no wind are stirred those trees 

That palpitate like the chill seas 

Around the misty Hebridesl 

Ab, by no wind those clouds are driven 

That rustle through the unquiet Heaven 

Uneasily, from morn till even,


Over the violets there that lie 

In myriad types of the human eye 

Over the lilies there that wave 

And weep above a nameless gravel 

They wave:-from out their fragrant tops 

Eternal dews come down in drops. 

They weep:-from off their delicate stems 

Perennial tears descend in gems. 

The City in the Sea. 

Lol Death has reared himself a throne 

In a strange city lying alone 

Far down within the dim West, 

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best 

Have gone to their eternal rest. 

There shrines and palaces and towers 

(Time-eaten towers that tremble notl) 

Resemble nothing that is ours. 

Around, by lifting winds forgot, 

Resignedly beneath the sky 

The melancholy waters lie. 

No rays from the holy heaven come down 

On the long night-time of that town: 

But light from out the lurid sea 

Streams up the turrets silently- 

Gleams up the pinnacles far and free 

Up domes-up spires-up kingly halls 

Up fanes-up Babylon-like walls- 

Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers 

Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers 

Up many and many a marvellous shrine 

Whose wreathed friezes intertwine 

The viol, the violet, and the vine. 

Resignedly beneath the sky 

The melancholy waters lie. 

So blend the turrets and shadows there 

That all seem pendulous in air, 

While from a proud tower in the town 

Death looks gigantically down.

EDGAR ALLAN POE [874] 

There open fanes and gaping graves 

Yawn level with the luminous waves; 

But not the riches there that lie 

In each idol's diamond eye- 

Not. the gaily-jewelled dead 

Tempt the waters from their bed; 

For no ripples curl, alas I 

Along that wilderness of glass- 

No swellings tell that winds may be 

Upon some far-off happier sea- 

No heavings hint that winds have been 

On seas less hideously serene. 

But 10, a stir is in the airl 

The wave-there is a movement therel 

As if the towers had thrust aside, 

In slightly sinking, the dull tide- 

As if their tops had feebly given 

A void within the filmy Heaven. 

The waves have now a redder glow- 

The hours are breathing faint and low 

And when, amid no earthly moans, 

Down, down that town shall settle hence, 

Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, 

Shall do it reverence. 

To One in Paradise 

Thou wast all that to me, love, 

For which my soul did pine 

A green isle in the sea, love, 

A fountain and a shrine, 

All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, 

And all the flowers were mine. 

Ab, dream too bright to last! 

Ah, starry Hopei that didst arise 

But to be overcastl

[8751 EDGAR ALLAN POE 

A voice from out the Future cries. 

"On! on!" -but o'er the Past 

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies 

Mute, motionless, aghastl 

For, alasl alasl with me 

The light of Life is o'erI 

"No more-no more-no more-" 

(Such language holds the solemn sea 

To the sands upon the shore) 

Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree 

Or the stricken eagle soarl 

And all my days are trances, 

And all my nightly dreams 

Are where thy grey eye glances, 

And where thy footstep gleams 

In what ethereal dances, 

By what eternal streams. 

The Haunted Palace 

In the greenest of our valleys 

By good angels tenanted, 

Once a fair and stately palace 

Radiant palace-reared its head. 

In the monarch Thought's dominion 

It stood therel 

Never seraph spread a pinion 

Over fabric half so fairl 

Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 

On its roof did float and flow, 

(This-all this-was in the olden 

Time long ago,)

~AR ALLAN POE [876] 

And every gentle air that dallied, 

In that sweet day, 

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

A winged odour went away. 

Wanderers in that happy valley, 

Through two luminous windows, saw 

Spirits moving musically, 

To a lute's well-tuned law, 

Round about a throne where, sitting 

(Porphyrogenel) 

In state his glory well-befitting, 

The ruler of the realm was seen. 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing 

Was the fair palace door, 

Through which came flowing, flOWing, flowing, 

And sparkling evermore, 

A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 

Was but to sing, 

In voices of surpassing beauty, 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 

But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 

Assailed the monarch's high estate. 

(Ab, let us mournl-for never morrow 

Shall dawn upon him desolatel) 

And round about his home the glory 

That blushed and bloomed, 

Is but a dim-remembered story 

Of the old time entombed. 

And travellers, now, within that valley, 

Through the red-litten windows see 

Vast forms, that move fantastically 

To a discordant melody, 

While, like a ghastly rapid river, 

Through the pale door 

A hideous throng rush out forever 

And laugh-but smile no more.


Annabel Lee 

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 which was more than love 

I and my Annabel Lee; 

With a love that the winged 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- 

Yesl-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.

EDGAR ALLAN POE [878J 

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 the sepulchre there by the sea, 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

To Helen 

Helen, thy beauty is to me 

Like those Nicaean barks of yore, 

That gently o'er a perfumed sea, 

The weary, wayworn wanderer bore 

To his own native shore. 

On desperate seas long wont to roam, 

Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, 

Thy Naiad airs have brought me home 

To the glory that was Greece 

And the grandeur that was Rome. 

Lol in yon brilliant window-niche 

How statue-like I see thee stand, 

The agate lamp within thy handl 

Ah, Psyche, from the regions which 

Are Holy Landi 

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 

(1811-1863\ 

FROM The Chronicle of the Drum 

Ah, gentle, tender lady minel 

The winter wind blows cold and shrill; 

Come, fill me one more glass of wine, 

And give the silly fools their will.

[819 ] W. M. THACKERAY 

And what care we for war and wrack, 

And kings and heroes rise and fall? 

Look yonder, in hi$ coffin black, 

There lies the greatest of them all. 

To pluck him down, and keep him up, 

Died many million human souls. 

'Tis twelve o'clock and time to sup: 

Bid Mary heap the fire with coals. 

He captured many thousand guns; 

He wrote "The Great" before his name; 

And dying, only left his sons 

The recollection of his shame. 

Though more than half the world was his, 

He died without a rood his own; 

And borrowed from his enemies 

Six foot of ground to lie upon. 

He fought a thousand glorious wars, 

And more than half the world was his, 

And somewhere now, in yonder stars, 

Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is. 

The Ballad of Bouillabaisse 

A street there is in Paris famous, 

For which no rhyme our language yields, 

Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is 

The New Street of the Little Fields. 

And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, 

But still in comfortable case; 

The which in youth I oft attended, 

To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is- 

A sort of soup or broth, or brew, 

Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, 

That Greenwich never could outdo;

W. M. THACKERAY (880] 

Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, 

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace: 

All these you eat at TERRE'S tavern, 

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis; 

And true philosophers, methinks, 

Who love all sorts of natural beauties, 

Should love good victuals and good drinks. 

And Cordelier or Benedictine 

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, 

Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, 

Which saved him up a Bouillabaisse. 

I wonder if the house still there is? 

Yes, here the lamp is, as before; 

The smiling red-cheeked ecaiuere is 

Still opening oysters at the door. 

Is TERRIl: still alive and able? 

I recollect his droll grimace: 

He'd come and sit before your table, 

And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse. 

We enter-nothing's changed or older. 

"How's Monsieur TERRIl:, waiter, pray?" 

The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder 

"Monsieur is dead this many a day." 

"It is the lot of saint and sinner, 

So honest TERRE'S run his race." 

"What will Monsieur require for dinner?" 

"Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?" 

"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; 

"Quel yin Monsieur desire-t·il?" 

"Tell me a good one." -"That I can, Sir; 

The Chambertin with yellow seal." 

"So TERRE'S gone," I say, and sink in 

MyoId accustomed corner-place; 

"He's done with feasting and with drinking, 

With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse."

[881J W. M. THACKERAY 

MyoId accustomed comer here is, 

The table still is in the nook; 

Ahl vanished many a busy year is 

This well-known chair since last I took. 

When first I saw yet carl luoghi, 

r d scarce a beard npon my face, 

And now a grizzled. grim old fogy, 

I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 

Where are you, old companions trusty 

Of early days here met to dine? 

Come, waiterl quick, a flagon crusty 

I'll pledge them in the good old wine. 

The kind old voices and old faces 

My memory can quick retrace; 

Around the board they take their places, 

And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. 

There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage; 

There's laughing Tom is laughing yet; 

There's brave Augustus drives his carriage; 

There's poor old Fred in the Gazette; 

On James's head the grass is growing: 

Good Lord! the world has wagged apace 

Since here we set the claret Bowing, 

And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 

Ah mel how quick the days are Bittingl 

I mind me of a time that's gone, 

When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, 

In this same place-but not alone. 

A fair young form was nestled near me, 

A dear, dear face looked fondly up, 

And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me 

-There's no one now to share my cup. 

I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes: 

FilI up the lonely glass, and drain it 

In memory of dear old times.

W. M. THACKERAY [882J 

Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is; 

And sit you down, and say your grace 

With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. 

Here comes the smoking Bouillabaissel 

ROBERT HINCKLEY MESSINGER 

(1811-1874) 

A Winter Wish 

Old wine to drink! 

Ay, give the slippery juice 

That drlppeth from the grape thrown loose 

Within the tun; 

Plucked from beneath the cliff 

Of sunny-sided Teneriffe, 

And ripened 'neath the blink 

Of India's sunl 

Tempered with well-boiled waterl 

Peat whiskey hot, 

These make the long night shorter- 

Forgetting not 

Good stout old English porter. 

Old wood to burnl 

Ay, bring the hill-side beech 

From where the owlets meet and screech, 

And ravens croak; 

The crackling pine, and cedar sweet; 

Bring too a clump of fragrant peat, 

Dug 'neath the fern; 

The knotted oak, 

A fagot too, perhaps, 

Whose bright Harne, danoing, winking, 

Shall light us at our drinking; 

While the oozing sap 

Shall make sweet music to our thinking. 

Old books to read I 

Ay, bring those nodes of wit, 

The brazen-clasped, the vellum writ, 

Time-honored tomes I

[883J R. H. MESSINGEll 

The same my sire scanned before, 

The same my grandsire thumbed o'er, 

The same his sire from college bore, 

The well-earned meed 

Of Oxford's domes: 

Old Homer blind, 

Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by 

Old Tully, Plautus, Terence lie; 

Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie, 

QUaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ayl 

And Gervase Markham's venerie- 

Nor leave behind 

The holye Book by which we live and die. 

Old friends to talk! 

Ay, bring those chosen few, 

The wise, the courtly, and the true, 

So rarely found; 

Him for my wine, him for my stud, 

Him for my easel, distich, bud 

In mountain walk! 

Bring Walter good, 

With soulful Fred, and learned Will, 

And thee, my alter ego (dearer still 

For every mood). 

These add a bouquet to my winel 

These add a sparkle to my pine! 

If these I tine, 

Can books, or fire, or wine be good? 

ROBERT BROWNING 

Song 

Give her but a least excuse to love me! 

When-where 

How-can this arm establish her above me, 

If fortune fixed her as my lady there,

ROBERT BROWNING [884J 

There already, to eternally reprove me? 

("Histl"-said Kate the Queen; 

But "Ohl" -cried the maiden, binding her tresses, 

" 'Tis only a page that carols unseen, 

Crumbling your hounds their messesl") 

Is she wronged?-To the rescue of her honour, 

My heart! 

Is she poor?-What costs it to be styled a donor? 

Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part. 

But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her! 

("Nay, listl"-bade Kate the Queen; 

And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses, 

« 'Tis only a page that carols unseen, 

Fitting your hawks their jesses!") 

Pippa Passes 

The Lost Leader 

Just for a handful of silver he left us, 

Just for a riband to stick in his coat 

Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, 

Lost all the others she lets us devote; 

They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, 

So much was theirs who so little allowed: 

How all our copper had gone for his service! 

Rags-were they purple, his heart had been proud! 

We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him, 

Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, 

Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, 

Made him our pattern to live and to diel 

Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, 

Bums, Shelley, were with us,-they watch from their graves! 

He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, 

-He alone sinks to the rear and the slavesl 

We shall march prospering,-not through his presence; 

Songs may inspirit us,-not from his lyre; 

Deeds will be done,-while he boasts his quiescence, 

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire:

{885] ROBERT BROWNING 

Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, 

One task more declined, one more foot-path untrod, 

One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels, 

One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! 

Life's night begins: let him never come back to usl 

There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain, 

Forced praise on our part-the glimmer of twilight, 

Never glad confident morning againl 

Best fight on well, for we taught him-strike gallantly, 

Menace our heart ere we master his own; 

Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us 

Pardoned in heaven, the Drst by the throne! 

The Confessional 

(SPAIN) 

It is a lie-their Priests, their Pope, 

Their Saints, their . . . all they fear or hope 

Are lies, and lies-therel through my door 

And ceiling, therel and walls and :lloor, 

There, lies, they lie-shall still be hurled 

Till spite of them 1 reach the worldl 

You think Priests just and holy menl 

Before they put me in this den 

I was a human creature too, 

With :IIesh and blood like one of you, 

A girl that laughed in beauty's pride 

Like lilies in your world outside. 

I had a lover-shame avaunt I 

This poor wrenched body, grim and gaunt, 

Was kissed all over till it burned, 

By lips the truest, love e'er turned 

His heart's own tint: one night they kissed 

My soul out in a burning mist. 

So, next day when the accustomed train 

Of things grew round my sense again, 

"That is a sin," I said: and slow

ROBERT BROWNING [8861 

With downcast eyes to church I go, 

And pass to the confession-chair, 

And tell the old mild father there. 

But when I falter Beltran's name, 

"Ha?" quoth the father; "much I blame 

The sin; yet wherefore idly grieve? 

Despair not-strenuously retrieve! 

Nay I will turn this love of thine 

To lawful love, almost divine; 

"For he is young, and led astray, 

This Beltran, and he schemes, men say, 

To change the laws of church and state; 

So, thine shall be an angel's fate, 

Who, ere the thunder breaks, should roll 

Its cloud away and save his soul. 

"For, when he lies upon thy breast, 

Thou mayst demand and be possessed 

Of all his plans, and next day steal 

To me, and all those plans reveal, 

That I and every priest, to purge 

His soul, may fast and use the scourge." 

That father's beard was long and white, 

With love and truth his brow seemed bright; 

I went back, all on fire with joy, 

And, that same evening, bade the boy 

Tell me, as lovers should, heart-free, 

Something to prove his love of me. 

He told me what he would not tell 

For hope of heaven or fear of hell; 

And I lay listening in such pridel 

And, soon as he had left my side, 

Tripped to the church by morning-light 

To save his soul in his despite.

[887] ROBERT BROWNING 

I told the father all his schemes, 

Who were his comrades, what their dreams; 

"And now make haste," I said, «to pray 

The one spot from his soul away; 

To-night he comes, but not the same 

Will lookl" At night he never came. 

Nor next night; and the after-mom, 

I went forth with a strength new-born. 

The church was empty; something drew 

My steps into the street; I knew 

It led me to the market-place: 

Where, 10, on high, the father's facel 

That horrible black scaffold dressed, 

That stapled block . . . God sink the rest! 

That head strapped back, that blinding vest, 

Those knotted hands and naked breast, 

Till near one busy hangman pressed, 

And, on the neck these arms caressed 

No part in aught they hope or fearl 

No heaven with them, no helll-and here, 

No earth, not so much space as pens 

My body in their worst of dens 

But shall bear God and man my cry, 

Lies-lies, again-and still, they lie! 

Meeting at Night 

The grey 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

if 

lIOBERT BROWNING [888] 

And blue spurt of a lighted match, 

And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears. 

Than the two hearts beating each to each1 

A Woman's Last Word 

Let's contend no more, Love, 

Strive nor weep: 

All be as before, Love, 

-Only sleepI 

What so wild as words are? 

I and thou 

In debate, as birds are, 

Hawk on bough! 

See the creature staIking 

While we speak! 

Hush and hide the talking, 

Cheek on cheek! 

What so false as truth is, 

False to thee? 

Where the serpent's tooth is 

Shun the tree- 

Where the apple reddens 

Never pry- 

Lest we lose our Edens, 

Eve and I. 

Be a god and hold me 

With a charml 

Be a man and fold me 

With thine arm! 

Teach me, only teach, Lovel 

As I ought 

I will speak thy speech, Love, 

Think thy thought


Meet, if thou require it, 

Both demands, 

Laying Hesh and spirit 

In thy hands. 

That shall be to-morrow 

Not to-night: 

I must bury sorrow 

Out of sight: 

-Must a little weep, Love, 

(Foolish mel) 

And so fall asleep, Love, 

Loved by thee. 

Respectability 

Dear, had the world in its caprice 

Deigned to proclaim "I know you both, 

Have recognised your plighted troth, 

Am sponsor for you: live in peace." 

How many precious months and years 

Of youth had passed, that sped so fast, 

Before we found it out at last, 

The world, and what it fears? 

How much of priceless life were spent 

With men that every virtue decks, 

And women models of their sex, 

Society's true ornament, 

Ere we dared wander, nights like this, 

Through wind and rain, and watch the Seine, 

And feel the Boulevart break again 

To warmth and light and bliss? 

I knowl the world proscribes not love; 

Allows my finger to caress 

Your lips' contour and downiness, 

Provided it supply a glove.

ROBERT BROWNING [890] 

The world's good word I-the Institute! 

Guizot receives Montalembertl 

Eh? Down the court three lampions flare: 

Put forward your best footl 

Women and Roses 

I dream of a rose-red tree. 

And which of its roses three 

Is the dearest rose to me? 

Round and round, like a dance of snow 

In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go 

Floating the women faded for ages, 

Sculptured in stone, on the poet's pages. 

Then follow women fresh and gay, 

Living and loving and loved to-day. 

Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens, 

Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence, 

They circle their rose on my rose tree. 

Dear rose, thy term is reached, 

Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached: 

Bees pass it unimpeached. 

Stay then, stoop, since I cannot climb, 

You, great shapes of the antique timet 

How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you, 

Break my heart at your feet to please you? 

Oh, to possess and be possessedl 

Hearts that beat 'neath each pallid breast I 

Once but of love, the poesy, the passion, 

Drink but once and diel-In vain, the same fashion, 


Dear rose, thy joy's undimmed, 

Thy cup is ruby-rimmed, 

Thy cup's heart nectar-brimmed.

[891J ROBERT BROWNING 

Deep, as drops from a statue's plinth 

The bee sucked in by the hyacinth, 

So will I bury me while burning, 

Quench like him at a plunge my yearning, 

Eyes in your eyes, lips on your lips! 

Fold me fast where the cincture slips, 

Prison all my soul in eternities of pleasure, 

Girdle me for once! But no-the old measure, 


Dear rose without a thorn, 

Thy bud's the babe unborn: 

First streak of a new mom. 

Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear! 

What is far conquers what is near. 

Roses will bloom nor want beholders, 

Sprung from the dust where our flesh moulders. 

What shall arrive with the cycle's change? 

A novel grace and a beauty strange. 

I will make an Eve, be the artist that began her, 

Shaped her to his mind!-Alas! in like manner 


FROM Ina Gondola 

He sings 

I send my heart up to thee, all my heart 

In this my singing. 

For the stars help me, and the sea bears part; 

The very night is clinging 

Closer to Venice' streets to leave one space 

Above me, whence thy face 

May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place. 

She speaks 

Say after me, and try to say 

My very words, as if each word 

Came from you of your own accord,


In your own voice, in your own way: 

"This woman's heart and soul and brain 

Are mine as much as this gold chain 

She bids me wear; which" (say again) 

"I choose to make by cherishing 

A precious thing, or choose to fting 

Over the boat-side, ring by ring." 

And yet once more say . . . no word morel 

Since words are only words. Give o'erl 

Unless you call me, all the same, 

Familiarly by my pet name, 

Which if the Three should hear you call, 

And me reply to, would proclaim 

At once our secret to them all. 

Ask of me, too, command me, blame 

Do, break down the partition-wall 

'Twixt us, the daylight world beholds 

Curtained in dusk and splendid folds! 

What's left but-all of me to take? 

I am the Three's: prevent them, slake 

Your thirst! 'Tis said, the Arah sage, 

In practising with gems, can loose 

Their subtle spirit in his cruce 

And leave but ashes: so, sweet mage, 

Leave them my ashes when thy use 

Sucks out my soul, thy heritagel 

He sings 

Past we glide, and past and past! 

What's that poor Agnese doing 

Where they make the shutters fast? 

Grey Zanobi's just a-wooing 

To his couch the purchased bride: 

Past we glidel 

Past we glide, and past, and past! 

Why's the Pucci Palace flaring 

Like a beacon to the blast? 

Guests by hundreds, not one caring 

If the dear host's neck were wried: 

Past we glidel

[893j ROBERT BROWNING 

She sings 

The moth's kiss, first! 

Kiss me as if you made believe 

You were not sure, this eve, 

How my face, your flower, had pursed 

Its petals up; so, here and there 

You brush it, till I grow aware 

Who wants me, and wide ope I burst. 

The bee's kiss, now! 

Kiss me as if you entered gay 

My heart at some noonday, 

A bud that dares not disallow 

The claim, so all is rendered up, 

And passively its shattered cup 

Over your head to sleep I bow. 

He muses 

Oh, which were best, to roam or rest? 

The land's lap or the water's breast? 

To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves, 

Or swim in lucid shallows just 

Eluding water-lily leaves, 

An inch from Death's black fingers, thrust 

To lock you, whom release he must; 

Which life were best on Summer eves? 

Still he muses 

What if the Three should catch at last 

Thy serenader? While there's cast 

Paul's cloak about my head, and fast 

Gian pinions me, Himself has past 

His stylet through my back; I reel; 

And . . . is it thou I feel? 

They trail me, these three godless knaves, 

Past every church that sains and saves, 

Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves 

By Lido's wet accursed graves, 

They scoop mine, roll me to its brink, 

And . . . on thy breast I sink!

ROBERT BROwr.'"1NG [894] 

She speaks 

To-morrow, if a harp-string, say, 

Is used to tie the jasmine back 

That overHoods my room with sweets, 

Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets 

My Zanzel If the ribbon's black, 

The Three are watching: keep awayl 

Your gondola-let Zorzi wreathe 

A mesh of water-weeds about 

Its prow, as if he unaware 

Had struck some quay or bridge-foot stair I 

That I may throw a paper out 

As you and he go underneath. 

There's Zanze's vigilant taper; safe are we. 

Only one minute more to-night with me? 

Resume your past self of a month ago! 

Be you the bashful gallant, I will be 

The lady with the colder breast than snow. 

Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my hand 

More than I touch yours when I step to land, 

And say, "All thanks, Sioral" 

Heart to heart 

And lips to lips! Yet once more, ere we part, 

Clasp me and make me thine, as mine thou artl 

He is surprised, and stabbed 

It was ordained to be so, sweetl-and best 

Comes now, beneath thine eyes, upon thy breast. 

Still kiss me! Care not for the cowards! Care 

Only to put aside thy beauteous hair 

My blood will hurtl The Three, I do not scorn 

To death, because they never lived: but I 

Have lived indeed, and so-(yet one more kiss)-can diel

[8951 ROBERT BROVVNIMG 

The Bishop Orders His Tomb 

at Saint Praxed's Church 

(ROME,15-) 

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanityt 

Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back? 

Nephews-sons mine ... ah God, I know notl Well 

She, men would have to be your mother once, 

Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she wasl 

What's done is done, and she is dead beside, 

Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, 

And as she died so must we die ourselves, 

And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. 

Life, how and what is it? As here I lie 

In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, 

Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask 

"Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all. 

Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace; 

And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought 

With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: 

-Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care; 

Shrewd was the snatch from out the corner South 

He graced his carrion with, God curse the samet 

Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence 

One sees the pulpit 0' the epistle-side, 

And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, 

And up into the aety dome where live 

The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk: 

And I shall fill my slab of basalt there, 

And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, 

With those nine columns round me, two and two, 

The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands: 

Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe 

As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. 

-Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone, 

Put me where I may look at him! True peach, 

Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize! 

Draw close: that conBagration of my church 

-What then? So much was saved if aught were missedl 

My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig

ROBERT BROVVNING [896] 

The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood, 

Drop water gently till the surface sink, 

And if ye find . . . Ab God, I know not, II 

Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, 

And corded up in a tight olive-frail, 

Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli, 

Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape, 

Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast. 

Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all, 

That brave Frascati villa with its bath, 

So, let the blue lump poise between my knees, 

Like God the Father's globe on both his hands 

Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay, 

For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst I 

Swift as a weaver's shuttle Heet our years: 

Man goeth to the grave, and where is he? 

Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black 

'Twas ever antique-black I meant! How else 

Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath? 

The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me, 

Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance 

Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, 

The Saviour at his sermon on the mount, 

Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan 

Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off, 

And Moses with the tables . . • but I know 

Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee, 

Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ab, ye hope 

To revel down my villas while I gasp 

Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine 

Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles atl 

Nay, boys, ye love me-all of jasper, thenl 

'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve. 

My bath must needs be left behind, alas! 

One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, 

There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world 

And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray 

Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts, 

And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs? 

-That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, 

Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word,

[897] ROBERT BRO~G 

No gaudy ware like Garldolf's second line 

Tully, my masters? Ulpi.an serves his need! 

And then how I shall lill through centuries, 

And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, 

And see God made and eaten all day long, 

And feel the steady can.dle-flame, and taste 

Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke I 

For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, 

Dying in state and by such slow degrees, 

I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, 

And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point, 

And let the bedclothes.. for a mortcloth, drop 

Into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work; 

And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts 

Grow, with a certain bumming in my ears, 

About the life before I lived this life, 

And this life too, pOpe!l, cardinals, and priests, 

Saint Praxed at his selmon on the mount, 

Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes, 

And new-found agate urns as fresh as day, 

And marble's language" Latin pure, discreet, 

-Aha, ELuCEscEBAT


But in a row: and, going, turn your backs 

-Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, 

And leave me in my church, the church for peace, 

That I may watch at leisure if he leers- 

Old Candolf, at me, from his onion-stone, 

As still he envied me, so fair she was! 

Fra Lippo Lippi 

I am poor brother Lippo, by your leavel 

You need not clap your torches to my face. 

Zooks, what's to blame? you think you see a monkl 

What, 'tis past midnight, and you go the rounds, 

And here you catch me at an alley's end 

Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar? 

The Carmine's my cloister: hunt it up, 

Do,-harry out, if you must show your zeal, 

Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole, 

And nip each softling of a wee white mouse, 

Weke, weke, that's crept to keep him company! 

Aha, you know your betters? Then, youl1 take 

Your hand away that's fiddling on my throat, 

And please to know me likewise. Who am I? 

Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend 

Three streets off-he's a certain ... how d'ye call? 

Master-a . . . Cosima of the Medici, 

In the house that caps the corner. Boh! you were bestl 

Remember and tell me, the day you're hanged, 

How you affected such a gullet's-gripe! 

But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves 

Pick up a manner nor discredit you: 

Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets 

And count fair prize what comes into their net? 

He's Judas to a tittle, that man is! 

Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends. 

Lord, I'm not angry! Bid your hangdogs go 

Drink out this quarter-florin to the health 

Of the munificent House that harbours me 

(And many more beside, lads! more beside!)


And all's come square again. I'd like his face 

His, elbowing on his comrade in the door 

With the pike and lantem,-for the slave that holds 

John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair 

With one hand ("look you, now," as who should say) 

And his weapon in the other, yel: unwiped! 

It's not your chance to have a bit of chalk, 

A wood-coal or the like? or you should see! 

Yes, I'm the painter, since you style me so. 

What, brother Lippo's doings, up and down, 

You know them and they take you? like enoughl 

I saw the proper twinkle in you.r eye 

'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first. 

Let's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch. 

Here's spring come, and the nights one makes up bands 

To roam the town and sing oui: carnival, 

And I've been three weeks shut within my mew, 

A-painting for the great man, SElintS and saints 

And saints again. I could not paJnt all night 

Ouf! I leaned out of window for fresh air. 

There came a hurry of feet and little feet, 

A sweep of lute-strings, laughs, and whifts of song, 

Flower 0' the broom, 

Take away love, and our earth is a tomb! 

Flower 0' the quince, 

1 let Lisa go, and what good's in life since? 

Flower 0' the thyme-and so on. Round they went. 

Scarce had they turned the comer when a titter 

Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight,-three slim shapes 

And a face that looked up . • . zooks, sir, flesh and blood, 

That's all I'm made ofl Into shreds it went, 

Curtain and counterpane and coverlet, 

All the bed-fumiture-a dozen knots, 

There was a ladderl down I let myself, 

Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped, 

And after them. I came up w:ith the fun 

Hard by Saint Laurence, han fellow, well met, 

Flower 0' the rose, 

If I've been merry, what maJ:ter who knows? 

And so as I was stealing back again 

To get to bed and have a bit of sleep

ROBERT BROVVNING [900] 

Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work 

On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast 

With his great round stone to subdue the flesh, 

You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I seel 

Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head 

Mine's shaved,-a monk, you say-the sting's in that! 

If Master Cosima announced himself, 

Mum's the word naturally; but a monk! 

Come, what am I a beast for? tell us, nowl 

I was a baby when my mother died 

And father died and left me in the street. 

I starved there, Cod knows how, a year or two 

On fig skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks. 

Refuse and rubbish. One nne frosty day, 

My stomach being empty as your hat, 

The wind doubled me up and down I went. 

Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand, 

(Its fellow was a stinger as I knew) 

And so along the wall, over the bridge, 

By the straight cut to the convent. Six words, there, 

While I stood munching my first bread that month: 

"So, boy, you're minded," quoth the good fat father 

Wiping his own mouth, 'twas refection-time, 

"To quit this very miserable world? 

Will you renounce" . . . The mouthful of bread? thought I; 

By no means! Brief, they made a monk of me; 

I did renounce the world, its pride and greed, 

Palace, farm, villa, shop, and banking-house, 

Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici 

Have given their hearts to-all at eight years old. 

Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure, 

'Twas not for nothing-the good bellyful, 

The warm serge and the rope that goes all round, 

And day-long blessed idleness beside I 

"Let's see what the urchin's fit for"-that came next. 

Not overmuch their way, I must confess. 

Such a to-dol They tried me with their books. 

Lord, they'd have taught me Latin in pure wastel 

Flower 0' the clove, 

AU the Latin I construe is, "amo" I love!


But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets 

Eight years together, as my fortune was, 

Watching folk's faces to know who will fling 

The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires, 

And who will curse or kick him for his pains 

Which gentleman processional and nne, 

Holding a candle to the Sacrament, 

Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch 

The droppings of the wax to sell again, 

Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped, 

How say I?-nay, which dog; bites, which lets drop 

His bone from the heap of offal in the street, 

Why, soul and sense of hini grow sharp alike, 

He learns the look of thin~;, and none the less 

For admonition from the hunger-pinch. 

I had a store of such remarks, be sure, 

Which, after I found leisure, turned to use. 

I drew men's faces on my (::opy-books, 

Scrawled them within the antiphonary's marge, 

Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes, 

Found nose and eyes and (:hin for A's and B's, 

And made a string of pictures of the world 

Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun, 

On the wall, the bench, tho door. The monks looked black. 

"Nay," quoth the Prior, "turn him out, d'ye say? 

In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark. 

What if at last we get our lnan of parts, 

We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese 

And Preaching Friars, to do our church up fine 

And put the front on it that ought to bel" 

And hereupon he bade me daub away. 

Thank youl my head being; crammed, their walls a blank, 

Never was such prompt disemburdening. 

First, every sort of monk, the black and white, 

I drew them, fat and lean: then, folks at church, 

From good old gossips waiting to confess 

Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle-ends, 

To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot, 

Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there 

With the little children round him in a row

ROBERT BROWNING [902) 

Of admiration, half for his beard and half 

For that white anger of his victim's son 

Shaking a nst at him with one fierce arm, 

Signing himself with the' other because of Christ 

(Whose sad face on the cross sees only this 

After the passion of a thousand years) 

Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head 

Which the intense eyes looked through, came at eve 

On tip-toe, said a word, dropped in a loaf, 

Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers 

The brute took growling, prayed, and then was gone. 

I painted all, then cried "'tis ask and have- 

Choose, for more's readyl"-laid the ladder flat, 

And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall. 

The monks closed in a circle and praised loud 

Till checked,-taught what to see and not to see, 

Being simple bodies,-"that's the very manl 

Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog! 

That woman's like the Prior's niece who comes 

To care about his asthma: it's the lifel" 

But there my triumph's straw-fire flared and funked 

Their betters took their turn to see and say: 

The Prior and the learoed pulled a face 

And stopped all that in no time. "How? what's here? 

Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all! 

Faces, arms, legs and bodies like the true 

As much as pea and peal it's devil's-gamel 

Your business is not to catch men with show, 

With homage to the perishable clay, 

But lift them over it, ignore it all, 

Make them forget there's such a thing as flesh. 

Your business is to paint the souls of men 

Man's soul, and it's a fire, smoke ... no it's not 

It's vapour done up like a new-born babe 

(In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth) 

It's ... well, what matters talking, it's the soul! 

Give us no more of body than shows soul! 

Here's Giotto, with his Saint a-praising God, 

That sets us praising,-why not stop with him? 

Why put all thoughts of praise out of our heads 

With wonder at lines, colours, and what not?

[903] ROBERT BRO~G 

Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms! 

Rub all out, try at it a second time. 

Oh, that white smallish female with the breasts, 

She's just my niece ... Herodias, I would say, 

Who went and danced and got men's heads cut off 

Have it all outl" Now, is this sense, I ask? 

A nne way to paint soul, by painting body 

So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further 

And can't fare worsel Thus, yellow does for white 

When what you put for yellow's simply black, 

And any sort of meaning looks intense 

When all beside itself means and looks nought. 

Why can't a painter lift each foot in turn, 

Left foot and right foot, go a double step, 

Make his Hesh liker and his soul more like, 

Both in their order? Take the prettiest face, 

The Prior's niece ... patron-saint-is it so pretty 

You can't discover if it means hope, rear, 

Sorrow or joy? won't beauty go with these? 

Suppose I've made her eyes all right and blue, 

Can't I take breath and try to add life's Bash, 

And then add soul and heighten them threefold? 

Or say there's beauty with no soul at all 

(I never saw it-put the case the same-) 

If you get simple beauty and nought else, 

You get about the best thing God invents, 

That's somewhat. And you'll6nd the soul you have missed, 

Within yourself, when you return Him thanks. 

"Rub all outl" Well, well, there's my life, in short, 

And so the thing has gone on ever since. 

I've grown a man no doubt, I've broken bounds 

You should not take a fellow eight years old 

And make him swear to never kiss the girls. 

I'm my own master, paint now as I please 

Having a friend, you see, in the Com!"r-housel 

Lord, it's fast holding by the rings in front 

Those great rings serve more purposes than just 

To plant a Hag in, or tie up a horse! 

And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes 

Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work, 

The heads shake stiIl-"It's Art's decline, my son!


You're not of the true painters, great and old; 

Brother Angelico's the man, you'll find; 

Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer: 

Fag on at flesh, you'll never make the third!" 

Flower 0' the pine, 

You keep your mistr . . . manners, and I'U stick to mine! 

I'm not the third, then: bless us, they must know! 

Don't you think they're the likeliest to know, 

They with their Latin? so, I swallow my rage, 

Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint 

To please them-sometimes do and sometimes don't, 

For, doing most, there's pretty sure to come 

A tum, some warm eve finds me at my saints 

A laugh, a cry, the business of the world 

(Flower 0' the peach, 

Death for us all, and his own life for each!) 

And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over, 

The world and life's too big to pass for a dream, 

And I do these wild things in sheer despite, 

And play the fooleries you catch me at, 

In pure rage! The old mi11 w horse, out at grass 

After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so, 

Although the miller does not preach to him 

The only good of grass is to make chaff. 

What would men have? Do they like grass or no 

May they or mayn't they? all I want's the thing 

Settled for ever one way: as it is, 

You tell too many lies and hurt yourself. 

You don't like what you only like too much, 

You do like what, if given you at your word, 

You find abundantly detestable. 

For me, I think I speak as I was taught- 

I always see the Garden and God there 

A-making man's wife-and, my lesson learned, 

The value and significance of flesh, 

I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards. 

You understand me: I'm a beast, I know. 

But see, now-why, I see as certainly 

As that the morning-star's about to shine, 

What will hap some day. We've a youngster here


Comes to our convent, studies what I do, 

Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop- 

His name is Guidi-he'll not mind the monks 

They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk 

He picks my practice up-he'll paint apace, 

I hope so-though I never live so long, 

I know what's sure to follow. You be judge I 

You speak no Latin more than I, belike 

However, you're my man, you've seen the world 

-The beauty and the wonder and the power, 

The shapes of things, their colours, lights and shades, 

Changes, surprises,-and God made it all! 

-For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no, 

For this fair town's face, yonder river's line, 

The mountain round it and the sky above, 

Much more the figures of man, woman, child, 

These are the frame to? What's it all about? 

To be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon, 

Wondered at? oh, this last of course I-you say. 

But why not do as well as say,-paint these 

Just as they are, careless what comes of it? 

God's works-paint anyone, and count it crime 

To let a truth slip. Don't object, "His works 

Are here already-nature is complete: 

Suppose you reproduce her-{which you can't) 

There's no advantagel you must beat her, then." 

For, don't you mark? we're made so that we love 

First when we see them painted, things we have passed 

Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see; 

And so they are better, painted-better to us, 

Which is the same thing. Art was given for that- 

God uses us to help each other so, 

Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now, 

Yon cullion's hanging face? A bit of chalk, 

And trust me but you should, thoughl How much more, 

If I drew higher things with the same truthl 

That were to take the Prior's pulpit-place, 

Interpret God to all of youl oh, oh, 

It makes me mad to see what men shall do 

And we in our graves! This world's no blot for us, 

Nor blank-it means intensely, and means good:

ROBERT BROWNING [906) 

To find its meaning is my meat and drink. 

"Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayerl" 

Strikes in the Prior: "when your meaning's plain 

It does not say to folk-remember matins, 

Or, mind you fast next Fridayl" Why, for this 

What need of art at all? A skull and bones, 

Two bits of stick nailed cross-wise, or, what's best 

A bell to chime the hour with, does as well. 

I painted a Saint Laurence six months since 

At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style: 

"How looks my painting, now the scaffold's down?" 

I ask a brother: "Hugely," he returns 

"Already not one phiz of your three slaves 

Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side, 

But's scratched and prodded to our heart's content, 

The pious people have so eased their own 

When coming to say prayers there in a rage: 

We get on fast to see the bricks beneath. 

Expect another job this time next year, 

For pity and religion grow i' the crowd- 

Your painting serves its purposel" Hang the fools 1 

-That is-youll not mistake an idle word 

Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, God wot, 

Tasting the air in this spicy night which turns 

The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine! 

Oh, the church knowsl don't misreport me, nowl 

It's natural a poor monk out of bounds 

Should have his apt word to excuse himself: 

And hearken how I plot to make amends. 

I have bethought me: I shall paint a piece 

... There's for you! Give me six months, then go, see 

Something in Sant' AmbrogiO's! Bless the nunsl 

They want a cast of my office. I shall paint 

God in the midst, Madonna and her babe, 

Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel-brood, 

Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet 

As puff on puff of grated orris-root 

When ladies crowd to church at midsummer.


And then in the front, of course a saint or two 

Saint John, because he saves the Florentines, 

Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and white 

The convent's friends and gives them a long day, 

And Job, I must have him there past mistake, 

The man of Uz, (and Us without the z, 

Painters who need his patience.) Well, all these 

Secured at their devotions, up shall come 

Out of a comer when you least expect, 

As one by a dark stair into a great light, 

Music and talking, who but Lippol It- 

Mazed, motionless and moonstruck-I'm the manl 

Back I shrink-what is this I see and hear? 

I, caught up with my monk's things by mistake, 

Myoid serge gown and rope that goes all round, 

I, in this presence, this pure companyl 

Where's a hole, where's a comer for escape? 

Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing 

Forward, puts out a soft pahn-"Not so fast!" 

-Addresses the celestial presence, "nay- 

He made you and devised you, after all, 

Though he's none of youl Could Saint John there, draw 

His camel-hair make up a painting-brush? 

We come to brother Lippa for all that, 

Iste per/edt opus" So, aU smile- 

I shuttle sideways with my blushing face 

Under the cover of a hundred wings 

Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you're gay 

And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut, 

Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops 

The hothead husbandl Thus I scuttle off 

To some safe bench behind, not letting go 

The palm of her, the little lily thing 

That spoke the good word for me in the nick, 

Like the Prior's niece ... Saint Lucy, I would say. 

And so all's saved for me, and for the church 

A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence! 

Your hand, sir, and good-bye: no lights, no lights! 

The street's hushed, and I know my own way back, 

Don't fear mel There's the grey beginning. looks!


Song 

Nay but you, who do not love her, 

Is she not pure gold, my mistress? 

Holds earth aught-speak truth-above her? 

Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, 

And this last fairest tress of all, 

So fair, see, ere I let it fall? 

Because, you spend your lives in praising; 

To praise, you search the wide world over: 

Then why not witness, calmly gazing, 

If earth holds aught-speak truth-above her? 

Above this tress, and this, I touch 

But cannot praise, I love so muchl 

Confessions 

What is he buzzing in my ears? 

"Now that I come to die, 

Do I view the world as a vale of tears?" 

Ah, reverend sir, not II 

What I viewed there once, what I view again 

Where the physic bottles stand 

On the table's edge,-is a suburb lane, 

With a wall to my bedside hand. 

That lane sloped, much as the bottles do, 

From a house you could descry 

O'er the garden-wall: is the curtain blue 

Or green to a healthy eye? 

To mine, it serves for the old June weather 

Blue above lane and wall; 

And that farthest bottle labelled "Ether" 

Is the house 0'ertopping all.

[9091 ROBERT BROVVNING 

At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper, 

There watched for me, one June, 

A girl; I know, sir, it's improper, 

My poor mind's out of tune. 

Only, there was a way . . . you crept 

Close by the side, to dodge 

Eyes in the house, two eyes except: 

They styled their house "The Lodge". 

What right had a lounger up their lane? 

But, by creeping very close, 

With the good wall's help-their eyes might strain 

And stretch themselves to Des, 

Yet never catch her and me together, 

As she left the attic, there, 

By the rim of the bottle labelled "Ether", 

And stole from stair to stair, 

And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas, 

We loved, sir-used to meet: 

How sad and bad and mad it was 

But then, how it was sweet! 

Youth and Art 

It once might have been, once only: 

We lodged in a street together, 

You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely, 

I, a lone she-bird of his feather. 

Your trade was with sticks and clay, 

You thumbed, thrust, patted and polished, 

Then laughed "They will see some day 

"Smith made, and Gibson demolished." 

My business was song, song, song; 

I chirped, cheeped, trilled and twittered, 

"Kate Brown's on the boards ere long, 

And Grisi's existence embittered!"


I earned no more by a warble 

That you by a sketch in plaster; 

You wanted a piece of marble, 

I needed a music-master. 

We studied hard in our styles, 

Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos, 

For air looked out on the tiles, 

For fun watcbed each other's windows. 

You lounged, like a boy of the South, 

Cap and blouse-nay, a bit of a beard too; 

Or you got it, rubbing your mouth 

With fingers the clay adhered to. 

And I-soon managed to find 

Weak points in the flower-fence facing, 

Was forced to put up a blind 

And be safe in my corset-lacing. 

No harml It was not my fault 

If you never turned your eye's tail up 

As I shook upon Ein alt, 

Or ran the chromatic scale up: 

For spring bade the sparrows pair, 

And the boys and girls gave guesses, 

And stalls in our street looked rare 

With bulrush and watercresses. 

Why did not you pinch a flower 

In a pellet of clay and fling it? 

Why did not I put a power 

Of thanks in a look, or sing it? 

I did look, sharp as a lynx, 

(And yet the memory rankles) 

When models arrived, some minx 

Tripped up-stairs, she and her ankles. 

i

[ 911] ROBERT BROWNING 

But I think I gave you as good! 

"That foreign fellow-who can know 

How she pays, in a playful mood, 

For his tuning her that piano?" 

Could you say so, and never say 

"Suppose we join hands and fortunes, 

And I fetch her from over the way, 

Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes?" 

No, no: you would not be rash, 

Nor I rasher and something over: 

You've to settle yet Gibson's hash, 

And Grisi yet lives in clover. 

But you meet the Prince at the Board, 

I'm queen myself at bals-pare, 

I've married a rich old lord, 

And you're dubbed knight and an R.A. 

Each life's unfulfllled, you see; 

It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: 

We have not sighed deep, laughed free, 

Starved, feasted, despaired-been happy. 

And nobody calls you a dunce, 

And people suppose me clever: 

This could have happened but once, 

And we missed it, lost it for ever. 

FROM One Word More 

(TO E.B.B.) 

There they are, my fifty men and women 

Naming me the fifty poems finished I 

Take them, Love, the book and me together: 

Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also. 

Rafael made a century of sonnets, 

Made and wrote them in a certain volume 

Dinted with the silver-painted pencil 

Else he only used to draw Madonnas: 

These, the world might view-but one, the volume. 

\.

ROBERT BROWNING [ 912) 

Who that one, you ask? Your heart instructs you. 

Did she live and love it all her life-time? 

Did she drop, his lady of the sonnets, 

Die, and let it drop beside her pillow 

Where it lay in place of Rafael's glory, 

Rafael's cheek so duteous and so lovmg 

Cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's, 

Rafael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's? 

You and I would rather read that volume, 

(Taken to his beating bosom by it) 

Lean and list the bosom-beats of Rafael, 

Would we not? than wonder at Madonnas 

Her, San Sisto names, and Her, Foligno, 

Her, that visits Florence in a vision, 

Her, that's left with lilies in the Louvre 

Seen by us and all the world in circle. 

You and I will never read that volume. 

Guido Reni, like his own eye's apple 

Guarded long the treasure-book and loved it. 

Guido Reni dying, all Bologna 

Cried, and the world cried too, "Ours, the treasure)" 

Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished. 

Dante once prepared to paint an angel: 

Whom to please? You whisper "Beatrice." 

While he mused and traced it and retraced it, 

(Peradventure with a pen corroded 

Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for, 

When, his left-hand i' the hair 0' the wicked, 

Back he held the brow and pricked its stigma, 

Bit into the live man's Hesh for parchment, 

Loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle, 

Let the wretch go festering through Florence) 

Dante, who loved well because he hated, 

Hated wickedness that hinders loving, 

Dante standing, studying his angel- 

In there broke the folk of his Inferno. 

Says he-"Certain people of importance"


(Such he gave his daily dreadful line to) 

"Entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet," 

Says the poet-"Then I stopped my painting." 

You and I would rather see that angel, 

Painted by the tenderness of Dante, 

Would we not?-than read a fresh Inferno. 

You and I will never see that picture. 

While he mused on love and Beatrice, 

While he softened o'er his outlined angel, 

In they broke, those "people of importance": 

We and Bice bear the loss for ever. 

What of Rafael's sonnets, Dante's picture? 

This: no artist lives and loves, that longs not 

Once, and only once, and for one only, 

(Ah, the prizel) to flnd his love a language 

Fit and fair and simple and sufficient 

Using nature that's an art to others, 

Not, this one time, art that's turned his nature. 

Ay, of all the artists living, loving, 

None but would forego his proper dowry, 

Does he paint? he fain would write a poem, 

Does he write? he fain would paint a picture, 

Put to proof art alien to the artist's, 

Once, and only once, and for one only, 

So to be the man and leave the artist, 

Gain the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow. 

I shall never, in the years remaining, 

Paint you pictures, no, nor carve you statues, 

Make you music that should all-express me; 

So it seems: I stand on my attainment. 

This of verse alone, one life allows me; 

Verse and nothing else have I to give you. 

Other heights in other lives, God willing!' 

All the gifts from all the heights, your own, Lovel


Yet a semblance of resource avails us- 

Shade so finely touched, love's sense must seize it. 

Take these lines, look lovingly and nearly, 

Lines I write the first time and the last time. 

He who works in fresco, steals a hair-brush, 

Curbs the liberal hand, subservient proudly, 

Cramps his spirit, crowds its all in little, 

Makes a strange art of an art familiar, 

Fills his lady's missal-marge with flowerets. 

He who blows through bronze, may breathe through silver, 

Fitly serenade a slumbrous princess. 

He who writes, may write for once as I do. 

Love, you saw me gather men and women, 

Live or dead or fashioned by my fancy, 

Enter each and all, and use their service, 

Speak from every mouth,-the speech, a poem. 

Hardly shall I tell my joys and sorrows, 

Hopes and fears, belief and disbelieving: 

I am mine and yours-the rest be all men's, 

Karshish, Cleon, Norbert and the Ilfty. 

Let me speak this once in my true person, 

Not as Lippo, Roland or Andrea, 

Though the fruit of speech be just this sentence: 

Pray you, look on these my men and women, 

Take and keep my fifty poems finished; 

Where my heart lies, let my brain lie also! 

Poor the speech; be how I speak, for all things. 

Not but that you know mel Lo, the moon's self! 

Here in London, yonder late in Florence, 

Still we find her face, the thrice-transfigured. 

Curving on a sky imbrued with colour, 

Drifted over Fiesole by twilight, 

Came she, our new crescent of a hair's-breadth. 

Full she flared it, lamping Samminiato, 

Rounder 'twixt the cypresses and rounder, 

Perfect till the nightingales applauded. 

Now, a piece of her old self, impoverished, 

Hard to greet, she traverses the houseroofs, 

Hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver, 

Goes dispiritedly, glad to finish.

[915) ROBERT BROWNING 

What, there's nothing in the moon noteworthy? 

Nay: for if that moon could love a mortal, 

Use, to charm him (so to fit a fancy), 

All her magic ('tis the old sweet mythos), 

She would turn a new side to her mortal, 

Side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, steersman 

Blank to Zoroaster on his terrace, 

Blind to Galileo on his turret, 

Dumh to Homer, dumb to Keats-him, evenl 

Think, the wonder of the moonstruck mortal 

When she turns round, comes again in heaven, 

Opens out anew for worse or better I 

Proves she like some portent of an iceberg 

Swimming full upon the ship it founders, 

Hungry with huge teeth of splintered crystals? 

Proves she as the paved work of a sapphire 

Seen by Moses when he climbed the mountain? 

What were seen? None knows, none ever shall know. 

Only this is sure-the sight were other, 

Not the moon's same side, born late in Florence, 

Dying now impoverished here in London. 

God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures 

Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, 

One to show a woman when he loves herl 

This I say of me, but think of you, Love! 

This to you-yourself my moon of poets! 

Ah, but that's the world's side, there's the wonder, 

Thus they see you, praise you, think they know youl 

There, in turn I stand with them and praise you 

Out of my own self, I dare to phrase it. 

But the best is when I glide from out them, 

Cross a step or two of dubious twilight, 

Come out on the other side, the novel 

Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of, 

Where I hush and bless myself with silence. 

Oh, their Rafael of the dear Madonnas, 

Ob, their Dante of the dread Inferno, 

Wrote one song-and in my brain I sing it, 

Drew one angel-borne, see, on my bosom!

ROBERT BRO~G [916] 

Epilogue 

At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time, 

When you set your fancies free, 

Will they pass to where-by death, fools think, imprisoned 

Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so, 

-Pity me? 

Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken! 

What had I on earth to do 

With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly? 

Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel 

-Being-who? 

One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, 

Never doubted clouds would break, 

Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would 

triumph, 

Held we fall to rise, are bafHed to fight better, 

Sleep to wake. 

No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time, 

Greet the unseen with a cheerl 

Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be, 

"Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed,-fight on, fare ever 

There as herel" 

CHARLOTTE BRONTE 

On the Death of Anne Bronte 

There's little joy in life for me, 

And little terror in the grave; 

I've lived the parting hour to see 

Of one I would have died to save. 

Calmly to watch the failing breath, 

Wishing each sigh might be the last; 

Longing to see the shade of death 

O'er those beloved features cast;

[917J CHARLOT1:E BRONTE 

The cloud, the stillness that must part 

The darling of my life from me; 

And then to thank God from my heart, 

To thank him well and fervently; 

Although I knew that we had lost 

The hope and glory of our life; 

And now, benighted, tempest-tossed, 

Must bear alone the weary strife. 

HENRY DAVID THOREAU 

"Low-Anchored Cloud'''1 

Low-anchored cloud, 

Newfoundland air, 

Fountain-head and source of rivers, 

Dew-cloth, dream drapery, 

And napkin spread by fays; 

Drifting meadow of the air, 

Where bloom the daisied banks and violets, 

And in whose fenny labyrinth 

The bittern booms and heron wades; 

Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers, 

Bear only perfumes and the scent 

Of healing herbs to just men's fields! 

A Weel: on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers 

"Woot at the Sun ... " 

Woof of the sun, ethereal gauze, 

Woven of Nature's richest stuffs, 

Visible heat, air-water, and dry sea, 

Last conquest of the eye; 

Toil of the day displayed, sun-dust, 

Aerial surf upon the shores of earth, 

Ethereal estuary, frith of light,

HENRY DAVB> THOllEAU [918J 

Breakers of air, billows of heat, 

Fine summer spray on inland seas; 

Bird of the sun, transparent-winged 

Owlet of noon, soft-pinioned, 

From heat or stubble rising without song; 

Establish thy serenity o'er the fields. 

A Weel:: on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers 

The Atlantides 

The smothered streams of love, which flow 

More bright than Phlegethon, more low, 

Island us ever, like the sea, 

In an Atlantic mystery. 

Our fabled shores none ever reach, 

No mariner has found our beach, 

Surely our mirage now is seen, 

And neighbouring waves with floating green, 

Yet still the oldest charts contain 

Some dotted outline of our main; 

In ancient times midsummer days 

Unto the western islands' gaze, 

To Teneriffe and the Azores, 

Have shown our faint and cloud-like shores. 

But sink not yet, ye desolate isles, 

Anon your coast with commerce smiles, 

And richer freights ye'll furnish far 

Than Africa or Malabar. 

Be fair, be fertile evermore, 

Ye rumored but untrodden shore, 

Princes and monarchs will contend 

Who first unto your land shall send, 

And pawn the jewels of their crown 

To call your distant soil their own. 

A Week on the Concord and Merrimack River$

[919] HENRY DAVID THOREAU 

"All Things Are Current Found" 

All things are current found 

On earthly ground, 

Spirits, and elements 

Have their descents. 

Night and day, year on year, 

High and low, far and near, 

These are our own aspects, 

These are our own regrets. 

Ye gods of the shore, 

Who abide evermore, 

I see your far headland, 

Stretching on either hand; 

I hear the sweet evening sounds 

From your undeeaying grounds; 

Cheat me no more with time, 

Take me to your clime. 

A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers 

"Light-Winged Smoke ... " 

Light-winged Smoke, Iearian bird, 

Melting thy pinions in thy upward Hight, 

Lark without song, and messenger of dawn, 

Circling above the hamlets as thy nest; 

Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form 

Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts; 

By night star-veiling, and by day 

Darkening the light and blotting out the sun; 

Go thou my incense upward from this hearth, 

And ask the gods to pardon this clear Harne. 

Walden

E:MlLY JANE BRONTE [920J 

EMILY JANE BRONTE 

The Old Stoic 

Riches I hold in light esteem, 

And love I laugh to scorn; 

And lust of fame was but a dream, 

That vanished with the mom: 

And if I pray, the only prayer 

That moves my lips for me 

Is, "Leave the heart that now I bear, 

And give me liberty!" 

Yes, as my swift days near their goal, 

'Tis all that I implore: 

In life and death a chainless soul, 

With courage to endure. 

"Te1l1\!fe, Tell Me ... " 

Tell me, tell me, smiling child, 

What the past is like to thee? 

"An autumn evening, soft and mild, 

With a wind that sighs mournfully." 

Tell me, what is the present hour? 

"A green and flowery spray, 

Where a young bird sits gathering its power 

To mount and flyaway." 

And what is the future, happy one? 

"A sea beneath a cloudless sun 

A mighty, glorious. dazzling sea, 

Stretching into infinity."

[921) EMILY JANE BRONTE 

"The Sun Has Set . ..•• 

The sun has set, and the long grass now 

Waves dreamily in the evening wind; 

And the wild bird has Hown from that old grey stone 

In some warm nook a couch to find. 

In all the lonely landscape round 

I see no light and hear no sound, 

Except the wind that far away 

Comes sighing o'er the heathy sea. 

"Sleep Brings No Toy ... ,. 

Sleep brings no joy to me, 

Remembrance never dies; 

My soul is given to misery, 

And lives in sighs. 

Sleep brings no rest to me; 

The shadows of the dead, 

My wakening eyes may never see, 

Surround my bed. 

Sleep brings no hope to me; 

In soundest sleep they come, 

And with their doleful imagery 

Deepen the gloom. 

Sleep brings no strength to me, 

No power renewed to brave: 

I only sail a wilder sea, 

A darker wave. 

Sleep brings no friend to me 

To soothe and aid to bear; 

They all gaze on-how scornfullyl 

And I despair.

! 

EMILY JANE BRONTE (922] 

Sleep brings no wish to fret 

My harassed heart beneath: 

My only wish is to forget 

In endless sleep of death. 

HA Little While, a Little While" 

A little while, a little while, 

The noisy crowd are barred away; 

And I can sing and smile- 

A little while I've holiday I 

Where wilt thou go, my harassed heart? 

Full many a land invites thee now; 

And places near, and far apart 

Have rest for thee, my weary brow- 

There is a spot mid barren hills, 

Where winter howls and driving rain, 

But if the dreary tempest chills, 

There is a light that warms again. 

The house is old, the trees are bare, 

And moonless bends the misty dome, 

But what on earth is half so dear- 

So longed for as the hearth of home? 

The mute bird sitting on the stone, 

The dank moss dripping from the wall, 

The garden-walk with weeds o'er grown, 

I love them-how I love them all! 

Shall I go there? or shall I seek 

Another clime, another sky, 

Where tongues familiar music speak 

In accents dear t' memory? 

Yes, as I mused, the naked room, 

The flickering firelight died away, 

And from the midst of cheerless gloom 

I passed to bright, unclouded day.

[923} EMILY JANE BRONTE 

A little and a lone green lane, 

That opened on a common wide; 

A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain 

Of mountains circling every side; 

A heaven so clear, an earth so calm, 

So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air; 

And, deepening still the dream-like charm, 

Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere. 

That was the scene-I knew it well; 

I knew the path-ways far and near, 

That, winding o'er each billowy swell, 

Marked out the tracks of wandering deer. 

Could I have lingered but an hour, 

n had well paid a week of toil; 

But truth has banished fancy's power, 

I hear my dungeon bars recoil. 

Even as I stood with raptured eye, 

Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear, 

My hour of rest had Heeted by, 

And given me back to weary care. 

FROM "I Am the Only Being ... " 

I am the only being whose doom 

No tongue would ask, no eye would mourn; 

I've never caused a thought of gloom, 

A smile of joy, since I was born. 

In secret pleasure, secret tears, 

This changeful life has slipped away, 

As friendless after eighteen years, 

As lone as on my natal day.

EMILY JANE BRONTE [9241 

"I Gazed Within . .. " 

I gazed within thy earnest eyes, 

And read the sorrow brooding there; 

I heard thy young breast tom with sighs, 

And envied such despair. 

Go to the grave in youth's bare woel 

That dream was written long ago. 

At Castle Wood 

The day is done, the winter sun 

Is setting in its sullen sky; 

And drear the course that has been run, 

And dim the hearts that slowly die. 

No star will light my coming night; 

No mom of hope for me will shine; 

I mourn not heaven would blast my Sight, 

And I ne'er longed for joys divine. 

Through life's hard task I did not ask 

Celestial aid, celestial cheer: 

I saw my fate without its mask, 

And met it too without a tear. 

The grief that pressed my aching breast 

Was heavier far than earth can be; 

And who would dread eternal rest 

When labour's hour was agony? 

Dark falls the fear of this despair 

On spirits born of happiness; 

But I was bred the mate of care, 

The foster-child of sore distress.

[925] EMILY JANE BRONTE 

No sighs for me, no sympathy, 

No wish to keep my soul below; 

The heart is dead in infancy, 

Unwept for let the body go. 

"No Coward Soul ... ., 

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 Deityl 

Life, that in me hast rest 

As I, undying Life, have power in Theel 

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.

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH [926] 

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 

The Latest Decalogue 

Thou shalt have one God only; who 

Would be at the expense of two? 

No graven images may be 

Worshipped, except the currency: 

Swear not at all; for, for thy curse 

Thine enemy is none the worse: 

At church on Sunday to attend 

Will serve to keep the world thy friend: 

Honour thy parents; that is, all 

From whom advancement may befall: 

Thou shalt not kill; but needst not strive 

Officiously to keep alive: 

Do not adultery commit; 

Advantage rarely comes of it: 

Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat, 

\Vhen it's so lucrative to cheat: 

Bear not false witness; let the lie 

Have time on its own wings to fly: 

Thou shalt not covet; but tradition 

Approves all forms of competition. 

The sum of all is, thou shalt love, 

If any body, God above: 

At any rate shall never labour 

More than thyself to love thy neighbour. 

"Say Not the Struggle . .. " 

Say not the struggle nought availeth, 

The labour and the wounds are vain, 

The enemy faints not, nor faileth, 

And as things have been, things remain. 

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; 

It may be, in yon smoke concealed,

[927] ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 

Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, 

And, but for you, possess the field. 

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 

Seem here no painful inch to gain, 

Far back, through creeks and inlets making, 

Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 

And not by eastern windows only, 

When daylight comes, comes in the light, 

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, 

But westward, look, the land is bright. 

WALT WHITMAN 

FROM Starting from Paumanok 

Starting from fish-shape Paumanok where I was born, 

Well-begotten, and rais'd by a perfect mother, 

After roaming many lands, lover of populous pavements, 

Dweller in Mannahatta my city, or on southern savannas, 

Or a soldier camp'd or carrying my knapsack and gun, or a 

miner in California, 

Or rude in my home in Dakota's woods, my diet meat, my 

drink from the spring, 

Or withdrawn to muse and meditate in some deep recess, 

Far from the clank of crowds intervals passing rapt and happy, 

Aware of the fresh free giver the flowing Missouri, aware of 

mighty Niagara, 

Aware of the buffalo herds grazing the plains, the hirsute 

and strong-breasted bull, 

Of earth, rocks, Fifth-month flowers experienced, stars, rain, 

snow, my amaze, 

Having studied the mocking-bird's tones and the flight of the 

mountain-hawk, 

And heard at dawn the unrivall'd one, the hermit thrush from 

the swamp-cedars, 

Solitary, singing in the West, I strike up for a New World .••

WALT WHITMAN [928] 

FROM Song of Myself 

I celebrate myself, and sing myself, 

And what I assume you shall assume, 

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. 

I loafe and invite my soul, 

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. 

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, 

this air, 

Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and 

their parents the same, 

I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, 

Hoping to cease not till death. 

Creeds and schools in abeyance, 

Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never 

forgotten, 

I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, 

Nature without check with original energy. 

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full 

hands; 

How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any 

more than he. 

I guess it must be the Hag of my disposition, out of hopeful 

green stuff woven, 

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, 

A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, 

Bearing the owner's name someway in the comers, that we 

may see and remark, and say Whose? 

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphiC, 

And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow 

zones, 

Growing among black folks as among white, 

Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, 

I receive them the same.

[929] WALT WHITMAN 

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. 

Tenderly will I use you curling grass, 

It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, 

It may be if I had known them I would have loved them, 

It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken 

soon out of their mothers' laps, 

And here you are the mothers' laps. 

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old 

mothers, 

Darker than the colorless beards of old men, 

Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. 

o I perceive after all so many uttering tongues, 

And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths 

for nothing. 

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men 

and women, 

And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring 

taken soon out of their laps. 

What do you think has become of the young and old men? 

And what do you think has become of the women and children? 

They are alive and well somewhere, 

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, 

And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait 

at the end to arrest it, 

And ceas'd the moment life appear'd. 

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, 

And to die is different from what anyone supposed, and 

luckier. 

Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son, 

Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding, 

No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart 

from them, 

No more modest than immodest.

WALT WHITMAN [930J 

Unscrew the locks from the doorsl 

Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambsl 

Whoever degrades another degrades me, 

And whatever is done or said returns at last to me. 

Through me the affiatus surging and surging, through me the 

current and index. 

I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy, 

By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their 

counterpart of on the same terms. 

Through me many long dumb voices, 

Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves, 

Voices of the diseas'd and despairing and of thieves and 

dwarfs, 

Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion, 

And of the threads that connect the stars, and of wombs and 

of the father-stuff, 

And of the rights of them the others are down upon, 

And of the deform'd, trivial, flat, foolish, despised, 

Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung. 

Through me forbidden voices, 

Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil'd and I remove the veil, 

Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigur'd. 

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid 

and self-contain'd, 

I stand and look at them long and long. 

They do not sweat and whine about their condition, 

They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, 

They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God, 

Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of 

owning things, 

Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands 

of years ago, 

Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.

[981} WALT WHITMAN 

I have said that the soul is not more than the body, 

And I have said that the body is not more than the soul, 

And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's self is, 

And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his 

own funeral dressed in his oWn shroud, 

And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of 

the earth, 

And to glance with an eye or show a hean in its pod confounds 

the learning of all times, 

And there is no trade or employment but the young man fol. 

lowing it may become a hero, 

And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the 

wheel'd universe, 

And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool 

and composed before a million universes. 

And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God, 

For I who am curious about each am not curious about God, 

(No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about 

God and about death.) 

I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God 

not in the least, 

Nor do I understand who there can he more wonderful than 

myself. 

From Pent-Up Aching Rivers 

From pent-up aching rivers, 

From that of myself without which I were nothing, 

From what I am determin'd to make illustrious, even if I stand 

sole among men, 

From my own voice resonant, singing the phallus, 

Singing the song of procreation, 

Singing the need of superb children and therein superb 

grown people, 

Singing the muscular urge and the blending, 

Singing the bedfellow's song, (0 resistless yearningl 

o for any and each the body correlative attractingl


o for you whoever you are your correlative bodyl 0 it, more 

than all else, you delighting!) 

From the hungry gnaw that eats me night and day, 

From native moments, from bashful pains, singing them, 

Seeking something yet unfound though I have diligently 

sought it many a long year, 

Singing the true song of the soul fitful at random, 

Renascent with grossest Nature or among animals, 

Of that, of them and what goes with them my poems informing, 

Of the smell of apples and lemons, of the pairing of birds, 

Of the wet of woods, of the lapping of waves, 

Of the mad pushes of waves upon the land, I them chanting, 

The overture lightly sounding, the strain anticipating, 

The welcome nearness, the sight of the perfect body, 

The swimmer swimming naked in the bath, or motionless on 

his back lying and floating, 

The female form approaching, I pensive, love-flesh tremulous 

aching, 

The divine list for myself or you or for anyone making, 

The face, the limbs, the index from head to foot, and what 

it arouses, 

The mystic deliria, the madness amorous, the utter abandonment, 

(Hark close and still what I now whisper to you, 

I love you, 0 you entirely possess me, 

o that you and I could escape from the rest and go utterly off, 

free and lawless, 

Two hawks in the air, two fishes swimming in the sea not 

more lawless than we;) 

The furious storm through me careering, I passionately trembling, 

The oath of the inseparableness of two together, of the 

woman that loves me and whom I love more than my 

life, that oath swearing, 

(0 I willingly stake all for you, 

o let me be lost if it must be so! 

o you and II what is it to us what the rest do or think? 

What is all else to us? only that we enjoy each other and 

exhaust each other if it must be so;) 

From the master, the pilot I yield the vessel to,

[9SS] 

WALT WHITMAN 

The general commanding me, commanding all, from him permission 

taking, 

From time the programme hastening (1 have loiter'd too long 

as it is) 

From sex, from the warp and from the woof, 

From privacy, from frequent repinings alone, 

From plenty of persons near and yet the right person not near, 

From the soft sliding of hands over me and thrusting of fingers 

through my hair and beard, 

From the long sustain'd kiss upon the mouth or bosom, 

From the close pressure that makes me or any man drunk, 

fainting with excess, 

From what the divine husband knows, from the work of 

fatherhood, 

From exultation, victory and relief, from the bedfellow's embrace 

in the night, 

From the act-poems of eyes, hands, hips and bosoms, 

From the cling of the trembling arm, 

From the bending curve and the clinch, 

From side by side the pliant coverlet off-throwing, 

From the one so unwilling to have me leave, and me just as 

unwilling to leave, 

(Yet a moment 0 tender waiter, and 1 return,) 

From the hour of shining stars and dropping dews, 

From the night a moment I emerging Hitting out, 

Celebrate you act divine and you children prepared for, 

And you stalwart loins. 

Out of the Rolling Ocean the Crowd 

Out of the rolling ocean the crowd came a drop gently to me, 

Whispering I love you, before long I die, 

I have traver d a long way merely to look on you to touch you, 

For I could not die till I once look'd on you, 

For I fear'd I might afterwards lose you. 

Now we have met, we have look'd, we are safe, 

Return in peace to the ·ocean my love, 

I too am part of that ocean my love, we are not so much 

separated,

WALT WHlTMAN (934] 

Behold the great rondure, the cohesion of all, how perfectl 

But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us, 

As for an hour carrying us diverse, yet cannot carry us diverse 

forever; 

Be not impatient-a little space-know you I salute the air, 

the ocean and the land, 

Every day at sundown for your dear sake my love. 

FROM Song of the Open Road 

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road, 

Healthy, free, the world before me, 

The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose. 

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune, 

Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, 

Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms, 

Strong and content I travel the open road. 

The earth, that is sufficient, 

I do not want the constellations any nearer, 

I know they are very well where they are, 

I know they suffice for those who belong to them. 

I think heroic deeds were all conceiv'd in the open air, and 

all free poems also, 

I think I could stop here myself and do miracles, 

I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and 

whoever beholds me shall like me, 

I think whoever I see must be happy. 

From this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary 

lines, 

Going where I list, my own master total and absolute, 

Listening to others, considering well what they say, 

Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating, 

Gently, but with undeniahle will, divesting myself of the holds 

that would hold me.


I inhale great draughts of space, 

The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south 

are mine. 

I am larger, better than I thought, 

I did not know I held so much goodness. 

Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear it would not 

amaze me, 

Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear'd it 

would not astonish me. 

Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons, 

It is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the 

earth. 

Listen! I will be honest with you, 

I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new 

prizes, 

These are the days that must happen to you: 

You shall not heap up what is call'd riches, 

You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve, 

You but arrive at the city to which you were destined, you 

hardly settle yourself to satisfaction before you are 

call'd by an irresistible call to depart, 

You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of 

those who remain behind you, 

What beckonings of love you receive you shall only answer 

with passionate kisses of parting, 

You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach'd 

hands toward you. 

Allons! the road is before us! 

It is safe-I have tried it-my own feet have tried it well-be 

not detain'dl 

Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book 

on the shelf unopen'dl

WALT WlnTMAN [936] 

Let the tools remain in the workshop1 let the money remain 

unearn'dl 

Let the school stand1 mind not the cry of the teacher1 

Let the preacher preach in his pulpitl let the lawyer plead 

in the court, and the judge expound the law. 

Camerado, I give you my handl 

I give you my love more precious than money, 

I give you myself before preaching or law; 

Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me? 

Shall we stick by each other as long as we live? 

FROM Out ot the Cradle Endlessly Rocking 

Out of the cradle endlessly rocking, 

Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle, 

Out of the Ninth-month midnight, 

Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, where the child 

leaving his bed wander'd alone, bareheaded, barefoot, 

Down from the shower'd halo, 

Up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting as 

if they were alive, 

Out from the patches of briers and blackberries, 

From the memories of the bird that chanted to me, 

From your memories sad brother, from the fitful risings and 

fallings I heard, 

From under that yellow half-moon late-risen and swollen as if 

with tears, 

From those beginning notes of yearning and love there in the 

mist. 

From the thousand responses of my heart never to cease, 

From the myriad thence-arous' d words, 

From the word stronger and more delicious than any, 

From such as now they start the scene revisiting, 

As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing, 

Borne hither, ere all eludes me, hurriedly, 

A man, yet by these tears a little boy again, 

Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves, 

I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter, 

Taking all hints to use them, but swiftly leaping beyond them, 

A reminiscence sing.


As Toilsome I Wander'd Virginia's Woods 

As toilsome I wander'd Virginia's woods, 

To the music of rustling leaves kick'd by my feet (for 'twas 

autumn) 

I mark'd at the foot of a tree the grave of a soldier; 

Mortally wounded he and buried on the retreat, (easily all 

could I understand,) 

The halt of a mid-day hour, when upl no time to lose-yet this 

sign left, 

On a tablet scrawl'd and nail'd on the tree by the grave, 

Bold, cautious, true, a'fld my lOVing comrade. 

Long, long I muse, then on my way go wandering, 

Many a changeful season to follow, and many a scene of life, 

Yet at times through changeful season and scene, abrupt, 

alone, or in the crowded street, 

Comes before me the unknown soldier's grave, comes the 

inscription rude in Virginia's woods, 

Bold, cautious, true, a'fld my loving comrade. 

The Wound-Dresser 

An old man bending I come among new faces, 

Years looking backward resuming in answer to children, 

Come tell us old man, as from young men and maidens that 

love me, 

(Arous'd and angry, I'd thought to beat the alarum, and urge 

relentless war, 

But soon my fingers fail'd me, my face droop'd and I resign'd 

myself 

To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the 

dead;) 

Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these 

chances, 

Of unsurpass'd heroes, (was one side so brave? the other was 

equally brave;) 

Now be witness again, paint the mightiest armies of earth, 

Of those armies so rapid so wondrous what saw you to tell 

us?


What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics, 

Of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest 

remains? 

o maidens and young men I love and that love me, 

What you ask of my days those the strangest and sudden your 

talking recalls, 

Soldier alert I arrive after a long march cover'd with sweat 

and dust, 

In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in 

the rush of successful charge, 

Enter the captur'd works-yet 10, like a swift-running river 

they fade, 

Pass and are gone they fade-I dwell not on soldiers' perils or 

soldiers' joys, 

(Both I remember well-many the hardships, few the joys. 

yet I was content.) 

But in silence, in dreams' projections, 

While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on, 

So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprinu 

off the sand, 

With hinged knees returning I enter the doors (while for you 

up there, 

Whoever you are, follow without noise and be of strong 

heart. ) 

Bearing the bandages, water and sponge, 

Straight and swift to my wounded I go, 

Where they lie on the ground after the battle brought in, 

Where their priceless blood reddens the grass the ground, 

Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roofd hospital, 

To the long row of cots up and down each side I return, 

To each and all one after another I draw near, not one do I 

miss, 

An attendant follows holding a tray, he carries a refuse pail, 

Soon to be filled with clotted rags and blood, emptied, and 

fill'd again. 

I onward go, I stop, 

With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds, 

I am £lrm with each, the pangs are sharp but unavoidable,


One turns to me his appealing eyes-poor boyl I never knew 

you, 

Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if 

that would save you. 

On, on I go, (open doors of timel open hospital doors!) 

The crush'd head I dress, (poor crazed hand tear not the 

bandage away) 

The neck of the cavalry-man with the bullet through and 

through I examine, 

Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet 

life struggles hard, 

(Come sweet deathl be persuaded 0 beautiful death! In 

mercy come quickly.) 

From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand, 

I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter 

and blood, 

Back on the pillow the soldier bends with curv'd neck and 

side-falling head, 

His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the 

bloody stump, 

And has not yet look'd on it. 

I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep, 

But a day or two more, for see the frame all wasted and sinking, 

And the yellow-blue countenance see. 

I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bulletwound, 

Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening, 

so offensive, 

While the attendant stands behind aside me holding the tray 

and paiL 

I am faithful, I do not give out, 

The fractur'd thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen, 

These and more I dress with impassive hand, (yet deep in 

my breast a fire, a burning Harne.) 

Thus in silence in dreams' projections, 

Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals, 

The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand,

WALT WHITMAN [940) 

I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young, 

Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad, 

(Many a soldier's loving arms about this neck have cross'd 

and rested, 

Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips.) 

When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd 

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd, 

And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the 

night, 

I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. 

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring, 

Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west, 

And thought of him I love. 

o powerful western fallen star! 

o shades of night-O moody, tearful night! 

o great star disappear'd-O the black murk that hides the 

star! 

o cruel hands that hold me powerless-O helpless soul of mel 

o harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul. 

In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the whitewash'd 

palings, 

Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves 

of rich green, 

With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume 

strong I love, 

With every leaf a miracle-and from this bush in the dooryard, 

With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of 

rich green, 

A sprig with its flowers I break. 

In the swamp in secluded recesses, 

A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

[ 94l} WALT WHITMAN 

Solitary the thrush, 

The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, 

Sings by himself a song. 

Song of the bleeding throat, 

Death's outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know, 

If thou wast not granted to sing thou would'st surely die.) 

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, 

Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets 

peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray debris, 

Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the 

endless grass, 

Passing the yellow-speared wheat, every grain from its shroud 

in the dark-brown fields uprisen, 

Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards, 

Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, 

Night and day journeys a coffin. 

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, 

Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the 

land, 

With the pomp of the inloop'd Hags with the cities draped 

in black, 

With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veil'd 

women standing, 

With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the 

night, 

With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces 

and the unbared heads, 

With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre 

faces, 

With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising 

strong and solemn, 

With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour'd around the 

coffin, 

The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs-where amid 

these you journey, 

With the tolling tolling bells' perpetual clang, 

Here, coffin that slowly passes, 

I give you my sprig of lilac.


(N or for you, for one alone, 

Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring, 

For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you 

o sane and sacred death. 

Allover bouquets of roses, 

o death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies, 

But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first, 

Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes, 

With loaded arms I come, pouring for you, 

For you and the coffins of all of you 0 death.) 

o western orb sailing the heaven, 

Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I 

wallc'd, 

As I walk'd in silence the transparent shadowy night, 

As I saw you had something to tell as you hent to me night 

after night, 

As you droop'd from the sky low down as if to my side, 

(while the other stars all look'd on,) 

As we wander'd together the solemn night, (for something I 

know not what kept me from sleep,) 

As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how 

full you were of woe, 

As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the coo] 

transparent night, 

As I watch'd where you pass'd and was lost in the netherward 

black of the night, 

As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you, sad 

orb, 

Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone. 

Sing on there in the swamp, 

o singer bashful and tender, I hear your notes, I hear your 

call, 

I hear, I come presently, I understand you, 

But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detain'd me, 

The star my departing comrade holds and detains me. 

o how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I 

loved?


And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that 

has gone? 

And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love? 

Sea-winds blown from east and west, 

Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western 

sea, till there on the prairies meeting, 

These and with these and the breath of my chant, 

I'll perfume the grave of him I love. 

o what shall I hang on the chamber walls? 

And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls, 

To adorn the burial-house of him I love? 

Pictures of growing spring and farms and homes, 

With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke 

lucid and bright, 

With Hoods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, 

sinking sun, burning, expanding the air, 

With the fresh sweet 'herbage under foot, and the pale 

green leaves of the trees prolific, 

In the distance the Howing glaze, the breast of the river, with 

a wind-dapple here and there, 

With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the 

sky, and shadows, 

And the city at hand with dwellings so dense, and stacks of 

chimneys, 

And all the scenes of life and the workshops, and the workmen 

homeward returning. 

Lo, body and soul-this land, 

My own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying 

tides, and the ships, 

The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the 

light, Ohio's shores and Hashing Missouri, 

And ever the tar-spreading prairies CQver'd with grass and 

corn. 

Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty, 

The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes, 

The gentle soft-born measureless light,


The miracles spreading bathing all, the fulfill'd noon, 

The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars, 

Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land. 

Sing on, sing on, you gray-brown bird, 

Sing from the swamps, the recesses, pour your chant from 

the bushes, 

Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines. 

Sing on dearest brother, warble your reedy song, 

Loud human song. with voice of uttermost woe. 

o liquid and free and tenderl 

o wild and loose to my soul-O wondrous singer I 

You only I hear-yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart) 

Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me. 

Now while I sat in the day and look'd forth, 

In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, 

and the farmers preparing their crops, 

In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes 

and forests, 

In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb'd winds 

and the storms,) 

Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, 

and the voices of children and women, 

The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships how they 

sail'd, 

And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all 

busy with labor, 

And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each 

with its meals and minutia of daily usages, 

And the streets how their throbbings throbb'd, and the 

cities pent-Io, then and there, 

Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me 

with the rest, 

Appear'd the cloud, appear'd the long black trail, 

And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of 

death.


Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me, 

And the thought of death close-walking the other side of 

me, 

And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the 

hands of companions, 

I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not, 

Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in 

the dimness, 

To the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still. 

And the singer so shy to the rest receiv'd me, 

The gray-brown bird I know receiv'd us comrades three, 

And he sang the carol of death, and a verse for him I love. 

From deep secluded recesses, 

From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still, 

Came the carol of the bird. 

And the charm of the carol rapt me, 

As I held as if by their hands my comrades in the night, 

And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird. 

Come lovely and soathing death, 

Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, 

In the day, in the night, to aU, to each, 

Sooner or later delicate death. 

Prais'd be the fathomless universe, 

For life and loY, and for objects and knowledge curious, 

And for love, sweet love-but praise! praise! praise! 

For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding deathl 

Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet, 

Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? 

Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above aU, 

I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come 

unfalteringly. 

Approach strong deliveress, 

When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the 

dead,

WALT WHITMAN [946J 

Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee, 

Laved in the flood of thy bliss 0 death. 

From me to thee glad serenades, 

Dances for thee 1 propose saluting thee, adornments and 

feastings for thee, 

And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky 

are fitting, 

And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night. 

The night in silence under many a star, 

The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice 

1 know, 

And the soul turning to thee 0 vast and well-veil'd death, 

And the body gratefully nestling close to thee. 

Over the tree-tops I float thee a song, 

Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and 

the prairies wide, 

Over the dense-pack'd cities all and the teeming wharves and 

ways, 

1 float this carol with ioy, with joy to thee 0 death. 

To the tally of my soul, 

Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird, 

With pure deliberate notes spreading filling the night. 

Loud in the pines and cedars dim, 

Clear in the freshness moist and the swamp-perfume, 

And I with my comrades there in the night. 

While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed, 

As to long panoramas of visions. 

And I saw askant the armies, 

I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-Hags, 

Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierc'd with 

missiles I saw them, 

And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn 

and bloody,


And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in 

silence,) 

And the staffs all splinter'd and broken. 

I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, 

And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them, 

I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the 

war, 

But I saw they were not as was thought, 

They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer'd not, 

The living remain'd and suffer'd, the mother suffer'd, 

And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffer'd, 

And the armies that remain'd suffer'd. 

Passing the visions, passing the night, 

Passing unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands, 

Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of 

my soul, 

Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet varying ever-altering 

song, 

As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, 

Hooding the night, 

Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet 

again bursting with joy, 

Covering the earth and nIling the spread of the heaven, 

As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses, 

Passing. I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves, 

I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with 

spring. 

I cease from my song for thee, 

From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing 

with thee, 

o comrade lustrous with silver face in the night. 

Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night, 

The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird, 

And the tallying chant, the echo arous' d in my soul, 

With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance 

full of woe,

WALT WHITMAN (9481 

With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the 

bird, 

Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to 

keep, for the dead I loved so well, 

For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands-and 

this for his dear sake, 

Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul, 

There in the fragrant pines and cedars dusk and dim. 

To a Common Prostitute 

Be composed-be at ease with me-I am Walt Whitman, 

liberal and lusty as Nature, 

Not till the sun excludes you do I exclude you, 

N at till the waters refuse to glisten for you and the leaves to 

rustle for you, do my words refuse to glisten and 

rustle for you. 

My girl I appoint with you an appointment, and I charge 

you that you make preparation to be worthy to meet 

me, 

And I charge you that you be patient and perfect till I come. 

Till then I salute you with a Significant look that you do not 

forget me. 

Darest Thou Now a Soul 

Darest thou now 0 soul, 

Walk out with me toward the unknown region, 

Where neither ground is for the feet nor any path to follow? 

No map there, nor guide, 

Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand, 

Nor face with blooming Hesh, nor lips, nor eyes, are in that. 

land. 

1 know it not 0 soul, 

NOT dost thou, all is a blank before us, 

All waits undream'd of in that region, that inaccessible land.

[949] WALT WHI'I"MAN' 

Till when the ties loosen, 

All but the ties eternal, Time and Space, 

Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds bounding us. 

Then we burst forth, we float, 

In Time and Space 0 soul, prepared for them, 

Equal, equipt at last, (0 joy, 0 fruit of all) them to fulfil 

o soul. 

CHARLES KINGSLEY 

"When All the World ... " 

When all the world is young, lad, 

And all the trees are green; 

And every goose a swan, lad, 

And every lass a queen; 

Then hey for boot and horse, lad, 

And round the world away: 

Young blood must have its course, lad, 

And every dog his day. 

When all the world is old, lad, 

And all the trees are hrown; 

And all the sport is stale, lad, 

And all the wheels run down; 

Creep home, and take your place there, 

The spent and maimed among: 

God grant you find one face there, 

You loved when all was young. 

The Water Babies 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 

She Came and Went 

As a twig trembles, which a bird 

Ughts on to sing. then leaves unbent, 

So is my memory thrilled and stirred; 

I only know she came and went.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL [950] 

.. Left (?) 

As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, 

The blue dome's measureless content, 

So my soul held that moment's heaven; 

I only know she came and went. 

As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps 

The orchard full of bloom and scent, 

So clove her May my wintry sleeps; 


An angel stood and met my gaze, 

Through the low doorway of my tent; 

The tent is struck, the vision stays; 


Dh, when the room grows slowly dim, 

And life's last oil is nearly spent, 

One gush of light these eyes will brim, 

Only to think she came and went. 

HERMAN MELVILLE 

"The Ribs and Terrors ... " 

The ribs and terrors in the whale, 

Arched over me a dismal gloom, 

While all God's sun-lit waves rolled by, 

And lifto me deepening down to doom. 

I saw the opening maw of hell, 

With endless pains and sorrows there; 

Which none but they that feel can tell 

Oh, I was plunging to despair. 

In black distress, I called my God, 

When I could scarce believe Him mine, 

He bowed His ear to my complaints- 

No more the whale did me confine. 

With speed He Hew to my relief, 

As on a radiant dolphin borne; 

Awful, yet bright, as lightning shone 

The face of my Deliverer God .

[951] HERMAN MELVILLE 

My song for ever shall record 

That terrible, that joyful hour; 

I give the glory to my God, 

His all the mercy and the power. 

Moby-Dicl: 

The March into Virginia 

(JULY 1861) 

Did all the lets and bars appear 

To every just or larger end, 

Whence should come the trust and cheer? 

Youth must its ignorant impulse lend 

Age finds place in the rear. 

All wars are boyish, and are fought by boys, 

The champions and enthusiasts of the state: 

Turbid ardours and vain joys 

Not barrenly abate 

Stimulants to the power mature, 

Preparatives of fate. 

Who here forecasteth the event? 

What heart but spurns at precedent 

And warnings of the wise, 

Contemned foreclosures of surprise? 

The banners play, the bugles call, 

The air is blue and prodigal. 

No berrying party, pleasure-wooed, 

No picnic party in the May, 

Ever went less loth than they 

Into that leafy neighborhood. 

In Baechlc glee they file toward Fate, 

Moloch's uninitiate; 

Expectancy, and glad surmise 

Of battle's unknown mysteries. 

All they feel is this: 'tis glory, 

A rapture sharp, though transitory, 

Yet lasting in belaurelled story. 

So they gaily go to fight, 

Chatting left and laughing right.

HERMAN MELVILLE [952] 

But some who this blithe mood present, 

As on in lightsome files they fare, 

Shall die experienced ere three days are spent 

Perish, enlightened by the volleyed glare; 

Or shame survive, and like to adamant, 

The throe of Second Manassas share. 

Shiloh, a Requiem 

(APRIL 1862) 

Skimming lightly, wheeling still, 

The swallows fly low 

Over the field in clouded days, 

The forest-field of Shiloh 

Over the field where April rain 

Solaced the parched one stretched in pain 

Through the pause of night 

That followed the Sunday fight 

Around the church of Shiloh- 

The church so lone, the log-built one, 

That echoed to many a parting groan 

And natural prayer 

Of dying foemen mingled there 

Foemen at mom, but friends at eve 

Fame or country least their care: 

(What like a bullet can undeceive!) 

But now they lie low, 

While over them the swallows skim 

And all is hushed at Shiloh. 

FROM John Marr 

Since as in night's deck-watch ye show, 

Why, lads, so silent here to me, 

Your watchmate of times long ago? 

Once, for all the darkling sea, 

You your voices raised how clearly, 

Striking in when tempest sung;

[953] 

Hoisting up the storm-sail cheerly, 

Life is storm-let storm! you rung. 

Taking things as fated merely, 

Childlike though the world ye spanned; 

Nor holding unto life too dearly, 

Ye who held your lives in hand 

Skimmers, who on oceans four 

Petrels were, and larks ashore. 

0, not from memory lightly Hung, 

Forgot, like strains no more availing, 

The heart to music haughtier strung; 

Nay, frequent near me, never staling, 

Whose good feeling kept ye young. 

Like tides that enter creek or stream, 

Ye come, ye visit me, or seem 

Swimming out from seas of faces, 

Alien myriads memory traces, 

To enfold me in a dream! 

I yeam as yeo But rafts that strain, 

Parted, shall they lock again? 

Twined we were, entwined, then riven, 

Ever to new embracements driven, 

Shifting gulf-weed of the mainl 

And how if one here shift no more, 

Lodged by the Hinging surge ashore? 

Nor less, as now, in eve's decline, 

Your shadowy fellowship is mine. 

Ye float around me, form and feature: 

Tattooings, ear-rings, love-locks curled; 

Barbarians of man's simpler nature, 

Unworldly servers of the world. 

Yea, present all, and dear to me, 

Though shades, or scouring China's sea. 

Whither, whither, merchant-sailors, 

Witherward now in roaring gales? 

Competing still, ye huntsman-whalers, 

In leviathan's wake what boat prevails? 

And man-of-war's men, wbereaway?

[954] 

H now no dinned drum beat to quarters 

On the wilds of midnight waters 

Foemen looming through the spray; 

Do yet your gangway lanterns, streaming, 

Vainly strive to pierce below, 

When tilted from the slant plank gleaming, 

A brother you see to darkness go? 

But, gunmates lashed in shotted canvas, 

If where long watch-below ye keep, 

Never the shrill "AU hands up hammocks" 

Breaks the spell that charms your sleep, 

And summoning trumps might vainly call, 

And booming guns implore- 

A beat, a heart-beat musters all, 

One heart-beat at heart-core. 

It musters. But to clasp, retain; 

To see you at the halyards main 

To hear your chorus once againl 

ToNed 

Where is the world we roved, Ned Bunn? 

Hollows thereof lay rich in shade 

By voyagers old inviolate thrown 

Ere Paul Pry cruised with Pelf and Trade. 

To us old lads some thoughts come home 

Who roamed a world young lads no more shall roam. 

Nor less the satiate year impends 

When, wearying of routine-resorts, 

The pleasure-hunter shall break loose, 

Ned, for our Pantheistic ports: 

Marquesas and glenned isles that be 

Authentic Edens in a Pagan sea. 

The charm of scenes untried shall lure, 

And, Ned, a legend urge the tlight 

The Typee-truants under stars 

Unknown to Shakespeare's Midsummer-Night;

[955J BERMAN MELVILLB 

And man, if lost to Saturn's Age, 

Yet feeling life no Syrian pilgrimage. 

But, tell, shall he, the tourist, find 

Our isles the same in violet-glow 

Enamouring us what years and years 

Ah, Ned, what years and years agol 

Well, Adam advances. smart in pace, 

But scarce by violets that advance you trace. 

But we, in anchor-watches calm, 

The Indian Psyche's languor won, 

And, musing, breathed primeval balm 

From Edens ere yet overrun; 

Marvelling mild if mortal twice, 

Here and hereafter, touch a Paradise. 

Lone Founts 

Though fast youth's glorious fable flies. 

View not the world with worldling's eyes; 

Nor turn with weather of the time. 

Foreclose the coming of surprise: 

Stand where Posterity shall stand; 

Stand where the Ancients stood before, 

And, dipping in lone founts thy hand, 

Drink of the never-varying lore: 

Wise once, and wise thence evermore. 

Art 

In placid hours well pleased we dream 

Of many a brave unbodied scheme. 

But form to lend, pulsed life create, 

What unlike things must meet and mate: 

A Hame to melt-a wiud to freeze; 

Sad patience-joyous energies;

HERMAN MELVILLE [956J 

Humility-yet pride and scorn; 

Instinct and study; love and hate; 

Audacity-reverence. These must mate 

And fuse with Jacob's mystic heart, 

To wrestle with the angel-Art. 

Fragments of a Lost Gnostic Poem 

of the Twelfth Century 

Found a family, build a state, 

The pledged event is still the same: 

Matter in end will never abate 

His ancient brutal claim. 

Indolence is heaven's ally here, 

And energy the child of hell: 

The Good Man pouring from his pitcher clear 

But brims the poisoned well. 

L'Envoi: The Return of the Sire de Nesle 

(A.D. 16-) 

My towers at last! These rovings end, 

Their thirst is slaked in larger dearth: 

The yearning infinite recoils, 

For terrible is earth. 

Kaf thrusts his snouted crags through fog: 

Araxes swells beyond his span, 

And knowledge poured by pilgrimage 

Overflows the banks of man. 

But thou, my stay, thy lasting love 

One lonely good, let this but be! 

Weary to view the wide world's swarm, 

But blest to fold but thee.

[957] HEIlMAN MELVILLE 

Immolated 

Children of my happier prime, 

When One yet lived with me, and threw 

Her rainbow over life and time, 

Even Hope, my bride, and mother to youl 

0, nurtured in sweet pastoral air, 

And fed on flowers and light and dew 

Of morning meadows-spare, ah, spare 

Reproach; spare, and upbraid me not 

That, yielding scarce to reckless mood, 

But jealous of your future lot, 

I sealed you in a fate subdued. 

Have I not saved you from the dread 

Theft, and ignoring which need be 

The triumph of the insincere 

Unanimous Mediocrity? 

Rest therefore, free from all despite, 

Snugged in the arms of comfortable night. 

Camoens 

(BEFORE) 

And ever must I fan this fire? 

Thus ever in Hame on flame aspire? 

Ever restless, restless, craving rest- 

The Imperfect toward Perfection pressedl 

Yea, for the God demands thy best. 

The world with endless beauty teems, 

And thought evokes new worlds of dreams: 

Hunt then the flying herds of themesl 

And fan, still fan, thy fervid fire, 

, Until thy crucibled gold shall show 

That fire can purge as well as glow. 

In ordered ardour, nobly strong, 

Flame to the height of epic song.

HERMAN MELVILLE [958) 

(AFTER) 

Camoens in the Hospital 

What now avails the pageant verse, 

Trophies and anns with music borne? 

Base is the world; and some rehearse 

Now noblest meet ignoble scorn, 

Vain now thy ardour, vain thy fire, 

Delirium mere, unsound desire; 

Fate's knife hath ripped thy corded lyre. 

Exhausted by the exacting lay. 

Thou dost but fall a surer prey 

To wile and guile ill understood; 

While they who work them, fair in face, 

Still keep their strength in prudent place, 

And claim they worthier run life's race, 

Serving high God with useful good. 

FalstaH's Lament over Prince Hal Become Henry V 

One that I cherished, 

Yea, loved as a son 

Up early, up late with, 

My promising one: 

No use in good nurture, 

None, lads, nonel 

Here on this settle 

He wore the true crown, 

King of good fellows, 

And Fat Jack was one 

Now, Beadle of England 

In formal array- 

Best fellow alive 

On a throne flung awayl 

Companions and cronies 

Keep fast and lament; 

Come drawer, more sack here 

To drown discontent;

[959] HERMAN MELVILLE 

For now intuitions 

Shall wither to codes, 

Pragmatised morals 

Shall libel the gods. 

One I instructed, 

Yea, talked to-alone: 

Precept-example 

Clean away thrown I 

Sorrow makes thirsty: 

Sack, drawer, more sackl 

One that I prayed for, 

I, Honest Jack! 

To bring down these gray hairs 

To cut his old pall 

But, 111 be magnanimous 

Here's to thee, Hall 

MATTHEW ARNOLD 

Shakespeare 

(18n-1888) 

Others abide our question. Thou art free. 

We ask and ask: Thou smilest and art still, 

Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill 

That to the stars uncrowns his majesty, 

Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, 

Making the Heaven of Heavens his dwelling-place, 

Spares but the cloudy border of his base 

To the foil'd searching of mortality: 

And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, 

Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure, 

Didst walk on earth unguess'd at. Better sol 

All pains the immortal spirit must endure, 

All weakness that impairs, all griefs that bow, 

Find their sole voice in that victorious brow.

MATTHEW ARNOLD [960} 

The Forsaken Merman 

Come, dear children, let us away; 

Down and away below. 

Now my brothers calI from the bay; 

Now the great winds shoreward blow; 

Now the salt tides seaward How; 

Now the wild white horses play, 

Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. 

Children dear, let us away. 

This way, this way. 

Call her once before you go. 

Call once yet. 

In a voice that she will know: 

"MargaretI Margaret!" 

Children's voices should be dear 

(Call once more) to a mother's ear: 

Children's voices, wild with pain. 

Surely she will come again. 

Call her once and come away. 

This way, this way. 

"Mother dear, we cannot stay." 

The wild white horses foam and fret. 

Margaretl Margaret! 

Come, dear children, come away down. 

Call no more. 

One last look at the white-wall'd town, 

And the little grey church on the windy shore. 

Then come down. 

She will not come though you call all day. 

Come away, come away. 

Children dear, was it yesterday 

We heard the sweet bells over the bay? 

In the caverns where we lay, 

Through the surf and through the swell, 

The far-off sound of a silver ben? 

Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,

[961] MATI'HEW ABNOLD 

Where the winds are all asleep; 

Where the spent lights quiver and gleam; 

Where the salt weed sways in the stream; 

Where the sea-beasts rang'd all round 

Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; 

Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, 

Dry their mail and bask in the brine; 

Where great whales come sailing by, 

Sail and sail, with unshut eye, 

Round the world for ever and aye? 

When did music come this way? 

Children dear, was it yesterday? 

Children dear, was it yesterday 

(Call yet once) that she went away? 

Once she sate with you and me, 

On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, 

And the youngest sate on her knee. 

She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well, 

When down swung the sound of the far-off bell. 

She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea. 

She said: "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray 

In the little grey church on the shore to-day. 

'Twill be Easter-time in the world-ah mel 

And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee." 

I said: «Go up, dear heart, through the waves; 

Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves." 

She smil'd, she went up through the surf in the bay. 

Children dear, was it yesterday? 

Children dear, were we long alone? 

"The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan. 

Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say. 

Come," I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay. 

We went up the beach, by the sandy down 

Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town. 

Through the narrow pav'd streets, where all was still, 

To the little grey church on the windy hill. 

From the church came a murmur of folk at their pravers, 

For we stood without in the cold blowing airs. 

We climb'd on the graves, on the stones, worn with rains,

MATTHEW ARNOLD [962J 

And we gaz'd up the aisle through the small leaded panes. 

She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: 

"Margaret, histl come quick, we are here. 

Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone. 

The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan." 

But, ab, she gave me never a look, 

For her eyes were seaI'd to the holy book. 

Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door. 

Come away, children, call no more. 

Come away, come down, call no more. 

Down, down, down. 

Down to the depths of the sea. 

She sits at her wheel in the humming town, 

Singing most joyfully. 

Hark, what she sings: "0 joy, 0 joy, 

For the humming street, and the child with its toy. 

For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well. 

For the wheel where I spun, 

And the blessed light of the sun." 

And so she sings her fill, 

Singing most joyfully, 

Till the shuttle falls from her hand, 

And the whizzing wheel stands still. 

She steals to the window, and looks at the sand; 

And over the sand at the sea; 

And her eyes are set in a stare; 

And anon there breaks a Sigh, 

And anon there drops a tear, 

From a sorrow-clouded eye, 

And a heart sorrow-laden, 

A long, long sigh, 

For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden, 

And the gleam of her golden hair. 

Come away, away children. 

Come children, come down. 

The hoarse wind blows colder; 

Lights shine in the town. 

She will start from her slumber: 

When gusts shake the door;

[963] MATTHEW ARNOLD 

She will hear the winds howling, 

Will hear the waves roar. 

We shall see, while above us 

The waves roar and whirl, 

A ceiling of amber, 

A pavement of pearl. 

Singing, "Here came a mortal, 

But faithless was she. 

And alone dwell for ever 

The kings of the sea." 

But, children, at midnight, 

When soft the winds blow; 

When clear falls the moonlight; 

When spring-tides are low: 

When sweet airs come seaward 

From heaths starr'd with broom; 

And high rocks throw mildly 

On the blanch'd sands a gloom: 

Up the still, gHstening beaches, 

Up the creeks we will hie; 

Over banks of bright seaweed 

The ebb-tide leaves dry. 

We will gaze, from the sand-hills, 

At the white sleeping town; 

At the church on the hill-side- 

And then come back down. 

Singing, "There dwells a lov' done, 

But cruel is she. 

She left lonely for ever 

The kings of the sea." 

Requiescat 

Strew on her roses, roses, 

And never a spray of yew. 

In quiet she reposes: 

Ahl would that I did too.

MATTHEW AllNOLD [964] 

Her mirth the world required: 

She bathed it in smiles of glee. 

But her heart was tired, tired, 

And now they let her be. 

Her life was turning, turning, 

In mazes of heat and sound. 

But for peace her soul was yearning, 

And now peace laps her round. 

Her cabin'd, ample Spirit, 

It flutter'd, and fail'd for breath. 

To-night it doth inherit 

The vasty Hall of Death. 

The Scholar Gipsy 

Go, for they call you, Shepherd, from the hill; 

Go, Shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes: 

No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed, 

Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats, 

Nor the cropp'd grasses shoot another head. 

But when the fields are still, 

And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest, 

And only the white sheep are sometimes seen 

Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch'd green; 

Come, Shepherd, and again renew the quest. 

Here, where the reaper was at work of late, 

In this high field's dark comer, where he leaves 

His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruse, 

And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves, 

Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use; 

Here will I sit and wait, 

While to my ear from uplands far away 

The bleating of the folded Hocks is borne, 

With distant cries of reapers in the corn 

All the live murmur of a summer's day. 

"JI.

[965] MA'ITBEW ARNOLD 

Screen'd in this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field, 

And here till sun-down, Shepherd, will I be. 

Through the thick com the scarlet poppies peep, 

And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see 

Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep: 

And air-swept lindens yield 

Their scent, and rustle down their perfum'd showers 

Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid, 

And bower me from the August sun with shade; 

And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers: 

And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book 

Come, let me read the oft-read tale again, 

The story of the Oxford scholar poor 

Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain, 

Who, tir'd of knocking at Preferment's door, 

One summer mom forsook 

His friends, and went to learn the Gipsy lore, 

And roamed the world with that wild brotherhood, 

And came, as most men deem'd, to little good, 

But came to Oxford and his friends no more. 

But once, years after, in the country lanes, 

Two scholars whom at college erst he knew 

Met him, and of his way of life inquir'd. 

Whereat he answered that the Gipsy crew, 

His mates, had arts to rule as they desir'd 

The workings of men's brains; 

And they can bind them to what thoughts they will: 

"And I," he said, "the secret of their art, 

When fully learned, will to the world impart: 

But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill." 

This said, he left them, and return'd no more, 

But rumours hung about the country side 

That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray, 

Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied, 

In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey. 

The same the Gipsies wore.

MATTHEW ARNOLD [966] 

Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring; 

At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors, 

On the warm ingle bench, the smock-frock'd boors 

Had found him seated at their entering. 

But, mid their drink and clatter, he would fly: 

And I myself seem half to know thy looks, 

And put the shepherds, Wanderer, on thy trace; 

And boys who in lone wheatHelds scare the rooks 

I ask if thou hast passed their quiet place; 

Or in my boat I lie 

Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer heats, 

Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine Blls, 

And watch the warm green-muffied Cumner hills, 

And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats. 

For most, I know, thou loy'st retired ground. 

Thee, at the ferry, Oxford riders blithe, 

Returning home on summer nights, have met 

Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab-Iock-hithe, 

Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, 

As the slow punt swings round: 

And leaning backwards in a pensive dream, 

And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers 

Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers, 

And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream: 

And then they land, and thou art seen no more. 

Maidens who from the distant hamlet come 

To dance around the Fyfield elm in May, 

Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam, 

Or cross a stile into the public way. 

Oft thou hast given them store 

Of flowers-the frail-leaI'd, white anemone- 

Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of summer eves 

And purple orchises with spotted leaves- 

But none has words she can report of thee. 

And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time's here 

In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames, 

Men who through those wild fields of breezy grass


Where black-wing'd swallows haunt the glittering Thames, 

To bathe in the abandon'd lasher pass, 

Have often pass'd thee near 

Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown: 

Mark'd thy outlandish garb, thy figure spare, 

Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air; 

But, when they came from bathing, thou wert gone. 

At some lone homestead in the Cunmer hills, 

Where at her open door the housewife dams, 

Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate 

To watch the threshers in the mossy bams. 

Children, who early range these slopes and late 

For cresses from the rills, 

Have known thee watching, all an April day. 

The springing pastures and the feeding kine; 

And mark'd thee, when the stars come out and shine, 

Through the long dewy grass move slow away. 

In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley wood, 

Where most the Gipsies by the turf-edg'd way 

Pitch their smok'd tents, and every bush you see 

With scarlet patches tagged and shreds of grey, 

Above the forest gronnd call'd Thessaly- 

The blackbird picking food 

Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all; 

So often has he known thee past him stray 

Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray, 

And waiting for the spark from Heaven to fall. 

And once, in winter, on the causeway chill 

Where home through Hooded fields foot-travellers go, 

Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge 

Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow, 

Thy face towards Hinksey and its wintry ridge? 

And thou hast climb'd the hill 

And gain'd the white brow of the Cumner range, 

Tum'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall, 

The line of festal light in Christ-Church hall- 

Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange.

MATI'BEW ARNOLD 

[96S} 

But what-I dreamI Two hundred years are flown 

Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls, 

And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe 

That thou wert wander'd from the studious walls 

To learn strange arts, and join a Gipsy tribe: 

And thou from earth art gone 

Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid; 

Some country nook, where o'er thy unknown grave 

Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave 

Under a dark red-fruited yew-tree's shade. 

No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours. 

For what wears out the life of mortal men? 

'Tis that from change to change their being rolls: 

'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again, 

Exhaust the energy of strongest souls, 

And numb the elastic powers. 

Till having us'd our nerves with bliss and teen, 

And tir'd upon a thousand schemes our wit, 

To the just-pausing Genius we remit 

Our worn-out Hfe, and are-what we have been. 

Thou hast not liv'd, why should'st thou perish, so? 

Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire: 

Else wert thou long since number'd with the dead 

Else hadst thou spent like other men thy fire. 

The generations of thy peers are fled, 

And we ourselves shall go; 

But thou possessest an immortal lot, 

And we imagine thee exempt from age 

And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page, 

Because thou hadst-what we, alas, have not! 

For early didst thou leave the world, with powers 

Fresh, undiverted to the world without, 

Firm to their mark, not spent on other things; 

Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt, 

Which much ~ have tried, in much been bamed, brings. 

o Life unlike to ours!


Who fluctuate idly without term or scope, 

Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives, 

And each half lives a hundred different lives; 

Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope. 

Thou waitest for the spark from Heaven: and we, 

Vague half-believers of our casual creeds, 

Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd, 

Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds, 

Whose weak resolves never have been fulfill'd; 

For whom each year we see 

Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new; 

Who hesitate and falter life away, 

And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day 

Ah, do not we, Wanderer, await it too? 

Yes, we await it, but it still delays, 

And then we suffer; and amongst us One, 

Who most has suffer'd, takes dejectedly 

His seat upon the intellectual throne; 

And all his store of sad experience he 

Lays bare of wretched days; 

Tells us his misery's birth and growth and signs, 

And how the dying spark of hope was fed, 

And how the breast was sooth'd, and how the head, 

And all his hourly varied anodynes. 

This for our wisest: and we others pine, 

And wish the long unhappy dream would end, 

And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear, 

With close-lipp'd Patience for our only friend, 

Sad Patience, too near neighbour to Despair: 

But none has hope like thine. 

Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray, 

Roaming the country side, a truant boy, 

NurSing thy project in unclouded joy, 

And every doubt long blown by time away. 

o born in days when wits were fresh and clear, 

And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames; 

Before this strange disease of modern life,

MATTHEW ARNOLD [970] 

With its sick hurry, its divided aims, 

Its heads 0'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was rife- 

Fly hence, our contact fearl 

Still Hy, plunge deeper in the bowering wood! 

Averse, as Dido did with gesture stem 

From her false friend's approach in Hades tum, 

Wave us away, and keep thy solitude. 

Still nursing the unconquerable hope, 

Still clutching the inviolable shade, 

With a free onward impulse brushing through, 

By night, the silver'd branches of the glade- 

Far on the forest skirts, where none pursue, 

On some mild pastoral slope 

Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales, 

Freshen thy flowers, as in former years, 

With dew, or listen with enchanted ears, 

From the dark dingles, to the nightingales. 

But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly! 

For strong the infection of our mental strife, 

Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest; 

And we should win thee from thy own fair life, 

Like us distracted, and like us unblest. 

Soon, soon thy cheer would die, 

Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd thy powers, 

And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made: 

And then thy glad perennial youth would fade, 

Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. 

They fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles! 

As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea, 

Descried at sunrise an emerging prow 

Lifting the cool-hair'd creepers stealthily, 

The fringes of a southward-facing brow 

Among the Aegean isles; 

And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, 

Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine, 

Green bursting figs, and tunnies steeped in brine; 

And knew the intruders on his ancient home,

[971) MATrHEW ARNOLD 

The young light-hearted Masters of the waves; 

And snatch'd his rudder, and shook out more sail, 

And day and night held on indignantly 

O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, 

Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, 

To where the Atlantic raves 

Outside the Western Straits, and unbent sails 

There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam, 

Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come; 

And on the beach undid his corded bales. 

FROM Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse 

For rigorous teachers seized my youth, 

And purged its faith, and trimm'd its fire, 

Show'd me the high white star of Truth, 

There bade me gaze, and there aspire; 

Even now their whispers pierce the gloom: 

What dost thou in this living tomb? 

Forgive me, masters of the mindl 

At whose behest I long ago 

So much unlearnt, so much resign'dl 

I come not here to be your foe. 

I seek these anchorites, not in ruth, 

To curse and to deny your truth; 

Not as their friend or child I speakl 

But as on some far northern strand, 

Thinking of his own gods, a Greek 

In pity and mournful awe might stand 

Before some fallen Runic stone- 

For both were faiths, and both are gone. 

Wandering between two worlds, one dead, 

The other powerless to be born, 

With nowhere yet to rest my head, 

Like these, on earth I wait forlorn. 

Their faith, my tears, the world deride; 

I come to shed them at their side.

MA'ITHEW ARNOLD [972] 

Dover Beach 

The sea is calm to-night. 

The tide is full, the moon lies fair 

Upon the straits;-on the French coast the light 

Gleams and is gone; the cliHs of England stand 

Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. 

Come to the window, sweet is the night-airl 

Only, from the long line of spray 

Where the sea meets the moon-hlanch'd land, 

Listen! you hear the grating roar 

Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, 

At their return, up the high strand, 

Begin, and cease, and then again begin, 

With tremulous cadence slow, and bring 

The eternal note of sadness in. 

Sophocles long ago 

Heard it on the JEgean, and it brought 

Into his mind the turbid ebb and How 

Of human misery; we 

Find also in the sound a thought, 

Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 

The Sea of Faith 

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore 

Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. 

But now I only hear 

Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, 

Retreating, to the breath 

Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear 

And naked shingles of the world. 

Ab, love, let us be true 

To one anotherl for the world, which seems 

To lie before us like a land of dreams, 

So various, so beautiful, so new, 

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, 

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; 

And we are here as on a darkling plain 

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight. 

Where ignorant armies clash by night.

[973] WILLIAM JOHNSON CORY 

WILLIAM JOHNSON CORY 

Heraclitus 

They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead, 

They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed. 

I wept as I remembered how often you and I 

Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky. 

And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, 

A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest, 

Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake; 

For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take. 

From the Greek 

COVENTRY KERSEY DIGHTON PATMORE 

(1823-1896) 

FROM The Angel in the House 

An idle poet, here and there, 

Looks round him; but, for all the rest 

The world, unfathomably fair, 

Is duller than a witling's jest. 

Love wakes men, once a lifetime each; 

They lift their heavy lids and look; 

And, 10, what one sweet page can teach 

They read with joy, then shut the book: 

And some give thanks, and some blaspheme, 

And most forget; but, either way, 

That and the child's unheeded dream 

Is all the light of all their day. 

The Toys 

My little Son, who looked from thoughtful eyes, 

And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, 

Having my law the seventh time disobeyed,

COVENTRY PATMORE [974] 

1 struck him, and dismissed 

With hard words and unkissed, 

-His Mother, who was patient, being dead. 

Then, fearing lest bis grief should hinder sleep, 

I visited his bed, 

But found him slumbering deep, 

With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet 

From his late sobbing wet. 

And I, with moan, 

Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; 

For, on a table drawn beside his head, 

He had put, within his reach, 

A box of counters and a red-veined stone, 

A piece of glass abraded by the beach, 

And six or seven shells, 

A bottle with bluebells, 

And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, 

To comfort his sad heart. 

So when that night I prayed 

To God, I wept, and said: 

Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, 

Not vexing Thee in death, 

And Thou rememberest of what toys 

We made our joys, 

How weakly understood 

Thy great commanded good, 

Then fatherly not less 

Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, 

Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 

"I will be sorry for their childishness." 

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 

The Fairies 

Up the airy mountain, 

Down the rushy glen, 

We daren't go a-hunting 

For fear of little men.

[975] WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 

Wee folk, good folk, 

Trooping all together: 

Green jacket, red cap, 

And white owl's featherl 

Down along the rocky shore 

Some make their home 

They live on crispy pancakes 

Of yellow tide-foam; 

Some in the reeds 

Of the black mountain-lake, 

With frogs for their watch-dogs, 

All night awake. 

High on the hill-top 

The old King sits; 

He is now so old and grey, 

He's nigh lost his wits. 

With a bridge of white mist 

Columbkill he crosses, 

On his stately journeys 

From Slieveleague to Rosses; 

Or going up with music 

On cold starry nights, 

To sup with the Queen 

Of the gay Northern Lights. 

They stole little Bridget 

For seven years long; 

When she came down again, 

Her friends were all gone. 

They took her lightly back, 

Between the night and morrow; 

They thought that she was fast asleep, 

But she was dead with sorrow. 

They have kept her ever since 

Deep within the lake, 

On a bed of Hag-leaves, 

Watching till she wake.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM [976] 

By the craggy hill-side, 

Through the mosses bare, 

They have planted thorn-trees. 

For pleasure here and there. 

Is any man so daring 

As dig them up in spite, 

He shall find their sharpest thorns 

In his bed at night. 

Up the airy mountain, 

Down the rushy glen, 

We daren't go a-hunting 

For fear of little men. 

Wee folk, good folk, 

Trooping all together; 

Green jacket, red cap, 

And white owl's feather I 

GEORGE MEREDITH 

Love in the Valley 

Under yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward, 

Couched with her arms behind her golden head. 

Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly, 

Lies my yonng love sleeping in the shade. 

Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her, 

Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow, 

Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me: 

Then would she hold me and never let me go? 

Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow, 

Swift as the swallow along the river's light 

Circleting the surface to meet his mirrored winglets. 

Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her Hight. 

Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops. 

Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun, 

She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, 

Hard, but 0 the glory of the winning were she wonl

[977J GEORGE MEREDITH 

When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror, 

Tying up her laces, looping up her hair, 

Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, 

More love should I have, and much less care. 

When her mother tends her before the lighted mirror, 

Loosening her laces, combing down her curls, 

Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, 

I should miss but one for many boys and girls. 

Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows 

Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon. 

No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder: 

Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon. 

Deals she an unkindness, 'tis but her rapid measure, 

Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less: 

Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with 

hailstones 

Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless. 

Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping 

Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star. 

Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried, 

Brooding o'er the gloom, spins the brown eve-jar. 

Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting: 

So were it with me if forgetting cOuld be willed. 

Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring, 

Tell it to forget the source that keeps it 6lIed. 

Stepping down the bill with her fair companions, 

Arm in arm, all against the raying West, 

Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches, 

Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossessed. 

Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awaking 

Whispered the world was; morning light is she. 

Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless; 

Fain would :/ling the net, and fain have her free. 

Happy, happy time, when the white star hovers 

Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew, 

Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness, 

Threading it with colour, like yewberries the yew.

GEORGE MERImITH [978J 

Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepens 

Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells. 

Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret; 

Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells. 

Sunrays, leaning on onr southern hills and lighting 

Wild cloud-mountains that drag the hills along, 

Oft ends the day of yonr shifting brilliant laughter 

Chill as a dull face frowning on a song. 

Ay, but shows the South-West a ripple-feathered bosom 

Blown to silver while the clouds are shaken and ascend, 

Scaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there comes a sunset 

Rich, deep like love in beauty without end. 

When at dawn she sighs, and like an infant to the window 

Turns grave eyes craving light, released from dreams, 

Beautiful she looks. like a white water-lily 

Bursting out of bud in havens of the streams. 

When from bed she rises clothed from neck to ankle 

In her long nightgown sweet as boughs of May, 

Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden lily 

Pure from the night, and splendid for the day. 

Mother of the dews, dark eye-lashed twilight, 

Low-lidded twilight, o'er the valley's brim, 

Rounding on thy breast sings the dew-delighted sky-lark, 

Clear as though the dewdrops had their voice in him. 

Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the rayless planet, 

Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers. 

Let me hear her laughter, I would have her ever 

Cool as dew in twilight, the lark above the flowers. 

All the girls are out with their baskets for the primrose; 

Up lanes, woods through, they troop in joyful bands. 

My sweet leads: she knows not why, but now she loiters, 

Eyes the bent anemones, and hangs her hands. 

Such a look will tell that the violets are peeping, 

Coming the rose: and unaware a cry 

Springs in her bosom for odours and for colour, 

Covert and the nightingale; she knows not why.

[979] GEORGE MEREDITH 

Kerchiefed head and chin she darts between her tulips, 

Streaming like a willow grey in arrowy rain: 

Some bend beaten cheek to gravel, and their angel 

She will be; she lifts them, and on she speeds again. 

Black the driving raincloud breasts the iron gateway: 

She is forth to cheer a neighbour lacking mirth. 

So when sky and grass met rolling dumb for thunder 

Saw I once a white dove, sole light of earth. 

Prim little scholars are the flowers of her garden, 

Trained to stand in rows, and asking if they please. 

I might love them.well but for lOving more the wild ones: 

o my wild ones! they tell me more than these. 

You, my wild one, you tell of hoDied field-rose, 

Violet, blushing eglantine in life; and even as they, 

They by the wayside are earnest of your goodness, 

You are of life's, on the banks that line the way. 

Peering at her chamber the white crowns the red rose, 

Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and three. 

Parted is the window; she sleeps; the starry jasmine 

Breathes a falling breath that carries thoughts of me. 

Sweeter unpossessed, have I said of her my sweetest? 

Not while she sleeps: while she sleeps the jasmine breathes, 

Luring her to love; she sleeps; the starry jasmine 

Bears me to her pillow under white rose-wreaths. 

Yellow with birdfoot-trefoil are the grass-glades; 

Yellow with cinquefoil of the dew-grey leaf; 

Yellow with stone-crop; the moss-mounds are yellow; 

Blue-necked the wheat sways, yellowing to the sheaf. 

Green-yellow bursts from the copse the laughing yaffie; 

Sharp as a sickle is the edge of shade and shine: 

Earth in her heart laughs looking at the heavens, 

Thinking of the harvest: I look and think of mine. 

This I may know: her dressing and undressing 

Such a change of light shows as when the skies in sport 

Shift from cloud to moonlight; or edging over thunder 

Slips a ray of sun; or sweeping into port

~~---------------,\ 

GEORGE MEREDITH [9801 

White sails furl; or on the ocean borders 

White sails lean along the waves leaping green. 

Visions of her shower before me, but from eyesight 

Guarded she would be like the sun were she seen. 

Front door and back of the mossed old farmhouse 

Open with the mom, and in a breezy link 

Freshly sparkles garden to stripe-shadowed orchard, 

Green across a rill where on sand the minnows wink. 

Busy in the grass the early sun of summer 

Swarms, and the blackbird's mellow fluting notes 

Call my darling up with round and roguish challenge: 

Quaintest, richest carol of all the singing throats I 

Cool was the woodside; cool as her white dairy 

Keeping sweet the cream-pan; and there the boys from 

school, 

Cricketing below, rushed brown and red with sunshine; 

o the dark translucence of the deep-eyed cool! 

Spying from the farm, herself she fetched a pitcher 

Full of milk, and tilted for each in turn the beak. 

Then a little fellow, mouth up and on tiptoe, 

Said "I will kiss you": she laughed and leaned her cheek. 

Doves of the fir-wood walling high our red roof 

Through the long noon coo, crooning through the coo. 

Loose droop the leaves, and down the sleepy roadway 

Sometimes pipes a chaffinch; loose droops the blue. 

Cows Hap a slow tail knee-deep in the river, 

Breathless, given up to sun and gnat and Hy. 

Nowhere is she seen; and if I see her nowhere, 

Lightning may come, straight rains and tiger sky. 

o the golden sheaf, the rustling treasure-armfull 

o the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced! 

o the treasure-tresses one another over 

Nodding! 0 the girdle slack about the waist! 

Slain are the poppies that shot their random scarlet 

Quick amid the wheatears: wound about the waist, 

Gathered, see these brides of Earth one blush of ripeness! 

o the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced I

[981] GEOBGE MEBEDITS 

Large and smoky red the sun's cold disk drops, 

Clipped by naked hills, on violet shaded snow: 

Eastward large and still lights up a bower of moonrise, 

Whence at her leisure steps the moon aglow. 

Nightlong on black print-branches our beech-tree 

Gazes in this whiteness: nightlong could 1. 

Here may life on death or death on life be painted. 

Let me clasp her soul to know she cannot die! 

Gossips count her faults; they scour a narrow chamber 

Where there is no window, read not heaven or her. 

"When she was a tiny," one aged woman quavers, 

Plucks at my heart and leads me by the ear. 

Faults she had once as she learnt to run and tumbled: 

Faults of feature some see, beauty not complete. 

Yet, good gossips, beauty that makes holy 

Earth and air, may have faults from head to feet. 

Hither she comes; she comes to me; she lingers, 

Deepens her brown eyebrows, while in new surprise 

High rise the lashes in wonder of a stranger; 

Yet am I the light and living of her eyes. 

Something friends have told her £Ills her heart to brimming, 

Nets her in her blushes, and wounds her, and tames. 

Sure of her haven, 0 like a dove alighting, 

Arms up, she dropped: our souls were in our names. 

Soon will she lie like a white-frost sunrise. 

Yellow oats and brown wheat, barley pale as rye, 

Long since your sheaves have yielded to the thresher, 

Felt the girdle loosened, seen the tresses Hy. 

Soon will she lie like a blood-red sunset. 

Swift with the to-morrow, green-winged Spring! 

Sing from the South-West, bring her back the truants, 

Nightingale and swallow, song and dipping wing. 

Soft new beech-leaves, up to beamy April 

Spreading bough on bough a primrose mountain, you 

Lucid in the moon, raise lilies to the sky£Ields, 

Youngest green transfused in silver shining through:

GEORGE ~rrH [982] 

Fairer than the lily, than the wild white cherry: 

Fair as in image my seraph love appears 

Borne to me by dreams when dawn is at my eyelids: 

Fair as in the Hesh she swims to me on tears. 

Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, 

I would speak my heart out: heaven is my need. 

Every woodland tree is Hushing like the dogwood, 

Flashing like the whitebeam, swaying like the reed. 

Flushing like the dogwood crimson in October; 

Streaming like the Hag-reed South-West blown; 

Flashing as in gusts the sudden-lighted whitebeam: 

All seem to know what is for heaven alone. 

FROM Modern Love 

VI 

It chanced his lips did meet her forehead cool. 

She had no blush, but slanted down her eye. 

Shamed nature, then, confesses love can die: 

And most she punishes the tender fool 

Who will believe what honours her the most! 

Dead! Is it dead? She has a pulse, and How 

Of tears, the price of blood-drops, as I know, 

For whom the midnight sobs around Love's ghost, 

Since then I heard her, and so will sob on. 

The love is here; it has but changed its aim. 

o bitter barren woman! what's the name? 

The name, the name, the new name thou hast won? 

Behold me striking the world's coward stroke! 

That will I not do, though the sting is dire. 

-Beneath the surface this, while by the me 

They sat, she laughing at a quiet joke. 

XII 

Not solely that the Future she destroys, 

And the fair life which in the distance lies 

For all men, beckoning out from dim rich skies: 

Nor that the passing hour's supporting joys

[988) GEORGE MElIEDITR 

Have lost the keen-edged Havour, which begat 

Distinction in old times, and still should breed 

Sweet Memory, and Hope,-earth's modest seed, 

And heaven's high-prompting: not that the world is Hat 

Since that soft-luring creature I embraced, 

Among the children of Illusion went: 

Methinks with all this loss I were content, 

If the mad Past, on which my foot is based, 

Were fum, or might be blotted: but the whole 

Of life is mixed: the mocking Past will stay: 

And if I drink oblivion of a day, 

So shorten I the stature of my soul. 

xxx 

What are we first? First, animals; and next 

Intelligences at a leap; on whom 

Pale lies the distant shadow Df the tomb, 

And all that draweth on the tomb for text. 

Into which state comes Love, the crowning sun: 

Beneath whose light the shadow loses form. 

We are the lords of life, and life is warm. 

Intelligence and instinct now are one. 

But nature says: "My children most they seem 

When they least know me: therefore I decree 

That they shall suffer." Swift doth young Love flee, 

And we stand wakened, shivering from our dream. 

Then if we study Nature we are wise, 

Thus do the few who live but with the day: 

The scientific animals are they. 

Lady, this is my sonnet to your eyes. 

XLII 

I am to follow her. There is much grace 

In women when thus bent on martyrdom. 

They think that dignity of soul may come, 

Perchance, with dignity of body. Base! 

But I was taken by that air of cold 

And statuesque sedateness, when she said 

"I'm going"; lit a taper, bowed her head, 

And went, as with the stride of Pallas bold. 

Fleshly indifference homble! The hands

GEORGE MEREDITH [984] 

Of Time now signal: 0, she's safe from mel 

Within those secret walls what do I see? 

Where first she set the taper down she stands: 

Not Pallas: Hebe shamedl Thoughts black as death, 

Like a stirred pool in sunshine break. Her wrists 

I catch: she faltering, as she half resists, 

"You love . . . ? love . • • ? love • . . ?" all on 

an indrawn breath. 

XLVII 

We saw the swallows gathering in the sky, 

And in the osier-isle we heard them noise. 

We had not to look back on summer joys, 

Or forward to a summer of bright dye: 

But in the largeness of the evening earth 

Our spirits grew as we went side by side. 

The hour became her husband and my bride. 

Love that had robbed us so, thus blessed our dearthl 

The pilgrims of the year waxed very loud 

In multitudinous chatterings, as the Hood 

Full brown came from the West, and like pale blood 

Expanded to the upper crimson cloud. 

Love that had robbed us of immortal things, 

This little moment mercifully gave, 

Where I have seen across the twilight wave 

The swan sail with her young beneath her wings. 

L 

Thus piteously Love closed what he begat: 

The union of this ever-diverse pair I 

These two were rapid falcons in a snare, 

CondeIIUIed to do the Hitting of the bat. 

Lovers beneath the singing sky of May, 

They wandered once; clear as the dew on flowers: 

But they fed not on the advancing hours: 

Their hearts held cravings for the buried day. 

Then each applied to each that fatal knife, 

Deep questioning, which probes to endless dole. 

Ah, what a dusty answer gets the soul 

When hot for certainties in this our lifet- 

In tragic hints here see what evermore

[985] GEORGE MEBEDrrB 

Moves dark as yonder midnight ocean's force, 

Thundering like ramping hosts of warrior horse, 

To throw that faint thin line upon the shorel 

Appreciation 

Earth was not Earth before her sons appeared, 

Nor Beauty Beauty ere young Love was born: 

And thou when I lay hidden wast as mom 

At city-windows, touching eyelids bleared; 

To none by her hesh wingedness endeared; 

Unwelcome unto revellers outworn. 

I the last echoes of Diana's hom 

In woodland heard, and saw thee come, and cheered. 

No longer wast thou then mere light, fair soul! 

And more than simple duty moved thy feet. 

New colours rose in thee, hom fear, hom shame, 

From hope, effused: though not less pure a scroll 

May men read on the heart I taught to beat: 

That change in thee, if not thyself, I claim. 

Lucifer in Starlight 

On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose. 

Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend 

Above the rolling ball in cloud part screened, 

Where sinners hugged their spectre of repose. 

Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those. 

And now upon his western wing he leaned, 

Now his huge bulk o'er Ahic's sands careened, 

Now the black planet shadowed Arctic snows. 

Soaring through wider zones that pricked his scars 

With memory of the old revolt hom Awe, 

He reached a middle height, and at the stars, 

Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank. 

Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank, 

The army of unalterable law.

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI [ 9 8 6 1 

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 

A Little While 

A little while a little love 

The hour yet bears for thee and me 

Who have not drawn the veil to see 

If still our heaven be lit above. 

Thou merely, at the day's last sigh, 

Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone; 

And I have heard the night-wind cry 

And deemed its speech mine own. 


The scattering autumn hoards for us 

Whose bower is not yet ruinous 

Nor quite unleaved our songless grove. 

Only across the shaken boughs 

We hear the flood-tides seek the sea, 

And deep in both our hearts they rouse 

One wail for thee and me. 


May yet be ours who have not said 

The word it makes our eyes afraid 

To know that each is thinking of. 

Not yet the end: be our lips dumb 

In smiles a little season yet: 

I'll tell thee, when the end is come, 

How we may best forget. 

Three Shadows 

I looked and saw your eyes 

In the shadow of your hair, 

As a traveller sees the stream 

In the shadow of the wood;

[987] DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 

And I said, "My faint heart sighs, 

Ab mel to linger there, 

To drink deep and to dream 

In that sweet solitude." 

I looked and saw your heart 

In the shadow of your eyes, 

As a seeker sees the gold 

In the shadow of the stream; 

And I said, "Ah mel what art 

Should win the immortal prize, 

Whose want must make life cold 

And Heaven a hollow dream?" 

I looked and saw your love 

In the shadow of your heart, 

As a diver sees the pearl 

In the shadow of the sea; 

And I murmured, not above 

My breath, but all apart. 

nAbI you can love, true girl, 

And is your love for me?" 

Autumn Song 

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf 

How the heart feels a languid grief 

Laid on it for a covering, 

And how sleep seems a goodly thing 

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf? 

And how the swift beat of the brain 

Falters because it is in vain, 

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf 

Knowest thou not? and how the chief 

Of joys seems-not to suffer pain? 

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf 

How the soul feels like a dried sheaf 

Bound up at length for harvesting, 

And how death seems a comely thing 

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

DANTE GABlIlEL ROSSE'ITl [ 9 8 8 ] 

For a Venetian Pastoral by Giorgione 

Water, for anguish of the solstice:-nay, 

But dip the vessel slowly,-nay, but lean 

And hark how at its verge the wave sighs in 

Reluctant. Hush! beyond all depth away 

The heat lies silent at the brink of day: 

Now the hand trails upon the viol-string 

That sobs, and the brown faces cease to sing, 

Sad with the whole of pleasure. Whither stray 

Her eyes now, from whose mouth the slim pipes creep 

And leave it pouting, while the shadowed grass 

Is cool against her naked side? Let be: 

Say nothing now unto her lest she weep, 

Nor name this ever. Be it as it was, 

Life touching lips with immortality. 

1. 

FROM The House of Life 

A Sonnet is a moment's monument, 

Memorial from the Soul's eternity 

To one dead deathless hour. Look that it be, 

Whether for lustral rite or dire portent, 

Of its own arduous fullness reverent: 

Carve it in ivory or in ebony, 

As Night or Day may rule; and let Time see 

Its flowering crest impearled and orient. 

A Sonnet is a coin: its face reveals 

The soul,-its converse, to what Power 'tis due: 

Whether for tribute to the august appeals 

Of Life, or dower in Love's high retinue, 

It serve; or, mid the dark wharfs cavernous breath, 

In Charon's palm it pay the toll to Death. 

2. LOVESICHT 

When do I see thee most, beloved one? 

When in the light the spirits of mine eyes 

Before thy face, their altar, solemnize

[989] DANTE CURIEL ROSSETTI 

The worship of that Love through thee made known? 

Or when in the dusk hours (we two alone), 

Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies 

Thy twilight-hidden gUmmering visage lies, 

And my soul only sees thy soul its own? 

o love, my lovel if I no more should see 

Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee, 

Nor image of thine eyes in any spring, 

How then should sound upon Life's darkening slope 

The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope, 

The wind of Death's imperishable wing? 

3. WITHOUT HER 

What of her glass without her? The blank grey 

There where the pool is blind of the moon's face. 

Her dress without her? The tossed empty space 

Of cloud-rack whence the moon has passed away. 

Her paths without her? Day's appointed sway 

Usurped by desolate night. Her pillowed place 

Without her? Tears, ah met for love's good grace, 

And cold forgetfulness of night or day. 

What of the heart without her? Nay, poor heart, 

Of thee what word remains ere speech be still? 

A wayfarer by barren ways and chill, 

Steep ways and weary, without her thou art, 

Where the long cloud, the long wood's counterpart, 

Sheds doubled darkness up the labouring hill. 

4. THE CHOICE 

I 

Eat thou and drink; to-morrow thou shalt rue. 

Surely the earth. that's wise being very old, 

Needs not our help. Then loose me, love, and hold 

Thy sultry hair up from my face; that I

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 

[ 9 9 0 J 

May pour for thee this golden wine, brim-high, 

Till round the glass thy fingers glow like gold. 

We'll drown all hours: thy song, while hours are toll'd. 

Shall leap, as fountains veil the changing sky. 

Now kiss, and think that there are really those, 

My own high-bosomed beauty, who increase 

Vain gold, vain lore, and yet might choose our wayl 

Through many years they toil; then on a day 

They die not,-for their life was death,-but cease; 

And round their narrow lips the mould falls close. 

II 

Watch thou and fear; to-morrow thou shalt die. 

Or art thou sure thou shalt have time for death? 

Is not the day which God's word promiseth 

To come man knows not when? In yonder sky 

Now while we speak, the sun speeds forth: can I 

Or thou assure him of his goal? God's breath 

Even at this moment haply quickeneth 

The air to a Harne; till spirits, always nigh 

Though screened and hid, shall walk the daylight here. 

And dost thou prate of all that men shall do? 

Canst thou, who hast but plagues, presume to be 

Glad in his gladness that comes after thee? 

Will his strength slay thy worm in Hell? Go to: 

Cover thy countenance, and watch, and fear. 

III 

Think thou and act; to-morrow thou shalt die. 

Outstretched in the sun's warmth upon the shore, 

Thou say'st: "Man's measured path is all gone o'er: 

Up all his years, steeply, with strain and sigh, 

Man clomb until he touched the truth; and I, 

Even I, am he whom it was destined for." 

How should this be? Art thou then so much more 

Than they who sowed, that thou shouldst reap thereby? 

Nay, come up hither. From this wave-washed mound 

Unto the furthest flood-brim look with me;

[991] DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETrl 

Then reach on with thy thought till it be drowned. 

Miles and mi1es distant though the last line be, 

And though thy soul sail leagues and leagues beyond, 

Still, leagues beyond those leagues, there is more sea. 

The Ballad of Dead Ladies 

Tell me now in what hidden way is 

Lady Flora the hidden Roman? 

Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais, 

Neither of them the fairer woman? 

Where is Echo, beheld of no man, 

Only heard in river and mere, 

She whose beauty was more than human? . 

But where are the snows of yester-year? 

Where's Heloise, the learned nun, 

For whose sake Abeillard, I ween, 

Lost manhood and put priesthood on? 

(From Love he won such dule and teenl) 

And where, I pray you, is the Queen 

Who willed that Buridan should steer 

Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine? .•• 


White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies, 

With a voice like any mermaiden, 

Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice, 

And Ermengarde the lady of Maine, 

And that good Joan whom Englishmen 

At Rouen doomed and burned her there, 

Mother of God, where are they then? 


Nay, never ask this week, fair lord, 

Where they are gone, nor yet this year, 

Save with thus much for an overword, 


From the French of FltANoolS VILLON, 1450

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI [ 9 9 2 ] 

Beauty 

(A COMBINATION FROM SAPPHO) 

Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost bough, 

A-top on the topmost twig,-which the pluckers forgot some 

how, 

Forgot it not, nay, but got it not, for none could get it till now. 

Like the wild hyacinth which on the hills is found, 

Which the passing feet of the shepherds for ever tear and 

wound, 

Until the purple blossom is trodden into the ground. 

SILAS WEIR MITCHELL 

(1829-1914) 

A Decanter of Madeira, Aged 86, 

to George Bancroft, Aged 86 

Good master, you and I were born 

In "Teacup days" of hoop and hood, 

And when the silver cue hung down, 

And toasts were drunk, and wine was good; 

When kin of mine (a jolly brood) 

From sideboards looked, and knew full well 

What courage they had given the beau, 

How generous made the blushing belle. 

Ah mel what gossip could I prate 

Of days when doors were locked at dinnersI 

Believe me, I have kissed the lips 

Of many pretty saints-or sinners. 

Lip service have I done, alackl 

I don't repent, but come what may, 

What ready lips, sir, I have kissed, 

Be sure at least I shall not say.

[993] SILAS WEIR :MITCHELL 

Two honest gentlemen are we, 

I Demi John, whole George are YOu; 

When Nature grew us one in years 

She meant to make a generous brew. 

She bade me store for festal hours 

The sun our south-side vineyard knew; 

To sterner tasks she set your life, 

As statesman, writer, scholar, grew. 

Years eighty-six have come and gone; 

At last we meet. Your health to-night. 

Take from this board of friendly hearts 

The memory of a proud delight. 

The days that went have made you wise. 

There's wisdom in my rare bouquet. 

I'm rather paler than I was; 

And on my soul, you're growing gray. 

I like to think, when Toper Time 

Has drained the last of me and you, 

Some here shall say, They both were good, 

The wine we drank, the man we knew. 

CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI 

(1830-189+) 

FROM Monna Innominata 

XI 

Many in after times will say of you 

"He loved her"-while of me what will they say? 

Not that I loved you more than just in play, 

For fashion's sake as idle women do. 

Even let them prate; who know not what we knew 

Of love and parting in exceeding pain, 

Of parting hopeless here to meet again, 

Hopeless on earth, and heaven is out of view. 

But by my heart of love laid bare to you,

f 

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI [994] 

My love that you can make not void nor ~ain, 

Love that foregoes you but to claim anew 

Beyond this passage of the gate of death, 

I charge you at the Judgment make it plain 

My love of you was life and not a breath. 

XIV 

Youth gone, and beauty gone if ever there 

Dwelt beauty in so poor a face as this; 

Youth gone and beauty, what remains of bliss? 

I will not bind fresh roses in my hair, 

To shame a cheek at best but little fair, 

Leave youth his roses, who can bear a thorn, 

I will not seek for blossoms anywhere, 

Except such common Bowers as blow with com. 

Youth gone and beauty gone, what doth remain? 

The longing of a heart pent up forlorn, 

A silent heart whose silence loves and longs; 

The silence of a heart which sang its songs 

While youth and beauty made a summer mom, 

Silence of love that cannot sing again. 

Song 

When I am dead, my dearest, 

Sing no sad songs for me; 

Plant thou no roses at my head, 

Nor shady cypress tree: 

Be the green grass above me 

With showers and dewdrops wet: 

And if thou wilt, remember, 

And if thou wilt, forget. 

I shall not see the shadows, 

I shall not feel the rain; 

I shall not hear the nightingale 

Sing on as if in pain: 

And dreaming through the twilight 

That doth not rise nor set, 

Haply I may remember, 

And haply may forget.

[995] CHlUSTINA ROSSETI'l 

Song 

Oh roses for the flush of youth, 

And laurel for the perfect prime; 

But pluck an ivy branch for me 

Grown old before my time. 

Oh violets for the grave of youth, 

And bay for those dead in their prime; 

Give me the withered leaves I chose 

Before in the old time. 

Remember 

Remember me when I am gone away, 

Gone far away into the silent land; 

When you can no more hold me by the hand, 

Nor I half tum to go yet turning stay. 

Remember me when no more day by day 

You tell me of our future that you plann'd: 

Only remember me; you understand 

It will be late to counsel then or pray. 

Yet if you should forget me for a while 

And afterwards remember, do not grieve: 

For if the darkness and corruption leave 

A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, 

Better by far you should forget and smile 

Than that you should remember and be sad. 

FROM The Prince's Progress 

Too late for love, too late for joy, 

Too late, too latel 

You loitered on the road too long, 

You trifled at the gate: 

The enchanted dove upon her branch 

Died without a mate; 

The enchanted princess in her tower 

Slept, died, behind the grate; 

Her heart was starving all this while 

You made it wait.

CHRISTINA ROSSETI'I [996] 

Ten years ago, five years ago, 

One year ago, 

Even then you had arrived in time, 

Though somewhat slow; 

Then you had known her living face 

Which now you cannot know: 

The frozen fountain would have leaped, 

The buds gone on to blow, 

The warm south wind would have awaked 

To melt the snow. 

Is she fair now as she lies? 

Once she was fair; 

Meet queen for any kindly king, 

With gold-dust on her hair. 

Now these are poppies in her locks, 

White poppies she must wear; 

Must wear a veil to shroud her face 

And the want graven there: 

Or is the hunger fed at length, 

Cast off the care? 

We never saw her with a smile 

Or with a frown; 

Her bed seemed never soft to her, 

Though tossed of down; 

She little heeded what she wore, 

Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; 

We think her white brows often ached 

Beneath her crown, 

Till silvery hairs showed in her locks 

That used to be so brown. 

We never heard her speak in haste; 

Her tones were sweet, 

And modulated just so much 

As it was meet: 

Her heart sat silent through the noise 

And concourse of the street.

[997] CHRISTINA ROSSETrI 

There was no hurry in her hands, 

No hurry in her feet; 

There was no bliss drew nigh to her, 

That she might run to greet. 

You should have wept her yesterday, 

Wasting upon her bed: 

But wherefore should you weep to-day 

That she is dead? 

Lo, we who love weep not to-day, 

But crown her royal head. 

Let he these poppies that we strew, 

Your roses are too red: 

Let these be poppies, not for you 

Cut down and spread. 

A Birthday 

My heart is like a singing bird 

Whose nest is in a watered shoot: 

My heart is like an apple-tree 

Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit. 

My heart is like a rainbow shell 

That paddles in a halcyon sea; 

My heart is gladder than all these 

Because my love is come to me. 

Raise me a dais of silk and down; 

Hang it with vair and purple dyes; 

Carve it in doves and pomegranates, 

And peacocks with a hnndred eyes; 

Work it in gold and silver grapes, 

In leaves and silver fleurs-de-Iys; 

Because the birthday of my life 

Is come, my love is come to me.

? 

/ 

v / CHliUSTINA ROSSETTI (998] 

Echo 

Come to me in the silence of the night; 

Come in the speaking silence of a dream; 

Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright 

As sunlight on a stream; 

Come back in tears, 

o memory, hope, love of finished years. 

o dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet, 

Whose wakening should have been in Paradise, 

Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet; 

Where thirsty longing eyes 

Watch the slow door 

That opening, letting in, lets out no more. 

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live 

My very life again though cold in death: 

Come back to me in dreams, that I may give 

Pulse for pulse, breath for breath: 

Speak low, lean low, 

As long ago, my love, how long ago. 

Up-HiIl 

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 mom 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.

1\ 

[999] CHRISTINA ROSSETT.( 

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. 

Twice 

I took my heart in my hand, 

(0 my love, 0 my love), 

I said: Let me fall or stand, 

Let me live or die, 

But this once hear me speak 

(O my love, 0 my Iove) 

Yet a woman's words are weak; 

You should speak, not 1. 

You took my heart in your hand 

With' a friendly smile, 

With a critical eye you scanned, 

Then set it down, 

And said: It is still unripe 

Better wait awhile; 

Wait while the skylarks pipe, 

Till the com grows brown. 

As you set it down it broke 

Broke, but did not wince; 

I smiled at the speech you spoke, 

At your judgment that I heard: 

But I have not often smiled 

Since then, nor questioned since, 

Nor cared for com-flowers wild, 

Nor sung with the singing bird. 

I take my heart in my hand, 

o my God, 0 my God, 

My broken heart in my hand: 

Thou hast seen, judge Thou.

I 

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI [10001 

My hope was written on sand, 

o my God, 0 my God: 

Now let Thy judgment stand 

Yea, judge me now. 

This contemned of a man, 

This marred one heedless day, 

This heart take Thou to scan 

Both within and without: 

Refine with fire its gold, 

Purge Thou its dross away 

Yea hold it in Thy hold, 

Whence none can pluck it out. 

I take my heart in my hand 

I shall not die, but live 

Before Thy face I stand; 

I, for Thou callest such: 

All that I have I bring, 

All that I am I give; 

Smile Thou and I shall sing, 

But shall not question much. 

EMILY DICKINSON 

"My Lite Closed Twice ... " 

(1830-1886) 

My life closed twice before its close; 

It yet remains to see 

If Immortality unveil 

A third event to me, 

So huge, so hopeless to conceive, 

As these that twice befell. 

Parting is all we know of heaven, 

And all we need of hell.

[1001] EMILY DIClONSON 

------~',r---------------------------------- 

"Doubt Me ..... 

Doubt me, my dim companionl 

Why. God would be content 

With but a fraction of the love 

Poured thee without a stint. 

The whole of me, forever, 

What more the woman can, 

Say quick, that I may dower thee 

With last delight I ownl 

It cannot be my spirit, 

For that was thine before; 

I ceded all of dust I knew, 

What opulence the more 

Had I, a humble maiden, 

Whose farthest of degree 

Was that she might 

Some distant heaven, 

Dwell timidly with theel 

"I'm Ceded ... ., 

I'm ceded, I've stopped being theirs; 

The name tbey dropped upon my face 

With water, in the country church, 

Is finished using now, 

And they can put it with my dolls, 

My childhood, and the string of spools 

I've finished threading too. 

Baptized before without the choice, 

But this time consciously, of grace 

Unto supremest name, 

Called to my full, the crescent dropped, 

Existence's whole arc 6lled up 

With one small diadem.

EMILY DICIONSON [1002] 

My second rank, too small the first, 

Crowned, crowing on my father's breast, 

A haH unconscious queen; 

But this time, adequate, erect, 

With will to choose or to reject, 

And I choose-just a throne. 

''I'm Wife ..." 

I'm wife; I've finished that, 

That other state; 

I'm Czar, I'm woman now: 

It's safer so. 

How odd the girl's life looks 

Behind this soft eclipse! 

I think that earth seems so 

To those in heaven now. 

This being comfort, then 

That other kind was pain; 

But why compare? 

I'm wife! stop there! 

"Proud of My Broken Heart ..... 

Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it, 

Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee. 

Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it, 

Not to partake thy passion, my humility. 

"Heart, We Will Forget Him!" 

Heart, we will forget him! 

You and I, to-night! 

You may forget the warmth he gave, 

I will forget the light.

[1008] EMILY DICXlNSON 

When you have done, pray tell me, 

That I my thoughts may dim; 

Haste! lest while you're lagging, 

I may remember him! 

"Title Divine Is Mine" 

Title divine is mine 

The Wife without 

The Sign. 

Acute degree 

Conferred on me 

Empress of Calvary. 

Royal all but the 

Crown- 

Betrothed, without the swoon 

God gives us women 

When two hold 

Garnet to garnet, 

Gold to gold 

Born-Bridalled- 

Shrouded- 

In a day 

Tri-Victory 

"My Husband" 

Women say 

Stroking the melody, 

Is this the way? 

"Th'IS Q' met Dust ... " 

This quiet dust was Gentlemen and Ladies, 

And Lads and Girls; 

Was laughter and ability and sighing, 

And frocks and curls. 

This passive place a Summer's nimble mansion, 

Where Bloom and Bees 

Fulfilled their Oriental Circuit, 

Then ceased like these.

, 

lAMES THOMSON [1004] 

JAMES THOMSON 

( 1834-188z) 

FROM The City of Dreadful Night 

PROEM 

Lo, thus. as prostrate, "In the dust I write 

My heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears." 

Yet why evoke the spectres of black night 

To blot the sunshine of exultant years? 

Why disinter dead faith from mouldering hidden? 

Why break the seals of mute despair unbidden, 

And wail life's discords into careless ears? 

Because a cold rage seizes one at whiles 

To show their bitter old and wrinkled truth 

Stripped naked of all vesture that beguiles, 

False dreams, false hopes, false masks and modes of youth; 

Because it gives some sense of power and passion 

In helpless impotence to try to fashion 

Our woe in living words howe'er uncouth. 

Surely I write not for the hopeful young, 

Or those who deem their happiness of worth, 

Or such as pasture and grow fat among 

The shows of life and feel not doubt nor dearth, 

Or pious spirits with a God above them 

To sanctify and glorify and love them, 

Or sages who foresee a heaven on earth. 

For none of these I write, and none of these 

Could read the writing if they deigned to try: 

So may they flourish in their due degrees, 

On our sweet earth and in their unplaced sky. 

If any cares for the weak words here written, 

It must be some one desolate, Fate-smitten, 

Whose faith and hope are dead, and who would die. 

Yes, here and there some weary wanderer 

In that same city of tremendous night 

Will understand the speech, and feel a stir 

Of fellowship in all-disastrous fight;

[1005] JAMES 'IHOMSON 

"I suffer mute and lonely, yet another 

Uplifts his voice to let me know a brother 

Travels the same wild paths though out of sight." 

o sad Fraternity, do I unfold 

Your dolorous mysteries shrouded from of yore? 

Nay, be assured; no secret can be told 

To any who divined it not before: 

None uninitiate by many a presage 

Will comprehend the language of the message, 

Although proclaimed aloud for evermore. 

The City is of Night; perchance of Death, 

But certainly of Night; for never there 

Can come the lucid morning's fragrant breath 

After the dewy dawning's cold grey air; 

The moon and stars may shine with scorn or pity; 

The sun has never visited that city, 

For it dissolveth in the daylight fair. 

Dissolveth like a dream of night away; 

Though present in distempered gloom of thought 

And deadly weariness of heart all day. 

But when a dream night after night is brought 

Throughout a week, and such weeks few or many 

Recur each year for several years, can any 

Discern that dream from real life in aught? 

For life is but a dream whose shapes return, 

Some frequently, some seldom, some by night 

And some by day, some night and day: we learn, 

The while all change and many vanish quite, 

In their recurrence with recurrent changes 

A certain seeming order; where this ranges 

We count things real; such is memory's might. 

A river girds the city west and south, 

The main north channel of a broad lagoon, 

Regurging with the salt tides from the mouth; 

Waste marshes shine and glister to the moon

JAMES THOMSON [1006] 

For leagues, then moorland black, then stony ridges; 

Great piers and causeways, many noble bridges, 

Connect the town and islet suburbs strewn. 

Upon an easy slope it lies at large, 

And scarcely overlaps the long curved crest 

Which swells out two leagues from the river marge. 

A trackless wilderness rolls north and west, 

Savannahs, savage woods, enormous mountains, 

Bleak uplands, black ravines with torrent fountains; 

And eastward rolls the shipless sea's unrest. 

The city is not ruinous, although 

Great ruins of an unremembered past, 

With others of a few short years ago 

More sad, are found within its precincts vast. 

The street-lamps always burn; but scarce a casement 

In house or palace front from roof to basement 

Doth glow or gleam athwart the mirk air cast. 

The street-lamps burn amidst the baleful glooms, 

Amidst the soundless solitudes immense 

Of ranged mansions dark and still as tombs. 

The silence which benumbs or strains the sense 

Fulfils with awe the sours despair unweeping: 

Myriads of habitants are ever sleeping, 

Or dead, or fled from nameless pestilence! 

Yet as in some necropolis you find 

Perchance one mourner to a thousand dead, 

So there; worn faces that look deaf and blind 

Like tragic masks of stone. With weary tread, 

Each wrapt in his own doom, they wander, wander, 

Or sit foredone and desolately ponder 

Through sleepless hours with heavy drooping head. 

Mature men chiefly, few in age or youth, 

A woman rarely, now and then a child: 

A child! If here the heart turns sick with ruth 

To see a little one from birth defiled,

[1007] JAMES THOMSON 

Or lame or blind, as preordained to languish 

Through youthless life, think how it bleeds with anguish 

To meet one erring in that homeless wild. 

They often murmur to themselves, they speak 

To one another seldom, for their woe 

Broods maddening inwardly, and scorns to wreak 

Itself abroad; and if at whiles it grow 

To frenzy which must rave, none heeds the clamour, 

Unless there waits some victim of like glamour, 

To rave in turn, who lends attentive show. 

The City is of Night, but not of Sleep; 

There sweet sleep is not for the weary brain; 

The pitiless hours like years and ages creep, 

A night seems termless hell. This dreadful strain 

Of thought and consciousness which never ceases, 

Or which some moments' stupor but increases, 

This, worse than woe, makes wretches there insane. 

They leave all hope behind who enter there: 

One certitude while sane they cannot leave, 

One anodyne for torture and despair; 

The certitude of Death, which no reprieve 

Can put off long; and which, divinely tender, 

But waits the outstretched hand to promptly render 

That draught whose slumber nothing can bereave. 

XIII 

Of all things human which are strange and wild 

This is perchance the wildest and most strange, 

And showeth man most utterly beguiled, 

To those who haunt that sunless City's range; 

That he bemoans himself for aye, repeating 

How time is deadly swift, how life is Heeting, 

How naught is constant on the earth but change. 

The hours are heavy on him and the days; 

The burden of the months he scarce can bear; 

And often in his secret soul he prays 

To sleep through barren periods unaware, 

/


Arousing at some longed-for date of pleasure; 

Which having passed and yielded him small treasure, 

He would outsleep another term of care. 

Yet in his marvellous fancy he must make 

Quick wings for Time, and see it fly from us; 

This Time that crawleth like a monstrous snake, 

Wounded and slow and very venomous; 

Which creeps blindwormlike round the earth and ocean, 

Distilling poison at each painful motion, 

And seems condenmed to circle ever thus. 

And since he cannot spend and use aright 

The little time here given him in trust, 

But wasteth it in weary undelight 

Of foolish toil and trouble, strife and lust, 

He naturally claimeth to inherit 

The everlasting Future, that his merit 

May have full scope; as surely is most just. 

o length of the intolerable hours, 

o nights that are as aeons of slow pain, 

o Time, too ample for our vital powers, 

o Life, whose woeful vanities remain 

Immutahle for all of all our legions 

Through all the centuries and in all the regions, 

Not of your speed and variance we complain. 

We do not ask a longer term of strife, 

Weakness and weariness and nameless woes; 

We do not claim renewed and endless life 

When this which is our torment here shall close, 

An everlasting conscious inanition I 

We yearn for speedy death in fun fruition, 

Dateless oblivion and divine repose.

[1009] JAMES THOMSON 

FROM Sunday up the River 

I 

I looked out into the morning, 

I looked out into the west: 

The soft blue eye of the quiet sky 

Still drooped in dreamy rest; 

The trees were still like clouds there. 

The clouds like mountains dim; 

The broad mist lay, a silver bay 

Whose tide was at the brim. 

I looked out into the morning, 

I looked out into the east: 

The Hood of light upon the night 

Had silently increased; 

The sky was pale with fervour, 

The distant trees were grey, 

The hill-lines drawn like waves of dawn 

Dissolving in the day. 

I looked out into the morning; 

Looked east, looked west, with glee: 

o richest day of happy May, 

My love will spend with mel 

xvm 

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.


FROM Sunday at Hampstead 

x 

As we rush, as we rush in the Train, 

The trees and the houses go wheeling back, 

But the starry heavens above the plain 

Come Hying on our track. 

All the beautiful stars of the sky, 

The silver doves of the forest of Night, 

Over the dull earth swarm and Hy, 

Companions of our Hight. 

We will rush ever on without fear; 

Let the goal be far, the Hight be Heetl 

For we carry the Heavens with us, Dear, 

While the Earth slips from our feet! 

WILLIAM MORRIS 

Summer Dawn 

Pray but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips, 

Think but one thought of me up in the stars. 

The summer night waneth, the morning light slips, 

Faint and grey 'twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt the 

cloud-bars, 

That are patiently waiting there for the dawn: 

Patient and colourless, though Heaven's gold 

Waits to float through them along with the sun. 

Far out in the meadows, above the young corn, 

The heavy elms wait, and restless and cold 

The uneasy wind rises; the roses are dun; 

Through the long twilight they pray for the dawn. 

Round the lone house in the midst of the corn. 

Speak but one word to me over the corn, 

Over the tender, bowed locks of the corn.

[lOl1J 

WILLIAM MOlUlIS 

L 

FROM The Life and Death ot Jason 

I know a little garden-close, 

Set thick with lily and red rose, 

Where I would wander if I might 

From dewy dawn to dewy night, 

And have one with me wandering. 

And though within it no birds sing, 

And though no pillared house is there, 

And though the apple boughs are bare 

Of fruit and blossom, would to God, 

Her feet upon the green grass trod, 

And I beheld them as before. 

There comes a murmur from the shore, 

And in the place two fair streams are, 

Drawn from the purple hills afar, 

Drawn down unto the restless sea; 

The hills whose £lowers ne'er fed the bee, 

The shore no ship has ever seen, 

Still beaten by the billows green, 

Whose murmur comes unceasingly 

Unto the place for which I cry. 

For which I cry both day and night, 

For which I let slip all delight, 

That maketh me both deaf and blind, 

Careless to win, unskilled to find, 

And quick to lose what all men seek. 

Yet tottering as I am and weak, 

Still have I left a little breath 

To seek within the jaws of death 

An entrance to that happy place, 

To seek the unforgotten face 

Once seen, once kissed, once reft from me 

Anigh the murmuring of the sea. 

2. 

The Sirens: 0 happy seafarers are ye, 

And surely all your ills are past,

wn.LIAM 

MOmus [ IOUJ 

\ 

Orpheus: 

The Sirens: 

And toil upon the land and sea, 

Since ye are brought to us at last. 

To you the fashion of the world, 

Wide lands laid waste, fair cities burned, 

And plagues, and kings from kingdoms hurled, 

Are nought, since hither ye have turned. 

For as upon this beach we stand, 

And o'er our heads the sea-fowl Hit, 

Our eyes behold a glorious land, 

And soon shall ye be kings of it. 

A little more, a little more, 

o carriers of the Golden Fleece, 

A little labour with the oar, 

Before we reach the land of Greece. 

E'en now perchance faint rumours reach 

Men's ears of this our victory, 

And draw them down unto the beach 

To gaze across the empty sea. 

But since the longed-for day is nigh, 

And scarce a God could stay us now, 

Why do ye hang your heads and sigh, 

Hindering for nought our eager prow? 

Ah, had ye chanced to reach the home 

On which your fond desires were set, 

Into what troubles had ye come? 

Short love and joy and long regret. 

But now, but now, when ye have lain 

Asleep with us a little while 

Beneath the washing of the main, 

How calm shall be your waking smile I 

For ye shall smile to think of life 

That knows no troublous change or fear,

[1013] WILLIAM MOBlWl 

No unavailing bitter strife, 

That ere its time brings trouble near. 

Orpheus: 

Is there some murmur in your ears, 

That all that we have done is nought, 

And nothing ends our cares and fears, 

Till the last fear on us is brought? 

The Sirens: Alasl and will ye stop your ears, 

In vain desire to do aught, 

And wish to live 'mid cares and fears, 

until the last fear makes you nought? 

Orpheus: 

Is not the May-time now on earth, 

When close against the city wall 

The folks are singing in their mirth, 

While on their heads the May-Bowers fall? 

The Sirens: Yes, May is come, and its sweet breath 

Shall well-nigh make you weep to-day, 

And pensive with swift-coming death, 

Shall ye be satiate of the May. 

Orpheus: 

Shall not July bring fresh delight, 

As underneath green trees ye sit, 

And o'er some damsel's body white 

The noontide shadows change and Hit? 

The Sirens: No new delight July shall bring 

But ancient fear and fresh desire, 

And, spite of every lovely thing, 

Of July surely shall ye tire. 

Orpheus: 

And now, when August comes on thee, 

And 'mid the golden sea of corn 

The merry reapers thou mayst see, 

Wilt thou still think the earth forlorn?

WILLIAM MORRlS [1014] 

The Sirens: Set Howers upon thy short-lived head, 

And in thine heart forgetfulness 

Of man's hard toil, and scanty bread, 

And weary of those days no less. 

Orpheus: 

Or wilt thou climb the sunny hill, 

In the October afternoon, 

To watch the purple earth's blood fill 

The grey vat to the maiden's tune? 

The Sirens: When thou heginnest to grow old, 

Bring back remembrance of thy bliss 

With that the shining cup doth hold, 

And weary helplessly of this. 

Orpheus: 

Or pleasureless shall we pass by 

The long cold night and leaden day, 

That song and tale and minstrelsy 

Shall make as merry as the May? 

The Sirens: List then, to-night, to some old tale 

Until the tears o'erHow thine eyes; 

But what shall all these things avail 

When sad to-morrow comes and dies? 

Orpheus: 

And when the world is hom again, 

And with some fair love, side hy side. 

Thou wanderest 'twixt the sun and rain, 

In that fresh love-begetting tide; 

Then, when the world is born again, 

And the sweet year before thee lies, 

Shall thy heart think of coming pain, 

Or vex itself with memories? 

The Sirens: Ah! then the world is born again 

With burning love unsatisfied, 

And new desires fond and vain, 

And weary days from tide to tide.

[1015] WILLIAM MOIUllS 

Ahl when the world is born again, 

A little day is soon gone by, 

When thou, unmoved by sun or rain, 

Within a cold straight house shall lie. 

1. 

FROM The Earthly Paradise 

Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing. 

I cannot ease the burden of your fears, 

Or make quick-coming death a little thing, 

Or bring again the pleasure of past years, 

Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears, 

Or hope again for aught that I can say, 

The idle singer of an empty day. 

But rather, when aweary of your mirth, 

From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh, 

And, feeling kindly unto all the earth, 

Grudge every minute as it passes by, 

Made the more mindful that the sweet days die 

Remember me a little then I pray, 

The idle singer of an empty day. 

The heavy trouble, the bewildering care 

That weighs us down who live and earn our bread, 

These idle verses have no power to bear; 

So let me sing of names remembered, 

Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead, 

Or long time take their memory quite away 

From us poor singers of an empty day. 

Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time, 

Why should I strive to set the crooked straight? 

Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme 

Beats with light wing against the ivory gate, 

Telling a tale not too importunate 

To those who in the sleepy region stay, 

Lulled by the singer of an empty day.

WILLIAM MORlUS 

[l016] 

.2. 

o June, 0 June, that we desired so, 

Wilt thou not make us happy on this day? 

Across the river thy soft breezes blow 

Sweet with the scent of heanfields far away, 

Above our heads rustle the aspens grey, 

Calm is the sky with barmless clouds beset, 

No thougbt of storm the morning vexes yet. 

See, we have left our hopes and fears behind 

To give our very hearts up unto thee; 

What better place than this then could we find 

By this sweet stream that knows not of the sea, 

That guesses not the city's misery, 

This little stream whose hamlets scarce have names 

This far-off, lonely mother of the Thames? 

Here then, 0 June, thy kindness will we take; 

And if indeed hut pensive men we seem, 

What should we do? thou wouldst not have us wake 

From out the arms of this rare happy dream 

And wish to leave the murmur of the stream, 

The rustling boughs, the twitter of the birds, 

And all thy thousand peaceful happy words. 

FROM Ogier the Dane 

Haec: 

Ine: 

In the white-flowered hawthorn brake, 

Love, he merry for my sake; 

Twine the blossoms in my hair, 

Kiss me where I am most fair- 

Kiss me. lovel for who knoweth 

What thing cometh after death? 

Nay, the garlanded gold hair 

Hides thee where thou art most fair; 

Hides the rose-tinged hills of snow 

Ay, sweet love, I have thee nowl 

Kiss me, love! for who knoweth 

What thing cometh after death?

[1017] WILLIAM MORRI8 

Haec: 

Ilk: 

Shall we W(;ep for a dead day, 

Or set Sorrow in our way? 

Hidden by my golden hair, 

Wilt thou weep that sweet days wear? 

Kiss me, love! for who knoweth 


Weep, 0 Love, the days that Hit, 

Now, while I can feel thy breath; 

Then may I remember it 

Sad and old, and near my death. 

Kiss me, lovel for who knoweth 


FROM Love Is Enough 

Love is Enough: though the World be a-waning 

And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining, 

Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to Jiscover 

The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder, 

Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder, 

And this day draw a veil over all deeds passed over, 

Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter; 

The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter 

These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover. 

ALGERNON CHARLES S~NBURNE 

FROM The Triumph of Time 

( 1837-190 9) 

I have put my days and dreams out of mind 

Days that are over, dreams that are done. 

Though we seek life through, we shall surely flnd 

There is none of them clear to us now, not one. 

But clear are these things; the grass and the sand, 

Where, sure as the eyes reach, ever at hand, 

With lips wide open and face burnt blind, 

The strong sea-daisies feast on the sun.

A. C. SWINBURNE [1018] 

The low downs lean to the sea; the stream, 

One loose thin pulseless tremulous vein, 

Rapid and vivid and dumb as a dream, 

Works downward, sick of the sun and the rain; 

No wind is rough with the rank rare flowers; 

The sweet sea, mother of loves and hours, 

Shudders and shines as the grey winds gleam, 

Turning her smile to a fugitive pain. 

Mother of loves that are swift to fade, 

Mother of mutable winds and hours. 

A barren mother, a mother-maid, 

Cold and clean as her faint salt flowers. 

I would we twain were even as she, 

Lost in the night and the light of the sea, 

Where faint sounds falter and wan beams wade, 

Break, and are broken, and shed into showers. 

The loves and hours of the life of a man, 

They are swift and sad, being born of the sea. 

Hours that rejoice and regret for a span, 

Born with a man's breath, mortal as he; 

Loves that are lost ere they come to birth, 

Weeds of the wave, without fruit upon earth. 

I lose what I long for, save what I can, 

My love, my love, and no love for mel 

It is not much that a man can save 

On the sands of life, in the straits of time, 

Who swims in sight of the great third wave 

That never a swimmer shall cross or climb. 

Some waif washed up with the strays and spars 

That ebb-tide shows to the shore and the stars: 

Weed from the water, grass from a grave, 

A broken blossom, a ruined rhyme. 

There will no man do for your sake, I think, 

What I wonld have done for the least word said. 

1 had wrung life dry for your lips to drink, 

Broken it up for your daily bread:

[1019] A. C. SWlNBURNll: 

Body for body and blood for blood, 

As the How of the full sea risen to Hood 

That yearns and trembles before it sink, 

I had given, and lain down for you, glad and dead. 

Yea, hope at highest and all her fruit, 

And time at fullest and all his dower, 

I had given you surely, and life to boot, 

Were we once made one for a single hour. 

But now, you are twain, you are cloven apart, 

Flesh of his flesh, but heart of my heart; 

And deep in one is the bitter root, 

And sweet for one is the lifelong flower. 

I will go back to the great sweet mother, 

Mother and lover of men, the sea. 

I will go down to her, I and none other, 

Close with her, kiss her and mix her with me; 

Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast: 

o fair white mother, in days long past 

Born without sister, born without brother, 

Set free my soul as thy soul is free. 

o fair green-girdled mother of mine, 

Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the raiu, 

Thy sweet hard kisses are strong like wine, 

Thy large embraces are keen like pain. 

Save me and hide me with all thy waves, 

Find me one grave of thy thousand graves, 

Those pure cold populous graves of thine 

Wrought without hand in a world without stain. 

I shall sleep, and move with the moving ships, 

Change as the winds change, veer in the tide; 

My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips, 

I shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside; 

Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were, 

Filled full with life to the eyes and hair, 

As a rose is fuffilled to the roseleaf tips 

With splendid summer and perfume and pride.


This woven raiment of nights and days, 

Were it once cast off and unwound from me, 

Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways, 

Alive and aware of thy ways and thee; 

Clear of the whole world, hidden at home, 

Clothed with the green and crowned with the foam 

A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays, 

A vein in the heart of the streams of the sea. 

There lived a singer in France of old 

By the tideless dolorous midland sea. 

In a land of sand and ruin and gold 

There shone one woman, and none but she. 

And finding life for her love's sake fail, 

Being fain to see her, he bade set sail, 

Touched land, and saw her as life grew cold, 

And praised God, seeing; and so died he. 

Died, praising God for his gift and grace: 

For she bowed down to him weeping, and said 

"Live"; and her tears were shed on his face 

Or ever the life in his face was shed. 

The sharp tears fell through her hair, and stung 

Once, and her close lips touched him and clung 

Once, and grew one with his lips for a space; 

And so drew back, and the man was dead. 

o brother, the gods were good to you. 

Sleep, and be glad while the world endures. 

Be well content as the years wear through; 

Give thanks for life, and the loves and lures; 

Give thanks for life, 0 brother, and death, 

For the sweet last sound of her feet, her breath, 

For gifts she gave you, gracious and few, 

Tears and kisses, that lady of yours. 

Rest, and be glad of the gods; but I, 

How shall I praise them, or how take rest? 

There is not room under all the sky 

For me that know not of worst Of best,

[1021] A. C. SWINBURNE 

Dream or desire of the days before, 

Sweet things or bitterness, any more. 

Love will not come to me now though I die, 

As love came close to you, breast to breast. 

I shall never be friends again with roses; 

I shall loathe sweet tunes, where a note grown strong 

Relents and recoils, and climbs and closes, 

As a wave of the sea turned back by song. 

There are sounds where the sours delight takes fire. 

Face to face with its own desire; 

A delight that rebels, a desire that reposes; 

I shall hate sweet music my whole life long. 

A Leave-Taking 

Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear. 

Let us go hence together without fear; 

Keep silence now, for singing time is over, 

And over all old things and all things dear. 

She loves not you nor me as all we love her. 

Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear, 

She would not hear. 

Let us rise up and part; she will not know. 

Let us go seaward as the great winds go, 

Full of blown sand and foam; what help is here? 

There is no help, for all these things are so, 

And all the world is bitter as a tear. 

And how these things are, though ye strove to show, 

She would not know. 

Let us go home and hence; she will not weep. 

We gave love many dreams and days to keep, 

Flowers without scent, and fruits that would not grow, 

Saying '1£ thou wilt, thrust in thy sickle and reap". 

All is reaped now; no grass is left to mow; 

And we that sowed, though all we fell on sleep, 

She would not weep.

A. C. SWINBURNE [1022J 

Let us go hence and rest: she will not love. 

She shall not hear us if we sing hereof, 

Nor see love's ways, how sore they are and steep. 

Come hence, let be, lie still; it is enough. 

Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep; 

And though she sawall heaven in flower above, 

She would not love. 

Let us give up, go down; she will not care. 

Though all the stars made gold of all the air, 

And the sea moving saw before it move 

One moon-Bower making all the foam-flowers fair; 

Though all those waves went over us, and drove 

Deep down the sti:lling lips and drowning hair, 

She would not care. 

Let us go hence, go hence; she will not see. 

Sing all once more together; surely she, 

She too, remembering days and words that were, 

Will turn a little toward us, sighing; but we, 

We are hence, we are gone, as though we had not been there. 

Nay, and though all men seeing had pity on me, 

She would not see. 

FROM Anactoria 

Thee too the years shall cover; thou shalt be 

As the rose born of one same blood with thee, 

As a song sung, as a word said, and fall 

Flower-wise, and be not any more at all, 

Nor any memory of thee anywhere; 

For never Muse has bound above thine hair 

The high Pierlan flower whose graft outgrows 

All summer kinship of the mortal rose 

And colour of deciduous days, nor shed 

Reflux and Bush of heaven about thine head, 

Nor reddened brows made pale by floral grief 

With splendid shadow from that lordlier leaf. 

Yea, thou shalt be forgotten like spilt wine, 

Except these kisses of my lips on thine

[10231 A. C. SWINBURNE 

Brand them with immortality; but me- 

Men shall not see bright me nor hear the sea, 

Nor mix their hearts with music, nor behold 

Cast forth of heaven, with feet of awful gold 

And plumeless wings, that make the bright air blind, 

Lightning, with thunder for a hound behind 

Hunting through fields unfurrowed and unsown, 

But in the light and laughter, in the moan 

And music, and in grasp of lip and hand 

And shudder of water that makes felt on land 

The immeasurable tremor of all the sea, 

Memories shall mix and metaphors of me. 

Like me shall be the shuddering calm of night, 

When all the winds of the world for pure delight 

Close lips that quiver and fold up wings that ache; 

When nightingales are louder for love's sake, 

And leaves tremble like lute-strings or like fire; 

Like me the one star swooning with desire 

Even at the cold lips of the sleepless moon, 

As I at thine; like me the waste white noon, 

Burnt through with barren sunlight; and like me 

The land-stream and the tide-stream in the sea. 

I am sick with time as these with ebb and How, 

And by the yearning in my veins I know 

The yearning sOUl)d of waters; and mine eyes 

Burn as that beamless fire which fills the skies 

With troubled stars and travailing things of Hame; 

And in my heart the grief consuming them 

Labours, and in my veins the thirst of these, 

And all the summer travail of the trees 

And all the winter sickness; and the earth, 

Filled full with deadly works of death and birth, 

Sore spent with hungry lusts of birth and death, 

Has pain like mine in her divided breath; 

Her spring of leaves is barren, and her fruit 

Ashes; her boughs are burdened, and her root 

Fibrous and gnarled with poison; underneath 

Serpents have gnawn it through with tortuous teeth 

Made sharp upon the bones of all the dead, 

And wild birds rend her branches overhead. 

These, woven as raiment for his word and thought,

A. C. SWINBURNE {l024] 

These hath God made, and me as these, and wrought 

Song, and hath lit it at my lips; and me 

Earth shall not gather though she feed on thee. 

As a tear shed shalt thou be shed; but 1 

Lo, earth may labour, men live long and die, 

Years change and stars, and the high God devise 

New things, and old things wane before his eyes 

Who wields and wrecks them, being more strong than they 

But, having made me, me he shall not slay. 

Nor slay nor satiate, like those herds of his 

Who laugh and live a little, and their kiss 

Contents them, and their loves are swift and sweet, 

And sure death grasps and gains them with slow feet, 

Love they or hate they, strive or bow the knees 

And all these end; he hath his will of these. 

Yea, but albeit he slay me, hating me- 

Albeit he hide me in the deep dear sea 

And cover me with cool wan foam, and ease 

This soul of mine as any soul of these, 

And give me water and great sweet waves, and make 

The very sea's name lordlier for my sake, 

The whole sea sweeter-albeit I die indeed 

And hide myseH and sleep and no man heed, 

Of me the high God hath not all his will. 

Blossom of branches, and on each high hill 

Clear air and wind, and under in clamorous vales 

Fierce noises of the fiery nightingales, 

Buds burning in the sudden spring like fire, 

The wan washed sand and the waves' vain desire, 

Sails seen like blown white flowers at sea, and words 

That bring tears swiftest, and long notes of birds 

Violently singing till the whole world sings- 

I Sappho shall be one with all these things, 

With all high things for ever; and my face 

Seen once, my songs once heard in a strange place, 

Cleave to men's lives, and waste the days thereof 

With gladness and much sadness and long love. 

Yea, they shall say, earth's womb has borne in vain 

New things, and never this best thing again; 

Borne days and men, borne fruits and wars and wine, 

Seasons and songs, but no song more like mine.

[1025] A.C.SWINBtIRNE 

And they shall know me as ye who have known me here, 

Last year when I loved Atthis, and this year 

When I love thee; and they shall praise me and say: 

"She hath all time as all we have our day, 

Shall she not live and have her will" -even I? 

For these shall give me of their souls, shall give 

Life, and the days and loves wherewith I live, 

Shall quicken me with lOving, fill with breath, 

Save me and serve me, strive for me with death. 

Alas, that neither moon nor snow nor dew 

Nor all cold things can purge me wholly through, 

Assuage me nor allay me nor appease, 

Till supreme sleep shall bring me bloodless easel 

Till time wax faint in all his periods; 

Till fate undo the bondage of the gods, 

And lay, to slake and satiate me all through, 

Lotus and Lethe on my lips like dew, 

And shed around and over and under me 

Thick darkness and the insuperable sea. 

Rococo 

Take hands and part with laughter; 

Touch lips and part with tears; 

Once more and no more after, 

Whatever comes with years. 

We twain shallnotremeasure 

The ways that left us twain; 

Nor crush the lees of pleasure 

From sanguine grapes of pain. 

We twain once well in sunder, 

What will the mad gods do 

For hate with me, I wonder, 

Or what for love with you? 

Forget them till November, 

And dream there's April yet; 

Forget that I remember, 

And dream that I for2:et.

A. C. SWINBURNE [ 1026] 

Time found our tired love sleeping, 

And kissed away his breath; 

But what should we do weeping, 

Though light love sleep to death? 

We have drained his lips at leisure. 

Till there's not left to drain 

A single sob of pleasure, 

A single pulse of pain. 

Dream that the lips once breathless 

Migbt quicken if they would; 

Say that the soul is deathless; 

Dream that the gods are good; 

Say March may wed September, 

And time divorce regret; 

But not that you remember, 

And not that I forget. 

We have heard from hidden places 

What love scarce lives and hears: 

We have seen on fervent faces 

The pallor of strange tears: 

We have trod the wine-vat's treasure, 

Whence, ripe to steam and stain, 

Foams round the feet of pleasure 

The blood-red must of pain. 

Remembrance may recover 

And time bring back to time 

The name of your first lover, 

The ring of my first rhyme; 

But rose-leaves of December 

The frosts of June shall fret, 

The day that you remember, 

The day that I forget. 

The snake that hides and hisses 

In heaven we twain have known; 

The grief of cruel kisses, 

The joy whose mouth makes moan;

[1027] A.C.SWINBURNE 

The pulse's pause and measure, 

Where in one furtive vein 

Throbs through the heart of pleasure 

The purpler blood of pain. 

We have done with tears and treasons 

And love for treason's sake; 

Room for the swift new seasons, 

The years that burn and break, 

Dismantle and dismember 

Men's days and dreams, Juliette; 

For love may not remember, 

But time will not forget. 

Life treads down love in Sying, 

Time withers him at root; 

Bring all dead things and dying, 

Reaped sheaf and ruined fruit, 

Where, crushed by three days' pressure, 

Our three days' love lies slain; 

And earlier leaf of pleasure, 

And latter Sower of pain. 

Breathe close upon the ashes, 

It may be Same will leap; 

Unclose the soft close lashes, 

Lift up the lids, and weep. 

Light love's extinguished ember, 

Let one tear leave it wet 

For one that you remember 

And ten that you forget. 

Rondel 

Kissing her hair I sat against her feet, 

Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet; 

Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes 

Deep as deep Sowers and dreamy like dim skies; 

With her own tresses bound and found her fair, 

Kissing her hair.


Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, 

Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea; 

What pain could get between my face and hers? 

What new sweet thing would love not relish worse? 

Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there, 

Kissing her hair? 

The Garden of Proserpine 

Here, where the world is quiet; 

Here, where all trouble seems 

Dead winds' and spent waves' riot 

In doubtful dreams of dreams; 

I watch the green field growing 

For reaping folk and sowing, 

For harvest-time and mowing, 

A sleepy world of streams. 

I am tired of tears and laughter, 

And men that laugh and weep; 

Of what may come hereafter 

For men that sow to reap: 

I am weary of days and hours, 

Blown buds of barren flowers, 

Desires and dreams and powers 

And everything but sleep. 

Here night has death for neighbour, 

And far hom eye or ear 

Wan waves and wet winds labour, 

Weak ships and spirits steer; 

They drive adrift, and whither 

They wot not who make thither; 

But no such winds blow hither, 

And no such things grow here. 

No growth of moor or coppice, 

No heather-Hower or vine, 

But bloomless buds of poppies, 

Green grapes of Proserpine,


Pale beds of blowing rushes 

Where no leaf blooms or blushes 

Save this whereout she crushes 

For dead men deadly wine. 

Pale, without name or number, 

In fruitless fields of com, 

They bow themselves and slumber 

All night till light is born; 

And like a soul belated, 

In hell and heaven unmated, 

By cloud and mist abated, 

Comes out of darkness mom. 

Though one were strong as seven, 

He too with death shall dwell, 

Nor wake with wings in heaven, 

Nor weep for pains in hell; 

Though one were fair as roses, 

His beauty clouds and closes; 

And well though love reposes, 

In the end it is not well. 

Pale, beyond porch and portal, 

Crowned with calm leaves, she stands, 

Who gathers all things mortal 

With cold immortal hands; 

Her languid lips are sweeter 

Than love's who fears to greet her 

To men that mix and meet her 

From many times and lands. 

She waits for each and other, 

She waits for all men born; 

Forgets the earth her mother, 

The life of fruits and com; 

And spring and seed and swallow 

Take wing for her and follow 

Where summer song rings hollow, 

And flowers are put to scorn.

A. C. SWINBURNE (1030] 

There go the old loves that wither, 

The old loves with wearier wings; 

And all dead years draw thither, 

And all disastrous things; 

Dead dreams of days forsaken, 

Blind buds that snows have shaken, 

Wild leaves that winds have taken, 

Red strays of ruined springs. 

We are not sure of sorrow, 

And joy was never sure; 

To-day will die to-morrow; 

Time stoops to no man's lure; 

And love, grown faint and fretful, 

With lips but half regretful 

Sighs, and with eyes forgetful 

Weeps that no loves endure. 

From too much love of living, 

From hope and fear set free, 

We thank with brief thanksgiving 

Whatever gods may be 

That no life lives for ever; 

That dead men rise up never; 

That even the weariest river 

Winds somewhere safe to sea. 

An Interlude 

In the greenest growth of the Maytime, 

I rode where the woods were wet, 

Between the dawn and the daytime; 

The spring was glad that we met. 

There was something the season wanted, 

Though the ways and the woods smelt sweet; 

The breath of your lips that panted, 

The pulse of the grass at your feet.

[10811 A. C. SWINBURNE 

You came, and the sun came after, 

And the green grew golden above; 

And the flag-flowers lightened with laughter, 

And the meadow-sweet shook with love. 

Your feet in the full-grown grasses, 

Moved soft as a weak wind blows; 

You passed me as April passes, 

With face made out of a rose. 

By the stream where the stems were slender, 

Your bright foot paused at the sedge; 

It might be to watch the tender 

Light leaves in the springtime hedge, 

On boughs that the sweet month blanches 

With flowery frost of May: 

It might be a bird in the branches, 

It might be a thorn in the way. 

I waited to watch you linger 

With foot drawn back from the dew, 

Till a sunbeam straight like a Gnger 

Struck sharp through the leaves at you. 

And a bird overhead sang Follow, 

And a bird to the right sang Here; 

And the arch of the leaves was hollow, 

And the meaning of May was clear. 

I saw where the sun's hand pointed, 

I knew what the bird's note said; 

By the dawn and the dewfall anointed, 

You were queen by the gold on your head. 

As the glimpse of a burnt-out ember 

Recalls a regret of the sun, 

I remember, forget, and remember 

What Love saw done and undone.

, 


I remember the way we parted, 

The day and the way we met; 

You hoped we were both broken-hearted, 

And knew we should both forget. 

And May with her world in flower 

Seemed still to murmur and smile 

As you murmured and smiled for an hour; 

I saw you turn at the stile. 

A hand like a white wood-blossom 

You lifted, and waved, and passed, 

With head hung down to the bosom, 

And pale, as it seemed, at last. 

And the best and the worst of this is 

That neither is most to blame 

If you've forgotten my kisses 

And I've forgotten your name. 

At Parting 

For a day and a night Love sang to us, played with us, 

Folded us round from the dark and the light; 

And our hearts were fulfilled of the music he made with us, 

Made with our hearts and our lips while he stayed with us, 

Stayed in mid passage his pinions from flight 

For a day and a night. 

From his foes that kept watch with his wings had he hidden 

us, 

Covered us close from the eyes that would smite, 

From the feet that had tracked and the tongues that had chidden 

us 

Sheltering in shade of the myrtles forbidden us 

Spirit and flesh growing one with delight 

For a day and a night.

[103S] 

A. C. SWINBURNE 

But his wings will not rest and his feet will not stay for US: 

Morning is here in the joy of its might; 

With his breath has he sweetened a night and a day for us; 

Now let him pass, and the myrtles make way for us; 

Love can but last in us here at his height 

For a day and a night. 

Ave atque Vale 

(IN MEMORY OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE) 

Nous devrions pourtant lui porter quelques Heurs; 

Les morts, les pauvres morts, ont de grandes douleurs, 

Et quand Octoble souiBe, emondeur des vieux arbres, 

Son vent melancolique al'entout de leurs marbres, 

Certe, ils doivent trouver let vivants bien ingrats. 

-Les Fleurs du Mal 

Shall I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel, 

Brother, on this that was the veil of thee? 

Or quiet sea-Hower moulded by the sea, 

Or simplest growth of meadow-sweet or sorrel, 

Such as the summer-sleepy Dryads weave, 

Waked up by snow-soft sudden rains at eve? 

Or wilt thou rather, as on earth before, 

Half-faded fiery blossoms, pale with heat 

And full of bitter summer, but more sweet 

To thee than gleanings of a northern shore 

Trod by no tropic feet? 

For always thee the fervid languid glories 

Allured of heavier suns in mightier skies; 

Thine ears knew all the wandering watery sighs 

Where the sea sobs round Lesbian promontories, 

The barren kiss of piteous wave to wave 

That knows not where is that Leucadian grave 

Which hides too deep the supreme head of song. 

Ah, salt and sterile as her kisses were, 

The wild sea winds her and the green gulfs bear 

Hither and thither, and vex and work her wrong, 

Blind gods that cannot spare.

A. C. SWINBURNE (10341 

Thou sawest, in thine old singing season, brother, 

Secrets and sorrows unbeheld of us: 

Fierce loves, and lovely leaf-buds pOisonous, 

Bare to thy subtler eye, but for none other 

Blowing by night in some unbreathed-in clime; 

The hidden harvest of luxurious time, 

Sin without shape, and pleasure without speech; 

And where strange dreams in a tumultuous sleep 

Make the shut eyes of stricken spirits weep; 

And with each face thou sawest the shadow of each, 

Seeing as men sow men reap. 

o sleepless heart and sombre soul unsleeping, 

That were athirst for sleep and no more life 

And no more love, for peace and no more strife I 

Now the dim gods of death have in their keeping 

Spirit and body and all the springs of song, 

Is it well now where love can do no wrong, 

Where stingless pleasure has no foam or fang 

Behind the unopening closure of her lips? 

Is it well now where soul from body slips 

And flesh from bone divides without a pang 

As dew from flower-bell drips? 

It is enough; the end and the beginning 

Are one thing to thee, who art past the end. 

o hand unclasped of unbeholden friend, 

For thee no fruits to pluck, no palms for winning, 

No triumph and no labour and no lust, 

Only dead yew-leaves and a little dust. 

o quiet eyes wherein the light saith nought, 

Whereto the day is dumb, nor any night 

With obscure :finger silences your sight, 

Nor in your speech the sudden soul speaks thought, 

Sleep, and have sleep for light. 

Now all strange hours and all strange loves are over, 

Dreams and desires and sombre songs and sweet, 

Hast thou found place at the great knees and feet 

Of some pale Titan-woman like a lover, 

Such as thy vision here solicited, 

Under the shadow of her fair vast head,

[lOS51 

A. C. SWINBURNE 

The deep division of prodigious breasts, 

The solemn slope of mighty limbs asleep, 

The weight of awful tresses that still keep 

The savour and shade of old-world pine-forests 

Where the wet hill-winds weep? 

Hast thou found any likeness for thy vision? 

o gardener of strange Bowers, what bud, what bloom, 

Hast thou found sown, what gathered in the gloom? 

What of despair, of rapture, of derision, 

What of life is there, what of ill or good? 

Are the fruits grey like dust or bright like blood? 

Does the dim ground grow any seed of ours, 

The faint fields quicken any terrene root, 

In low lands where the sun and moon are mute 

And all the stars keep silence? Are there flowers 

At all, or any fruit? 

Alas, but though my flying song flies after, 

o sweet strange elder singer, thy more fleet 

Singing, and footprints of thy fleeter feet, 

Some dim derision of mysterious laughter 

From the blind tongue-less warders of the dead, 

Some gainless glimpse of Proserpine's veiled head, 

Some little sound of unregarded tears 

Wept by effaced unprofitable eyes, 

And from pale mouths some cadence of dead sighs 

These only, these the hearkening spirit hears, 

Sees only such things rise. 

Thou art far too far for wings of words to follow, 

Far too far off for thought or any prayer. 

What ails us with thee, who art wind and air? 

What ails us gazing where all seen is hollow? 

Yet with some fancy, yet with some desire, 

Dreams pursue death as winds a flying fire, 

Our dreams pursue our dead and do not find. 

Still, and more swift than they, tbe thin flame flies, 

The low light fails us in elusive skies, 

Still the foiled earnest ear is deaf, and blind 

Are still the eluded eyes.


Not thee, 0 never thee, in all time's changes, 

Not thee, but this the sound of thy sad soul, 

The shadow of thy swift spirit, this shut scroll 

I lay my hand on, and not death estranges 

My spirit from communion of thy song- 

These memories and these melodies that throng 

Veiled porches of a Muse funereal- 

These I salute, these touch, these clasp and fold 

As though a hand were in my hand to hold, 

Or through mine ears a mourning musical 

Of many mourners rolled. 

I among these, I also, in such station 

As when the pyre was charred, and piled the sods, 

And offering to the dead made, and their gods, 

The old mourners had, standing to make llbation, 

I stand, and to the gods and to the dead 

Do reverence without prayer or praise, and shed 

Offering to these unknown, the gods of gloom, 

And what of honey and spice my seedlands bear. 

And what I may of fruits in this chilled air, 

And lay, Orestes-like, across the tomb 

A curl of severed hair. 

But by no hand nor any treason stricken, 

Not like the low-lying head of Him, the King, 

The flame that made of Troy a ruinous thing, 

Thou liest, and on this dust no tears could quicken 

There fall no tears like theirs that all men hear 

Fall tear by sweet imperishable tear 

Down the opening leaves of holy poets' pages. 

Thee not Orestes, not Electra mourns; 

But bending us-ward with memorial urns 

The most high Muses that fuIll all ages 

Weep, and our God's heart yearns. 

For, sparing of his sacred strength, not often 

Among us darkling here the lord of light 

Makes manifest his music and his might 

In hearts that open and in lips that soften 

With the soft Hame and heat of songs that shine. 

Thy lips indeed he touched with bitter wine,

.... 


And nourished them indeed with bitter bread; 

Yet surely from his hand thy soul's food came, 

The fire that scarred thy spirit at his flame 

Was lighted, and thine hungering heart he fed 

Who feeds our hearts with fame. 

Therefore he too now at thy soul's sunsetting, 

God of all suns and songs, he too bends down 

To mix his laurel with thy cypress crown, 

And save thy dust from blame and from forgetting. 

Therefore he too, seeing all thou wert and art, 

Compassionate, with sad and sacred heart, 

Mourns thee of many his children the last dead, 

And hallows with strange tears and alien sighs 

Thine unmelodious mouth and sunless eyes, 

And over thine irrevocable head 

Sheds light from the under skies. 

And one weeps with him in the ways Lethean, 

And stains with tears her changing bosom chill: 

That obscure Venus of the hollow hill, 

That thing transformed which was the Cytherean, 

With lips that lost their Grecian laugh divine 

Long since, and face no more called Erycine; 

A ghost, a bitter and luxurious god. 

Thee also with fair flesh and singing spell 

Did she, a sad and second prey, compel 

Into the footless places once more trod, 

And shadows hot from hell. 

And now no sacred staff shall break in blossom, 

No choral salutation lure to light 

A spirit sick with perfume and sweet night 

And love's tired eyes and hands and barren bosom. 

There is no help for these things; none to mend 

And none to mar; not all our songs, 0 friend, 

Will make death clear or make life durable. 

Howbeit with rose and ivy and wild vine 

And with wild notes about this dust of thine 

At least I fill the place where white dreams dwell 

And wreathe an unseen shrine.

A. C. SWINBURNE [10381 

Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, 

If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live; 

And to give thanks is good, and to forgive. 

Out of the mystic and the mournful garden 

Where all day through thine hands in barren braid 

Wove the sick Bowers of secrecy and shade, 

Green buds of sorrow and sin, and remnants grey, 

Sweet-smelling, pale with poison, sanguine-hearted, 

Passions that sprang from sleep and thoughts that 

started, 

Shall death not bring us all as thee one day 

Among the days departed? 

For thee, 0 now a silent soul, my brother, 

Take at my hands this garland, and farewell. 

Thin is the leaf, and chill the wintry smell, 

And chill the solemn earth, a fatal mother, 

With sadder than the Niobean womb, 

And in the hollow of her breasts a tomb. 

Content thee, howsoe'er, whose days are done; 

There lies not any troublous thing before, 

Nor sight nor sound to war against thee more, 

For whom all winds are quiet as the sun, 

All waters as the shore. 

1. 

Choruses from Atalanta in Calydon 

When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, 

The mother of months in meadow or plain 

Fills the shadows and windy places 

With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; 

And the brown bright nightingale amorous 

Is half assuaged for Itylus, 

For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces, 

The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 

Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers, 

Maiden most perfect, lady of light, 

With a noise of winds and many rivers, 

With a clamour of waters, and with might;

[1039J A. C.SWlNBUBNE 

Bind on thy sandals, 0 thou most fleet, 

Over the splendour and speed of thy feet; 

For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, 

Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night, 

Where shall we nnd her, how shall we sing to her, 

Fold our hands round her knees, and cling? 

o that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her, 

Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring! 

For the stars and the winds are unto her 

As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; 

For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, 

And the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing. 

For winter's rains and ruins are over, 

And all the season of snows and sins; 

The days dividing lover and lover, 

The light that loses, the night that wins; 

And time remembered is grief forgotten, 

And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, 

And in green underwood and cover 

Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 

The full streams feed on flowers of mshes, 

Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, 

The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes 

From leaf to flower and :Hower to fruit; 

And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, 

And the oat is heard above the lyre, 

And the hoof&! heel of a satyr crushes 

The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root, 

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, 

Fleeter of foot than the :Heet-foot kid, 

Follows with dancing and fills with delight 

The Maenad and the Bassarid; 

And soft as lips that laugh and hide 

The laughing leaves of the trees divide, 

And screen from seeing and leave in sight 

The god pursuing, the maiden hid.


The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair 

Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes; 

The wild vine slipping down leaves bare 

Her bright breast shortening into sighs. 

The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, 

But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 

To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare 

The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. 

2. 

Before the beginning of years 

There came to the making of man 

Time, with a gift of tears; 

Grief with a glass that ran; 

Pleasure, with pain for leaven; 

Summer, with flowers that fell; 

Remembrance fallen from heaven, 

And madness risen from hell; 

Strength without hands to smite; 

Love that endures for a breath; 

Night, the shadow of light, 

And life, the shadow of death. 

And the high gods took in hand 

Fire, and the falling of tears, 

And a measure of sliding sand 

From under the feet of the years; 

And froth and drift of the sea; 

And dust of the labouring earth; 

And bodies of things to be 

In the houses of death and of birth; 

And wrought with weeping and laughter, 

And fashioned with loathing and love 

With life before and after 

And death beneath and above, 

For a day and a night and a morrow, 

That his strength might endure for a span 

With travail and heavy sorrow, 

The holy spirit of man.

[1041] A. C.SWINBUIINB 

From the winds of the north and the south 

They gathered as unto strife; 

They breathed upon his mouth. 

They filled his body with life; 

Eyesight and speech they wrought 

For the veils of the soul therein, 

A time for labour and thought, 

A time to serve and to sin; 

They gave him light in his ways, 

And love, and a space for delight, 

And beauty and length of days, 

And night, and sleep in the night. 

His speech is a burning fire; 

With his lips he travaileth; 

In his heart is a blind desire, 

In his eyes foreknowledge of death; 

He weaves, and is clothed with derision; 

Sows, and he shall not reap; 

His life is a watch or a vision 

Between a sleep and a sleep. 

'3. 

Who hath given man speech? or who hath set therein 

A thorn for peril and a snare for sin? 

For in the word his life is and his breath, 

And in the word his death, 

That madness and the infatuate heart may breed 

From the word's womb the deed 

And life bring one thing forth ere all pass by, 

Even one thing which is ours yet cannot die 

Death. Hast thou seen him ever anywhere, 

Time's twin-born brother, imperishable as he 

Is perishable and plaintive, clothed with care 

And mutable as sand, 

But death is strong and full of blood and fair 

And perdurable and like a lord of land? 

Nay, time thou seest not, death thou wilt not see 

Till life's right hand be loosened from thine hand 

And thy life-days from thee.


For the gods very subtly fashion 

Madness with sadness upon earth: 

Not knowing in any wise compassion, 

Nor holding pity of any worth; 

And many things they have given and taken, 

And wrought and ruined many things; 

The firm land they have loosed and shaken, 

And sealed the sea with all her springs; 

They have wearied time with heavy burdens 

And vexed the lips of life with breath: 

Set men to labour and given them guerdons, 

Death, and great darkness after death: 

Put moans into the bridal measure 

And on the bridal wools a stain; 

And circled pain about with pleasure. 

And girdled pleasure about with pain; 

And strewed one marriage-bed with tears and fire 

For extreme loathing and supreme desire. 

What shall be done with all these tears of ours? 

Shall they make watersprings in the fair heaven 

To bathe the brows of morning? or like flowers 

Be shed and shine before the starriest hours, 

Or made the raiment of the weeping Seven? 

Or rather, 0 our masters, shall they be 

Food for the famine of the grievous sea, 

A great well-head of lamentation 

Satiating the sad gods? or fall and flow 

Among the years and seasons to and fro, 

And wash their feet with tribulation 

And fill them full with grieving ere they go? 

Alas, our lords, and yet alas again, 

Seeing all your iron heaven is gilt as gold 

But all we smite thereat in vain; 

Smite the gates barred with groanings manifold, 

And all the Hoors are paven with our pain. 

Yea, and with weariness of lips and eyes, 

With breaking of the bosom, and with sighs, 

We labour, and are clad and fed with grief 

And filled with days we would not fain behold


And nights we would not hear of; we wax old, 

All we wax old and wither like a leaf. 

We are outcast, strayed between bright sun and moon; 

Our light and darkness are as leaves of flowers, 

Black Bowers and white, that perish; and the noon 

As midnight, and the night as daylight hours. 

A little fruit a little while is ours, 

And the worm finds it soon. 

But up in heaven the high gods one by one 

Lay hands upon the draught that qUickeneth, 

Fulfilled with all tears shed and all things done, 

And stir with soft imperishable breath 

The bubbling bitterness of life and death, 

And hold it to our lips and laugh: but they 

Preserve their lips from tasting night or day, 

Lest they too change and sleep, the fates that spun, 

The lips that made us and the hands that slay; 

Lest all these change, and heaven bow down to none, 

Change and be subject to the secular sway 

And terrene revolution of the sun. 

Therefore they thrust it from them, putting time away. 

I would the wine of time, made sharp and sweet 

With multitudinous days and nights and tears 

And many mixing savours of strange years, 

Were no more trodden of them under feet, 

Cast out and spilt about their holy places: 

That life were given them as a fruit to eat 

And death to drink as water; that the light 

Might ebb, drawn backward from their eyes, and night 

Hide for one hour the imperishable faces. 

That they might rise up sad in heaven, and know 

Sorrow and sleep, one paler than young snow, 

One cold as blight of dew and ruinous rain: 

Rise up and rest and suffer a little, and be 

Awhile as all things born with us and we, 

And grieve as men, and like slain men be slain. 

For now we know not of them; but one saith 

The gods are gracious, praising God; and one,


When hast thou seen? or hast thou felt his breath 

Touch, nor consume thine eyelids as the sun, 

Nor lill thee to the lips with liery death? 

None hath beheld him, none 

Seen above other gods and shapes of things, 

Swift without feet and flying without wings, 

Intolerahle, not clad with death or life, 

Insatiable, not known of night or day, 

The lord of love and loathing and of strife 

Who gives a star and takes a sun away; 

Who shapes the soul, and makes her a barren wife 

To the earthly body and grievous growth of clay; 

Who turns the large limbs to a little flame 

And binds the great sea with a little sand; 

Who makes desire, and slays desire with shame; 

Who shakes the heaven as ashes in his hand; 

Who, seeing the light and shadow for the same, 

Bids day waste night as lire devours a brand, 

Smites without sword, and scourges without rod; 

The supreme evil, God. 

Yea, with thine hate, 0 God, thou hast covered us, 

One saith, and hidden our eyes away from sight, 

And made us transitory and hazardous, 

Light things and slight; 

Yet have men praised thee, saying, He hath made man thus, 

And he doeth right. 

Thou hast kissed us, and hast smitten; thou hast laid 

Upon us with thy left hand life, and said, 

Live: and again thou hast said, Yield up your breath, 

And with thy right hand laid upon us death. 

Thou hast sent us sleep, and stricken sleep with dreams, 

Saying, Joy is not, but love of joy shall be; 

Thou hast made sweet springs for all the pleasant streams, 

In the end thou hast made them bitter with the sea. 

Thou hast fed one rose with dust of many men; 

Thou hast marred one face with lire of many tears; 

Thou hast taken love, and given us sorrow again; 

With pain thou hast IDled us full to the eyes and ears. 

Therefore because thou art strong, our father, and we 

Feeble; and thou art against us, and thine hand

[1045] A. C.SWINBURNE 

Constrains us in the shallows of the sea 

And breaks us at the limits of the land; 

Because thou hast bent thy lightnings as a bow, 

And loosed the hours like arrows; and let fall 

Sins and wild words and many a winged woe 

And wars among us, and one end of all; 

Because thou hast made the thunder, and thy feet 

Are as a rushing water when the skies 

Break, but thy face as an exceeding heat 

And Hames of fire the eyelids of thine eyes; 

Because thou art over all who are over us; 

Because thy name is life and our name death; 

Because thou art cruel and men are piteous, 

And our hands labour and thine hand scattereth; 

Lo, with hearts rent and knees made tremulous, 

Lo, with ephemeral lips and casual breath, 

At least we witness of thee ere we die 

That these things are not otherwise, but thus; 

That each man in his heart sigheth, and saith, 

That all men even as I, 

All we are against thee, against thee, 0 God most high. 

THOMAS HARDY 

The Irnpercipient 

(AT A CATHEDRAL SERVICE) 

That with this bright believing band 

I have no claim to be, 

That faiths by which my comrades stand 

Seem fantasies to me, 

And mirage-mists their Shining Land, 

Is a strange destiny. 

Why thus my soul should be consigned 

To infelicity, 

Why always I must feel as blind 

To sights my brethren see, 

Why joys they've found I cannot find, 

Abides a mystery.

11IOMAS HARDY [1046] 

Since heart of mine knows not that ease 

Which they know; since it be 

That He who breathes All's Well to these 

Breathes no All's Well to me, 

My lack might move their sympathies 

And Christian charity! 

I am like a gazer who should mark 

An inland company 

Standing upfingered, with, "Hark! hark! 

The glorious distant sea!" 

And feel, "Alas, 'tis but yon dark 

And wind-swept pine to me!" 

Yet I would bear my shortcomings 

With meet tranquillity, 

But for the charge that blessed things 

r d Hefer not have be. 

0, doth a bird deprived of wings 

Go earth-bound wilfully! 

Enough. As yet disquiet clings 

About us. Rest shall we. 

To an Unborn Pauper Child 

Breathe not, hid Heart: cease silently, 

And though thy birth-hour beckons thee, 

Sleep the long sleep: 

The Doomsters heap 

Travails and teens around us here 

And Time-wraiths turn our songsingings to fear. 

Hark, how the people surge and sigh, 

And laughters fail, and greetings die: 

Hopes dwindle; yea, 

Faiths waste away, 

AHections and enthusiasms numb; 

Thou canst not mend these things if thou dost come.

[10471 THOMAS HARDY 

Had I the ear of wombed souls 

Ere their terrestrial chart unrolls, 

And thou wert free 

To cease, or be, 

Then would I tell thee all I know, 

And put it to thee: Wilt thou take Life so? 

Vain vowl No hint of mine may hence 

To theeward fly: to thy locked sense 

Explain none can 

Life's pending plan: 

Thou wilt thy ignorant entry make 

Though skies spout fire and blood and nations quake. 

Fain would I, dear, find some shut plot 

Of earth's wide wold for thee, where not 

One tear, one qualm, 

Should break the calm. 

But I am weak as thou and bare; 

No man can change the common lot to rare. 

Must come and bide. And such are we 

Unreasoning, sanguine, visionary- 

That I can hope 

Health, love, friends, scope 

In full for thee; can dream thou wilt find 

Joys seldom yet attained by humankind I 

Shut Out That Moon 

Close up the casement, draw the blind, 

Shut out that stealing moon, 

She wears too much the gnise she wore 

Before our lutes were strewn 

With years-deep dust, and names we read 

On a white stone were hewn. 

Step not out on the dew-dashed lawn 

To view the Lady's Chair, 

Immense Orion's glittering form, 

The Less and Greater Bear: 

Stay in; to such sights we were drawn 

When faded ones were fair.

THOMAS HARDY [1048] 

Brush not the bough for midnight scents 

That come forth lingeringly, 

And wake the same sweet sentiments 

They breathed to you and me 

When living seemed a laugh, and love 

All it was said to be. 

Within the common lamp-lit room 

Prison my eyes and thought; 

Let dingy details crudely loom, 

Mechanic speech be wrought: 

Too fragrant was Life's early bloom. 

Too tart the fruit it broughtl 

Tbe Conformers 

Yes; we'll wed, my little fay, 

And you shall write you mine, 

And in a villa chastely gray 

We'll house, and sleep, and dine. 

But those night-screened, divine, 

Stolen trysts of heretofore, 

We of choice ecstasies and fine 

Shall know no more. 

The formal faced cohue 

Will then no more upbraid 

With smiting smiles and whisperings two 

Who have thrown less loves in shade. 

We shall no more evade 

The searching light of the sun, 

Our game of passion will be played, 

Our dreaming done. 

We shall not go in stealth 

To rendezvous unknown, 

But friends will ask me of your health, 

And you about my own.

(1049J THOMAS HAlIDY 

When we abide alone, 

No leapings each to each, 

But syllables in frigid tone 

Of household speech. 

When down to dust we glide 

Men will not say askance, 

As now: "How all the country side 

Rings with their mad romancel" 

But as they graveward glance 

Remark: "In them we lose 

A worthy pair, who helped advance 

Sound parish views." 

Let Me Enjoy 

Let me enjoy the earth no less 

Because the all-enacting Might 

That fashioned forth its loveliness 

Had other aims than my delight. 

About my path there Hits a Fair, 

Who throws me not a word or sign; 

I'll charm me with her ignoring air, 

And laud the lips not meant for mine. 

From manuscripts of moving song 

Inspired by scenes and souls unknown, 

I'll pour out raptures that belong 

To others, as they were my own. 

And some day hence, toward Paradise 

And all its blest-if such should be- 

l will lift glad, afar-off eyes, 

Though it contain no place for me.

THOMAS HARDY [1050] 

Afterwards 

When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremu· 

lous stay, 

And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings, 

Delicate-filmed as a new-spun silk, will the neighbours say, 

"He was a man who used to notice such things?" 

If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid's soundless blink, 

The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alight 

Upon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think, 

"To him this must have been a familiar sight." 

If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm, 

When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn, 

One may say, "He strove that such innocent creatures should 

come to no harm, 

But he could do little for them; and now he is gone." 

If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand 

at the door, 

Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees, 

Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no 

more, 

"He was one who had an eye for such mysteries?" 

And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the 

gloom, 

And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings, 

Till they rise again, as they were a new bell's boom, 

"He hears it not now, but used to notice such things?" 

HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON 

On a Fan That Belonged 

to the Marquise de Pompadour 

Chicken-skin, delicate, white, 

Painted by Carlo Vanloo, 

Loves in a riot of light, 

Roses and vaporous blue; 

Hark to the dainty frou-frouf

[1051] HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON 

Picture above if you can, 

Eyes that would melt as the dew, 

This was the Pompadour's fanl 

See how they rise at the sight, 

Thronging the CEil de Bceuf through, 

Courtiers as butterflies bright, 

Beauties that Fragonard drew, 

Talon-rouge, falbala, queue, 

Cardinal, Duke,-to a man, 

Eager to sigh or to sue, 


Ah! but things more than polite 

Hung on this toy, ooyez-tJousl 

Matters of state and of might, 

Things that great ministers do; 

Things that, maybe, overthrew 

Those in whose brains they began; 

Here was the sign and the cue, 


ENVOY 

Where are the secrets it knew? 

Weavings of plot and of plan? 

But where is the Pompadour, too? 

This was the Pompadour's Fan! 

WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT 

FROM Esther 

L 

He who has once been happy is for aye 

Out of destruction's reach. His fortune then 

Holds nothing secret, and Eternity, 

Which is a mystery to other men, 

Has like a woman given him its joy. 

Time is his conquest. Life, if it should fret, 

Has paid him tribute. He can bear to die. 

He who has once been happy I When I set

WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT [1052] 

The world before me and survey its range, 

Its mean ambitions, its scant fantasies, 

The shreds of pleasure which for lack of change 

Men wrap around them and call happiness, 

The poor delights which are the tale and sum 

Of the world's courage in its martyrdom; 

LI 

When I hear laughter from a tavern door, 

When I see crowds agape and in the rain 

Watching on tiptoe and with stifled roar 

To see a rocket Bred or a bull slain, 

When misers handle gold, when orators 

Touch strong men's hearts with glory till they weep, 

When cities deck their streets for barren wars 

Which have laid waste their youth, and when I keep 

Calmly the count of my own life and see 

On what poor stuff my manhood's dreams were fed 

Till I too learned what dole of vanity 

Will serve a human soul for daily bread, 

-Then I remember that I once was young 

And lived with Esther the world's gods among. 

FROM The Love Sonnets of Proteus 

AS TO HIS CHOICE OF HER 

If I had chosen thee, thou shouldst have been 

A virgin proud, untamed, immaculate, 

Chaste as the morning star, a saint, a queen, 

Scarred by no wars, no violence of hate. 

s Thou shouldst have been of soul commensurate 

With thy fair body, brave and virtuous 

And kind and just; and, if of poor estate, 

At least an honest woman for my house. 

I would have had thee come of honoured blood 

,0And honourable nurture. Thou shouldst bear 

Sons to my pride and daughters to my heart, 

And men should hold thee happy, wise, and good. 

Lo, thou art none of this, but only fair. 

Yet must I love thee, dear, and as thou art.

[1053J W1LFRlD SCAWEN BLUNT 

HE HAS FALLEN FROM THE HEIGHT OF HIS LOVE 

Love, how ignobly hast thou met thy dooml 

Ill-seasoned scaffolding by which, full-fraught 

With passionate youth and mighty hopes, we clomb 

To our heart's heaven, fearing, doubting, naught! 

Oh love, thou wert too frail for such mad sport, 

Too rotten at thy core, designed too high: 

And we who trusted thee our death have bought, 

And bleeding on the ground must surely die. 

-I will not see her. What she now may be 

I care not. For the dream within my brain 

Is fairer, nobler, and more kind than she; 

And with that vision 1 can mock at pain. 

God! Was there ever woman half so sweet, 

Or death so bitter, or at such dear feet? 

ON THE NATURE OF LOVE 

You ask my love. What shall my love then be? 

A hope, an aspiration, a desire? 

The soul's eternal charter writ in fire 

Upon the earth, the heavens, and the sea? 

You ask my love. The carnal mystery 

Of a soft hand, of finger-tips that press, 

Of eyes that kindle and of lips that kiss, 

Of sweet things known to thee and only thee? 

You ask my love. What love can be more sweet 

Than hope or pleasure? Yet we love in vain. 

The soul is more than joy, the life than meat. 

The sweetest love of all were love in pain, 

And that I will not give. So let it be. 

-Nay, give me any love, so it be love of thee. 

IN ANSWER TO A QUESTION 

Why should I hate you, love, or why despise 

For that last proof of tenderness you gave? 

The battle is not always to the brave,


Nor life's sublimest wisdom to the wise. 

True courage often is in frightened eyes, 

And reason in sweet lips that only rave. 

There is a weakness stronger than the grave, 

And blood poured out has overcome the skies. 

-Nay. love, I honour you the more for this, 

That you have rent the veil, and ushered in 

A fellow soul to your soul's holy place. 

And why should either blush that we have been 

One day in Eden, in our nakedness? 

-'Tis conscience makes us sinners, not our sin. 

FAREWELL TO JULIET 

Lame, impotent conclusion to youth's dreams 

Vast as all heaven I See, what glory lies 

Entangled here in these base stratagems, 

What virtue done to deathl 0 gloriOUS sighs, 

Sublime beseechings, high cajoleries, 

Fond wraths, brave ruptures, all that sometime was 

Our daily bread of gods beneath the skies, 

How are ye ended, in what utter loss! 

Time was, time is, and time is yet to come, 

Till even time itself shall have its end. 

These were eternal. And behold, a tomb! 

Come, let us laugh and eat and drink. God send 

What all the world must need one day as we, 

Speedy oblivion, rest for memory. 

ST. VALENTINE'S DAY 

To-day, all day, I rode upon the Down, 

With hounds and horsemen, a brave company. 

On this side in its glory lay the sea, 

On that the Sussex Weald, a sea of brown. 

The wind was light, 'and brightly the sun shone, 

And still we galloped on from gorse to gorse. 

And once, when checked, a thrush sang, and my horse 

Pricked his quick ears as to a sound unknown.

(1055] WlLFRIJ) SCAWEN BLUNT 

I knew the Spring was come. I knew it even 

Better than all by this, that through my chase 

In bush and stone and hill and sea and heaven 

I seemed to see and follow still your face. 

Your face my quarry was. For it I rode, 

My horse a thing of wings, myself a god. 

TO ONE ON HER WASTE OF TIME 

Why practise, love, this small economy 

Of your heart's favours? Can you keep a kiss 

To be enjoyed in age? And would the free 

Expense of pleasure leave you penniless? 

Nay, nay. Be wise. Believe me, pleasure is 

A gambler's token, only gold to-day. 

The day of love is short, and every bliss 

Untasted now is a bliss thrown away. 

'Twere pitiful, in truth, such treasures should 

Lie by like miser's crusts till mouldy grown. 

Think you the hand of age will be less rude 

In touching your sweet bosom than my own? 

Alas, what matter, when our heads are grey, 

Whether you loved or did not love to-day? 

TO ONE WHO WOULD MAKE CONFESSION 

Ohl leave the Past to bury its own dead. 

The Past is naught to us, the Present all. 

What need of last year's leaves to strew Love's bed? 

What need of ghosts ~ grace a festival? 

I would not, if I could, those days recall, 

Those days not ours. For us the feast is spread, 

The lamps are lit, and music plays withal. 

Then let us love and leave the rest unsaid. 

This island is our home. Around it roar 

Great gulfs and oceans, channels, straits, and seas. 

What matter in what wreck we reached the Shore, 

So we both reached it? We can mock at these. 

Ohl leave the Past, if Past indeed there be. 

I would not know it. I would know but thee.


Song 

Oh By not, Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure, 

Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay. 

For my heart no measure 

Knows nor other treasure 

To buy a garland for my love to-day. 

And thou too, Sorrow, tender-hearted Sorrow, 

Thou grey-eyed mourner, By not yet away. 

For I fain would borrow 

Thy sad weeds to-morrow 

To make a mourning for love's yesterday. 

The voice of Pity, Time's divine dear Pity, 

Moved me to tears. I dared not say them nay, 

But went forth from the city 

Making thus my ditty 

Of fair love lost for ever and a day. 

FROM The Wisdom of Merlyn 

What then is Merlyn's message, his word to thee weary of 

pain, 

Man, on thy desolate march, thy search for an adequate 

cause, for a thread, for a guiding rein, 

Still in the maze of thy doubts and fears, to bring thee thy joy 

again? 

Thou hast tried to climb to the sky; thou hast called it a 

firmament; 

Thou hast found it a thing infirm, a heaven which is no haven, 

a bladder punctured and rent, 

A mansion frail as the rainbow mist, as thy own soul impotent. 

Thou hast clung to a dream in thy tears; thou hast stayed thy 

rage with a hope; 

That:. hast anchored thy wreck to a reed, a cobweb spread for 

thy sail, with sand for thy salvage rope; 

Thou hast made thy course with a compass marred, a toy for 

thy telescope.

[ 1 0 5 7 ] WILFRID seAWEN BLUNT 

What hast thou done with thy days? Bethink thee, Man, that 

alone 

Thou of all sentient things, hast learned to grieve in thy joy, 

hast earned thee the malison 

Of going sad without cause of pain, a weeper and woe-begone. 

Why? For the dream of a dream of another than this fair lite 

Joyous to all but thee, by every creature beloved in its springtime 

of passion rife, 

By every creature but only thee, sad husband with sadder 

wife, 

Scared at thought of the end, at the simple logic of death, 

Scared at the old Earth's arms outstretched to hold thee again, 

thou child of an hour, of a breath, 

Seeking refuge with all but her, the mother that comforteth. 

Merlyn's message is this: he would bid thee have done with 

pride. 

What has it brought thee but grief, thy parentage with the 

Gods, thy kinship with beasts denied? 

What thy lore of a life to come in a cloud-world deified? 

o thou child which art Man, distraught with a shadow of ill! 

o thou fool of thy dreams, thou gatherer rarely of flowers but 

of fungi of evil smell, 

Poison growths of the autumn woods, rank mandrake and 

mort-morelll 

Take thy joy with the rest, the bird, the beast of the field, 

Each one wiser than thou, which frolic in no dismay. which 

seize what the seasons yield, 

And lay thee down when thy day is done content with the 

unrevealed. 

Take the thing which thou hast. Forget thy kingdom unseen. 

Lean thy lips on the Earth; she shall bring new peace to thy 

eyes with her healing vesture green. 

Drink once more at her fount of love, the one true hippocrene.

f 


o thou child of thy fears I Nay, shame on thy childish part, 

Weeping when called to thy bed. Take cheer. When the shadows 

come, when the crowd is leaving the mart, 

Then shalt thou learn that thou needest sleep, Death's kindly 

arms for thy heart. 

SIDNEY LANIER 

FROM The Symphony 

I speak for each no-tongued tree 

That, spring by spring. doth nobler be, 

And dumbly and most wistfully 

His mighty prayerful arms outspreads 

Above men's oft-unheeding heads, 

And his big blessing downward sheds. 

I speak for all-shaped blooms and leaves, 

Lichens on stones and moss on eaves, 

Grasses and grains in ranks and sheaves; 

Broad-fronded ferns and keen-leafed canes, 

And briery mazes bounding lanes, 

And marsh-plants, thirsty-cupped for rains, 

And milky stems and sugary veins; 

For every long-armed woman-vine 

That round a piteous tree doth twine: 

For passionate odors, and divine 

Pistils, and petals crystalline; 

All purities of shady springs, 

All shynesses of fihn-winged things 

That fly from tree-trunks and bark-rings; 

All modesties of mountain-fawns 

That leap to covert from wild lawns, 

And tremble if the day but dawns; 

All sparklings of small beady eyes 

Of birds, and Sidelong glances wise 

Wherewith the jay hints tragedies; 

All piquancies of prickly burs, 

And smoothnesses of downs and furs 

Of eiders and of minivers; 

All limpid honeys that do lie

[1059) SIDNEY LANIER 

At stamen-bases, nor deny 

The humming-birds' fine roguery, 

Bee-thighs, nor any butterfly; 

All gracious curves of slender wings, 

Bark-mottlings, fibre--spiralings, 

Fem-wavings and leaf-flickerings; 

Each dial-marked leaf and flower-bell 

Wherewith in every lonesome dell 

Time to himself his hours doth tell; 

All tree-sounds. rustlings of pine-cones, 

Wind-sighings, doves' melodious moans, 

And night's unearthly under-tones; 

All plaCid lakes and waveless deeps, 

All cool reposing mountain-steeps, 

Vale-calms and tranquillotos-sleeps; 

Yea, all fair forms, and sounds, and lights, 

And warmths, and mysteries, and mights, 

Of Nature's utmost depths and heights, 

-These doth my timid tongue present, 

Their mouthpiece and leal instrument 

And servant, all love-eloquent. 

GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS 

Heaven-Haven 

(A NUN TAKES THE VEIL) 

I have desired to go 

Where springs not fail, 

To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail 

And a few lilies blow. 

And I have asked to be 

Where no storms come, 

Where the green swell is in the havens dumb, 

And out of the swing of the sea.

GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS 

( 1 0 60 I 

The Habit of Perlection 

Elected Silence, sing to me 

And beat upon my whorled ear, 

Pipe me to pastures still and be 

The music that I care to hear. 

Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb: 

It is the shut, the curfew sent 

From there where all surrenders come 

Which only makes you eloquent. 

Be shelled, eyes, with double dark 

And find the uncreated light: 

This ruck and reel which you remark 

Coils, keeps, and teases simple sight. 

Palate, the hutch of tasty lust, 

Desire not to be rinsed with wine: 

The can must be so sweet, the crust 

So fresh that comes in fasts divine! 

Nostrils, your careless breath that spend 

Upon the stir and keep of pride, 

What relish shall the censers send 

Along the sanctuary side! 

o feel-of-primrose hands, 0 feet 

That want the yield of plushy sward, 

But you shall walk the golden street 

And you unhouse and house the Lord. 

And, Poverty, be thou the bride 

And now the marriage feast begun, 

And lily-coloured clothes provide 

Your spouse not laboured-at nor spun.

[ 1 0 6 1 ] GERARD MANLEY HOPKlNS 

In the Valley of the Elwy 

I remember a house where all were good 

To me, God knows, deserving no such thing: 

Comforting smell breathed at very entering. 

Fetched fresh, as I suppose, off some sweet wood. 

That cordial air made those kind people a hood 

All over, as a bevy of eggs the mothering wing 

Will, or mild nights the new morsels of spring: 

Why, it seemed of course; seemed of right it should. 

Lovely the woods, waters, meadows, combes, vales, 

All the air things wear that build this world of Wales; 

Only the inmate does not correspond: 

God, lover of souls, swaying considerate scales, 

Complete thy creature dear 0 where it fails, 

Being mighty a master, being a father and fond. 

The Starlight Night 

Look at the stars! look, look up at the skiesl 

o look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air! 

The bright boroughs, the circle-citadels therel 

Down in dim woods the diamond delves! the elves'-eyesl 

The grey lawns cold where gold, where quickgold lies I 

Wind-beat whitebeaml airy abeles set on a flarel 

Flake-doves sent floating forth at a farmyard scarel 

Ah well! it is all a purchase, all is a prize. 

Buy then! bid then!-What?-Prayer, patience, alms, vows. 

Look, look: a May-mess, like on orchard boughs! 

Lookl March-bloom, like on mealed-with-yellow sallowsl 

These are indeed the barn; withindoors house 

The shocks. This piece-bright paling shuts the spouse 

Christ home, Christ and his mother and all his hallows.

GERAlID MANLEY HOPKINS 

[ 1 0 6 2 J 

Pied Beauty 

Glory be to God for dappled things- 

For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; 

For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; 

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings; 

Landscape plotted and pieced-fold, fallow, and plough; 

And all Trades, their gear and tackle and trim. 

All things counter, original, spare, strange; 

Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) 

With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; 

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: 

Praise him. 

ANDREW LANG 

The Odyssey 

As one that for a weary space has lain 

Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine, 

In gardens near the pale of Proserpine, 

Where that Aeaean isle forgets the main, 

And only the low lutes of love complain, 

And only shadows of wan lovers pine; 

As such an one were glad to know the brine 

Salt on his lips, and the large air again- 

So gladly, from the songs of modem speech 

Men tum, and see the stars, and feel the free 

Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers; 

And, through the music of the languid hours, 

They hear like ocean on a western beach 

The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.

[1063] ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY 

ARTHUR WILLIAM EDGAR O'SHAUGHNESSY 

(1844-1881) 

FROM Ode 

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. 

ROBERT BRIDGES 

Pater Filio 

Sense with keenest edge unused, 

Yet unsteel'd by scathing fire; 

Lovely feet as yet unbruised 

On the ways of dark desire; 

Sweetest hope that lookest smiling 

O'er the wilderness defiling!

ROBERT BRIDGES [10641 

Why such beauty, to be blighted 

By the swarm of foul destruction? 

Why such innocence delighted, 

When sin stalks to thy seduction? 

All the litanies e'er chaunted 

Shall not keep thy faith undaunted. 

I have pray'd the sainted Morning 

To unclasp her hands to hold thee; 

From resignful Eve's adorning 

Storn a robe of peace to enfold thee; 

With all charms of man's contriving 

Arm'd thee for thy lonely striving. 

Me too once unthinking Nature 

-Whence Love's timeless mockery took me, 

Fashion'd so divine a creature, 

Yea, and like a beast forsook me. 

I forgave, but tell the measure 

Of her crime in thee, my treasure. 

To L.B.CL.M. 

I love all beauteous things, 

I seek and adore them; 

God hath no better praise, 

And man in his hasty days 

Is honoured for them. 

I too will something make 

And joy in the making; 

Altho' to-morrow it seem 

Like the empty words of a dream 

Remembered on waking. 

On a Dead Child 

Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee, 

With promise of strength and manhood full and fair! 

Though cold and stark and bare, 

The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee.

[1065] ROBERT BlUDGES 

Thy mother's treasure wert thou;-alasl no longer 

To visit her heart with wondrous joy; to be 

Thy father's pride;-ah, he 

Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger. 

To me, as I move thee now in the last duty, 

Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond; 

Startling my fancy fond 

With a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty. 

Thy hand clasps, as 'twas wont, my flnger, and holds it: 

But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heart-breaking and stiff; 

Yet feels to my hand as if 

'Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it. 

So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing, 

Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bedl 

Propping thy wise, sad head, 

Thy fum pale hands across thy chest dispoSing. 

So quietI doth the change content thee? 

Death, whither hath he taken thee? 

To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this? 

The vision of which I miss, 

Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and 

awaken thee? 

Ahl little at best can all our hopes avail us 

To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark, 

Unwilling, alone we embark, 

And the things we have seen and have known and have heard 

of, fail us. 

ALICE MEYNELL 

(1849-19U ) 

A Letter from a Girl to Her Own Old Age 

Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses, 

o time-worn woman, think of her who blesses 

What thy thin flngers touch, with her caresses.

ALICE MEYNELL [1066] 

o mother, for the weight of years that break thee! 

o daughter, for slow time must yet awake thee, 

And from the changes of my heart must make thee. 

o fainting traveller, mom is grey in heaven. 

Dost thou remember how the clouds were driven? 

And are they calm about the fall of even? 

Pause near the ending of thy long migration, 

For this one sudden hour of desolation 

Appeals to one hour of thy meditation. 

Suffer, 0 silent one, that I remind thee 

Of the great hills that stormed the sky behind thee, 

Of the wild winds of power that have resigned thee. 

Know that the mournful plain where thou must wander 

Is but a grey and silent world, but ponder 

The misty mountains of the morning yonder. 

Listen:-the mountain winds with rain were fretting, 

And sudden gleams the mountain-tops besetting. 

I cannot let thee fade to death, forgetting. 

What part of this wild heart of mine I know not 

Will follow with thee where the great winds blow not, 

And where young flowers of the mountain grow not. 

I have not writ this letter of divining 

To make a glory of thy silent pining, 

A triumph of thy mute and strange declining. 

Only one youth, and the bright life was shrouded. 

Only one morning, and the day was clouded. 

And one old age with all regrets is crowded. 

o hush, 0 hush! thy tears my words are steeping. 

o hush, hush, hush! So full, the fount of weeping? 

Poor eyes, so quickly moved, so near to sleeping? 

Pardon the girl; such strange desires beset her. 

Poor woman, lay aside the mournful letter 

That breaks thy heart; the one who wrote, forget her.

[1067] ALICE MEYNELL 

The one who now thy faded features guesses, 

With filial fingers thy grey hair caresses, 

With mournful tears thy mournful twilight blesses. 

Renouncement 

I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong, 

I shun the love that lurks in all delight- 

The love of thee-and in the blue heaven's height, 

And in the dearest passage of a song. 

Oh, just beyond the sweetest 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 mnst loose apart, 

Must doH my will as raiment laid away, 

With the first dream that comes with the first sleep 

I run, I run, I am gather'd to thy heart. 

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY 

I.M. 

R. T. Hamilton Bruce 

Out of the night that covers me, 

Black as the Pit from pole to pole, 

I thank whatever gods may be 

For my unconquerable soul. 

In the fell clutch of circumstance 

I have not winced nor cried aloud. 

Under the bludgeonings of chance 

My head is bloody, but unbowed. 

Beyond this place of wrath and tears 

Looms but the horror of the shade, 

And yet the menace of the years 

Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY ( 1 0 6 8 1 

It matters not how strait the gate, 

How charged with punishments the scroll, 

I am the master of my fate: 

I am the captain of my soul. 

"Fill a Glass with Golden Wine" 

Fill a glass with golden wine, 

And the while your lips are wet 

Set their perfume unto mine, 

And forget, 

Every kiss we take and give 

Leaves us less of life to live. 

Yet again! your whim and mine 

In a happy while have met. 

All your sweets to me resign, 

Nor regret 

That we press with every breath, 

Sighed or singing, nearer death. 

To A.D. 

The nightingale has a lyre of gold, 

The lark's is a clarion call, 

And the blackbird plays but a 'boxwood flute, 

But I love him best of all. 

For his song is all of the joy of life, 

And we in the mad, spring weather, 

We two have listened till he sang 

Our hearts and lips together. 

"On the Way to Kew" 

On the way to Kew 

By the river old and gray, 

Where in the Long Ago 

We laughed and loitered so, 

I met a ghost to-day,

[ 1 0 6 9 ] WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY 

A ghost that told of you 

A ghost of low replies 

And sweet, inscrutable eyes 

Coming up from Richmond 

As you used to do. 

By the river old and gray, 

The enchanted Long Ago 

Murmured and smiled anew. 

On the way to Kew, 

March had the laugh of May, 

The bare boughs looked aglow, 

And old immortal words 

Sang in my breast like birds, 


As I used with you. 

With the life of Long Ago 

Lived my thoughts of you. 

By the river old and gray 

Flowing his appointed way 

As I watched I knew 

What is so good to know 

Not in vain, not in vain, 

Shall I look for you again 


On the way to Kew. 

Epilogue to Rhymes and Rhythms 

These, to you now, 0, more than ever now 

Now that the Ancient Enemy 

Has passed. and we, we two that are one, have seen 

A piece of perfect Life 

Turn to so ravishing a shape of Death 

The Arch-Discomforter might well have smiled 

In pity and pride, 

Even as he bore his lovely and innocent spoil 

From those home-kingdoms he left desolate.

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY [1 0 7 0 1 

Poor windlestraws 

On the great, sullen, roaring pool of Time 

And Chance and Change, I knowl 

But they are yours, as I am, till we attain 

That end for which we make, we two that are one: 

A little, exquisite Ghost 

Between us, smiling with the serenest eyes 

Seen in this world, and calling, calling still 

In that clear voice whose infinite subtleties 

Of sweetness, thrilling back across the grave, 

Break the poor heart to hear: 

"Come, Dadsie, comel 

Mama, how long-how longf' 

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

The Celestial Surgeon 

If I have faltered more or less 

In my great task of happiness; 

If I have moved among my race 

And shown no glorious morning face; 

If beams from happy human eyes 

Have moved me not; if morning skies, 

Books, and my food, and summer rain 

Knocked on my sullen heart in vain: 

Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take 

And stab my spirit broad awake; 

Or, Lord, if too obdurate J, 

Choose thou, before that spirit die, 

A piercing pain, a killing sin, 

And to my dead heart run them inl 

The Vagabond 

Give to me the life I love, 

Let the lave go by me, 

Give the jolly heaven above 

And the byway nigh me.

[ 1 07 1 ] ROBElIT LOUIS STEVENSON 

Bed in the bush with stars to see, 

Bread I dip in the river 

There's the life for a man like me, 

There's the life for ever. 

Let the blow fall soon or late, 

Let what will be o'er me; 

Give the face of earth around 

And the road before me. 

Wealth I seek not, hope nor love, 

Nor a friend to know me; 

All I seek the heaven above 

And the road below me. 

Or let autumn fall on me 

Where afield I linger, 

Silencing the bird on tree, 

Biting the blue finger: 

White as meal the frosty field 

Warm the fireside haven 

Not to autumn will I yield, 

Not to winter even I 

Let the blow fall soon or late, 

Let what will be o'er me; 

Give the face of earth around, 

And the road before me. 

Wealth I ask not, hope nor love. 

Nor a friend to know me; 

All I ask the heaven above, 

And the road below me. 

Requiem 

Under the wide and starry sky 

Dig the grave and let me lie. 

Glad did I live and gladly die, 

And I laid me down with a will.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON [ 1 0 7 2 1 

This be the verse you grave for me: 

Here he lies where he longed to be; 

Home is the sailor, home from sea, 

And the hunter home from the hiU. 

OSCAR WILDE 

(1856-1900) 

FROM The Ballad of Reading Gaol 

In Debtor's Yard the stones are hard, 

And the dripping wall is high, 

So it was there he took the air 

Beneath the leaden sky, 

And by each side a Warder walked, 

For fear the man might die. 

Or else he sat with those who watched 

His anguish night and day; 

Who watched him when he rose to weep, 

And when he crouched to pray; 

Who watched him lest himself should rob 

Their scaffold of its prey. 

The Governor was strong upon 

The Regulations Act: 

The Doctor said that Death was but 

A scientific fact: 

And twice a day the Chaplain called, 

And left a little tract. 

And twice a day he smoked his pipe, 

And drank his quart of beer: 

His soul was resolute, and held 

No hiding-place for fear; 

He often said that he was glad 

The hangman's hands were near. 

But why he said so strange a thing 

No Warder dared to ask:

[1073] OSCAll. WILDE 

For he to whom a watcher's doom 

Is given as his task, 

Must set a lock upon his lips, 

And make his face a mask. 

Or else he might be moved, and try 

To comfort or console: 

And what should Human Pity do 

Pent up in Murderers' Hole? 

What word of grace in such a place 

Could help a brother's soul? 

With slouch and swing around the ring 

We trod the Fools' Parade I 

We did not care: we knew we were 

The Devil's Own Brigade: 

And shaven head and feet of lead 

Make a merry masquerade. 

We tore the tarry rope to shreds 

With blunt and bleeding nails; 

We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors, 

And cleaned the shining rails; 

And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank, 

And clattered with the pails. 

We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, 

We turned the dusty drill: 

We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns, 

And sweated on the mill: 

But in the heart of every man 

Terror was lying still. 

So still it lay that every day 

Crawled like a weed-clogged wave: 

And we forgot the bitter lot 

That waits for fool and knave, 

Till once, as we tramped in from worle, 

We passed an open grave.

OSCAR WILDE [1074] 

With yawning mouth the yellow hole 

Gaped for a living thing; 

The very mud cried out for blood 

To the thirsty asphalt ring: 

And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair 

Some prisoner had to swing. 

Right in we went, with soul intent 

On Death and Dread and Doom: 

The hangman, with his little bag, 

Went shuffiing through the gloom: 

And each man trembled as he crept 

Into his numbered tomb. 

That night the empty corridors 

Were full of forms of Fear, 

And up and down the iron town 

Stole feet we could not hear, 

And through the bars that hide the stars 

White faces seemed to peer. 

He lay as one who lies and dreams 

In a pleasant meadow-land, 

The watchers watched him as he slept, 

And could not understand 

How one could sleep so sweet a sleep 

With a hangman close at hand. 

But there is no sleep when men must weep 

Who never yet have wept: 

So we-the fool, the fraud, the knave 

That endless vigil kept, 

And through each brain on hands of pain 

Another's terror crept. 

Alas! it is a fearful thing 

To feel another's guilt! 

For, right within, the sword of Sin 

Pierced to its poisoned hilt, 

And as molten lead were the tears we shed 

For the blood we had not spilt.

[1075J OSCAR WILDE 

The Warders with their shoes of felt 

Crept by each padlocked door, 

And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe, 

Gray figures on the floor, 

And wondered why men knelt to pray 

Who never prayed before. 

All through the night we knelt and prayed, 

Mad mourners of a corse I 

The troubled plumes of midnight were 

The plumes upon a hearse: 

And bitter wine upon a sponge 

Was the savour of Remorse. 

The grey cock crew, the red cock crew, 

But never came the day; 

And crooked shapes of terror crouched 

In the comers where we lay: 

And each evil sprite that walks by night 

Before us seemed to play . 

.. 

"' 

The morning wind began to moan, 

But still the night went on; 

Through its giant 100m the web of gloom 

Crept till each thread was spun: 

And, as we prayed, we grew afraid 

Of the Justice of the Sun. 

The moaning wind went wandering round 

The weeping prison-wall: 

Till like a wheel of turning steel 

We felt the minutes crawl: 

o moaning wind I what had we done 

To have such a seneschal? 

At last I saw the shadowed bars. 

Like a lattice wrought in lead, 

Move right across the whitewashed wall 

That faced my three-planked bed, 

And I knew that somewhere in the world 

God's dreadful dawn was red.

OSCAl\ WILDE 

[I 076 J 

At six o'clock we cleaned our cells, 

At seven all was still, 

But the sough and swing of a mighty wing 

The prison seemed to flll, 

For the Lord of Death, with icy breath. 

Had entered in to kill. 

He did not pass in purple pomp, 

Nor ride a moon-white steed, 

Three yards of cord and a sliding board 

Are all the gallows' need: 

So with rope of shame the Herald came 

To do the secret deed. 

We were as men who through a fen 

Of fIlthy darkness grope: 

We did not dare to breathe a prayer, 

Or to give our anguish scope: 

Something was dead in each of us, 

And what was dead was Hope. 

For Man's grim Justice goes its way, 

And will not swerve aside: 

It slays the weak, it slays the strong, 

It has a deadly stride: 

With iron heel it slays the strong, 

The monstrous parricide I 

We waited for the stroke of eight: 

Each tongue was thick with thirst: 

For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate 

That makes a man accursed, 

And Fate will use a running noose 

For the best man and the worst. 

We had no other thing to do, 

Save to wait for the sign to come: 

So, like things of stone in a valley lone, 

Quiet we sat and dumb: 

But each man's heart beat thick and quick, 

Like a madman on a druml

[1077] OSCAR WILDB 

With sudden shock, the prison-clock 

Smote on the shivering air, 

And from all the jail rose up a wail 

Of impotent despair, 

Like the sound that frightened marshes hear 

From some leper in his lair. 

And as one sees most dreadful things 

In the crystal of a dream, 

We saw the greasy hempen rope 

Hooked to the blackened beam, 

And heard the prayer the hangman's snare 

Strangled into a scream. 

And all the woe that moved him so 

That he gave that bitter cry, 

And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats, 

None knew so well as I: 

For he who lives more lives than one 

More deaths than one must die. 

JOHN DAVIDSON 

In Romney Marsh 

As I went down to Dymchurch Wall, 

I heard the South sing o'er the land; 

I saw the yellow sunlight fall 

On knolls where Norman churches stand. 

And ringing shrilly, taut and lithe, 

Within the wind a core of sound, 

The wire from Romney town to Hythe 

Alone its airy journey wound. 

A veil of purple vapour Bowed 

And trailed its fringe along the Straits; 

The upper air like sapphire glowed; 

And roses filled Heaven's central gates.

JOHN DAVIDSON [10781 

Masts in the offing wagged their tops; 

The swinging waves pealed on the shore; 

The saffron beach, all diamond drops 

And beads of surge, prolonged the roar. 

As I came up from Dymchurch Wall, 

I saw above the Downs' low crest 

The crimson brands of sunset fall, 

Flicker and fade from out the west. 

Night sank: like flakes of silver fire 

The stars in one great shower came down; 

Shrill blew the wind; and shrill the wire 

Rang out from Hythe to Romney town. 

The darkly shining salt sea drops 

Streamed as the waves clashed on the shore; 

The beach, with all its organ stops 

Pealing again, prolonged the roar. 

Waiting 

Within unfriendly walls 

We starve-or starve by stealth. 

Oxen fatten in their stalls; 

You guard the harrier's health: 

They never can be criminals, 

And can't compete for wealth. 

From the mansion and the palace 

Is there any help or hail 

For the tenants of the alleys, 

Of the workhouse and the jail? 

Though lands await our toil, 

And earth half-empty rolls, 

Cumberers of English soil, 

We cringe for orts and doles 

Prosperity's accustomed foil, 

Millions of useless souls. 

In the gutters and the ditches 

Human vermin festering lurk 

We, the rust upon your riches; 

We, the flaw in all your work.

[10791 JOHN DAVIDSON 

Come down from where you sit; 

We look to you for aid. 

Take us from the miry pit, 

And lead us undismayed: 

Say: "Even you, outcast, unfit, 

Forward with sword and spade!" 

And myriads of us idle 

Would thank you through our tears, 

Though you drove us with a bridle, 

And a whip about our ears. 

From cloudy cape to cape 

The teeming waters seethe; 

Golden grain and purple grape 

The regions overwreathe. 

Will no one help us to escape? 

We scarce have room to breathe. 

You might try to understand us: 

We are waiting night and day 

For a captain to command us, 

And the word we must obey. 

ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN 

"Loveliest of Tfees ... " 

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 EDWAll.D HOUSMAN [1 0 8 0 ] 

"When I Was One-and-Twenty" 

When I was one-and-twenty 

I heard a wise man say, 

"Give crowns and pounds and guineas 

But not your heart away; 

Give pearls away and rubies 

But keep your fancy free." 

But I was one-and-twenty, 

No use to talk to me. 

When I was one-and-twenty 

I heard him say again, 

"The heart out of the bosom 

Was never given in vain; 

'Tis paid with sighs a-plenty 

And sold for endless rue." 

And I am two-and-twenty, 

And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true. 

"Into My Heart an Air ... " 

Into my heart an air that kills 

From yon far country blows: 

What are those blue remembered hills, 

What spires, what farms are those? 

That is the land of lost content, 

I see it shining plain, 

The happy highways where I went 

And cannot come again. 

Epitaph on an Army of Mercenaries 

These, in the day when heaven was falling, 

The hour when earth's foundations Bed, 

Followed their mercenary calling 

And took their wages and are dead.

[ 1 08 1] ALFBED EDW AlID HOUSMAN 

Their shoulders held the sky suspended; 

They stood, and earth's foundations stay; 

What God abandoned, these defended, 

And saved the sum of things for pay. 

"1 to My Perils" 

I to my perils 

Of cheat and charmer 

Came clad in armour 

By stars benign; 

Hope lies to mortals 

And most believe her, 

But man's deceiver 

Was never mine. 

The thoughts of others 

Were light and Heeting, 

Of lovers' meeting 

Or luck or fame; 

Mine were of trouble 

And mine were steady, 

So I was ready 

When trouble came. 

For My Funeral 

o thou that from thy mansion 

Through time and place to roam, 

Dost sent abroad thy children, 

And then dost call them home, 

That men and tribes and nations 

And all thy hand hath made 

May shelter them from sunshine 

In thine eternal shade:

ALFRED EDWABD HOUSMAN [1 082 ] 

We now to peace and darkness 

And earth and thee restore 

Thy creature that thou madest 

And wilt cast forth no more. 

FRANCIS THOMPSON 

The Hound of Heaven 

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days; 

I fled Him, down the arches of the years; 

I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways 

Of my own mind; and in the midst of tears 

I hid from Him, and under running laughter. 

Up vistaed hopes I sped; 

And shot, precipitated, 

Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears, 

From those strong Feet that followed, followed after. 

But with unhurrying chase, 

And unperturbed pace, 

Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, 

They beat-and a Voice beat 

More instant than the Feet 

"All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.'" 

I pleaded, outlaw-wise, 

By many a hearted casement, curtained red, 

Trellised with intertwining charities 

(For, though I knew His love Who followed, 

Yet was I sore adread 

Lest, having Him, I must have naught beSide) ; 

But, if one little casement parted wide, 

The gust of His approach would clash it to. 

Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue. 

Across the margent of the world I fled, 

And troubled the gold gateways of the stars, 

Smiting for shelter on their clanged bars; 

Fretted to dulcet jars 

And silvern chatter the pale ports 0' the moon.

[lOSS} 

FRANCIS THOMPSON 

I said to dawn, Be sudden; to eve, Be soon; 

With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over 

From this tremendous Loverl 

Float thy vague veil about me, lest He seel 

I tempted all His servitors, but to find 

My own betrayal in their constancy, 

In faith to Him their fickleness to me, 

Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit. 

To all swift things for swiftness did I sue; 

Clung to the whistling mane of every wind, 

But whether they swept, smoothly fleet, 

The long savannahs of the blue; 

Or whether thunder-driven 

They clanged his chariot 'thwart a heaven 

Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn 0' their feet: 

Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue. 

Still with unhurrying chase, 

And unperturbed pace, 

Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, 

Came on the follOwing Feet, 

And a Voice above their beat 

"Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me," 

I sought no more that after which I strayed 

In face of man or maid; 

But still within the little children's eyes 

Seems something, something that replies; 

They at least are for me, surely for mel 

I turned me to them very wistfully: 

But, just as their young eyes grew sudden fair 

With dawning answers there, 

Their angel plucked them from me by the hair. 

"Come then, ye other children, Nature's-share 

With me" (said I) "your delicate fellowship; 

Let me greet you lip to lip, 

Let me twine with you caresses, 

Wantoning 

With our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses, 

Banqueting 

With her in her wind-walled palace, 

Underneath her azured dais,

J1'RANClS THOMPSON [1084] 

Quaffing as your taintless way is, 

From a chalice 

Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring. 

So it was done: 

I in their delicate fellowship was one 

Drew the bolts of Nature's secrecies. 

I knew all the swift importings 

On the wilful face of skies; 

I knew how the clouds arise 

Spumed of the wild sea-snortings: 

All that's born or dies 

Rose and drooped with-made them shapers 

Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine 

With them joyed and was bereaven. 

I was heavy with the even, 

When she lit her glimmering tapers 

Round the day's dead sanctities. 

I laughed in the morning's eyes. 

I triumphed and I saddened with all weather, 

Heaven and I wept together, 

And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine: 

Against the red throb of its sunset-heart 

I laid my own to beat, 

And share commingling heat: 

Bnt not by that, by that, was eased my human smart. 

In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's grey cheek. 

For ahl we know not what each other says, 

These things and I; in sound I speak- 

Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences. 

Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth; 

Let her, if she would owe me, 

Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me 

The breasts 0' her tenderness: 

Never did any milk of hers once bless 

My thirsting mouth. 

Nigh and nigh draws the chase, 

With unperturbed pace, 

Deliberate speed, majestic instancy: 

And past those noised Feet 

A voice comes yet more 8eet 

"Lol naught contents thee, who content'st not Me."

[1085J FRANCIS THOMPSON 

Naked I wait Thy love's uplifted stroke! 

My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me, 

And smitten me to my knee; 

I am defenceless utterly. 

I slept, methinks, and woke, 

And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep. 

In the rash lustihead of my young powers, 

I shook the pilIating hours 

And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears, 

I stand amid the dust 0' the mounded years- 

My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap. 

My days have crackled and gone up in smoke, 

Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream. 

Yea, faileth now even dream 

The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist; 

Even the J.inked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist 

I swnng the earth a trinket at my wrist, 

Are yielding; cords of all too weak account 

For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed. 

Ahl is Thy love indeed 

A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, 

Suffering no Bowers except its own to mount? 

Ahl must 

Designer innnitel- 

Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it? 

My freshness spent its wavering shower i'the dust; 

And now my heart is as a broken fount, 

Wherein tear-droppings stagnate, spilt down ever 

From the dank thoughts that shiver 

Upon the sighful branches of my mind. 

Such is; what is to be? 

The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind? 

I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds; 

Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds 

From the hid battlements of Eternity; 

Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then 

Round the haH-glimpsed turrets slowly wash again. 

But not ere him who summoneth 

I first have seen, enwound 

With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned; 

His name I know, and what his trumpet saith.

» 

FRANCIS THOMPSON [1086] 

Whether man's heart or life it be which yields 

Thee harvest, must Thy harvest fields 

Be dunged with rotten death? 

Now of that long pursuit 

Comes on at hand the bruit; 

That Voice is round me like a hursting sea: 

"And is thy earth so marred, 

Shattered in shard on shard? 

Lo, all things fly thee, for thou Hiest Mel 

Strange, piteous, futile thingl 

Wherefore should any set thee love apart? 

Seeing none but I makes much of naught" 

(He said) 

"And human love needs human meriting: 

How hast thou merited- 

Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot? 

Alack, thou knowest not 

How little worthy of any love thou artl 

Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee 

Save Me, save only Me? 

All which I took from thee I did but take, 

Not for thy harms, 

But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms. 

All which thy child's mistake 

Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home; 

Rise, clasp My hand, and comel" 

Halts by me that footfall: 

Is my gloom, after all, 

Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly? 

"Ab, fondest, blindest, weakest, 

I am He whom thou seekestl 

Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me." 

VICTOR PLARR 

Epitaphium Citharistriae 

Stand not uttering sedately 

Trite oblivious praise above herl 

Rather say you saw ber lately 

Lightly kiSSing her last lover.

II087] 

VICTOR PLAlU!I 

Whisper not "There is a reason 

Why we bring her no white blossom:" 

Since the snowy bloom's in season, 

Strow it on her sleeping bosom: 

Oh, for it would be a pity 

To o'erpraise her or to flout her: 

She was wild, and sweet, and witty 

Let's not say dull things about her. 

GEORGE SANTAYANA 

Ode 

My heart rebels against my generation, 

That talks of freedom and is slave to riches, 

And, toiling 'neath each day's ignoble burden, 

Boasts of the morrow. 

No space for noonday rest or midnight watches, 

No purest joy of breathing under heaven I 

Wretched themselves, they heap, to make them happy, 

Many possessions. 

But thou, 0 silent Mother, wise, inunortal, 

To whom our toil is laughter,-take, divine one, 

This vanity away, and to thy lover 

Give what is needful: 

A staunch heart, nobly cahn, averse to evil, 

The windy sky for breath, the sea, the mountain, 

A well-born, gentle friend, his spirit's brother, 

Ever beside him. 

What would you gain, ye seekers, with your striving. 

Or what vast Babel raise you on your shoulders? 

You multiply distresses, and your children 

Surely will curse you.

GEORGE SANTAYANA [1088] 

o leave them rather friendlier gods, and fairer 

Orchards and temples, and a freer bosom I 

What better comforter have we, or what other 

Profit in living, 

Than to feed, sobered by the truth of Nature, 

Awhile upon her bounty and her beauty, 

And hand her torch of gladness to the ages 

Following after? 

She hath not made us, like her other children, 

Merely for peopling of her spacious kingdoms, 

Beasts of the wild, or insects of the summer. 

Breeding and dying. 

But also that we might, half knowing, worship 

The deathless beauty of her guiding vision, 

And learn to love, in all things mortal, only 

What is eternal. 

On the Death of a Metaphysician 

Unhappy dreamer, who outwinged in flight 

The pleasant region of the things I love, 

And soared beyond the sunshine, and above 

The golden cornfields and the dear and bright 

Warmth of the hearth,-blasphemer of delight, 

Was your proud bosom not at peace with Jove, 

That you sought, thankless for his guarded grove, 

The empty horror of abysmal night? 

Ah, the thin air is cold above the moonl 

I stood and saw you fall, befooled in death, 

As, in your numbed spirit's fatal swoon, 

You cried you were a god, or were to be; 

I heard with feeble moan your boastful breath 

Buhble from depths of the Icarian sea.

[1089] GEORGE SANTAYANA 

"We Needs Must Be Divided ..." 

We needs must be divided in the tomb, 

For I would die among the hills of Spain, 

And o'er the treeless melancholy plain 

Await the coming of the flnal gloom. 

But thou-O pitifull-wilt flnd scant room 

Among thy kindred by the northern main, 

And fade into the drifting mist again, 

The hemlocks' shadow, or the pines' perfume. 

Let gallants lie beside their ladies' dust, 

In one cold grave, with mortal love inurned; 

Let the sea part our ashes, if it must. 

The souls Bed thence which love inunortal burned, 

For they were wedded without bond of lust, 

And nothing of our heart to earth returned. 

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS 

A Faery Song 

(SUNG BY THE PEOPLE OF FAERY OVER DIARMUID AND 

GRANIA, IN THEIR BRIDAL SLEEP UNDER A CROMLECH) 

We who are old, old and gay, 

o so old! 

Thousands of years, thousands of years, 

If all were told: 

Give to these childreu, new from the world, 

Silence and love; 

And the long dew-dripping hours of the night, 

And the stars above: 

Give to these children, new from the world, 

Rest far from men. 

Is anything better, anything better? 

Tell us it then: 

Us who are old, old and gay, 

o so oldl 

Thousands of years, thousands of years. 

If all were told.

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS [1090] 

The Lover Tells of the Rose in His Heart 

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old, 

The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering 

cart, 

The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry 

monld, 

Axe wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps 

of my heart. 

The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told; 

I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart, 

With the earth and the sky and the water, re-made, like a 

casket of gold 

For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the 

deeps of my heart. 

FROM The Land of Heart's Desire 

The wind blows out of the gates of the day, 

The wind blows over the lonely of heart, 

And the lonely of heart is witbered away; 

While the fairies dance in a place apart, 

Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring, 

Tossing their milk-white arms in the air; 

For they hear the wind laugh and murmur and sing 

Of a land where even the old are fair, 

And even the wise are merry of tongue; 

But I heard a reed of Coolaney say 

"When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung, 

The lonely of heart is withered away." 

FROM Deirdre 

"Why is it," Queen Edain said, 

"If I do but climb the stair 

To the tower overhead, 

When the winds are calling there,

[1091] 

Or the gannets calling out, 

In waste places of the sky, 

There's so much to think about, 

That I cry, that I cry?" 

But her goodman answered her: 

"Love would be a thing of nought 

Had not all his limbs a stir 

Born out of immoderate thought; 

Were he anything by half, 

Were his measure running dry, 

Lovers, if they may not laugh, 

Have to cry, have to cry." 

But is Edain worth a song? 

Now the hunt begins anew? 

Praise the beautiful and strong; 

Praise the redness of the yew; 

Praise the blossoming apple-stem. 

But our silence had been wise. 

What is all our praise to them, 

That have one another's eyes? 

When Helen Lived 

We have cried in our despair 

That men desert, 

For some trivial affair 

Or noisy, insolent sport, 

Beauty that we have won 

From bitterest hours; 

Yet we, had we walked within 

Those topless towers 

Where Helen walked with her boy, 

Had given but as the rest 

Of the men and women of Troy, 

A word and a jest.

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS [1092] 

FROM A Prayer for My Daughter 

I have wa1ked and prayed for this young child an hour 

And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower, 

And under the arches of the bridge, and scream 

In the elms above the Hooded stream; 

Imagining in excited reverie 

That the future years had come, 

Dancing to a frenzied drum 

Out of the murderous innocence of the sea. 

May she be granted beauty and yet not 

Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught, 

Or hers before a looking-glass, for such, 

Being made beautiful overmuch, 

Consider beauty a sufficient end, 

Lose naturalldndness and maybe 

The heart-revealing intimacy 

That chooses right, and never find a friend. 

In courtesy I'd have her chieHy learned; 

Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned 

By those that are not entirely beautiful; 

Yet many, that have played the fool 

For beauty's very self, has charm made wise, 

And many a poor man that has roved, 

Loved and thought himself beloved, 

From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes. 

My mind, because the minds that I have loved, 

The sort of beauty that I have approved, 

Prosper but little, has dried up of late, 

Yet knows that to be choked with hate 

May well be of all evil chances chief. 

If there's no hatred in a mind 

Assault and battery of the wind 

Can never tear the linnet from the leaf.

[1093] WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS 

An Intellectual hatred is the worst, 

So let her think opinions are accursed. 

Have I not seen the loveliest woman born 

Out of the mouth of Plenty's hom, 

Because of her opinionated mind 

Barter that hom and every good 

By quiet natures understood 

For an old bellows full of angry windP 

And may her bridegroom bring her to a house 

Where all's accustomed, ceremonious; 

For arrogance and hatred are the wares 

Peddled in the thoroughfares. 

How but in custom and in ceremony 

Are innocence and beauty bomP 

Ceremony's a name for the rich hom, 

And custom for the spreading laurel tree. 

Sailing to Byzantium 

That is no country for old men. The young 

In one another's arms, birds in the trees, 

-Those dying generations-at their song, 

The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, 

Fish, 8esh, or fowl, commend all summer long 

Whatever is begotten, born and dies. 

Caught in that sensual music all neglect 

Monuments of unageing intellect. 

An aged man is but a paltry thing, 

A tattered coat upon a stick, unless 

Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing 

For every tatter in its mortal dress, 

Nor is there singing school but studying 

Monuments of its own magnificence; 

And therefore I have sailed the seas and come 

To the holy city of Byzantium.

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS [1094J 

o sages standing in God's holy fire 

As in the gold mosaic of a wall, 

Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, 

And be the singing-masters of my soul. 

Consume my heart away; sick with desire 

And fastened to a dying animal 

It knows not what it is; and gather me 

Into the artifice of eternity. 

Once out of nature I shall never take 

My bodily form from any natural thing, 

But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make 

Of hammered gold and gold enamelling 

To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; 

Or set upon a golden bough to sing 

To lords and ladies of Byzantium 

Of what is past, or passing, or to come. 

ARTHUR SYMONS 

Declaration 

Child, I will give you rings to wear, 

And, if you love them, dainty dresses, 

Flowers for your bosom and your hair, 

And, if you love them, fond caresses; 

And I will give you of my days, 

And I will leave, when you require it, 

My dreams, my books, my wonted ways, 

Content if only you desire it. 

Take for your own my life, my heart, 

And for your love's sake I forgive you; 

I only ask you for your heart, 

Because I have no heart to give you.

[1095] ARTHUR SYMONS 

Wanderer's Song 

I have had enough of women, and enough of love, 

But the land waits, and the sea waits, and day and night is 

enough; 

Give me a long white road, and grey wide path of the sea, 

And the wind's will and the bird's will, and the heart-ache 

still in me. 

Why should I seek out sorrow, and give gold for strife? 

I have loved much and wept much, but tears and love are 

not life; 

The grass calls to my heart, and the foam to my blood cries 

up, 

And the sun shines and the road shines, and the wine's in the 

cup. 

I have had enough of wisdom, and enough of mirth, 

For the way's one and the end's one, and it's soon to the 

ends of the earth; 

And it's then good-night and to bed, and if heels or heart ache, 

Well, it's sound sleep and long sleep, and sleep too deep to 

wake. 

RUDYARD KIPLING 

The Long Trail 

There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her 

yield, 

And the ricks stand grey to the sun, 

Singing: "Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the 

clover, 

And your English summer's done." 

You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind, 

And the thresh of the deep-sea rain; 

You have heard the song-how long? how long? 

Pull out on the trail again!

RUDYARD lIJPLING 

[I096} 

Ha' done with the tents of Shem, dear lass, 

We've seen the seasons through, 

And it's time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the 

out trail, 

Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail-the trail that is always 

newl 

It's North you may run to the rime-ringed sun 

Or South to the blind Horn's hate; 

Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay, 

Or West to the Golden Gate- 

Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass, 

And the wildest tales are true, 

And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the 

out trail, 

And life runs large on the Long Trail-the trail that is 

always new. 

The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old, 

And the twice-breathed airs blow damp; 

And 1'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll 

Of a black Bilbao tramp, 

With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass, 

And a drunken Dago crew, 

And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, 

the out trail 

From Cadiz south on the Long Trail-the trail that is 

always new. 

There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake, 

Or the way of a man with a maid; 

But the sweetest way to me is a ship's upon the sea 

In the heel of the North-East Trade. 

Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass, 

And the drum of the racing screw, 

As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the 

out trail, 

As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail-the trail that 

is always new?

[1097] RUDYARD XIPUNG 

See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, 

And the fenders grind and heave, 

And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the 

crate, 

And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; 

It's "Gang-plank up and in," dear lass, 

It's "Hawsers warp her through I" 

And it's "All clear aft" on the old trail, our own trail, the 

out trail, 

We're backing down on the Long Trail-the trail that is 

always new. 

o the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied, 

And the sirens hoot their dread, 

When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless viewless deep 

To the sob of the questing lead! 

It's down by the Lower Hope, dear lass, 

With the GunHeet Sands in view, 

Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own 

trail, the out trail, 

And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail-the trail that 

is always new. 

o the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light 

That holds the hot sky tame, 

And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered 

Hoors 

Where the scared whale Hukes in Hamel 

Her plates are Baked by the sun, dear lass, 

And her ropes are taut with dew, 

For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, 

the out trail, 

We're sagging south on the Long Trail-the trail that 

is always new. 

Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb, 

And the shouting seas drive by, 

And the engines stamp and ring, and wet bows reel and 

swing, 

And the Southern Cross rides high I 

Yes. the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,

RUDY ADD ltIPLING [1098] 

That blaze in the velvet blue. 

They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the 

out trail, 

They're God's own guides on the Long Trail-the trail 

that is always new. 

Fly forward, 0 my heart, from the Foreland to the Start 

We're steaming all too slow, 

And its twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle 

Where the trumpet-orchids blow! 

You have heard the call of the off-shore wind 

And the voice of the deep-sea rain: 

You have heard the song. How long-how long? 

Pull out on the trail again! 

The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass, 

And the Deuce knows what we may do- 

But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the 

out trail, 

We're down, hull-down, on the Long Trail-the trail that is 

always new! 

Screw..cuns 

Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the moroin' cool, 

I walks in myoid brown gaiters along 0' myoId brown mule, 

With seventy gunners be'ind me, and never a beggar forgets 

It's only the pick of the Army that handles the dear little pets 

- 'Tssl 'Tssl 

For you all love the screw-guns-the screw-guns they all 

love youl 

So when we call round with a few guns, 0' course you 

will know what to do-hool hool 

Jest send in your Chief and surrender-it's worse if you 

fights or you runs: 

You can go where you please, you can skid up the trees, 

but you don't get away from the gunsl 

They sends us along where the roads are, but mostly we goes 

where they ain't.

[1099] ntlDYAJID KIPLING 

We'd climb up the side of a sign-board an' trust to the stick 

0' the paint: 

We've chivvied the Naga an' Looshai; we've given the Afreedeeman 

fits; 

For we fancies ourselves at two thousand, we guns that are 

built in two bits-'Tssl 'Tssl 

For you all love the screw-guns ... 

If a man doesn't work, why, we drills 'im an' teaches 'im 'ow 

to behave. 

If a beggar can't march, why, we kills 'im an' rattles 'im into 

'is grave. 

You've got to stand up to our business an' spring without 

snatcbin' or fuss. 

D'you say that you sweat with the field-guns? By God, you 

must lather with us-'Tssl 'Tssl 

For you all love the screw-guns . • . 

The eagles is screamin' around us, the river's a-moanin' below, 

We're clear 0' the pine an' the oak-scrub, we're out on the 

rocks an' the snow, 

An' the wind is as thin as a whip-lash what carries away to 

the plains 

The rattle an' stamp 0' the lead-mules-the jinglety-jink 0' 

the chams-'Tssl 'Tss! 


There's a wheelan the Horns 0' the Momin', an' a wheel OB 

the edge 0' the Pit, 

An' a drop into nothin' beneath you as straight as a beggar 

can spit: 

With the sweat runnin' out 0' your shirt-sleeves, an' the sun 

off the snow in your face, 

An' 'arf 0' the men on the drag-ropes to hold the old gun in 

'er place-'Tssl 'Tssl 


Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the momin' cool, 

I climbs in myoId brown gaiters along 0' myoid brown mule. 

The monkey can say what our road was-the wild-goat 'e 

knows where we passed.

\ 

RUDYARD KIPLING [11 00 1 

Stand easy, you long-eared old darlin'sl Out drag-ropes I With 

shrapnel! Hold fast-'Tssl 'Tssl 

For you all love the screw-guns-the screw-guns they all 

love you! 

So when we take tea with a few guns, 0' course you will 

know what to do-hool hoof 

Jest send in your Chief an' surrender-it's worse if you 

fights or you runs: 

You may hide in the caves, they1l be only your graves, 

but you can't get away from the gunsl 

Shillin' a Day 

My name is O'Kelly, I've heard the Revelly 

From Birr to Bareilly, from Leeds to Labore, 

Hong-Kong and Peshawur, 

Lucknow and Etawah, 

And fifty-five more all endin' in "pore." 

Black Death and his qUickness, the depth and the thickness 

Of sorrow and sickness I've known on my way, 

But I'm old and I'm nervis, 

I'm cast from the Service, 

And all I deserve is a shillin' a day. 

Chorus: 

Shillin' a day, 

Bloomin' good pay- 

Lucky to touch it, a shillin' a day! 

Oh, it drives me half crazy to think of the days I 

Went slap for the Chazi, my sword at my side, 

When we rode Hell-for-leather 

Both squadrons together, 

That didn't care whether we lived or we died. 

But it's no use despairin', my wife must go charin' 

An'me commissairin', the pay-bills to better, 

So if me you be' old 

In the wet and the cold, 

By the Grand Metropold, won't you give me a letter?

[11011 RUDYA1\D KIPLING 

Full Chorus: Give 'im a letter 

'Can't do no better, 

Late Troop-Sergeant-Major an'-runs with a 

letter! 

Think what 'e's been, 

Think what 'e's seen, 

Think of his pension an' 

GAWD SAVE THE QUEENl 

Recessional 

(1897) 

God of our fathers, known of old, 

Lord of our far-flung battle-line, 

Beneath whose awful Hand we hold 

Dominion over palm and pine 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget-lest we forget! 

The tumult and the shouting dies; 

The Captains and the Kings depart: 

Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, 

An humble and a contrite heart. 



Far-called, our navies melt away; 

On dune and headland sinks the fire: 

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! 

Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, 


If, drunk with sight of power, we loose 

Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe, 

Such boastings as the Gentiles use, 

Or lesser breeds without the Law- 


Lest we forget-lest we forgetl

RUDYARD KIPLING [1102] 

For heathen heart that puts her trust 

In reeking tube and iron shard, 

All valiant dust that builds on dust, 

And guarding, oalls not Thee to guard, 

For frantio boast and foolish word- 

Thy mercy on Thy people, LordI 

ERNEST DOWSON 

(1867-1900) 

Vitae Summa Brevis Spem Nos Vetat Incohare 

Longam 

They are not long, the weeping and the laughter, 

Love and desire and hate: 

I think they have no portion in us after 

We pass the gate. 

They are not long, the days of wine and roses: 

Out of a misty dream 

Our path emerges for a while, then closes 

Within a dream. 

Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae sub Regno Cynarae 

Last night, ah, yestemight, betwixt her lips and mine 

There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed 

Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine; 

And I was desolate and sick of an old passion, 

Yea, I was desolate and bow'd my head: 

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. 

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat, 

Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay; 

Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet; 

But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, 

When I awoke and found the dawn was gray: 

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

[1108] ERNEST DOWSON 

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind, 

Flung roses, roses, riotously with the throng, 

Dancing, to put thy pale lost lilies out of mind; 

But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, 

Yea, all the time, because the dance was long: 

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. 

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine, 

But when the feast is nnish'd and the lamps expire, 

Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine; 

And I am desolate and sick of an old passion, 

Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire: 

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. 

A.E.-GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL 

Chivalry 

(1867-1 935) 

I dreamed I saw that ancient Irish queen, 

Who from her dun, as dawn had opened wide, 

Saw the tall foemen rise on every side, 

And gazed with kindling eye upon the scene, 

And in delight cried, "Noble is their mien." 

"Most kingly are they," her own host replied, 

Praising the beauty, bravery, and pride 

As if the foe their very kin had been. 

And then I heard the innumerable hiss 

Of human adders, nation with poisonous breath 

Spitting at nation, as if the dragon's rage 

WQuld claw the spirit, and I woke at this, 

Knowing the soul of man was sick to death 

And I was weeping in the Iron Age. 

LIONEL JOHNSON 

The Precept of Silence 

I know you: solitary griefs, 

Desolate passions, aching hours! 

I know you: tremulous beliefs, 

Agonized hopes, and ashen flowers!

LIONEL JOHNSON [11041 

The winds are sometimes sad to me; 

The starry spaces, full of fear: 

Mine is the sorrow on the sea, 

And mine the sigh of places drear. 

Some players upon plaintive strings 

Publish their wistfulness abroad: 

I have not spoken of these things 

Save to one man, and unto God. 

EDGAR LEE MASTERS 

The Hill 

Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley, 

The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer. 

the fighter? 

All, all, are sleeping on the hill. 

One passed in a fever, 

One was burned in a mine, 

One was killed in a brawl, 

One dMtd in a jail, 

One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife 

All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill. 

Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie and Edith, 

The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the 

happy one? 

All, all, are sleeping on the hill. 

One died in shameful child-birth, 

One of a thwarted love, 

One at the hands of a brute in a brothel, 

One of a broken pride, in the search for heart's desire, 

One after life in far-away London and Paris 

Was brought home to her little space by Ella and Kate and 

Mag- 

All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.

(1105) 

Where are Uncle Isaac and Aunt Emily, 

And old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton, 

And Major Walker who had talked 

With venerable men of the revolution? 

All, all, are sleeping on the hill. 

They brought them dead sons from the war, 

And daughters whom life had crushed, 

And their children, fatherless, crying- 

All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill. 

Where is old Fiddler Jones 

Who played with life all his ninety years, 

Braving the sleet with bared breast, 

Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin, 

Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven? 

Lol he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago, 

Of the horse-races of long ago at Clary's Grove, 

Of what Abe Lincoln said 

One time at Springfield. 

Howard Lamson 

Ice cannot shiver in the cold, 

Nor stones shrink from the lapping Hame. 

Eyes that are sealed no more have tears; 

Ears that are stopped hear nothing ill; 

Hearts turned to silt are strange to pain; 

Tongues that are dumb report no loss; 

Hands stiffened, well may idle be; 

No sigh is from a breathless breast. 

Beauty may fade, but closed eyes see not; 

Sorrow may wail, but stopped ears hear not; 

Nothing to say is for dumb tongues. 

The rolling earth rolls on and on 

With trees and stones and winding streams 

My dream is what the hillside dreams!

E. A. ROBINSON [1106] 

EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON 

(1869-1935) 

For a Dead Lady 

No more with overflowing light 

Shall fill the eyes that now are faded, 

Nor shall another's fringe with night 

Their woman-hidden world as they did. 

No more shall quiver down the days 

The flowing wonder of her ways, 

Whereof no language may requite 

The shifting and the many-shaded. 

The grace, divine, definitive, 

Clings only as a faint forestalling; 

The laugh that love could not forgive 

Is hushed, and answers to no calling; 

The forehead and the little ears 

Have gone where Saturn keeps the years; 

The breast where roses could not live 

Has done with rising and with falling. 

The beauty, shattered by the laws 

That have creation in their keeping, 

No longer trembles at applause, 

Or over children that are sleeping; 

And we who delve in beauty's lore 

Know all that we have known before 

Of what inexorable cause 

Makes Time so vicious in his reaping. 

Momus 

"Where's the need of singing now?" 

Smooth your brow, 

Momus, and be reconciled, 

For King Kronos is a child- 

Child and father, 

Or god rather, 

And all gods are wild.

[1107] E. A. ROBINSON 

"Who reads Byron any more?" 

Shut the door, 

Moruus, for I feel a draught; 

Shut it quick, for some one laughed. 

"What's become of 

Browning? Some of 

Wordsworth lumbers like a raft? 

'What are poets to find here?" 

Have no fear: 

When the stars are shining blue 

There will yet be left a few 

Themes availing- 

And these failing. 

Momus, there11 be you. 

Mr. Flood's Party 

Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night 

Over the hill between the town below 

And the forsaken upland hennitage 

That held as much as he should ever know 

On earth again of home, paused warily. 

The road was his with not a native near; 

And Eben, having leisure, said aloud, 

For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear: 

"Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon 

Again, and we may not have many more; 

The bird is on the wing, the poet says, 

And you and I have said it here before. 

Drink to the bird." He raised up to the light 

The jug that he bad gone so far to fill, 

And answered huskily: "Well, Mr. Flood, 

Since you propose it, I believe I will." 

Alone, as if enduring to the end 

A valiant annor of scarred hopes outworn, 

He stood there in the middle of the road 

Like Roland's ghost winding a silent hom.

E. A.. ROBINSON [1108] 

Below him, in the town among the trees, 

Where friends of other days had honored him, 

A phantom salutation of the dead 

Rang thinly till old Eben's eyes were dim. 

Then, as a mother lays her sleeping child 

Down tenderly, fearing it may awake, 

He set the jug down slowly at his feet 

With trembling care, knowing that most things break; 

And only when assured that on Srm earth 

It stood, as the uncertain lives of men 

Assuredly did not, he paced away, 

And with his hand extended paused again: 

"Well, Mr. Flood, we have not met like this 

In a long time; and many a change has come 

To both of us, I fear, since last it was 

We had a drop together. Welcome homel" 

Convivially returning with himself, 

Again he raised the jug up to the light; 

And with an acquiescent quaver said: 

"Well, Mr. Flood, if you insist, I might. 

"Only a very little, Mr. Flood- 

For auld lang syne. No more, sir; that will do." 

So, for the time, apparently it did, 

And Eben evidently thought so too; 

For soon amid the silver loneliness 

Of night he lifted up his voice and sang, 

Secure, with only two moons listening, 

Until the whole harmonious landscape rang 

"For auld lang syne." The weary throat gave out, 

The last word wavered, and the song was done. 

He raised again the jug regretfully 

And shook his head, and was again alone. 

There was not much that was ahead of him, 

And there was nothing in the town below 

Where strangers would have shut the many doors 

That many friends had opened long ago.

[1109} LAURENCE BINYON 

LAURENCE BINYON 

FROM For the Fallen 

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 not grow 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. 

WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES 

The Sailor to His Parrot 

Thou foul-mouthed wretchl Why dost thou choose 

To learn bad language, and no good; 

Canst thou not say, "The Lord be praised" 

As easy as "Hell's fire and blood"? 

Why didst thou call the gentle priest 

A thief and a damned rogue; and tell 

The deacon's wife, who came to pray, 

To hold her jaw and go to hell? 

Thou art a foe, no friend of mine, 

For all my thoughts thou givest away; 

Whate' er I say in confidence, 

Thou dost in evil hours betray. 

Thy mind's for ever set on bad; 

I cannot mutter one small curse, 

But thou dost make it endless song, 

And shout it to a neighbour's house.

WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES 

[lllO} 

Aye, swear to thy delight and ours, 

When here I welcome shipmates home, 

And thou canst see abundant grog- 

But hold thy tongue when landsmen come. 

Be dumb when widow Johnson's near, 

Be dumb until our wedding day; 

And after that-but not before- 

She will enjoy the worst you say. 

There is a time to speak and not; 

When we're together, all is well; 

But damn thy soul-Whatl you damn minel 

And you tell me to go to hell! 

HILAIRE BELLOC 

Discovery 

Life is a long discovery, isn't it? 

You only get your wisdom bit by bit. 

If you have luck you find in early youth 

How dangerous it is to tell the Truth; 

And next you learn how dignity and peace 

Are the ripe fruits of patient avarice. 

You find that middle life goes racing past. 

You find despair: and, at the very last, 

You Bnd as you are givfug up the ghost 

That those who loved you best despised you most. 

LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS 

The Dead Poet 

I dreamed of him last night, I saw his face 

All radiant and unshadowed of distress, 

And as of old, in music measureless, 

I heard his golden voice and marked him trace

[1111] LORD ALFRED DOUGLAS 

Under the common thing the hidden grace, 

And conjure wonder out of emptiness, 

Till mean things put on beauty like a dress 

And all the world was an enchanted place. 

And then methought outside a fast locked gate 

I mourned the loss of unrecorded words, 

Forgotten tales and mysteries half said, 

Wonders that might have been articulate, 

And voiceless thoughts like murdered singing birds. 

And so I woke and knew that he was dead. 

CHARLOTTE MEW 

Sea Love 

Tide be runnin' the great world over: 

'Twas only last June month I mind that we 

Was thinkin' the toss and the call in the breast of the lover 

So everlastin' as the sea. 

Heer's the same little fishes that sputter and swim, 

Wi' the moon's old gliro on the grey, wet sand; 

An' him no more to me nor me to him 

Than the wind goin' over my hand. 

Moorland Night 

My face is wet against the grass-the moorland grass is wet 

My eyes are shut against the grass, against my lips there are 

the little blades, 

Over my head the curlews call, 

And now there is the night wind in my hair; 

My heart is against the grass and the sweet earth;-it has 

gone still, at last. 

It does not want to beat any more, 

And why should it beat? 

This is the end of the journey; 

The Thing is found.

CHARLO'ITE MEW [1112] 

This is the end of all the roads 

Over the grass there is the night-dew 

And the wind that drives up from the sea along the moorland 

road; 

I hear a curlew start out from the heath 

And fly off, calling through the dusk, 

The wild, long, rippling call. 

The Thing is found and I am quiet with the earth. 

Perhaps the earth will hold it, or the wind, or that bird's cry, 

But it is not for long in any life I know. This cannot stay, 

Not now, not yet, not in a dying world, with me, for very 

long. 

I leave it here: 

And one day the wet grass may give it back 

One day the quiet earth may give it back 

The calling birds may give it back as they go by- 

To some one walking on the moor who starves for love and 

will not know 

Who gave it to all these to give away; 

Or, if I come and ask for it again, 

Ohl then, to me. 

NORA HOPPER 

The Fairy Fiddler 

'Tis I go fiddling, fiddling, 

By weedy ways forlorn: 

I make the blackbird's music 

Ere in his breast 'tis born: 

The sleeping larks I waken 

'Twixt the midnight and the mom. 

No man alive has seen me, 

But women hear me play 

Sometimes at the door or window, 

Fiddling the souls away, 

The child's soul and the colleen's 

Out of the covering clay.

[IllS] 

NORA HOPPEB 

None of my fairy kinsmen 

Make music with me now; 

Alone the raths I wander 

Or ride the whitethorn bough; 

But the wild swans they know me, 

And the horse that draws the plough. 

STEPHEN CRANE 

War Is Kind 

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind. 

Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky 

And the affrighted steed ran on alone, 

Do not weep. 

War is kind. 

Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment, 

Little souls who thirst for fight, 

These men were born to drill and die. 

The unexplained glory flies above them, 

Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom 

A field where a thousand corpses lie. 

Do not weep, babe, for war is kind. 

Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches, 

Raged at his breast, gulped and died, 

Do not weep. 

War is kind. 

Swift blazing flag of the regiment, 

Eagle with crest of red and gold, 

These men were born to drill and die. 

Point for them the virtue of slaughter, 

Make plain to them the excellence of killing 

And a field where a thousand corpses lie. 

Mother whose heart hung humble as a button 

On the bright splendid shroud of your son, 

Do not weep. 

War is kind.

STEPHEN CBANE [11141 

"ANewspaper I s ... t1 

A newspaper is a collection of baH-injustices 

Which, bawled by boys from mile to mile, 

Spreads its curious opinion 

To a million merciful and sneering men, 

While families cuddle the joys of the fireside 

When spurred by tale of dire lone agony. 

A newspaper is a court 

Where every one is kindly and unfairly tried 

By a squalor of honest men. 

A newspaper is a market 

Where wisdom sells its freedom 

And melons are crowned by the crowd. 

A newspaper is a game 

Where his error scores the player victory 

While another's skill wins death. 

A newspaper is a symbol; 

It is feckless life's chronicle, 

A collection of loud tales, 

Concentrating eternal stupidities, 

That in remote ages lived unhaltered, 

Roaming through a fenceless world. 

RALPH HODGSON 

Time, You Old Gipsy !vfan 

Time, you old gipsy man, 

Will you not stay, 

Put up your caravan 

Just for one day? 

All things I'll give you 

Will you be my guest, 

Bells for your jennet 

Of silver the best, 

Goldsmiths shall beat you 

A great golden ring,

[1115J RALPH HODGSON 

Peacocks shall bow to you, 

Little boys sing. 

Oh, and sweet girls will 

Festoon you with may, 

Time, you old gipsy, 

Why hasten away? 

Last week in Babylon, 

Last night in Rome, 

Morning, and in the crush 

Under Paul's dome; 

Under Paul's dial 

You tighten your rein- 

Only a moment, and off once again; 

Off to some city 

Now blind in the womb, 

Off to another 

Ere that's in the tomb. 

Time, you old gipsy man, 

Will you not stay, 

Put up your caravan 

Just for one day? 

JOHN McCRAE 

In Flanders Fields 

In Flanders fields the poppies blow 

Between the crosses, row on row, 

That mark our place; and in the sky 

The larks, still bravely singing, fly 

Scarce heard amid the guns below. 

We are the Dead. Short days ago 

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, 

Loved and were loved, and now we lie 

In Flanders fields.

JOHN Me ClIAE [1116J 

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. 

FORD MADOX FORD 

FROM On Heaven 

• • • And my dear one sat in the shadows; very softly she 

wept: 

Such joy is in Heaven, 

In the cool of the even, 

After the burden and toil of the days, 

After the heat and haze 

In the vine-hills; or in the shady 

Whispering groves in high passes up in the Alpilles 

Guarding the castle of God. 

And I went on talking towards her unseen face: 

"So it is, so it goes, in this beloved place, 

There shall be never a grief but passes; no, not any; 

There shall be such bright light and no blindness; 

There shall be so little awe and so much loving-kindness; 

There shall be a little longing and enough care, 

There shall be a little labour and enough of toil 

To bring hack the lost flavour of our human coil; 

Not enough to taint it; 

And all that we desire shall prove as fair as we can paint it." 

For, though that may be the very hardest trick of all 

God set Himself, who fashioned this goodly hall, 

Thus He has made Heaven; 

Even Heaven. 

For God is a good man; God is a kind man; 

In the darkness He came walking to our table beneath the 

planes,

[1117] FORD ~X FORD 

And spoke 

So kindly to my dear, 

With a little joke, 

Giving Himself some pains 

To take away her fear 

()f liis Stature, 

So as not to abash her, 

In no way at all to dash her new pleasure beneath the planes, 

In the cool of the even 

In lieaven. 

That, that is God's nature, 

For God's a good brother, and God is no blind man, 

And God's a good mother and loves sons who're rovers, 

And God is our father and loves all good lovers, 

He has a kindly smile for many a poor sinner; 

He takes note to make it up to poor wayfarers on sodden 

roads; 

Such as bear heavy loads 

lie takes note of, and of all that toil on bitter seas and frosty 

lands, 

lie takes care that they shall all have good at liis hands; 

Well lie takes note of a poor old cook, 

Cooking your dinner; 

And much He loves sweet joys in such as ever took 

Sweet joy on earth. lie has a kindly smile for a kiss 

Given in a shady nook. 

And in the golden book 

Where the accounts of liis estate are kept, 

All the round, golden sovereigns of bliss, 

Known by poor lovers, married or never yet married, 

Whilst the green world waked, or the black world quietly 

slept; 

All joy, all sweetness, each sweet sigh that's sighed 

Their accounts are kept, 

And carried 

By the love of God to liis own credit's side. 

So that is why lie came to our table to welcome my dear, 

dear bride, 

In the cool of the even 

In front of a cafe in lieaven.

FOIID MADOX FOIID [1118] 

A Solis Ortus Cardine ... 

Oh, quiet peoples sleeping bed by bed 

Beneath grey roof-trees in the glimmering West, 

We who can see the silver grey and red 

Rise over No Man's Land-salute your rest. 

Oh, quiet comrades, sleeping in the clay 

Beneath a turmoil you need no more mark, 

We who have lived through yet another day 

Salute your graves at setting in of dark. 

And rising from your beds or from the clay 

You, dead, or far from lines of slain and slayers, 

Truo' your eternal or your finite day 

Give us your prayers! 

WALTER DE LA MARE 

An Epitaph 

Here lies a most beautiful lady, 

Light of step and heart was she; 

I think she was the most beautiful lady 

That ever was in the West Country. 

But beauty vanishes; beauty passes; 

However rare-rare it be; 

And when I crumble, who will remember 

This lady of the West Country? 

The Listeners 

"Is there anybody there?'" said the Traveller, 

Knocking on the moonlit door; 

And his horse in the silence champed the grasses 

Of the forest's ferny floor: 

And a bird flew up out of the turret, 

Above the Traveller's head:

[1119] WALTEB DE LA MARE 

And he smote upon the door again a second time; 

"Is there anybody there?" he said. 

But no one descended to the Traveller; 

No head from the leaf-fringed sill 

Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, 

Where he stood perplexed and still. 

But only a host of phantom listeners 

That dwelt in the lone house then 

Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight 

To that voice from the world of men: 

Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, 

That goes down to the empty hall, 

Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken 

By the lonely Traveller's call. 

And he felt in his heart their strangeness, 

Their stillness answering his cry, 

While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 

'Neath the starred and leafy sky; 

For he suddenly smote on the door, even 

Louder, and lifted his head: 

"Tell them I came, and no one answered, 

That I kept my word," he said. 

Never the least stir made the listeners, 

Though every word he spake 

Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house 

From the one man left awake: 

Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, 

And the sound of iron on stone, 

And how the silence surged softly backward, 

When the plunging hoofs were gone. 

All That's Past 

Very old are the woods; 

And the buds that break 

Out of the brier's boughs, 

When March winds wake. 

So old with their beauty are- 

Dh, no man knows 

Through what wild centuries 

Roves back the rose.

WALTER DE LA MARE [1120] 

Very old are the brooks; 

And the rills that rise 

Where snow sleeps cold beneath 

The azure skies 

Sing such a history 

Of come and gone 

Their every drop is as wise 

As Solomon. 

Very old are we men; 

Our dreams are tales 

Told in dim Eden 

By Eve's nightingales; 

We wake and whisper awhile, 

But, the day gone by, 

Silence and sleep like fields 

Of amaranth lie. 

7 

_. 

Clear Eyes 

Clear eyes do dim at last, 

And cheeks outlive their rose. 

Time, heedless of the past, 

No loving-kindness knows; 

Chill unto mortal lip 

Still Lethe flows. 

Griefs, too, but brief while stay. 

And sorrow, bring o'er, 

Its salt tears shed away, 

Woundeth the heart no more. 

Stealthily lave those waters 

That solemn shore. 

Ab, then, sweet face bum on, 

While yet quick memory lives! 

And Sorrow, ere thou art gone, 

Know that my heart forgives 

Ere yet, grown cold in peace, 

It loves not, nor grieves.

[112IJ 

G. X. CHESTERTON 

GILBERT KEITH CHESTERTON 

Wine and Water 

(187i-1 936) 

Old Noah he had an ostrich farm and fowls on the largest 

scale, 

He ate his egg with a ladle in an egg-cup big as a pail, 

And the soup he took was Elephant Soup, and the fish he 

took was Whale, 

But they all were small to the cellar he took when he set out 

to sail, 

And Noah he often said to his wife when he sat down to dine, 

"1 don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into the 

wme. . " 

The cataract of the cOO of heaven fell blinding off the brink 

As if it would wash the stars away as suds go down a sink, 

The seven heavens came roaring down for the throats of hell 

to drink, 

And Noah he cocked his eye and said, "It looks like rain, I 

think, 

The water has drowned the Matterhorn as deep as a Mendip 

mine, 

But 1 don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into 

the wine." 

But Noah he sinned, and we have sinned; on tipsy feet we 

trod, 

Till a great big black teetotaller was sent to us for a rod, 

And you can't get wine at a P. S. A., or chapel, or Eisteddfod, 

For the Curse of Water has come again because of the wrath 

of God, 

And water is on the Bishop's board and the Higher Thinker's 

shrine, 

But I don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into 

the wine.

G. K. CHESTERTON [1122] 

On a Prohibitionist Poem 

Though Shakespeare's Mermaid, ocean's mightiest daughter, 

With vintage could the seas incarnadine: 

And Keats's name that was not writ in water 

Was often writ in wine; 

Though wine that seeks the loftiest habitation 

Went to the heads of Villon and Verlaine, 

Yet Hiram Hopper needs no inspiration 

But water on the brain. 

Elegy in a Country Churchyard 

The men that worked for England 

They have their graves at home: 

And bees and birds of England 

About the cross can roam. 

But they that fought for England, 

Following a falling star, 

Alas, alas for England 

They have their graves afar. 

And they that rule in England, 

In stately conclave met, 

Alas, alas for England 

They have no graves as yet. 

ANONYMOUS 

(19TH CENTURY) 

"I Know Where I'm Going" 

I know where I'm going, 

I know who's going with me, 

I know who I love, 

But the dear knows who I'll marry.

[1123] ANONYMOUS 

111 have stockings of silk, 

Shoes of fine green leather, 

Combs to buckle my hair 

And a ring for every finger. 

Feather beds are soft, 

Painted rooms are bonny; 

But I'd leave them all 

To go with my love Johnny. 

Some say he's dark, 

I say he's bonny, 

He's the flower of them all 

My handsome, coaxing Johnny. 

I know where I'm going, 

I know who's going with me, 

I know who I love, 

But the dear knows who 111 marry. 

TRUMBULL STICKNEY 

Mnemosyne 

It's autumn in the country I remember. 

How warm a wind blew here about the waysl 

And shadows on the hillside lay to slumber 

During the long sun-sweetened summer-days. 

It's cold abroad the country I remember. 

The swallows veering skimmed the golden grain 

At midday with a wing aslant and limber; 

And yellow cattle browsed upon the plain. 

It's empty down the country I remember.

@ 

TRUMBULL STICKNEY [1124] 

I had a sister lovely in my sight: 

Her hair was dark, her eyes were very sombre; 

We sang together in the woods at night. 

It's lonely in the country [ remember. 

The babble of our children fills my ears, 

And on our hearth I stare the perished ember 

To flames that show all starry thro' my tears. 

It's dark about the country I remember. 

There are the mountains where I lived. The path 

Is slushed with cattle-tracks and fallen timber, 

The stumps are twisted by the tempests' wrath. 

But that I knew these places are my own, 

I'd ask how came such wretchedness to cumber 

The earth, and I to people it alone. 

It rains across the country I remember. 

AMY LOWELL 

( 1874-192 5) 

Little Ivory Figures Pulled with String 

Is it the tinkling of mandolins which disturbs you? 

Or the dropping of bitter-orange petals among the coffeecups? 

Or the slow creeping of the moonlight between the olivetrees? 

Dropl Drop! the rain 

Upon the thin plates of my heart. 

String your blood to chord with this music, 

Stir your heels upon the cobbles to the rhythm of a dancetune. 

They have slim thighs and arms of silver; 

The moon washes away their garments; 

They make a pattern of fleeing feet in the branch shadows,

[1125] AMY LOWELL 

And the green grapes knotted about them 

Burst as they press against one another. 

The rain knocks upon the plates of my heart, 

They are crumpled with its beating. 

Would you drink only from your brains, Old Man? 

See, the moonlight has reached your knees, 

It falls upon your head in an accolade of silver. 

Rise up on the music, 

Fling against the moon-drifts in a whorl of young light 

bodies: 

Leaping grape clusters, 

Vine leaves tearing from a grey wall. 

You shall run, laughing, in a braid of women, 

And weave Howers with the frosty spines of thorns. 

Why do you gaze into your glass, 

And jar the spoons with your finger-tapping? 

The rain is rigid on the plates of my heart. 

The murmur of it is loud-loud. 

ROBERT FROST 

The Pasture 

I'm going out to clean the pasture spring; 

111 only stop to rake the leaves away 

(And wait to watch the water clear, I may): 

I shan't be gone long.-You come too. 

I'm going out to fetch the little calf 

That's standing by the mother. It's so young 

It totters when she licks it with her tongue. 

I shan't be gone long.-You come too. 

My November Guest 

My sorrow, when she's here with me, 

Thinks these dark days of autumn rain 

Are beautiful as days can be;

ROBERT FROST [1126] 

She loves the bare, the withered tree; 

She walks the sodden pasture lane. 

Her pleasure will not let me stay. 

She talks and I am fain to list: 

She's glad the birds are gone away, 

She's glad her simple worsted grey 

Is silver now with clinging mist. 

The desolate, deserted trees, 

The faded earth, the heavy sky, 

The beauties she so truly sees, 

She thinks I have no eye for these, 

And vexes me for reason why. 

Not yesterday I learned to know 

The love of bare November days 

Before the coming of the snow; 

But it were vain to tell her so, 

And they are better for her praise. 

After Apple-Picking 

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.

[1127] ROBERT FROST 

Magnified apples appear and disappear. 

Stem end and blossom end, 

And every fleck of russet sbowing 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. 

Storm Fear 

When the wind works against us in the dark, 

And pelts with snow 

The lowly chamber window on the east, 

And whispers with a sort of stifled bark, 

The beast, 

"Come outl Come outl" 

It costs no inward struggle not to go, 

Ah, nol 

I count our strength, 

Two and a child, 

Those of us not asleep subdued to mark 

How the cold creeps as the fire dies at Iength,


How drifts are piled 

Dooryard and road ungraded, 

Till even the comforting barn grows far away 

And my heart owns a doubt 

Whether 'tis in us to arise with day 

And save ourselves unaided. 

Mending Wall 

Something there is that doesn't love a wall, 

That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, 

And spills the upper boulders in the sun; 

And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. 

The work of hunters is another thing: 

I have come after them and made repair 

Where they have left not one stone on a stone, 

But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, 

To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, 

No one has seen them made or heard them made, 

But at spring mending-time we find them there. 

I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; 

And on a day we meet to walk the line 

And set the wall between us once again. 

We keep the wall between us as we go. 

To each the boulders that have fallen to each. 

And some are loaves and some so nearly balls 

We have to use a spell to make them balance: 

"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!" 

We wear our fingers rough with handling them. 

Oh, just another kind of out-door game, 

One on a side. It comes to little more: 

There where it is we do not need the wall: 

He is all pine and I am apple orchard. 

My apple trees will never get across 

And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. 

He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors." 

Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder 

If I could put a notion in his head: 

"Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it 

\Vhere there are cows? But here there are no (,Jows.


Before I built a wall rd ask to know 

What I was walling in or walling out, 

And to whom I was like to give offence. 

Something there is that doesn't love a wall, 

That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him, 

But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather 

He said it for himself. I see him there 

Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top 

In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. 

He moves in darkness as it seems to me, 

Not of woods only and the shade of trees. 

He will not go behind his father's saying. 

And he likes having thought of it so well 

He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors." 

FROM Two Witches 

THE WITCH OF COOS 

I stayed the night for shelter at a farm 

Behind the mountain, with a mother and son, 

Two old-believers. They did all the talking. 

MOTHER. Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits 

She could call up to pass a winter evening, 

But won't, should be burned at the stake or something. 

Summoning spirits isn't "Button, button, 

Who's got the button," I would have them know. 

SON. Mother can make a common table rear 

And kick with two legs like an army mule. 

MOTHER. And when I've done it, what good have I done? 

Rather than tip a table for you, let me 

Tell you what RaIle the Sioux Control once told me. 

He said the dead had souls, but when I asked him 

How could that be-I thought the dead were souls, 

He broke my trance. Don't that make you suspicious 

That there's something the dead are keeping back? 

Yes, there's something the dead are keeping back.

ROBERT FROST [ 1130] 

SON. You wouldn't want to tell him what we have 

Up attic, mother? 

MOTHER. Bones-a skeleton. 

SON. But the headboard of mother's bed is pushed 

Against the attic door: the door is nailed. 

It's hannless. Mother hears it in the night 

Halting perplexed behind the barrier 

Of door and headboard. Where it wants to get 

Is back into the cellar where it came from. 

MOTHER. We'll never let them, will we, sonl We'll neverl 

SON. It left the cellar forty years ago 

And carried itself like a pile of dishes 

Up one Bight from the cellar to the kitchen, 

Another from the kitchen to the bedroom, 

Another from the bedroom to the attic, 

Right past both father and mother, and neither stopped it. 

Father had gone upstairs; mother was downstairs. 

I was a baby: I don't know where I was. 

MOTHER. The only fault my husband found with me- 

I went to sleep before I went to bed, 

Especially in winter when the bed 

Might just as well be ice and the clothes snow. 

The night the bones came up the cellar-stairs 

Toffile had gone to bed alone and left me, 

But left an open door to cool the room off 

So as to sort of turn me out of it. 

I was just coming to myself enough 

To wonder where the cold was coming from, 

When I heard Toffile upstairs in the bedroom 

And thought I heard him downstairs in the cellar. 

The board we had laid down to walk dry-shod on 

When there was water in the cellar in spring 

Struck the hard cellar bottom. And then someone 

Began the stairs, two footsteps for each step, 

The way a man with one leg and a crutch,


Or a little child, comes up. It wasn't Toffile: 

It wasn't anyone who could be there. 

The bulkhead double-doors were double-locked 

And swollen tight and buried under snow. 

The cellar windows were banked up with sawdust 

And swollen tight and buried under snow. 

It was the bones. I knew them-and good reason. 

My first impulse was to get to the knob 

And hold the door. But the bones didn't try 

The door; they halted helpless on the landing, 

Waiting for things to happen in their favor. 

The faintest restless rustling ran all through them. 

I never could have done the thing I did 

If the wish hadn't been too strong in me 

To see how they were mounted for this walk. 

I had a vision of them put together 

Not like a man, but like a chandelier. 

So suddenly I flung the door wide on him. 

A moment he stood balancing with emotion, 

And all but lost himself. (A tongue of fire 

Flashed out and licked along his upper teeth. 

Smoke rolled inside the sockets of his eyes.) 

Then he came at me with one hand outstretched, 

The way he did in life once; but this time 

I struck the hand off brittle on the floor, 

And fell back from him on the Ooor myself. 

The finger-pieces slid in all directions. 

(Where did I see one of those pieces lately? 

Hand me my button-box-it must be there.) 

I sat up on the floor and shouted, "Toffile, 

It's coming up to you." It had its choice 

Of the door to the cellar or the hall. 

It took the hall door for the novelty, 

And set off briskly for so slow a thing. 

Still going every which way in the joints, though, 

So that it looked like lightning or a scribble, 

From the slap I had just now given its hand. 

I listened till it ahnost climbed the stairs 

From the hall to the only finished bedroom, 

Before I got up to do anything; 

Then ran and shouted, "Shut the bedroom door,


Toflile, for my sakel" "Company?" he said, 

"Don't make me get up; I'm too warm in bed," 

So lying forward weakly on the handrail 

I pushed myse1f upstairs, and in the light 

(The kitchen had been dark) I had to own 

I could see nothing. "Toflile, I don't see it. 

It's with us in the room though. It's the bones." 

"What bones?" "The cellar bones--out of the grave." 

That made him throw his bare legs out of bed 

And sit up by me and take hold of me. 

I wanted to put out the light and see 

If I could see it, or else mow the room, 

With our arms at the level of our knees, 

And bring the chalk-pile down, "I'll tell you what 

It's looking for another door to try. 

The uncommonly deep snow has made him think 

Of his old song, The Wild Colonial Boy, 

He always used to sing along the tote road. 

He's after an open door to get outdoors. 

Let's trap him with an open door up attic." 

Toflile agreed to that, and sure enough, 

Almost the moment he was given an opening, 

The steps began to climb the attio stairs. 

I heard them. Toflile didn't seem to hear them. 

"Quickl" I slammed to the door and held the knob. 

"Toflile, get nails." I made him nail the door shut 

And push the headboard of the bed against it. 

Then we asked was there anything 

Up attic that we'd ever want again. 

The attic was less to us than the cellar. 

If the bones liked the attic, let them have it. 

Let them stay in the attic. When they sometimes 

Come down the stairs at night and stand perplexed 

Behind the door and headboard of the bed, 

Brushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers, 

With sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter, 

That's what I sit up in the dark to say- 

To no one any more since Toflile died. 

Let them stay in the attic since they went there. 

I promised Toflile to be cruel to them 

For helping them be cruel once to him.


SON. We think they had a grave down in the cellar. 

MOTHER. We know they had a grave down in the cellar. 

SON. We never could find out whose bones they were. 

MOTHER. Yes, we could too, son. Tell the truth for once. 

They were a man's his father killed for me. 

I mean a man he killed instead of me. 

The least I could do was to help dig their grave. 

We were about it one night in the cellar. 

Son knows the story: but 'twas not for him 

To tell the truth, suppose the time had come. 

Son looks surprised to see me end a lie 

We'd kept all these years between ourselves 

So as to have it ready for outsiders. 

But tonigbt I don't care enough to lie- 

I don't remember why I ever cared. 

Toffile, if he were bere, I don't believe 

Could tell you why be ever cared himself. 

She hadn't found the finger-bone she wanted 

Among the buttons poured out in her lap. 

I verified the name next morning: Toffile. 

The rural letter box said Toffile Lajway. 

Fire and Ice 

Some say the world will end in fire, 

Some say in ice. 

From what I've tasted of desire 

I hold with those who favor fire. 

But if it had to perish twice, 

I think I know enough of hate 

To say that for destruction ice 

Is also great 

And would suffice..


Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening 

Whose woods these are I think I know. 

His house is in the village though; 

He will not see me stopping here 

To watch his woods fill up with snow. 

My little horse must think it queer 

To stop without a farmhouse near 

Between the woods and frozen lake 

The darkest evening of the year. 

He gives his harness bells a shake 

To ask if there is some mistake. 

The only other sound's the sweep 

Of easy wind and downy flake. 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, 

But I have promises to keep, 

And miles to go before I sleep, 

And miles to go before I sleep. 

JOHN MASEFIELD 

FROM Reynard the Fox 

The cobbler bent at his wooden foot, 

Beating sprigs in a broken boot; 

He wore old glasses with thick hom rim, 

He scowled at his work, for his sight was dim. 

His face was dingy, his lips were grey, 

From trimming sparrowbills day by day. 

As he turned his boot he heard a noise 

At his garden-end, and he thought, "It's boys." 

Like a rocket shot to a ship ashore 

The lean red bolt of his body tore, 

Like a ripple of wind running swift on grass; 

Like a shadow on wheat when a cloud blows past, 

Like a tum at the buoy in a cutter sailing

[1135] JOHN MASEFIELD 

When the bright green gleam lips white at the railing, 

Like the April snake whipping back to sheath, 

Like the gannets' hurtle on fish beneath, 

Like a kestrel chasing, like a sickle reaping, 

Like all things swooping, like all things sweeping, 

Like a hound for stay, like a stag for swift, 

With his shadow beside like spinning drift. 

Past the gibbet-stock all stuck with nails, 

Where they hanged in chains what had hung at jails, 

Past Ashmundshowe where Ashmund sleeps, 

And none hut the tumbling peewit weeps, 

Past Curlew Calling, the gaunt grey corner 

Where the curlew comes as a summer mourner, 

Past Blowbury Beacon, shaking his fleece, 

Where all winds hurry and none brings peace; 

Then down on the mile-long green decline, 

Where the turfs like spring and the air's like wine 

Where the sweeping spurs of the downland spill 

Into Wan Brook Valley and Wan Dyke Hill . 

.. .. .. 

On he went with a galloping rally 

Past Maesbury Camp for Wan Brook Valley. 

The blood in his veins went romping high, 

"Get on, on, on, to the earth or die." 

The air of the downs went purely past 

Till he felt the glory of going fast, 

Till the terror of death, though there indeed, 

Was lulled for a while by his pride of speed. 

He was romping away from the hounds and hunt, 

He had Wan Dyke Hill and his earth in front, 

In one mile more when his point was made 

He would rest in safety from dog or spade; 

Nose between paws he would hear the shout 

Of the "Gone to earthl" to the hounds without, 

The whine of the hounds, and their cat-feet gadding, 

Scratching the earth, and their breath pad-padding; 

He would hear the hom call hounds away, 

And rest in peace till another day.

JOHN MASEFIELD [1136] 

On Growing Old 

Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying; 

My dog and I are old, too old for roving. 

Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift Hying, 

Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving. 

I take the book and gather to the fire, 

Turning old yellow leaves; minute by minute 

The clock ticks to my heart. A withered wire, 

Moves a thin ghost of music in the spinet. 

I caIUlot sail your seas, I cannot wander 

Your cornland, nor your hill-land, nor your valleys 

Ever again, nor share the battle yonder 

Where the young knight the broken squadron rallies. 

Only stay quiet while my mind remembers 

The beauty of fire from the beauty of embers. 

Beauty, have pity! for the strong have power, 

The rich their wealth, the beautiful their grace, 

Summer of man its sunlight and its Hower, 

Spring-time of man all April in a face. 

Only, as in the jostling in the Strand, 

Where the mob thrusts or loiters or is loud, 

The beggar with the saucer in his hand 

Asks only a penny from the passing crowd, 

So, from this glittering world with all its fashion, 

Its fire, and play of men, its stir, its march, 

Let me have wisdom, Beauty, wisdom and passion, 

Bread to the soul, rain when the summers parch. 

Give me but these, and though the darkness close 

Even the night will blossom as the rose. 

EDWARD THOMAS 

The Sign-Post 

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 hill-top by the finger-post;

[1137] EDWARD THOMAS 

The smoke of the travellers-joy is puffed 

Over hawthorn berry and hazel tuft. 

I read the sign. Which way shall I goP 

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," 

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 be freely 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, 0 where?" 

CARL SANDBURG 

Chicago 

Hog Butcher for the World, 

Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, 

Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler; 

Stormy, husky, brawling, 

City of the Big Shoulders: 

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have 

seen your painted women under the gas lamps lUring 

the farm boys.

CARL SANDBURG [1138] 

And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is 

true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill 

again. 

And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the 

faces of women and children I have seen the marks 

of wanton hunger. 

And having answered so I turn once more to those who 

sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer 

and say to them: 

Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so 

proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning. 

Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, 

here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little 

soft cities; 

Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a 

savage pitted against the wilderness, 

Bareheaded, 

Shoveling, 

Wrecking, 

Planning, 

Building, breaking, rebuilding. 

Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with 

white teeth, 

Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young 

man laughs, 

Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never 

lost a battle, 

Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and 

under his ribs the heart of the people, 

Laughingl 

Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth. 

half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool 

Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and 

Freight Handler to the Nation. 

Cool Tombs 

When Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs he 

forgot the copperheads and the assassin • . . in the dust, in 

the cool tombs.

[1139} CARL SANDBURC 

And Ulysses Grant lost all thought of can men and Wall 

Street, cash and collateral turned ashes . . . in the dust, in 

the cool tombs. 

Pocahontas' body, lovely as a poplar, sweet as a red haw 

in November or a paw-paw in May, did she wonder, does 

she remember? . . . in the dust, in the cool tombs? 

Take any streetful of people buying clothes and groceries, 

cheering a hero or thrOwing confetti and blowing tin horns 

. . . tell me if the lovers are losers . . . tell me if any get 

more than the lovers . • . in the dust . . . in the cool 

tombs. 

VACHEL LINDSAY 

The Eagle That Is Forgotten 

(JOHN P. ALTGELD. BORN DECEMBER 30, 1847; 

DIED MARCH 1.2, 1902) 

Sleep softly . . . eagle forgotten . • . under the stone. 

Time has its way with you there, and the clay has its own. 

"We have buried him now," thought your foes, and in secret 

rejoiced. 

They made a brave show of their mourning, their hatred 

unvoiced, 

They had snarled at you, barked at you, foamed at you, day 

after day, 

Now you were ended. They praised you, ..• and laid you 

away. 

The others that mourned you in silence and terror and truth, 

The widow bereft of her crust, the boy without youth, 

The mocked and the scorned and the wounded, the lame and 

the poor 

That should have remembered forever, ... remember no 

more. 

Where are those lovers of yours, on what name do they call, 

The lost, that in armies wept over your funeral pall?

VACHEL LINDSAY [1140] 

They call on the names of a hundred high-valiant ones 

A hundred white eagles have risen, the sons of your sons, 

The zeal in their wings is a zeal that your dreaming began, 

The valor that wore out your soul in the service of man. 

Sleep softly, ... eagle forgotten. ... under the stone. 

Time has its way with you there, and the clay has its own. 

Sleep on, 0 brave-hearted, 0 wise man, that kindled the 

Hame- 

To live in mankind is far more than to live in a name, 

To live in mankind, far, far more ... than to Uve in a 

name. 

HAROLD MONRO 

Midnight Lamentation 

When you and I go down 

Breathless and cold, 

Our faces both worn back 

To earthly mould, 

How lonely we shall bel 

What shall we do, 

You without me, 

;/I without you? 

I cannot bear the thought 

You, first, may die, 

Nor of how you will weep, 

Should I. 

We are too much alone; 

What can we do 

To make our bodies one: 

i :"You, me; I, you? 

We are most nearly born 

Of one same kind; 

We .have the same delight, 

The same true mind.

.[1141} HAROLD MONRO 

Must we then part, we part; 

Is there no way 

To keep a beating heart 

l qAnd light of day? 

I could nOW rise and run 

Through street on street 

To where you are breathing-you, 

nThat we might meet, 

And that your living voice 

Might sound above 

Fear, and we two rejoice 

Within our love. 

How frail the body is, 

And we are made 

As only in decay 

To lean and fade. 

I think too much of death; 

There is a gloom 

When I can't hear your breath 

Calm in some room. 

0, but how suddenly 

Either may droop; 

Countenance be so white, 

Body stoop. 

Then there may be a place 

Where fading flowers 

Drop on a lifeless face 

Through weeping hours. 

Is then nothing safe? 

Can we not find 

Some everlasting life 

In our one mind? 

I feel it like disgrace 

Only to understand 

Your spirit through your word, 

Or by your hand.

HAROLD MONRO [1142] 

I cannot find a way 

Through love and through; 

I cannot reach beyond 

Body, to you. 

When you or I must go 

Down evermore, 

There'll be no more to say 

-But a locked door. 

WALLACE STEVENS 

The Emperor of Ice~Cream 

Call the roller of big cigars, 

The muscular one, and bid him whip 

In kitchen cups concupiscent curds. 

Let the wenches dawdle in such dress 

As they are used to wear, and let the boys 

Bring flowers in last month's newspapers. 

Let be be the finale of seem. 

The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream. 

Take from the dresser of deal, 

Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet 

On which she embroidered fantails once 

And spread it so as to cover her face. 

If her horny feet protrude, they come 

To show how cold she is, and dumb. 

Let the lamp affix its beam. 

The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream. 

Peter Quince at the Clavier 

I 

Just as my fingers on these keys 

Make music, so the self-same sounds 

On my spirit make a music too.

[1148] WALLACE STEVENS 

Music is feeling then, not sound; 

And thus it is that what I feel, 

Here in this room, desiring you, 

Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk, 

Is music. It is like the strain 

Waked in the elders by Susanna: 

Of a green evening, clear and warm, 

She bathed in her still garden, while 

The red-eyed elders, watching, felt 

The basses of their being throb 

In witching chords, and their thin blood 

Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna. 

In the green evening, clear and warm, 

Susanna lay. 

She searched 

The touch of springs, 

And found 

Concealed im~ginings. 

She sighed 

For so much melody. 

Upon the bank she stood 

In the cool 

Of spent emotions. 

She felt, among the leaves, 

The dew 

Of old devotions. 

She walked upon the grass, 

Still quavering. 

The winds were like her maids, 

On timid feet, 

Fetching her woven scarves, 

Yet wavering. 

II 

A breath upon her hand 

Muted the night.

t 

WALLACE STEVENS [1144] 

She turned- 

A cymbal clashed, 

And roaring horns. 

In 

Soon, with a noise like tambourines, 

Came her attendant Byzantines. 

They wondered why Susanna cried 

Against the elders by her side: 

And as they whispered, the refrain 

Was like a willow swept by rain. 

Anon their lamps' uplifted Hame 

Revealed Susanna and her shame. 

And then the simpering Byzantines 

Fled, with a noise like tambourines. 

IV 

Beauty is momentary in the mind 

The fitful tracing of a portal; 

But in the flesh it is immortal. 

The body dies; the body's beauty lives. 

So evenings die, in their green going, 

A wave, interminably flowing. 

So gardens die, their meek breath scenting 

The cowl of Winter, done repenting. 

So maidens die to the auroral 

Celebration of a maiden's choral. 

Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings 

Of those white elders; but, escaping, 

Left only Death's ironic scraping. 

Now in its immortality, it plays 

On the clear viol of her memory, 

And makes a constant sacrament of praise.

[1145] WALLACE STEVENS 

Not Ideas about the Thing 

but the Thing Itself 

At the earliest ending of winter, 

In March, a scrawny cry from outside 

Seemed like a sound in his mind. 

He knew that he heard it, 

A bird's cry, at daylight or before, 

In the early Marcb wind. 

The sun was rising at six, 

No longer a battered panache above snow ••• 

It would have been outside. 

It was not from tbe vast ventriloquism 

Of sleep's faded papier-mAche ... 

The sun was coming from outside. 

That scrawny cry-it was 

A chorister whose c preceded the choir. 

It was part of the colossal sun, 

Surrounded by its choral rings, 

Still far away. It was like 

A new knowledge of reality. 

WILSON PUGSLEY MAcDONALD 

(1880 

Exit 

Easily to the old 

Opens the hard ground: 

But when youth grows cold, 

And red lips have no sound, 

Bitterly does the earth 

Open to receive 

And bitterly do the grasses 

In the churchyard grieve.

W. P. MACDONALD [1146] 

Cold clay knows how to hold 

An aged hand; 

But how to comfort youth 

It does not understand. 

Even the gravel rasps 

In a dumb way 

When youth comes homing 

Before its day. 

Elizabeth's hair was made 

To warm a man's breast, 

And her lips called like roses 

To be caressed; 

But grim the Jester 

Who gave her hair to lie 

On the coldest lover 

Under the cold sky. 

But Elizabeth never knew 

Nor will learn now, 

How the long wrinkle comes 

On the white brow; 

Nor will she ever know, 

In her robes of gloom, 

How chill is a dead child 

From a warm womb. 

a clay, so tender 

When a Hower is born! 

Press gently as she dreams 

In her bed forlorn. 

They who come early 

Must weary of their rest 

Lie softly, then, as light 

On her dear breast. 

UnHowered is her Hoor, 

Her roof is unstarred. 

Is this then the ending 

Here, shuttered and barred? 

Nay, not the ending;

[1147] w. P. MACDONALD 

She will awake 

Or the heart of the earth 

That enfolds her will break. 

Easily to the old 

Opens the hard ground: 

But when youth grows cold, 

And red lips have no sound, 

Bitterly does the earth 

Open to receive 

And bitterly do the grasses 

In the churchyard grieve. 

RALPH CHAPLIN 

"Mourn Not the Dead " 

Mourn not the dead that in the cool earth lie 

Dust unto dust- 

The calm sweet earth that mothers all who die 

As all men must; 

Mourn not your captured comrades who must dweIl 

Too strong to strive- 

Each in his steel-bound coffin of a cell, buried alive; 

But rather mourn the apathetic throng 

The coward and the meek- 

Who see the world's great anguish and its wrong 

And dare not speak. 

LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE 

Epitaph 

Sir, you shall notice me: I am the Man; 

I am Good Fortune: I am satisBed. 

All I desired, more than I could desire, 

I have: everything has gone right with me.

' 

LASCELLES ABERCROMBm [1148] 

Life was a hiding-place that played me false; 

I croucht ashamed, and still was seen and scorned: 

But now I am not seen. I was a fool, 

And now I know what wisdom dare not know: 

For I know Nothing. I was a slave, and now 

I have nngovemed freedom and the wealth 

That cannot be conceived: for I have Nothing. 

I lookt for beauty and I longed for rest, 

And now I have perfection: nay, I am 

Perfection: I am nothing, I am dead. 

JOSEPH CAMPBELL 

The Old Woman 

As a white candle 

In a holy place, 

So is the beauty 

Of an aged face. 

As the spent radiance 

Of the winter sun, 

So is a woman 

With her travail done. 

Her brood gone from her, 

And her thoughts as still 

As the waters 

Under a ruined mill. 

PADRAIC COLUM 

A Drover 

To Meath of the pastures, 

From wet hills by the sea, 

Through Leitrim and Longford, 

Go my cattle and me.

[1149] PADRAIC COLUM 

I hear in the darkness 

Their slipping and breathing 

I name them the by-ways 

They're to pass without heeding. 

Then the wet, winding roads, 

Brown bogs with black water, 

And my thoughts on white ships 

And the King 0 Spain's daughter. 

o farmer, strong farmer! 

You can spend at the fair, 

But your face you must turn 

To your crops and your care; 

And soldiers, red soldiersl 

You've seen many lands, 

But you walk two by two, 

And by captain's commandsl 

o the smell of the beasts, 

The wet wind in the morn, 

And the proud and hard earth 

Never broken for cornl 

And the crowds at the fair, 

The herds loosened and blind, 

Loud words and dark faces, 

And the wild blood behind I 

(0 strong men with your best 

I would strive breast to breast, 

I could quiet your herds 

With my words, with my words!) 

I will bring you, my kine, 

Where there's grass to the knee, 

But you'll think of scant croppings 

Harsh with salt of the sea.

JAMES JOYCE [1150] 

JAMES JOYCE 

"I Hear an Army Charging 

I hear an army charging upon the land, 

And the thunder of horses plunging, foam about their 

knees: 

Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand, 

Disdaining the reins, with fluttering whips, the charioteers. 

They cry unto the night their battle-name: 

I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter. 

They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame, 

Clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil. 

They come shaking in triumph their long, green hair: 

They come out of the sea and run shouting by the shore. 

My heart, have you no wisdom thus to despair? 

My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone? 

She Weeps over Rahoon 

Rain on Rahoon falls softly, softly falling, 

Where my dark lover lies. 

Sad is his voice that calls me, sadly calling, 

At grey moonrise. 

Love, hear thou 

How soft, how sad his voice is ever calling. 

Ever unanswered and the dark rain falling, 

Then as now. 

Dark too our hearts, 0 love, shall lie and cold 

As his sad heart has lain 

Under the moongrey nettles, the black mould 

And muttering rain.

[1151] JAMES JOYCE 

A Memory at the Players m a Mirror 

at Midnight 

They mouth love's language. Gnash 

The thirteen teeth 

Your lean jaws grin with. Lash 

Your itch and quailing, nude greed of the Besh. 

Love's breath in you is stale, worded or sung, 

As sour as eat's breath, 

Harsh of tongue. 

This grey that stares 

Lies not, stark skin and bone. 

Leave greasy lips their kissing. None 

Will choose her what you see to mouth upon. 

Dire hunger holds his hour. 

Pluck forth your heart, saltblood, a fruit of tears. 

Pluck and devourl 

JAMES STEPHENS 

Deirdre 

Do not let any woman read this versel 

It is for men, and after them their sons, 

And their son's sons! 

The time comes when our hearts sink utterly; 

When we remember Deirdre, and her tale, 

And that her lips are dust. 

Once she did tread the earth: men took her hand; 

They looked into her eyes and said their say, 

And she replied to them. 

More than two thousand years it is since she 

Was beautiful: she trod the waving grass; 

She saw the clouds.

JAMES STEPHENS [1152] 

Two thousand years! The grass is still the same; 

The clouds as lovely as they were that time 

When Deirdre was alive. 

But there has been again no woman born 

Who was so beautiful; not one so beautiful 

Of all the women born. 

Let all men go apart and mourn together! 

No man can ever love her! Not a man 

Can dream to be her lover! 

No man can bend before her! No man say 

What could one say to her? There are no words 

That one could say to her! 

Now she is but a story that is told 

Beside the fire! No man can ever be 

The friend of that poor queen! 

THOMAS ERNEST HULME 

Autumn 

A touch of cold in the Autumn night 

I walked abroad, 

And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge 

Like a red-faced farmer. 

I did not stop to speak, but nodded, 

And round about were the wistful stars 

With white faces like town children. 

Conversion 

Light-hearted I walked into the valley wood 

In the time of hyacinths, 

Till beauty like a scented cloth

[1153] THOMAS ERNEST HULME 

Cast over, stifled me. I was bound 

Motionless and faint of breath 

By loveliness that is her own eunuch. 

Now pass I to the final river 

Ignominiously, in a sack, without sound, 

As any peeping Turk to the Bosphorus. 

WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS 

Peace on Earth 

The Archer is wake! 

The Swan is flying! 

Gold against blue 

An Arrow is lying. 

There is hunting in heaven 

Sleep safe till tomorrow. 

The Bears are abroad! 

The Eagle is screaming! 


Their eyes are gleaming! 

Sleep! 

Sleep safe till tomorrow. 

The Sisters lie 

With their arms intertwining; 


Their hair is shiningI 

The Serpent writhes I 

Orion is listeningI 


His sword is glistening! 

Sleepl 

There is hunting in heaven 

Sleep safe till tomorrow.

W. C. WILLIAMS [ 1154] 

The Yachts 

contend in a sea which the land partly encloses 

shielding them from the too heavy blows 

of an ungoverned ocean which when it chooses 

tortures the biggest hulls, the best man knows 

to pit against its beating, and sinks them pitilessly. 

Mothlike in mists, scintillant in the minute 

brilliance of cloudless days, with broad bellying sails 

they glide to the wind tossing green water 

from their sharp prows while over them the crew crawls 

ant like, solicitously grooming them, releasing, 

making fast as they turn, lean far over and having 

caught the wind again, side by side, head for the mark. 

In a well guarded arena of open water surrounded by 

lesser and greater craft which, sycophant, lumbering 

and flittering follow them, they appear youthful, rare 

as the light of a happy eye, live with the grace 

of all that in the mind is feckless, free and 

naturally to be desired. Now the sea which holds them 

is moody, lapping their glossy sides, as if feeling 

for some slightest Haw but fails completely. 

Today no race. Then the wind comes again. The yachts 

move, jockeying for a start, the signal is set and they 

are off. Now the waves strike at them but they are too 

well made, they slip through, though they take in canvas. 

Arms with hands grasping seek to clutch at the prows. 

Bodies thrown recklessly in the way are cut aside. 

It is a sea of faces about them in agony, in despair 

until the horror of the race dawns staggering the mind, 

the whole sea become an entanglement of watery bodies 

lost to the world bearing what they cannot hold. Broken,

II 155] 

W. C. WILLIAMS 

beaten, desolate, reaching from the dead to be taken up 

they cry out, failing, failing! their cries rising 

in waves still as the skillful yachts pass over. 

ANNA WICKHAM 

The Fresh Start 

o give me back my rigorous English Sunday 

And my well-ordered house, with stockings washed on Monday. 

Let the House-Lord, that kindly decorous fellow, 

Leave happy for his Law at ten, with a well-furled umbrella. 

Let my young sons observe my strict house rules, 

Imbibing Tory principles, at Tory schools. 

Two years now I have sat beneath a curse 

And in a fury poured out frenzied verse. 

Such verse as held no beauty and no good 

And was at best new curious vennin-food. 

My dog is rabid, and my cat is lean, 

And not a pot in all this place is clean. 

The locks bave fallen from my hingeless doors, 

And holes are in my credit and my Hoors. 

There is no solace for me, but in sooth 

To have said baldly certain ugly truth. 

Such scavenger's work was never yet a woman's, 

My wardrobe's more a scarecrow's than a human's. 

I'm off to the House-goddess for her gift. 

"0 give me Circumspection, Temperance, Thrift; 

Take thou this lust of words, this fevered itching, 

And give me faith in darning. joy of stitchingl" 

When this hot blood is cooled by kindly Time 

Controlled and schooled, I'll come again to Rhyme. 

Sure of my methods, morals and my gloves, 

I'll write chaste sonnets of imagined Loves.

JAMES ELROY FLECKER [1156] 

JAMES ELROY FLECKER 

The Dying Patriot 

Day breaks on England down the Kentish hills, 

Singing in the silence of the meadow-footing rills, 

Day of my dreams, 0 dayl 

I saw them march from Dover, long ago, 

With a silver cross before them, singing low, 

Monks of Rome from their home where the blue seas break 

in foam, 

Augustine with his feet of snow. 

Noon strikes on England, noon on Oxford town, 

-Beauty she was statue cold-there's blood upon her 

gown: 

Noon of my dreams, 0 noonl 

Proud and godly kings had built her, long ago, 

With her towers and tombs and statues all arow, 

With her fair and Horal air and the love that lingers there, 

And the streets where the great men gol 

Evening on the olden, the golden sea of Wales, 

When the first star shivers and the last wave pales: 

o evening dreamsl 

There's a house that Britons walked in, long ago, 

Where now the springs of ocean fall and How, 

And the dead robed in red and sea-lilies overhead 

Sway when the long winds blow. 

Sleep not, my country: though night is here, afar 

Your children of the morning are clamorous for war: 

Fire in the night, 0 dreamsl 

Though she send you as she sent you, long ago, 

South to desert, east to ocean, west to snow, 

West of these out to seas colder than the Hebrides I must go 

Where the Heet of stars is anchored and the young Starcaptains 

glow.

[1157 ] D. H. LAWRENCE 

DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE 

F'ROM The Virgin Mother 

(1885- 1 93°) 

I kiss you good-bye, my darling, 

Our ways are different now; 

You are a seed in the night-time, 

I am a man, to plough 

The difficult glebe of the future 

For seed to endow. 

I kiss you good-bye, my dearest, 

It is finished between us here. 

Oh, if I were calm as you are, 

Sweet and still on your bierl 

Oh God, if I had not to leave you 

Alone, my dear. 

Is the last word now uttered? 

Is the farewell said? 

Spare me the strength to leave you 

Now you are dead. 

I must go, but my soul lies helpless 

Beside your bed. 

River Roses 

By the !sar, in the twilight 

We were wandering and singing, 

By the bar, in the evening 

We climbed the huntsman's ladder and sat swinging 

In the fir-tree overlooking the marshes, 

While river met with river, and the ringing 

Of their pale-green glacier water filled the evening. 

By the !sar, in the twilight 

We found the dark wild roses 

Hanging red at the river; and simmering 

Frogs were singing, and over the river closes 

Was savour of ice and roses; and glimmering

D. H. LAWRENCE [1158] 

Fear was abroad. We whispered: "No one knows us. 

Let it be as the snake disposes 

Here in this simmering marsh." 

Song of a Man \Vho Has Corne Through 

Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through mel 

A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time. 

If only I let it bear me, carry me, if only it carry me! 

If only I am sensitive, subtle, oh, delicate, a winged gift! 

If only, most lovely of all, I yield myself and am borrowed 

By the fine, fine wind that takes its course through the chaos 

of the world 

Like a fine, an exquisite chisel, a wedge-blade inserted; 

If only I am keen and hard like the sheer tip of a wedge 

Driven by invisible blows, 

The rock will split, we shall come at the wonder, we shall 

find the Hesperides. 

Oh, for the wonder that bubbles into my soul, 

I would be a good fountain, a good well-head, 

Would blur no whisper, spoil no expression. 

What is the knocking? 

What is the knocking at the door in the night? 

It is somebody wants to do us harm. 

No, no, it is the three strange angels. 

Admit them, admit them. 

Sinners 

The big mountains sit still in the afternoon light, 

Shadows in their lap; 

The bees roll round in the wild-thyme with delight. 

We sitting here among the cranberries 

So still in the gap 

Of rock, distilling our memories,

[1159J D. H. LAWRENCE 

Are sinnersl Strange I The bee that blunders 

Against me goes off with a laugh. 

A squirrel cocks his head on the fence, and wonders 

VVhat about sin?-For, it seems 

The mountains have 

No shadow of us on their snowy forehead of dreams 

As they ought to have. They rise above us 

Dreaming 

For ever. One even might think that they love us. 

Little red cranberries cheek to cheek, 

Two great dragO'll--/lles wrestling; 

Y00, with your forehead nestling 

Against me, and bright peak shining to peak- 

There's a love-song for youl-Ah, if only 

There were no teeming 

Swarms of mankind in the world, and we were less lonely! 

Bavarian Gentians 

Not every man has gentians in his house 

in soft September, at slow, sad Michaelmas. 

Bavarian gentians, big and dark, only dark 

darkening the day-time torch-like with the smoking blueness 

of Pluto's gloom, 

ribbed and torch-like, with their blaze of darkness spread 

blue 

down flattening into points, flattened under the sweep of 

white day 

torch-flower of the blue-smoking darkness, Pluto's dark-blue 

daze, 

black lamps from the halls of Dis, burning dark blue, 

giving off darkness, blue darkness, as Demeter's pale lamps 

give off light, 

lead me then, lead me the way.


Reach me a gentian, give me a torch 

let me guide myself with the blue, forked torch of this flower 

down the darker and darker stairs, where blue is darkened 

on blueness, 

even where Persephone goes, just now, from the frosted 

September 

to the sightless realm where darkness is awake upon the dark 

and Persephone herself is but a voice 

or a darkness invisible enfolded in the deeper dark 

of the arms Plutonic, and pierced with the passion of dense 

gloom, 

among the splendour of torches of darkness, shedding darkness 

on the lost bride and her groom. 

Ship of Death 

I sing of autumn and the falling fruit 

and the long journey towards oblivion. 

The apples falling like great drops of dew 

to bruise themselves an exit from themselves. 

Have you built your ship of death, oh, have you? 

Build then your ship of death, for you will need itl 

Can man his own quietus make 

with a bare bodkin? 

With daggers, bodkins, bullets man can make 

a bruise or break of exit for his life 

but is that a quietus, oh tell me, is it quietus? 

QUietus is the goal of the long journey, 

the longest journey towards oblivion. 

Slips out the soul, invisible one, wrapped still 

in the white shirt of the mind's experiences 

and folded in the dark-red, unseen 

mantle of the body's still mortal memories.

[1161] D. H. LAWRENCE 

Frightened and alone, the soul slips out of the house 

or is pushed out 

to find himself on the crowded, arid margins of existence. 

Oh, it is not so easy, I tell you it is not so easy 

to set softly forth on the longest journey, the longest journey. 

It is easy to be pushed out of the silvery city of the body 

through any breach in the wall, 

thrust out on to the grey grey beaches of shadow, 

the long marginal stretches of existence, crowded with lost 

souls 

that intervene between our tower and the shaking sea of the 

beyond. 

Oh build your ship of death, oh build it in time 

and build it lovingly, and put it between the hands of your 

soul. 

Once outside the gate of the walled silvery life of days, 

once outside upon the grey marsh beaches, where lost souls 

moan 

in millions, unable to depart, 

having no boat to launch upon the shaken, soundless 

deepest and longest of seas, 

once outside the gate, 

what will you do, if you have no ship of the soul? 

Oh pity the dead that are dead but cannot take 

the journey, still they moan and beat 

against the silvery adamant walls of this our exclusive existence. 

They moan and beat, they gnash, they rage, 

they fall upon the new outcoming souls with rage, 

and they send arrows of anger, bullets and bombs of frustration 

over the adamant walls of this, our by-no-means impregnable 

existence. 

Pity, oh pity the poor dead that are only ousted from life, 

and crowd there on the grey mud beaches of the margins,


gaunt and horrible, 

waiting, waiting till at last the ancient boatman with the 

common barge 

shall take them abroad, towards the great goal of oblivion. 

Pity the poor gaunt dead that cannot die 

into the distance with receding oars, 

but must roam like outcast dogs on the margins of life, 

and think of them, and with the soul's deep sigh 

waft nearer to them the bark of delivery. 

But, for myself, but for my soul, dear soul, 

let me build a little ship with oars and food 

and little dishes, and all accoutrements 

dainty and ready for the departing soul. 

And put it between the hands of the trembling soul. 

So that when the hour comes, and the last door closes behind 

him. 

he shall slip down the shores invisible 

between the half-visible hordes 

to where the furthest and longest sea 

touches the margins of our life's existence 

with wincing unwilling waves. 

And launching there his little ship, 

wrapped in the dark-red mantle of the body's memories, 

the little, slender soul sits swiftly down, and takes the oars, 

and draws away, away, away towards the dark depths, 

fathomless deep ahead, far, far from the grey shores 

that fringe with shadow all this world's existence. 

Over the sea, over the furthest sea 

on the longest journey, 

past the jutting rocks of shadow, 

past the lurking octopns arms of agonised memory, 

past the strange whirlpools of remembered greed, 

through the dead weed of a life-time's falsity, 

slow, slow, my soul in his little ship. 

on the most soundless of all seas, 

taking the longest journey.

[1163] D. H. LAWRENCE 

'Pulling the long oars of a life-time's courage, 

drinking the confident water from the little jug, 

and eating the brave bread of a wholesome knowledge, 

row, little soul, row on, 

on the longest journey, towards the greatest goal; 

Neither straight nor crooked, neither here nor there, 

but shadows folded on deeper shadows, 

and deeper, to a core of sheer oblivion, 

like the convolutions of shadow-shell, 

or deeper, like the foldings and involvings of a womb. 

Drift on, drift on, my soul, towards the most pure, 

most dark oblivion. 

And at the penultimate porches, the dark-red mantle 

of the body's memories slips and is absorbed 

into the shell-like, womb-like convoluted shadow. 

And round the great final bend of unbroken dark, 

the skirt of the spirit's experience has melted away, 

the oars have gone from the boat, and the little dishes 

gone, gone, and the boat dissolves like pearl, 

as the soul at last slips perfect into the goal, the core 

of sheer oblivion and of utter peace, 

the womb of silence in the living night. 

Ah peace, ah lovely peace, most lovely lapSing 

of this my soul into the plasm of peace. 

Oh lovely last, last lapse of death, into pure oblivion, 

at the end of the longest journey 

peace, complete peace I 

But can it be that also it is procreation? 

Oh build your ship of death, 

oh build itl 

Oh, nothing matters but the longest journey.

EZRA POUND [1164J 

EZRA POUND 

Awpw. 

(1885 

Be in me as the eternal moods 

of the bleak wind, and not 

As transient things are- 

gaiety of flowers. 

Have me in the strong loneliness 

of sunless cliffs 

And of grey waters. 

Let the gods speak softly of us 

In days hereafter, 

The shadowy flowers of Orcus 

Remember thee. 

The Return 

See, they return; ah, see the tentative 

Movements, and the slow feet, 

The trouble in the pace and the uncertain 

Wavering! 

See, they return, one, and by one, 

With fear, as half-awakened; 

As if the snow should hesitate 

And murmur in the wind, 

and half turn back; 

These were the "Wing'd-with-Awe," 

Inviolable. 

Gods of the winged shoe! 

With them the silver hounds 

sniffing the trace of air! 

Haiel Haie! 

These were the swift to han'Y; 

These the keen-scented; 

These were the souls of blood. 

Slow on the leash, 

pallid the leash-men!

[1165] EZRA POUND 

FROM Canto LXXXI 

What thou lovest well remains, 

the rest is dross 

What thou loy5t well shall not be reft from thee 

What thou loyst well is thy true heritage 

Whose world, or mine or theirs 

or is it of none? 

First came the seen, then thus the palpable 

Elysium, though it were in the halls of hell, 

What thou lovest well is thy true heritage 

The ant's a centaur in his dragon world. 

Pull down thy vanity, it is not man 

Made courage, or made order, or made grace, 

Pull down thy vanity, I say pull down. 

Learn of the green world what can be thy place 

In scaled invention or true artistry, 

Pull down thy vanity, 

Paquin pull dO....'Ill 

The green casque has outdone your elegance. 

"Master thyself, then others shall thee beare" 

Pull down thy vanity 

Thou art a beaten dog beneath the hail, 

A swollen magpie in a fitful sun, 

Half black half white 

Nor knowst'ou wing from tail 

Pull down thy vanity 

How mean thy hates 

Fostered in falsity, 


Rathe to destroy, niggard in charity, 


I say pull down. 

But to have done instead of not doing 

this is not vanity 

To have, with decency, knocked 

That a Blunt should open 

To have gathered from the air a live tradition

EZRA POUND [1166] 

or from a fine old eye the unconquered flame 

This is not vanity. 

Here error is all in the not done, 

all in the diffidence that faltered. 

ELINOR WYLIE 

The Eagle and the Mole 

A void the reeking herd, 

Shun the polluted Hock, 

Live like that stoic bird, 

The eagle of the rock. 

The huddled warmth of crowds 

Begets and fosters hate; 

He keeps, above the clouds, 

His cliff inviolate. 

When flocks are folded warm, 

And herds to shelter run, 

He sails above the storm, 

He stares into the sun. 

If in the eagle's track 

Your sinews cannot leap, 

Avoid the lathered pack, 

Turn from the steaming sheep. 

If you would keep your soul 

From spotted sight or sound, 

Live like the velvet mole; 

Go burrow underground 

And there hold intercourse 

With roots of trees and stones, 

With rivers at their source, 

And disembodied bones.

[1167] SIEGFRIED SASSOON 

SI1!:GFRIED SASSOON 

Aftermath 

(1886 

Have you forgotten yet? . . • 

For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged 

days, 

Like traffic checked awhile at the crossing of city ways: 

And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts 

that How 

Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you're a man r(' ... 

prieved to go, 

Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare. 

But the past is lust the same,-and War's a bloody game . 

Have you forgotten yet? . . . 

Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll 

never forget? 

Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at 

Mametz, 

The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags 

on parapets? 

Do you remember the rats; and the stench 

Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench, 

And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless 

rain? 

Do you ever stop and ask, "Is it all going to happen again?" 

Do you remember that hour of din before the attack, 

And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook 

you tht."D 

As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your 

men? 

Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back 

With dying eyes and lolling heads,-those ashen-grey 

Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay? 

Have you forgotten yetP ... 

Look up, and swear by the green of the Spring that you'll 

never forget.

H. D. [1168 ] 

H.D. 

(HILDA DOOLITTLE) 

Sitalkas 

(1886 

Thou art come at length 

more beautiful 

tban any cool god 

in a chamber under 

Lycia's far coast, 

than any high god 

who touches us not 

here in the seeded grass, 

aye, than Argestes 

scattering the broken leaves. 

Lethe 

Nor skin nor hide nor fleece 

Shall cover you, 

N or curtain of crimson nor fine 

Shelter of cedar-wood be over you, 

Nor the nr-tree 

Nor the pine. 

Nor sight of whin nor gorse 

Nor river-yew, 

Nor fragrance of flowering bush, 

Nor wailing of reed-bird to waken you, 

Nor of linnet, 

Nor of thrush. 

Nor word nor touch nor sight 

Of lover, you 

Shall long through the night but for this: 

The roll of the full tide to cover you 

Without question, 

Without kiss.

1" 

[1169] H. D. 

FROM Hymen 

Never more will the wind 

Cherish you again, 

Never more will the rain. 

Never more 

Shall we nnd you bright 

In the snow and wind. 

The snow is melted, 

The snow is gone, 

And you are Hown: 

Like a bird out of our hand, 

Like a light out of our heart, 

You are gone. 

ROBINSON JEFFERS 

Signpost 

Civilized, crying how to be human again: this will tell you 

how. 

Turn outward, love things, not men, turn right away from 

humanity, 

Let that doll lie. Consider if you like how the lilies grow, 

Lean on the silent rock until you feel its divinity 

Make your veins cold, look at the silent stars, let your eyes 

Climb the great ladder out of the pit of yourself and man. 

Things are so beautiful, your love will follow your eyes; 

Things are the God, you will love God, and not in vain, 

For what we love, we grow to it, we share its nature. At 

length 

You will look hack along the stars' rays and see that even 

The poor doll humanity has a place under heaven. 

Its qualities repair their mosaic around you, the chips of 

strength 

And sickness; but now you are free, even to become human, 

But born of the rock and the air, not of a woman.

, 

ROBINSON JEFFERS [1170] 

Shine, Perishing Republic 

While this America settles in the mould of its vulgarity, heavily 

thickening to empire, 

And protest, only a bubbJe in the molten mass, pops and 

sighs out, and the mass hardens, 

I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make fruit, 

the fruit rots to make earth 

Out of the mother; and through the spring exultances, ripeness 

and decadence; and home to the mother. 

You making haste haste on decay: not blameworthy; life is 

good, be it stubbornly long or suddenly 

A mortal splendor: meteors are not needed less than mountains: 

shine, perishing republic. 

But for my children, I would have them keep their distance 

from the thickening center; corruption 

Never has been compulsory, when the cities lie at the monster's 

feet there are left the mountains. 

And boys, be in nothing so moderate as in love of man, a 

clever servant, insufferable master. 

There is the trap that catches noblest spirits, that caughtthey 

say-God, when he walked on earth. 

EDITH SITWELL 

(1887 

An Old \Voman Laments in Spring-Time 

I walk on grass as soft as wool, 

Or fluff that our old fingers pull 

From beaver or from Ininiver, 

Sweet-sounding as a dulcimer, 

A poor old woman creeping where 

The young can never pry and stare. 

I am so old, I should be gone, 

Too old to warm in the kind sun

[1171) EDIn! SITWELL 

My wrinkled face; my hat that Haps 

Will hide it, and my cloak has laps 

That trail upon the grass as I 

Like some warm shade of spring creep by. 

And all the laden fruit-boughs spread 

Into a silver sound, but dead 

Is the wild dew I used to know, 

Nor will the morning music grow. 

I sit beneath these coral boughs 

Where the air's silver plumage grows 

And Haws like water with a sigh. 

Fed with sweet milk of lilies, I 

Still feel the dew like amber gums, 

That from the richest spice-tree comes, 

Drip down upon my turbanned head, 

Trembling and ancient as the Dead, 

Beneath these Hoating branches' shade. 

Yet long ago, a lovely maid, 

On grass, a fading silver tune 

Played on an ancieut dulcimer, 

(And soft as wool of miniver) 

I walked like a young antelope, 

And Day was but an Ethiop. 

Beside my fairness shining there- 

Like black shade seemed the brightest air 

When I was lovely as the snows, 

A fading starriness that flows . . . 

Then, far-off Death seemed but the shade 

That those heaveuly branches made.

EDWIN MUIR [1172J 

EDWIN MUIR 

Tbe Road 

There is a road that turning always 

Cuts off the country of Again. 

Archers stand there on every side 

And as it runs time's deer is slain, 

And lies where it has lain. 

The busy clock shows never an hour. 

All Hies and all in flight must tarry. 

The hunter shoots the empty air 

Far on before the quarry, 

Which falls though nothing's there to parry. 

The lion couching in the centre 

With mountain head and sunset brow 

Rolls down the everlasting slope 

Bones picked an age ago, 

And the hones rise up and go. 

There the beginning finds the end 

Before beginning ever can be, 

And the great runner never leaves 

The starting and the finishing tree, 

The budding and the fading tree. 

There the ship sailing safe in harbour 

Long since in many a sea was drowned. 

The treasure burning in her hold 

So near will never be found, 

Sunk past all sound. 

There a man on a summer evening 

Reclines at ease upon his tomb 

And is his mortal effigy. 

And there within the womb, 

The cell of doom,

[1173] EDWIN MUIR 

The ancestral deed is thought and done, 

And in a million Edens fall 

A million Adams drowned in darkness, 

For small is great and great is small, 

And a blind seed all. 

LEONARD BACON 

Chorus from a Tragedy 

The world is no longer good. 

Men's hearts no more are kind. 

There is coldness in the mind, 

Bitterness in the blood. 

And I am not resigned. 

When they talk of burning things 

That touch me to the heart, 

They trammel music and art, 

They wither Ariefs wings 

Or tear his pinions apart, 

Anatomizing, digesting, 

Drying the sap that ran 

Once in the brain of man 

Riotous and umesting, 

Guiltless of plot or plan. 

There is no pulse in the vein. 

And the staunch muscle has slacked. 

A blight has devoured the bract. 

Color dies to a stain. 

Wisdom dwindles to fact. 

And I feel as dead as the ash 

Of an umegarded fire. 

The elements of desire, 

Lovely and wild and rash, 

Separate and retire.

LEONARD BACON 

[l174J 

We shall not have things as they were, 

Not as they were before. 

H I had the heart to restore, 

Would the chestnut thicken its burr? 

Would the olive leaf once more? 

MARIANNE MOORE 

Silence 

My father used to say, 

"Superior people never make long visits, 

have to be shown Longfellow's grave 

or the glass flowers at Harvard. 

Self-reliant like the cat- 

that takes its prey to privacy, 

the mouse's limp tail hanging like a shoelace from its mouth 

they sometimes enjoy solitude, 

and can be robbed of speech 

by speech which has delighted them. 

The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence; 

not in silence, but restraint." 

Nor was he insincere in saying, "Make my house your inn." 

Inns are not residences. 

A Talisman 

Under a splintered mast, 

Tom from the ship and cast 

Near her hull, 

A stumbling shepherd found 

Embedded in the ground, 

A seagull 

Of lapis lazuli, 

A scarab of the sea, 

With wings spread

[1175] MARIANNE MOORE 

Curling its coral feet, 

Parting its beak to greet 

Men long dead. 

Poetry 

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond 

all this fiddle. 

Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one 

discovers in 

it, after all, a place for the genuine. 

Hands that can grasp, eyes 

that can (illate, hair that can rise 

if it must, these things are important not because a 

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but becaus!~ 

they are 

useful. When they become so derivative as to become unintelligible 

the same thing may be said for all of us, that we 

do not admire what 

we cannot understand: the bat 

holding on upside down or in quest of something to 

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless 

wolf under 

a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse 

that feels a flea, the baseball 

fan, the statisticiannor 

is it valid 

to discriminate against "business documents and 

school-books"; all these phenomena are important. One must 

make a distinction 

however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the 

result is not poetry, 

nor till the poets among us can be 

"literalists of 

the imagination"_bove 

insolence and triviality and can present

MARIANNE MOORE 

[1l76J 

for inspection, "imaginary gardens with real toads in them," 

shall we have 

it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, 

the raw material of poetry in 

all its rawness and 

that which is on the other hand 

genuine, you are interested in poetry. 

In Distrust ot Merits 

Strengthened to live, strengthened to die for 

medals and positioned victories? 

They're fighting, fighting, fighting the blind 

man who thinks he sees, 

who cannot see that the enslaver is 

enslaved; the hater, harmed. 0 shining 0 

firm star, 0 tumultuous 

ocean lashed till small things go 

as they will, the mountainous 

wave makes us who look, know 

depth. Lost at sea before they fought! 0 

star of David, star of Bethlehem, 

o black imperial lion 

of the Lord-emblem 

of a risen world-be joined at last, be 

joined. There is hate's crown beneath which all is 

death; there's love's without which none 

is king; the blessed deeds bless 

the halo. As contagion 

of sickness makes sickness, 

contagion of trust can make trust. They're 

fighting in deserts and caves, one by 

one, in battalions and squadrons; 

they're fighting that I 

may yet recover from the disease, My 

Self; some have it lightly; some will die. "Man

[1177] MAmANNE MOORE 

wolf to man?" And we devour 

ourselves. The enemy could not 

have made a greater breach in our 

defenses. One piloting 

a blind man can escape him, but 

Job disheartened by false comfort knew 

that nothing is so defeating 

as a blind man who 

can see. 0 alive who are dead, who are 

proud not to see, 0 small dust of the earth 

that walks so arrogantly, 

trust begets power and faith is 

an affectionate thing. We 

vow, we make this promise 

to the fighting-it's a promise-"We'll 

never hate black, white, red, yellow, Jew, 

Gentile, Untouchable." We are 

not competent to 

make our vows. With set jaw they are fighting, 

fighting, fighting,-some we love whom we know, 

some we love but know not-that 

hearts may feel and not be numb. 

It cures me; or am I what 

I can't believe in? Some 

in snow, some on crags, some in quicksands, 

little by little, much by much, they 

are fighting fighting fighting that where 

there was death there may 

be life. "When a man is prey to anger, 

he is moved by outside things; when he holds 

his ground in patience patience 

patience, that is action or 

beauty," the soldier's defense 

and hardest armor for 

the fight. The world's an orphans' home. Shall 

we never have peace without sorrow?

MARIANNE MOORE [1178] 

without pleas of the dying for 

help that won't come? 0 

quiet form upon the dust, I cannot 

look and yet I must. 1£ these great patient 

dyings-all these agonies 

and woundbearings and bloodshedcan 

teach us how to live, these 

dyings were not wasted. 

Hate-hardened heart, 0 heart of iron, 

iron is iron till it is rust. 

There never was a war that was 

not inward; I must 

fight till I have conquered in myself what 

causes war, but I would not believe it. 

I inwardly did nothing. 

o Iscariotlike crimel 

Beauty is everlasting 

and dust is for a time. 

RUPERT BROOKE 

The Hill 

Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill, 

Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass. 

You said, "Through glory and ecstasy we pass; 

Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still, 

When we are old, are old . . ." "And when we die 

All's over that is ours; and life burns on 

Through other lovers, other lips," said I, 

"Heart of my heart, our heaven'is now, is won!" 

"\Ve are earth's best, that learnt her lesson here. 

Life is our cry. We have kept the faithl" we said; 

"We shall go down with unreluctant tread 

Rose-crowned into the darkness!" ... Proud we were, 

And laughed, that had such brave true things to say, 

-And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.

[1179] RUPERT BROOKE 

The Soldier 

If I should die, think only this of me: 

That there's some corner of a foreign field 

That is for ever England. There shall be 

In tbat ricb earth a richer dust concealed; 

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware; 

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, 

A body of England's breathing English air, 

Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. 

And think, this heart, all evil shed away, 

A pulse in t.he eternal mind, no less 

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; 

Her Sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; 

And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, 

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. 

ALAN SEEGER 

( 1888-1916) 

"I Have a Rendezvous with Death" 

I have a rendezvous with Death 

At some disputed barricade, 

When Spring comes back with rustling shade 

And apple-blossoms fill the air- 


When Spring brings back blue days and fair. 

It may be he shall take my hand 

And lead me into his dark land 

And dose my eyes and quench my breath 

It may be I shall pass him still. 


On some scarred slope of battered hill, 

When Spring comes round again this year 

And the first meadow-flowers appear. 

God knows 'twere better to be deep 

Pillowed in silk and scented down,

ALAN SEEGER [1180] 

Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep. 

Pulse nigh to pulse. and breath to breath, 

Where hushed awakenings are dear 

But I've a rendezvous with Death 

At midnight in some flaming town, 

When Spring trips north again this year, 

And I to my pledged word am true, 

I shall not fail that rendezvous. 

THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT 

(1888 

The Love Song of ,. Alfred Prufrock 

S'io credessi che mia risposta fosse 

A persona che mai tomasse a1 mondo, 

Questa liamma staria senza pili scosse. 

Ma perciocche giammai di questa fonda 

Non tomb vivo alcun, s'i'odo i1 vera 

Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo. 

Let us go then, you and I, 

When the evening is spread out against the sky 

Like a patient etherised upon a table; 

Let us go, through certain haH-deserted streets, 

The muttering retreats 

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels 

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: 

Streets that follow like a tedious argument 

Of insidious intent 

To lead you to an overwhelming question ••• 

Oh, do not ask, "What is it?" 

Let us go and make our visit. 

In the room the women come and go 

Talking of Michelangelo. 

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes 

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, 

Lingered upon the pools that stand in draius, 

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls &om chimneys,

[1181J THOMAS STEAlINS ELIOT 

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 

And seeing that it was a soft October night, 

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. 

And indeed there will be time 

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, 

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; 

There will be time, there will be time 

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; 

There will be time to murder and create, 

And time for all the works and days of hands 

That lift and drop a question on your plate; 

Time for you and time for me, 

And time yet for a hundred indecisions, 

And for a hundred visions and revisions, 

Before the taking of a toast and tea. 

In the room the women come and go 

Talking of Michelangelo. 

And indeed there will be time 

To wonder, "Do I darer" and, "Do I dare?" 

Time to turn back and descend the stair, 

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair 

(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!") 

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, 

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin 

(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!") 

Do I dare 

Disturb the universer 

In a minute there is time 

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. 

For I have known them all already, known them a11: 

'Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; 

I know the voices dying with a dying fall 

Beneath the music from a farther room. 

So how should I presume?

THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT [1182J 

And I have known the eyes already, known them aU 

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, 

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, 

'When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, 

Then how should I begin 

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 

And how should I presume? 

And I have known the arms already, known them alI 

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare 

(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) 

Is it perfume from a dress 

That makes me so digress? 

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. 

And should I then presume? 

And how should I begin? 

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes 

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . 

I should have been a pair of ragged claws 

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. 

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 

Smoothed by long fingers, 

Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers, 

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. 

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, 

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, 

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought 

in upon a platter, 

I am no prophet-and here's no great matter; 

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, 

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and 

snicker, 

And in short, I was afraid. 

to.

[1188] THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT 

And would it have been worth it, after all, 

After the cups, the mannalade, the tea, 

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, 

Would it have been worth while, 

To have bitten off the matter with a smile, 

To have sqUEl€zed the universe into a ball 

To roll it toward some overwhelming question, 

To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead, 

Come hack to tell you all, I shall tell you all" 

If one, settling a pillow by her head, 

Should say: "That is not what I meant at all. 

That is not: it, at all." 

And would it have been worth it, after all, 

Would it have been worth while, 

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, 

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail 

along the Hoor- 

And this, and so much more? 

It is impossible to say just what 1 meant 

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a 

screen: 

Would it have been worth while 

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, 

And turning toward the window, should say: 

"That is not it at all, 

That is not what I meant, at all." 

Nol I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; 

Am an attendant lord, one that will do 

To swell a progress, start a scene or two, 

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, 

Deferential, glad to be of use, 

Politic, cautious, and meticulous; 

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; 

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous 

Almost, at times, the Fool. 

1 grow old . . . I grow old . 

1 shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT [1184J 

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? 

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. 

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. 

I do not think that they will sing to me. 

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves 

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back 

When the wind blows the water white and black. 

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea 

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 

Till human voices wake us, and we drown. 

La Figlia Che Piange 

o quam te rnemorern virgo ..• 

Stand on the highest pavement of the stair 

Lean on a garden urn- 

Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair- 

Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise 

Fling them to the ground and tum 

With a fugitive resentment in your eyes: 

But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair. 

So I would have had him leave, 

So I would have had her stand and grieve, 

So he would have left 

As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised, 

As the mind deserts the body it has used. 

I should find 

Some way incomparably light and deft. 

Some way we both should understand, 

Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand. 

She turned away, but with the autumn weather 

Compelled my imagination many days, 

Many days and many hours: 

Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.

[1185] THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT 

And I wonder how they should have been togetherl 

I should have lost a gesture and a pose. 

SometimHs these cogitations still amaze 

The troubled midnight and the noon's repose. 

"Eyes That Last I Saw in Tears" 

Eyes that last I saw in tears 

Through division 

Here in death's dream kingdom 

The golden vision reappears 

I see the eyes but not the tears 

This is my aflliction 

This is my afIliction 

E:yes I shall not see again 

Eyes of decision 

Eyes I shall not see unless 

At the door of death's other kingdom 

Where, as in this, 

The eyes outlast a little while 

A little while outlast the tears 

And hold us in derision. 

FROM Four Quartets 

(FROM Burnt Norton) 

v 

Words move, music moves 

Only in time; but that which is only living 

Can only die. Words, after speech, reach 

Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern, 

Can words or music reach 

The stillness, as a Chinese jar still 

Moves perpetually in its stillness. 

Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts, 

Not that only, but the co-existence, 

Or say that the end precedes the beginning,

THOMAS STEARNS ElJOT [1186] 

And the end and the beginning were always there 

Before the beginning and after the end. 

And all is always now. Words strain, 

Crack and sometimes break, under the burden, 

Under the tension, slip, slide, perish, 

Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place, 

Will not stay still. Shrieking voices 

Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering, 

Always assail them. The Word in the desert 

Is most attacked by voices of temptation, 

The crying shadow in the funeral dance, 

The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera. 

The detail of the pattern is movement, 

As in the figure of the ten stairs. 

Desire itself is movement 

Not in itself desirable; 

Love is itself unmoving, 

Only the cause and end of movement, 

Timeless, and undesiring 

Except in the aspect of time 

Caught in the form of limitation 

Between un-being and being. 

Sudden in a shaft of sunlight 

Even while the dust moves 

There rises the hidden laughter 

Of children in the foliage 

Quick now, here, now, always 

Ridiculous the waste sad time 

Stretching before and after. 

JOHN CROWE RANSOM 

Tom, Tom, the Piper's Son 

(1888 

Grim in my little black coat as the sleazy beetle, 

And gone of hue, 

Lonely, a man reputed for softening little, 

LGving few

[1187.1 JOHN CROWE RANSOM 

Mournfully going where men assemble, unfriended, pushing 

With laborious wares, 

And glaring with little grey eyes at whom I am brushing, 

Who would with theirs- 

Full of my thoughts as I trudge here and trundle yonder, 

Eyes on the ground, 

Tricked by white birds or tall women into no wonder, 

And no sound- 

Yet privy to great dreams, and secret in vainglory, 

And hot and proud, 

And poor and bewildered, and longing to hear my own story 

Rehearsed aloud- 

How I have passed, involved in these chances and choices, 

By certain trees 

Whose tiny attent auricles receive the true voices 

Of the wordless: breeze- 

And against me the councils of spirits were not then darkened 

Who thereby house, 

As I set my boots to the path beneath them, and hearkened 

To the talking boughs- 

How one said, "This ambulant worm, he is strangely other 

Than they suppose" 

But one, "He was sired by his father and damned by his 

mother, 

And acknowledges those" 

And then: "Nay, nay-this man is a changeling, and knows 

not- 

This was a Prince 

From a far great kingdom-and should return, but goes 

not- 

Long years since"

JOHN CROWE RANSOM [1188] 

But like a King I was subject to a King's condition, 

And I marched on, 

Not testing at eavesdrop the glory of my suspicion, 

And the talkers were gone- 

And duly appeared I on the very clock-throb appointed 

In the litten room, 

Nor was hailed with that love that leaps to the Heir anointed: 

"Hush, hush, he is cornel" 

CONRAD AIKEN 

FROM Time in the Rock 

:xx 

And you who love, you who attach yourselves 

to another mouth, who in the depth of night 

speak without speech act without conscious action 

in all that lamentable stroggle to be another 

to make that other yourself, to find that other, 

to make two one 

who would be tree and earth 

cloud and ocean, movement and stillness, 

object and shadow 

what can we learn from you 

pathetic ones, poor victims of the will, 

wingless angels who beat with violent arms, 

what can we learn from your tragic effort 

is there a secret here, an unambiguous 

message, a leaf blown from another star, 

that thus all stand and watch you, thus all envy, 

all emulate? must we be violent too? 

o patience, let us be patient and discern 

in this lost leaf aU that can be discerned; 

and let us learn, from this sad violence learn, 

aU that in midst of violence can be learned.

[1189] CONRAD AIKEN 

Blind Date 

No more the swanboat on the artificial lake 

its paddled path through neon lights shall take; 

the stars are tumed out on the immortal Ferris wheel, 

dark and still are the cars of the Virginia ReeL 

Baby, it is the last of all blind dates, 

and this we keep with the keeper of the golden gates. 

For the last time, my darling, the chute-the-chutes, 

the Tunnel of Love, the cry "all men are brutes," 

the sweaty dance-hall with the juke-box playing,. 

pretzels and beer, and our young love a-Maying: 

baby, it is the last of all blind dates, 


The radios in a thousand taxis die; 

at last man's music fades from the inhuman sky; 

as, short or long, fades out the impermanent wave 

to find in the ether or the earth its grave. 

Baby, it is the last of all blind dates, 


Hold hands and ldss, it will never come again, 

look in your own eyes and remember the deep pain, 

how hollow the world is, like a bubble burst, 

yes, and all beauty by some wretchedness accursed! 

Baby. it is the last of all blind dates, 


Love now the footworn grass, the trampled flowers, 

and the divided IIIan of crowds, for he is ours- 

love him, yes, love him now, this sundered being, 

who most himself seeks when himself most 8eeing 

baby, it is the last of all blind dates, 


But look-the scenic railway is flashed from red to green 

and swiftly beneath our feet as this machine 

our old star plunges down the precipitous sky, 

down the hurrahs of space! So soon to die! 

But baby, it is the last of all blind dates; 

and we shall keep it with the keeper of the golden gates.

ISAAC J:'\08ENBEaG {1190] 

ISAAC ROSENBERG 

Break of Day in the Trenches 

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 

(And God knows what antipathies). 

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 tom fields of France. 

What do you see in our eyes 

As 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. 

( 1890-1918) 

OSBERT SITWELL 

Mrs. Southern's Enemy 

Even as the shadows of the statues lengthen, 

While, when the glowing glass below is broken, 

The plunging images are shaken, 

For the young, blue-winged god is woken,

[1191] OSBERT SITWELL 

Sighs, stretches, shivers, till his muscles strengthen 

So he can trample down the Howers, forsaken 

By their droning, golden-liveried lovers, tumble 

Among them till their red mouths tremble, 

Already in the ancient house, whose shadow dies 

With the slow opening of its hundred eyes, 

Already, even then, Night the Black Panther 

Is slinking, creeping down the corridors, 

Lithe-swinging on her velvet paws, 

Sharpening her treacherous claws 

To frighten children. 

And then it is 

I seem to see again 

That grey typhoon we knew as Mrs. Southern, 

Spinning along the darkened passages, 

Watching things, tugging things, 

Seeing to things, 

And putting things to rights. 

Oh, would that the cruel daylight too, 

Could give us back again 

Dear Mrs. Southern, 

Dear seIHess, blue-lipped Mrs. Southern, 

Cross, mumbling and transparent Mrs. Southern, 

With her grey hair, 

Grey face, 

And thinly-bitter smile, 

In wide blue skirt, white-spotted, and white apron; 

On the very top of her head she carried a cap, 

An emblem of respect and respectability, while 

As though she were a Hindu charmer of snakes, 

Her hair lay coiled and tame at the back of her head. 

But her actual majesty was really the golden glory, 

Through which she moved, a hurrying fly 

Enshrined in ]'olling amber, 

As she spun along in a twisting column of golden atoms, 

A halo of gold motes above and about her, 

A column of visible, virtuous activity. 

Her life was Bl span of hopeless conflict, 

For she battled against Time, 

That never-vanquished and invisible foe.

OSBERT SITWELL [1192] 

She did not recognise her enemy, 

She thought him Dust: 

But what is Dust, 

Save Time's most lethal weapon, 

His faithful ally and our sneaking foe, 

Through whom Time steals and covers all we know, 

The very instrument through whom he overcame 

Great Nineveh and Rome and Carthage, 

Ophir and Trebizond and Ephesus, 

Now deep, all deep, so deep in dust? 

Even the lean and arid archaeologist, 

Who bends above the stones, and peers and ponders, 

Will be his, too, one day. 

Dust loads the dice, 

Then challenges to play, 

Each layer of dust upon a chair or table 

A tablet to his future victory. 

And Dust is cruel, no victory despising, 

However slight, 

And Dust is greedy, eats the very bones; 

So that, in the end, still not content 

With trophies such as Helen of Troy, 

Or with the conquering golden Hesh of Cleopatra 

(She, perhaps, understood the age-long battle, 

For did she not prefer to watch her pearl 

Dissolve in amber wine, 

Thus herself enjoying 

Its ultimate disintegration, 

Than let Dust conquer such a thing of beauty? 

Was not the asp, fruit-hidden, 

The symbol of such understanding?), 

He needs must seize upon Mrs. Southern, 

Poor mumbling, struggling, blue-lipped Mrs. Southern, 

For Dust is insatiate and invincible. 

FROM England Reclaimed 

Sound out, proud trumpets, 

And you, bugles, blow 

Over the English Dead,

[1193] OSBERT SlTWELL 

Not slain in battle, in no sense sublime, 

These rustic figures caught at last by Time, 

And yet their blood was warm and red 

As any roses that in England grow 

To these anonymous armies of the Dead. 

Blow, bugles, blow; 

Sound out, proud trumpets, let your brazen thunder 

Wake them, to make them pass 

Before us under the wide sky. 

Thunder, drums and trumpets, thunder, 

Wake them, to rise from where they lie 

Under, 

Under 

Under 

The green grass 

Under the wide grey sky. 

ARCHIBALD MAcLEISH 

You, Andrew Marvel 

And here face down beneath the sun 

And here upon earth's noonward height 

To feel the always coming on 

The always rising of the night: 

To feel creep up the curving east 

The earthy cbill of dnsk and slow 

Upon those under lands the vast 

And ever climbing shadow grow 

And strange at Ecbatan the trees 

Take leaf by leaf the evening strange 

The Hooding dark about their knees 

The monntains over Persia change 

And now at Kermanshah the gate 

Dark empty and the withered grass 

And through the twilight now the late 

Few travelers in the westward pass

ARCHIBALD MACLEISH [1194] 

And Baghdad darken and the bridge 

Across the silent river gone 

And through Arabia the edge 

Of evening widen and steal on 

And deepen on Palmyra's street 

The wheel rut in the ruined stone 

And Lebanon fade out and Crete 

High through the clouds and overblown 

And over Sicily the air 

Still Hashing with the landward gulls 

And loom and slowly disappear 

The sails above the shadowy hulls 

And Spain go under and the shore 

Of Africa the gilded sand 

And evening vanish and no more 

The low pale light across that land 

Nor now the long light on the sea: 

And here face downward in the sun 

To feel how swift how secretly 

The shadow of the night comes on • • • 

"Not Marble nor the Gilded Monuments" 

The praisers of women in their proud and beautiful poems, 

NaIning the grave mouth and the hair and the eyes, 

Boasted those they loved should be forever remembered: 

These were lies. 

The words sound but the face in the Istrian sun is forgotten. 

The poet speaks but to her dead ears no more. 

The sleek throat is gone-and the breast that was troubled to 

listen: 

Shadow from door. 

Therefore I will not praise your knees nor your fine walking 

Telling you men shall remember your name as long

[1195] ARCIDBALD MACLEISH 

As lips move or breath is spent or the iron of English 

Rings from a tongue. 

I shall say you were young and your arms straight, and your 

mouth scarlet: 

I shall say you will die and none will remember you: 

Your arms change, and none remember the swish of your 

garments, 

Nor the click of your shoe. 

Not with myhand's strength, not with difficult labor 

Springing the obstinate words to the bones of your breast 

And the stubborn line to your young stride and the breath to 

your breathing 

And the beat to your haste 

Shall I preva:il on the hearts of unborn men to remember. 

(What is a dead girl but a shadowy ghost 

Or a dead man's voice but a distant and vain affirmation 

Like dream words most) 

Therefore I will not speak of the undying glory of women. 

I will say you were young and straight and your skin fair 

And you stood in the door and the sun was a shadow of 

leaves on your shoulders 

And a leaf on your hair- 

I will not speak of the famous beauty of dead women: 

I will say the shape of a leaf lay once on your hair. 

Till the world ends and the eyes are out and the mouths broken 

Look! It is there! 

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY 

(189~-195°) 

"011, Sleep Forever in the Latmian Cave" 

Oh, sleep forever in the Latmian cave. 

Mortal Endymion, darling of the Moon! 

Her silver garments by the senseless wave 

Should~~red and dropped and on the shingle strewn,

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY [11 96] 

Her fluttering hand against her forehead pressed, 

Her scattered looks that trouble all the sky, 

Her rapid footsteps running down the west 

Of all her altered state, oblivious liel 

Whom earthen you, by deathless lips adored, 

Wild-eyed and stammering to the grasses thrust, 

And deep into her crystal body poured 

The hot and sorrowful sweetness of the dust: 

Whereof she wanders mad, being all unfit 

For mortal love, that might not die of it. 

FROM Sonnets 

XIX 

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, 

I have forgotten, and what arms have lain 

Under my head till morning; but the rain 

Is full of ghosts to-night, that tap and sigh 

Upon the glass and listen for reply, 

And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain 

For unremembered lads that not again 

Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. 

Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, 

Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, 

Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: 

I cannot say what loves have come and gone, 

I only know that summer sang in me 

A little while, that in me sings no more. 

WILFRED OWEN 

Greater Love 

Red lips are not so red 

As the stained stones kissed by the English dead. 

Kindness of wooed and wooer 

Seems shame to their love pure. 

o Love, your eyes lose lure 

When I behold eyes blinded in my stead!

[1197] WILFRED OWEN 

Your slender attitude 

Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed, 

Rolling and rolling there 

Where God seems not to care; 

Till the fierce Love they bear 

Cramps th€,m in death's extreme decrepitude. 

Your voice sings not so soft, 

Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft, 

Your dear voice is not dear, 

Gentle, and evening clear, 

As theirs whom none now hear, 

Now earth has stopped the piteous mouths that coughed. 

Heart, you were never hot, 

Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot; 

And though your hand be pale, 

Paler are all which trail 

Your cross through Hame and hail: 

Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not. 

The Show 

My soul looked down from a vague height with Death, 

As unremembenng how I rose or why, 

And saw :a sad land, weak with sweats of dearth, 

Gray, cratered like the moon with hollow woe, 

And fitted with great pocks and scabs of plagues. 

Across its beard, that horror of harsh wire, 

There moved thin caterpillars, slowly uncoiled. 

It seemed they pushed themselves to be as plugs 

Of ditches, where they writhed and shrivelled, killed. 

By them had slimy paths been trailed and scraped 

Round myriad warts that might be little bills. 

From gloom's last dregs these long-strung creatures crept 

And vanished out of dawn down hidden holes.

WILFRED OWEN [11981 

(And smell carne up from those foul openings 

As out of mouths, or deep wounds deepening.) 

On dithering feet upgathered, more and more, 

Brown strings, towards strings of gray, with bristling spines, 

All migrants from green fields, intent on mire. 

Those that were gray, of more abundant spawns, 

Ramped on the rest and ate them and were eaten. 

I saw their bitten backs curve, loop, and straighten, 

I watched those agonies curl, lift, and flatten. 

Whereat, in terror what that sight might mean 

I reeled and shivered earthward like a feather. 

And Death fell with me, like a deepening moan. 

And He, picking a manner of worm, which half had hid 

Its bruises in the earth, but crawled no further, 

Showed me its feet, the feet of many men, 

And the fresh-severed head of it, my head. 

Anthem for Doomed Youth 

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? 

Only the monstrous anger of the guns. 

Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle 

Can patter out their hasty orisons. 

No mockeries for them from prayers or bells, 

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, 

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; 

And bugles calling for them from sad shires. 

What candles may be held to speed them all? 

Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes 

Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes. 

The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; 

Their Bowers the tenderness of silent minds, 

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

[1199] ALDOUS HUXLEY 

ALDOUS HUXLEY 

Ninth Philosopher's Song 

God's in His Heaven: He never issues 

(Wise man!) to visit this world of ours. 

Unchecked the cancer gnaws our tissues, 

Stops to lick chops and then again devours. 

Those nnd, who most delight to roam 

'Mid castles of remotest Spain. 

That there's, thank Heaven, no place like home; 

So they set out upon their travels again. 

Beauty for some provides escape, 

Who gains a happiness in eyeing 

The gorgeous buttocks of the ape 

Or Autumn sunsets exquisitely dying. 

And some to better worlds than this 

Mount up on wings as frail and misty 

As passion's all-too-transient kiss 

(Though afterwards-oh, omne animal triste/) 

But I, too rational by half 

To live but where I bodily am, 

Can only do my best to laugh, 

Can only sip my misery dram by dram. 

While happier mortals take to drink, 

A dolorous dipsomaniac, 

Fuddled with grief I sit and think. 

Looking upon the bile when it is black. 

Then hrim the bowl with atrabilious liquor! 

We'll pledge our Empire vast across the Hood: 

For Blood, as all men know, than Water's thicker, 

But Water's wider, thank the Lord, than Blood.

ALDOUS HUXLEY [1200] 

Frascati's 

Bubble-breasted swells the dome 

Of this my spiritual home, 

From whose nave the chandelier, 

Schaffhausen frozen, tumbles sheer. 

We in the round balcony sit, 

Lean o'er and look into the pit 

Where feed the human bears beneath, 

Champing with their gilded teeth. 

What negroid holiday makes free 

With such priapic revelry? 

What songs? What gongs? What nameless rites? 

What gods like wooden stalagmites? 

What steams of blood or kidney pie? 

What blasts of Bantu melody? 

Ragtime . . . But when the wearied Band 

Swoons to a waltz, I take her hand, 

And there we sit in blissful calm, 

Quietly sweating palm to palm. 

MARK VAN DOREN 

Epitaphs: For a Fickle Man 

Two women had these words engraved: 

The first and last of whom he tired. 

One told the other, while they lived, 

The thing between them he desired. 

What now it is they do not know, 

Or where he seeks it round the sun. 

They only ask the wind to blow, 

And that his will be ever done. 

The End 

I sing of ghosts and people under ground, 

Or if they live, absented from green sound. 

Not that I dote on death or being still;

{1201] MARX VAN DOREN 

But what men would is seldom what they will, 

And there is farthest meaning in an end 

Past the wild power of any word to mend. 

The telltale stalk, and silence at the close, 

Is most that may be read of man or rose. 

Death is our outline, and a stillness seals 

Even the living heart that loudest feels. 

I am in love with joy, but find it wrapped 

In a qUeElr earth, at languages unapt; 

With shadows sprinkled over, and no mind 

To speak for them and prove they are designed. 

I sing of men and shadows, and the light 

That none the less shines under them by night. 

Then lest I be dog enemy of day, 

I add old women talking by the way; 

And, not to grow insensible to noise, 

Add gossip girls and western-throated boys. 

EDWARD ESTLIN CUMMINGS 

Song 

{l&)i- 

All in green went my love riding 

on a great horse of gold 

into the silver dawn. 

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling 

the merry deer ran before. 

Fleeter be they than dappled dreams 

the swift sweet deer 

the red rare deer. 

four red roebuck at a white water 

the (:ruel bugle sang before. 

Horn at hip went my love riding 

riding the echo down 

into the silver dawn.

I 

I 

E. E. CUMMINGS [1202] 


the level meadows ran before. 

Softer be they than slippered sheep 

the lean lithe deer 

the Heet Hown deer. 

Four fleet does at a gold valley 

the famished arrow sang before. 

Bow at belt went my love riding 

riding the mountain down 



the sheer peaks ran before. 

Paler be they than daunting death 

the sleek slim deer 

the tall tense deer. 

Four tall stags at a green mountain 

the lucky hunter sang before. 


on a great horse of gold 



my heart fell dead before. 

"the Cambridge ladies who live 

in furnished souls" 

the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls 

are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds 

(also, with the church's protestant blessings 

daughters, unscented shapeless spirited) 

they believe in Christ and Longfellow, both dead,

[1203] E. E. CUMMINGS 

are invariably interested in so many thingsat 

the present writing one still finds 

delighted fingers knitting for the is it Poles? 

perhaps. While permanent faces coyly bandy 

scandal of Mrs. N and Professor D 

. . . the Cambridge ladies do not care, above 

Cambridge if sometimes in its box of 

sky lavender and comerless, the 

moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy 

"what it a much of a which of a wind" 

what if a much of a which of a wind 

gives the truth to summer's lie; 

bloodies with dizzying leaves the sun 

and. yanks immortal stars awry? 

Blow king to beggar and queen to seem 

(blow friend to fiend:blow space to time) 

-when skies are hanged and oceans drowned, 

the single secret will still be man 

what if a keen of a lean wind flays 

screaming hills with sleet and snow: 

strangles valleys by ropes of thing 

and stifles forests in white ago? 

Blow hope to terroriblow seeing to blind 

(blow pity to envy and soul to mind) 

-whose hearts are mountains,roots are trees, 

it's they shall cry hello to the spring 

what if a dawn of a doom of a dream 

bites this universe in two, 

peels forever out of his grave 

and sprinkles nowhere with me and you? 

Blow soon to never and never to twice 

(blow life to isn't:blow death to was) 

-all nothing's only our hugest home; 

the most who die,the more we live

HOWABD PHELPS PU'INAM 

[ 1 2 0 4 J 

HOWARD PHELPS PUTNAM 

Hasbrouck and the Rose 

Hasbrouck was there and so were Bill 

And Smollet Smith the poet, and Ames was there. 

After his thirteenth drink, the burning Smith, 

Raising his fourteenth trembling in the air, 

Said, "Drink with me, Bill, drink up to the Rose." 

But Hasbrouck laughed like old men in a myth, 

Inquiring, "Smollet, are you drunk? What rose?" 

And Smollet said, "I drunk? It may be so; 

Which comes from brooding on the flower, the flower 

I mean toward which mad hour by hour 

I travel brokenly; and I shall know, 

With Hermes and the alchemists-but, hell, 

What use is it talking that way to you? 

Hard-boiled, unbroken egg, what can you care 

For the enfolded passion of the Rose?" 

Then Hasbrouck's voice rang like an icy bell: 

"Arcane romantic flower, meaning what? 

Do you know what it meant? Do I? 

We do not know. 

Unfolded pungent rose, the glowing bath 

Of ecstasy and clear forgetfulness; 

Closing and secret bud one might achieve 

By long debauchery- 

Except that I have eaten it, and so 

There is no call for further lunacy. 

In Springfield, Massachusetts, I devoured 

The mystic, the improbable, the Rose. 

For two nights and a day, rose and rosette, 

And petal after petal and the heart, 

I had my banquet by the beams 

Of four electric stars which shone 

Weakly into my room, for there, 

Drowning their light and gleaming at my side, 

Was the incarnate star 

Whose body bore the stigma of the Rose. 

And that is all I know about the flower;

-------------------- 

[ 1205] HOWARD PHELPS PUTNAM 

I have eaten it-it has disappeared. 

There is no Rose." 

Young Smollet Smith let fall his glass; he said 

"Oh Jesus, Hasbrouck, am I drunk or deadr' 

ROBERT GRAVES 

The Bards 

The bards falter in shame, their running verse 

Stumbles, with marrow-bones the drunken diners 

Pelt them for their delay. 

It is a something fearful in the song 

Plagues them-an unknown grief that like a churl 

Goes common-place in cowskin 

And bursts unheralded, crowing and coughing, 

An unpilled holly-club twirled in his hand, 

Into their many-shielded, samite-curtained, 

Jewel-bright hall where twelve kings sit at chess 

Over the white-bronze pieces and the gold; 

And by a gross enchantment 

Flails down the rafters and leads off the queens 

The 'wild-swan-breasted, the rose-roddy-cheeked, 

Raven..haired daughters of their admiration- 

To stir his black pots and to bed on straw. 

The Climate of Thought 

The climate of thought has seldom been described. 

It is no terror of Caucasian frost, 

Nor yet that brooding Hindu heat 

For which a loin-rag and a dish of rice 

Suffice until the pestilent monsoon. 

But, without winter, blood would run too thin; 

Or, without summer, fires would bum too long. 

In thought the seasons run concurrently.

ROBERT GRAVES [1206] 

Thought has a sea to gaze, not voyage on; 

And hills, to rough the edge of the bland sky, 

Not to be climbed in search of blander prospect; 

Few birds, sufficient for such caterpillars 

As are not fated to turn butterflies; 

Few butterflies, sufficient for the flowers 

That are the luxury of a full orchard; 

Wind, sometimes, in the evening chimneys; rain 

On the early morning roof, on sleepy sight; 

Snow streaked upon the hilltop, feeding 

The fond brook at the valley-head 

That greens the valley and that parts the lips; 

The sun, simple, like a country neighbour; 

The moon, grand, not fanciful with clouds. 

Counting the Beats 

You, love, and I, 

(He whispers) you and I, 

And if no more than only you and I 

What care you or II> 

Counting the beats, 

Counting the slow heart beats, 

The bleeding to death of time in slow heart beats, 

Wakeful they lie. 

Cloudless day, 

Night, and a cloudless day; 

Yet the huge storm will burst upon their heads one day 

From a bitter sky. 

Where shall we be, 

(She whispers) where shall we be, 

When death strikes home, a where then shall we be 

Who were you and I? 

Not there but here, 

(He whispers) only here,

[1207] ROBERT GRAVES 

As we are, here, together, now and here, 

Always you and I. 

Counting the heats, 

Counting the slow heart beats, 

The bleeding to death of time in slow heart beats, 

Wakeful they lie. 

EDMUND BLUNDEN 

Into the Salient 

Sallows Iik,e heads in Polynesia, 

With few and blood-stuck hairs, 

Mud-layered cobble-stones, 

Soldiers in smoky sheds, blackening uniforms and walls with 

their eookery; 

Shell-holes in roofs, in roads, 

Even in advertisements 

Of bicycles and beer; 

The Middle Ages gone to sleep, and woken up to this 

A salvo, four flat slamming explosions. 

When you come out the wrong side of the ruin, you are 

facing Hill Sixty, 

Hill Sixty :is facing you. 

You have heen planted on the rim of a volcano, 

Which wiIl bring forth its fruit, at any second. 

Better to be shielded from these facts; 

There is a cellar, or was just now. 

If the wre

EDMUND BLUNDEN [1208] 

An Infantryman 

Painfully writhed the few last weeds upon those houseless 

uplands, 

Cleft pods had dropt their blackened seeds into the trampled 

clay, 

Wind and rain were running loose, and icy Hew the whiplash; 

Masked guns like autumn thunder drummed the outcast 

year away. 

Hidden a hundred yards ahead with winter's blinding passion, 

The mule-track appeared half dead, even war's hot blood 

congealed; 

The half-dug trenches brimmed like troughs, the camps lay 

slushed and empty, 

Unless those bitter whistlings proved Death's army in the 

field. 

Over the captured ridge above the hurt battalion waited, 

And hardly had sense left to prove if ghost or living passed 

From hole to hole with sunken eyes and slow ironic orders, 

While fiery fountains burst and clanged-and there your 

lot was cast. 

Yet I saw your health and youth go brightening the vortex, 

The ghosts on guard, the storm uncouth were then no 

match for you; 

You smiled, you sang, your courage rang, and to this day I 

hear it, 

Sunny as a May-day dance, along that spectral avenue. 

STEPHEN VINCENT BENET 

FROM John Brown's Body 

This is the hidden place that hiders know. 

This is where hiders go. 

Step softly, the snow that falls here is different snow,

L1 2 0 9 ] 

STEPHEN VINCENT BENET 

The rain has a different sting. 

Step softly, step like a cloud, step softly as the least 

Whisper of air against the beating wing, 

And let your eyes be sealed 

With two blue muscadines 

Stolen from secret vines 

Or you will never find, in the lost field, 

The table spread, the signs of the hidden feast. 

This is where hiders live. 

This is the tentative 

And outcast corner where hiders steal away 

To bake their hedgehogs in a lump of clay, 

To raise their crops and children wild and shy 

And let the world go by 

In accidental marches of armed wrath 

That stumble blindly past the buried path. 

Step softly, step like a whisper, but do not speak 

Or you will never see 

The fu:rriness curled within the hollow tree, 

The shadow-dance upon the wilderness creek. 

This is the hiders' house. 

This is the ark of pine-and-willow-boughs. 

This is the quiet place. 

You may call now, but let your call be sweet 

As clover-honey strained through silver sieves 

And delicate as the dust upon the moth 

Or you will never find your fugitives. 

Call once, and call again, 

Then, if the lifted strain 

Has the true color and substance of the wild, 

You may perceive, if you have lucky eyes, 

Something that ran away from being wise 

And changed silk ribbons for a greener cloth, 

Some budding-horned and deer-milk-suckled child, 

Some lightness, moving toward you on light feet, 

Some girl with indolent passion in her face.

HART CRANE [1210] 

HART CRANE 

Voyages: II 

-And yet this great wink of eternity, 

Of rimless floods, unfettered leewardings, 

Sarite sheeted and processioned where 

Her undina! vast belly moonward bends, 

Laughing the wrapt inflections of our love; 

Take this Sea, whose diapason knells 

On scrolls of silver snowy sentences, 

The sceptered terror of whose sessions rends 

As her demeanors motion well or ill, 

All but the pieties of lovers' hands. 

And onward, as bells off San Salvador 

Salute the crocus lusters of the stars, 

In these poinsettia meadows of her tides, 

Adagios of islands, 0 my Prodigal, 

Complete the dark confessions her veins spell. 

Mark how her turning shoulders wind the hours, 

And hasten while her penniless rich palms 

Pass superscription of bent foam and wave, 

Hasten, while they are true,-sleep, death, desire, 

Close round one instant in one floating flower. 

Bind us in time, 0 seasons clear, and awe. 

o minstrel galleons of Carib fire, 

Bequeath us to no earthly shore until 

Is answered in the vortex of our grave 

The seal's wide spindrift gaze toward paradise. 

FROM The Bridge 

THE RIVER 

Stick your patent name on a Signboard 

brother-all over-going west-young man 

Tintex-Japalac-Certain-teed Overalls ads

[1211] HART CRANE 

and land sakes! under the new playbill ripped 

in the guaranteed corner-see Bert Williams what? 

Minstrels when you steal a chicken just 

save me the wing for if it isn't 

Erie it ain't for miles around a 

Mazda--and the telegraphic night coming on Thomas 

a EdUord-and whistling down the tracks 

a headlir,ht rushing with the sound-can you 

imagine--while an EXpress makes time like 

SCIENCE--COMMERCE and the HOLYGHOST 

RADIO ROARS IN EVERY HOME WE HAVE THE NORTHPOLE 

WALLSTREET AND VIRGINBmTH WITHOUT STONES OR 

wmES OR. EVEN RUNning brooks connecting ears 

and no more sermons windows Hashing roar 

Breathtaking-as you like it • . . eh? 

So the 20th Century-so 

whizzed the Limited-roared by and left 

three men, still hungry on the tracks, ploddingly 

watching the tail lights wizen and converge, slipping 

gimleted and neatly out of sight. 

The last


"JesusI 0 I remember watermelon days!" And sped 

High in a cloud of merriment, recalled 

"-And when my Aunt Sally Simpson smiled," he drawled 

"It was almost Louisiana, long ago." 

''There's no place like Booneville though, Buddy," 

One said, excising a last burr from his vest, 

"-For early trouting." Then peering in the can, 

"-But I kept on the tracks." Possessed, resigned, 

He trod the fire down pensively and grinned, 

Spreading dry shingles of a beard. . . . 

Behind 

My father's cannery works I used to see 

Rail-squatters ranged in nomad raillery, 

The ancient men-wifeless or runaway 

Hobo-trekkers that forever search 

An empire wilderness of freight and rails. 

Each seemed a child, like me, on a loose perch, 

Holding to childhood like some termless play. 

John, Jake, or Charley, hopping the slow freight 

-Memphis to Tallahassee--riding the rods, 

Blind fists of nothing, humpty-dumpty clods. 

Yet they touch something like a key perhaps. 

From pole to pole across the hills, the states 

-They know a body under the wide rain; 

Youngsters with eyes like fjords, old reprobates 

With racetrack jargon,--dotting immensity 

They lurk across her, knowing her yonder breast 

Snow-silvered, sumac-stained or smoky blue- 

Is past the valley-sleepers, south or west. 

-As I have trod the rumorous midnights, too, 

And past the circuit of the lamp's thin flame 

(0 Nights that brought me to her body barel) 

Have dreamed beyond the print that bound her name. 

Trains sounding the long blizzards out-I heard 

Wail into distances I knew were hers.

[1213] HART CRANE 

Papooses crying on the wind's long mane 

Screamed redskin dynasties that Hed the brain, 

-Dead echoes! But I knew her body there, 

Time like a serpent down her shoulder, dark, 

And space, an eaglet's wing. laid on her hair. 

Under the Ozarks, domed by Iron Mountain, 

The old gods of the rain lie wrapped in pools 

Where eyeless fish curvet a sunken fountain 

And re-cies(lend with corn from quernlous crows. 

Such pilferings make up their timeless eatage, 

Propitiate them for their timber torn 

By iron, iron-always the iron dealt cleavage! 

They doze now, below axe and powder horn. 

And Pullma.n breakfasters glide glistening steel 

From tunnel into field-iron strides the dew 

Straddles the hill, a dance of wheel on wheel. 

You have a half-hour's wait at Siskiyou, 

Or stay the night and take the next train through. 

Southward, near Cairo passing, you can see 

The Ohio merging,-borne down Tennessee; 

And if it's ,summer and the sun's in dusk 

Maybe the breeze will lift the River's musk 

-As though the waters breathed that you might know 

Memphis Johnny, Steamboat BiU, Missouri Ioe. 

Oh, lean from the window, if the train slows down, 

As though you touched hands with some ancient clown, 

-A little while gaze absently below 

And hum Deep River with them while they go. 

Yes, turn ngain and sniff once more-look see, 

o Sheriff, Brakeman and Authonty- 

Hitch up your pants and crunch another quid, 

For you, too, feed the River timelessly. 

And few evade full measure of their fate; 

Always they smile out eerily what they seem. 

I could believe he joked at heaven's gate- 

Dan Midland-jolted from the cold brake-beam.


Down, down-born pioneers in time's despite, 

Grimed tributaries to an ancient flow- 

They win no frontier by their wayward plight, 

But drift in stillness, as from Jordan's brow. 

You will not hear it as the sea; even stone 

Is not more hushed by gravity ... But slow, 

As loth to take more tribute-sliding prone 

Like one whose eyes were buried long ago 

The River, spreading, Hows-and spends your dream. 

What are you, lost within this tideless spell? 

You are your father's father, and the stream- 

A liquid theme that floating niggers swell. 

Damp tonnage and alluvial march of days 

Nights turbid, vascular with silted shale 

And roots surrendered down of moraine clays: 

The Mississippi drinks the farthest dale. 

o quarrying passion, undertowed sunlightl 

The basalt surface drags a jungle grace 

Ocherous and lynx-barred in lengthening might; 

Patience! and you shall reach the biding place! 

Over De Soto's bones the freighted Boors 

Throb past the City storied of three thrones. 

Down two more turns the Mississippi pours 

(Anon tall ironsides up from salt lagoons) 

And flows within itself, heaps itself free. 

All fades but one thin skyline 'round . . . Abead 

No embrace opens but the stinging sea; 

The River lifts itself from its long bed, 

Poised wholly on its dream, a mustard glow 

Tortured with history, its one will-How! 

-The passion spreads in wide tongues, choked and slow, 

Meeting the Gulf, hosannas silently below.

[1215] ALLEN TATE 

ALLEN TATE 

Shadow and Shade 

The shadow streamed into the wall 

The wall, break-shadow in the blast; 

We lingered wordless while a tall 

Shade enclouded the shadows cast. 

The torrent of the reaching shade 

Broke shadow into all its parts, 

What then had been of shadow made 

Found exigence in fits and starts 

Where nothing properly had name 

Save that still element the air, 

Burnt the sea of universal frame 

In which impounded now we were: 

I took her hand, I shut her eyes 

And all her shadow clove with shade, 

Shadow was crushed beyond disguise 

But, being fear, was unafraid. 

I asked fair sbadow at my side: 

What more shall fiery shade require? 

We lay there in the immense tide 

Of shade and shadowy desire 

And saw the dusk assail the wall, 

The black surge, mounting, crash the stone! 

Companion of this lust, we fall, 

I said, lest we should die alone. 

Ode to the Confederate Dead 

Row after row with strict impunity 

The headstones yield their names to the element, 

The wind whms without recollection; 

In the riven troughs the splayed leaves

ALLEN TATE [1216] 

Pile up. of nature the casual sacrament 

To the seasonal eternity of death, 

Then driven by the Berce scrutiny 

Of heaven to their business in the vast breath, 

They sough the rumor of mortality. 

Autumn is desolation in the plot 

Of a thousand acres where these memories grow 

From the inexhaustible bodies that are not 

Dead, hut feed the grass row after rich row. 

Think of the autumns that have come and gone 

Ambitious November with the humors of the year, 

With a particular zeal for every slab, 

Staining the uncomfortable angels that rot 

On the slabs, a wing cbipped here, an arm there! 

The brute curiosity of an angel's stare 

Turns you, like them, to stone, 

Transforms the heaving air, 

Till plunged to a heavier world below 

You shift your sea-space blindly 

Heaving, turning like the blind crab. 

Dazed by the wind, only the wind 

The leaves Hying, plunge 

You know who have waited by the wall 

The twilit certainty of an animal; 

Those midnight restitutions of the blood 

You know-the immitigable pines, the smoky frieze 

Of the sky, the sudden call; you know the rage 

The cold pool left by the mounting Hood- 

The rage of Zeno and Parmenides. 

You who have waited for the angry resolution 

Of those desires that should be yours tomorrow, 

You know the unimportant shrift of death 

And praise the vision 

And praise the arrogant circumstance 

Of those who fall 

Rank upon rank, hurried beyond decision 

Here by the sagging gate, stopped by the wall.

[1217] ALLEN TATE 

Seeing, seeing only the leaves 

Flying, plunge and expire 

Turn your eyes to the immoderate past 

Turn to the inscrutable infantry rising 

Demons out of the earth-they will not last. 

Stonewall, Stonewall-and the sunken fields of hemp, 

Shiloh, Antietam, Malvern Hill, Bull Run. 

Lost in that orient of the thick and fast 

You will curse the setting sun. 

Cursing only the leaves crying 

Like an old man in a storm 

You hear the shout-the crazy hemlocks point 

With troubled fingers to the silence which 

Smothers you, a mummy, in time. 

The hound bitch 

Toothless and dying, in a musty cellar 

Hears the wind only. 

Now that the salt of their blood 

Stiffens the saltier oblivion of the sea, 

Seals the malignant purity of the flood, 

What shall we who count our days and bow 

Our heads with a commercial woe 

In the ribboned coats of grim felicity, 

What shall we say of the bones, unclean, 

Whose verdurous anonymity will grow? 

The ragged arms, the ragged heads and eyes 

Lost in these acres of the insane green? 

The gray lean spiders come, they come and go; 

In a tangle of willows without light 

The singular screech-awl's bright 

Invisible lyrie seeds the mind 

With the furious murmur of their chivalry. 

We shall say only, the leaves 

Flying, plunge and expire

ALLEN TATE [12181 

We shall say only, the leaves whispering 

In the improbable mist of nightfall 

That flies on multiple wing: 

Night is the beginning and the end 

And in between the ends of distraction 

Waits mute speculation, the patient curse 

That stones the eyes, or like the jaguar leaps 

For his own image in a jungle pool. his victim. 

What sball we say who have knowledge 

Carried to the heart? Shall we take the act 

To the grave? Shall we, more hopeful, set up the grave 

In the bouse? The ravenous grave? 

Leave now 

The shut gate and the decomposing wall: 

The gentle serpent, green in the mulberry bush, 

Riots with his tongue througb the hush 

Sentinel of the grave wbo counts us alll 

LEONIE ADAMS 

Country Summer 

Now the rich cherry, whose sleek wood, 

And top with silver petals traced 

Like a strict box its gems encased, 

Has spilt from out that cunning lid, 

All in an innocent green round, 

Those melting rubies which it hid; 

With moss ripe-strawberry-encrusted, 

So birds get half, and minds lapse merry 

To taste the deep-red lark's-bite berry, 

And blackcap-bloom is yellow-dusted. 

The wren that thieved it in the eaves 

A trailer of the rose could catch 

To her poor droopy sloven thatch, 

And side by side with the wren's brood 

o lovely time of beggars' luck

[1219] LEONIE ADAMS 

Opens the quaint and hairy bud; 

And full and golden is the yield 

Of cows that never have to house, 

But all night nibble under boughs, 

Or cool their sides in the moist field. 

Into the rooms How meadow airs, 

The warm farm baking smell's blown round. 

Insid.e and out, and sky and ground 

Are much the same; the wishing star, 

Hesperus, kind and early born. 

Is ri!:en only finger-far; 

All stars stand close in summer air, 

A.d tremble, and look mild as amber; 

Wh€,n wicks are lighted in the chamber, 

They are like stars which settled there. 

Now straightening from the Howery hay, 

Down the still light the mowers look, 

Or turn, because their dreaming shook, 

And they waked half to other days, 

When left alone in yellow stubble, 

The rusty-coated mare would graze. 

Yet thick the lazy dreams are born. 

Another thought can come to mind, 

But like the shivering of the wind, 

Morning and evening in the com. 

SACHEVERELL SITWELL 

(1900 

Var.iation on a Theme by John Lyly 

What mournful metamorphosis 

Changed my days: mocked time that Hies: 

My life, a beating clock that is, 

Turning to endless song that dies: 

So while I sigh here as a reed, 

I, dying, live, that lived, indeed?

SACHEVERELL SITWELL [1220] 

The hills' green tumbling fields I climbed 

For hollow music from the shore, 

That with the cooling wind's voice rhymed, 

Both mingling through the wood's green core; 

Till leaves and branches both do sing 

With wind and water echoing. 

One day I trod the river bank 

And sang into the gentle wind, 

The wood god tangled, wet and dank, 

Leaped through the leaves and came behind; 

He ran with goat's feet, chasing me, 

Until I fell back wearily. 

My heart, that beating clock, stopped dead, 

And I was changed into a brake; 

My limbs that cheated him, my head, 

All turned to reed that wind can shake; 

So do I mock time, blowing here; 

One winter's sighs make not a year. 

He comes and cuts himself a quill, 

To make my image with his breath; 

He tries at mine, his lips, to fill, 

But music mocks him like my death; 

No sooner a shrill note he blows, 

Than it has fled, as water flows. 

And so this ghost of me escapes, 

It flies from him each time he plays; 

And I shall never feel his rapes, 

Till music in a reed pipe stays; 

Till then, he'll find me still a reed, 

Though sighing at his breath, indeed.

L1221] KENNETH SLESSOR 

KENNETH SLESSOR 

Metempsychosis 

Suddenly to become John Benbow, walking down William 

Street 

With a tin trunk and a Bve-pound note, looking for a place 

to eat, 

And a peajacket the colour of a shark's behind 

That a Jew might buy in the morning •.• 

To fry potatoes (God save us!) if you feel inclined, 

Or to kiss the landlady'S daughter, and no one mind, 

In a peel-paper bedroom with a whistling jet 

And a picture of the Holy Virgin . . . 

Wake in a shaggy bale of blankets with a Bshed-up cigarette, 

Picking over ''Turfbird's Tattle" for a Sunday morning bet, 

With a bottle in the wardrobe easy to reach 

And a blast of onions from the landing . . • 

Tattooed with foreign ladies' tokens, a heart and dagger 

each, 

In places that make the delicate female inquirer screech, 

And over a chest smoky with gunpowder-blue 

Beholdl-a mermaid piping through a coach-horn! 

Banjo-playing" Bring off guns, and other momentous things 

to do, 

Such as blowing through peashooters at hawkers to improve 

the view- 

Suddenly paid-off and forgotten in Woolloomooloo ••• 

Suddenly to become John Benbow .•••

• 

ROY CAMPBELL [1222] 

ROY CAMPBELL 

The Zebras 

From the dark woods that breathe of fallen showers, 

Harnessed with level rays in golden reins, 

The zebras draw the dawn across the plains 

Wading knee-deep among the scarlet Bowers. 

The sunlight, zithering their flanks with Gre, 

Flashes between the shadows as they pass 

Barred with electric tremors through the grass 

Like wind along the gold strings of a lyre. 

Into the flushed air snorting rosy plumes 

That smoulder round their feet in drifting fumes, 

With dove-like voices call the distant fillies, 

While round the herds the stallion wheels his flight, 

Engine of beauty volted with delight, 

To roll his mare among the trampled lilies. 

FROM Talking Bronco 

THE VOLUNTEER'S REPLY TO THE POET 

("WILL IT BE SO AGAIN?") 

• . . So the soldier replied to the Poet, 

Oh yesl it will all be the same, 

But a bloody sight worse, and you know it 

Since you have a hand in the game: 

And you'll be the first in the racket 

To sell us a similar dope, 

Wrapped up in a rosier packet, 

But noosed with as cunning a rope. 

You coin us the catchwords and phrases 

For which to be slaughtered; and then, 

While thousands are blasted to blazes, 

Sit picking your nose with your pen. 

We know what you're bursting to tell us, 

By heart. It is all very fine. 

We must swallow the bait that you sell us 

And pay for your Hook and your Line. 

But his pride for a soldier suffices

[1223] ROY CAMPBELL 

Since someone must carry the can; 

In war, or depression, or crisis, 

It's what you expect of a man. 

But when we have come to the Isthmus 

That hridges the Slump to the War, 

We shall contact a new Father Christmas 

Like the one we contacted before, 

Deploring the one he replaces 

Like you do (it's part of the show!) 

But with those same mincing grimaces 

And that mealy old kisser we knowl 

And he'll patent a cheap cornucopia 

For all that our purse can afford, 

And rent us a flat in Utopia 

With dreams for our lodging and board. 

And we'll hand in our Ammo and Guns 

As we handed them in once before, 

And we'll lock them up safe; till our sons 

Are conscripted for Freedom once more. 

We can die for our faith by the million 

And laugh at our bruises and scars, 

But hush! for the Poet-Civilian 

Is weeping, between the cigars. 

Mellifluous, sweeter than Cadbury's, 

The M,'o.I. Nightingale (Hush!) 

Is lining his pockets with Bradburies 

So his feelings come out with a rush, 

For our woes are the cash in his kitty 

When his voice he so kindly devotes 

In sentiment, pathos, and pity, 

To bringing huge lumps to our throats 

Of our widows, and sweethearts, and trollops, 

Since it sells like hot cakes to the town 

As he doles out the Goitre in dollops 

And the public is gulping it down. 

Oh well may he weep for the soldier, 

Who W{lepS at a guinea a tear, 

For although his invention gets mouldier, 

It keeps him his job in the rear. 

When my Mrs. the organ is wheeling 

And my adenoids wheeze to the sky,

• 

ROY CAMPBELL [1224] 

He \Yill publish the hunger I'm feeling 

And rake in his cheque with a sigh: 

And when with a trayful of matches 

And laces, you hawk in the street, 

o comrades, in tatters and patches, 

Rejoice! since we're in for a treat: 

For when we have died in the gutter 

To safeguard his income and state, 

Be sure that the Poet will utter 

Some beautiful thoughts on our Fate! 

CECIL DAY LEWIS 

FROM From Feathers to Iron 

XlV 

Now the full-throated daffodils, 

Our trumpeters in gold, 

Call resurrection from the ground 

And bid the year be bold. 

To-day the almond tree turns pink, 

The first flush of the spring; 

Winds loll and gossip through the town 

Her secret whispering. 

Now too the bird must try his voice 

Upon the morning air; 

Down drowsy avenues he cries 

A novel great affair. 

He tells of royalty to be; 

How with her train of rose 

Summer to coronation comes 

Through waving wild hedgerows. 

To-day crowds qUicken in a street, 

The fish leaps in the flood: 

Look there, gasometer rises, 

And here bough swells to bud.

[1225] CECIL DAY LEWIS 

For our love's luck, our stowaway, 

Stretches in his cabin; 

Our youngster joy barely conceived 

Shows up beneath the skin. 

Our joy was but a gusty thing 

Without sinew or wit, 

An infant flyaway; but now 

We make a man of it. 

PHYLLIS McGINLEY 

Midcentury Love Letter 

Stay neal' me. Speak my name. Oh, do not wander 

Bya thought's span, heart's impulse, from the light 

We kindle here. You are my sole defender 

(As I am yours) in this precipitous night, 

Which over earth, till common landmarks alter, 

Is falling, without stars, and bitter cold. 

We two have but our burning selves for shelter. 

Huddle against me. Give me your hand to hold. 

So might two climbers lost in mountain weather 

On a high slope and taken by the storm, 

Desperate in the darkness, cling together 

Under one cloak and breathe each other warm. 

Stay near me. Spirit, perishable as bone, 

In no such winter can survive alone. 

WILLIAM EMPSON 

Missing Dates 

Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills. 

It is not the effort nor the failure tires. 

The waste remains, the waste remains and kills.

WILLIAM EMPSON [ 1226] 

It is not your system or clear sight that mills 

Down small to the consequence a life requires; 


They bled an old dog dry yet the exchange rills 

Of young dog blood gave but a month's desires; 

The waste remains, the waste remains and kills. 

It is the Chinese tombs and the slag hills 

Usurp the soil, and not the soil retires. 


Not to have fire is to be a skin that shrills. 

The complete fire is death. From partial fires 


It is the poems you have lost, the ills 

From missing dates, at which the heart expires. 



WYSTAN HUGH AUDEN 

"0 tor Doors to Be Open" 

o for doors to be open and an invite with gilded edges 

To dine with Lord Lobcock and Count Asthma on the platinum 

benches, 

With the somersaults and fireworks, the roast and the smacking 

kisses- 

Cried the cripples to the silent statue, 

The six beggared cripples. 

And Garbo's and Cleopatra's wits to go astraying, 

In a feather ocean with me to go fishing and playing 

Still jolly when the cock has burst himself with crowing 

Cried the six cripples to the silent statue, 

The six beggared cripples.

[1227] WYSTAN HUGH AUDEN 

And to stand on green turf among the craning yelling faces, 

Dependent on the chestnut, the sable, the Arabian horses, 

And me with a magic crystal to foresee their places- 



And this square to be a deck, and these pigeons sails to rig 

And to follow the delicious breeze like a tantony pig 

To the shaded feverless islands where the melons are big 


~['he six beggared cripples. 

And these shops to be turned to tulips in a garden bed, 

And me with my stick to thrash each merchant dead 

As he pokes from a Hower his bald and wicked head 


'I'he six beggared cripples. 

And a hole in the bottom of heaven, and Peter and Paul 

And each smug surprised saint like parachutes to fall, 

And every one-legged beggar to have no legs at all- 



Ballad: "0 What Is That Sound 

o what is that sound which so thrills the ear 

Down in the valley drumming, drumming? 

Only the scarlet soldiers, dear, 

The soldiers coming. 

o what is that light I see Hashing so clear 

Over the distance brightly, brightly? 

Only the !lUn on their weapons, dear, 

As they step lightly. 

o what are they doing with all that gear; 

What are they doing this morning, this morning? 

Only the usual maneuvers, dear, 

Or perhaps a warning.

WYSTAN HUGH AUDEN [1228] 

o why have they left the road down there, 

Why are they suddenly wheeling, wheelingr 

Perhaps a change in the orders, dear; 

Why are you kneeling? 

o haven't they stopped for the doctor's care, 

Haven't they reined their horses, their horses? 

Why, they are none of them wounded, dear, 

None of these forces. 

o is it the parson they want, with white hair; 

Is it the parson, is it, is it? 

No, they are passing his gateway, dear, 

Without a visit. 

o it must be the farmer who lives so near, 

It must be the farmer, so cunning, so cunning? 

They have passed the farm already, dear, 

And now they are running. 

o where are you going? Stay with me here! 

Were the vows you swore me deceiving, deceiving? 

No, I promised to love you, dear, 

But I must be leaving. 

o it's broken the lock and splintered the door, 

o it's the gate where they're turning, turning; 

Their feet are heavy on the floor 

And their eyes are burning. 

In Memory of W. B. Yeats 

1 

He disappeared in the dead of winter: 

The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted, 

And snow disfigured the public statues; 

The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day. 

o all the instruments agree 

The day of his death was a dark cold day.

[1229] WYSTAN HUGH AUDEN 

Far from his illness 

The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests, 

The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays; 

By mourning tongues 

The death of the poet was kept from his poems. 

But for him it was his last afternoon as himself, 

An afternoon of nurses and rumors; 

The provinces of his body revolted, 

The squares of his mind were empty, 

Silence invaded the suburbs, 

The current of his feeling failed: he became his admirers. 

Now he is seattered among a hundred cities 

And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections; 

To Bnd his happiness in another kind of wood 

And be punished under a foreign code of conscience. 

The words of a dead man 

Are modified in the guts of the living. 

But in the importance and noise of tomorrow 

When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the Hoor of the 

Bourse, 

And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly 

accustomed, 

And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his 

freedom; 

A few thousand will think of this day 

As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly 

unusu~ll. 

o all the instruments agree 

The day of his death was a dark cold day. 

u 

You were silly like us: your gift survived it all; 

The parish of rich women, physical decay, 

Yourself; mad Ireland hurt you into poetry. 

Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still, 

For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives 

In the valley of its saying where executives 

Would never want to tamper; it Hows south

WYSTAN HUGH AUDEN [1230] 

From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs, 

Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives, 

A way of happening, a mouth, 

III 

Earth, receive an honored guest; 

William Yeats is laid to rest: 

Let the Irish vessel lie 

Emptied of its poetry. 

Time that is intolerant 

Of the brave and innocent, 

And indifferent in a week 

To a beautiful physique, 

Worships language and forgives 

Everyone by whom it lives; 

Pardons cowardice, conceit, 

Lays its honours at their feet. 

Time that with this strange excuse 

Pardoned Kipling and his views, 

And will pardon Paul Claudel, 

Pardons him for writing well. 

In the nightmare of the dark 

All the dogs of Europe bark, 

And the living nations wait, 

Each sequestered in its hate; 

Intellectual disgrace 

Stares from every human face, 

And the seas of pity lie 

Locked and frozen in each eye. 

Follow, poet, follow right 

To the bottom of the night, 

With your unconstraining voice 

Still persuade us to rejoice;

[1231J WYSTAN HUGH AUDEN 

With the farming of a verse 

Make a vineyard of the curse, 

Sing of human unsuccess 

In a rapture of distress; 

In the deserts of the heart 

Let the healing fountain start, 

In the prison of his days 

Teach the free man how to praise. 

LOUIS MAcNEICE 

Au bade 

Having bitten on life like a sharp apple 

Or, playing it like a fish, been happy, 

Having felt with fingers that the sky is blue, 

What hilVe we after that to look forward to? 

Not the twilight of the gods but a precise dawn 

Of sallow and grey bricks, and newsboys crying war. 

Bagpipe Music 

It's no go the merry-go-round, it's no go the rickshaw, 

All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow. 

Their knickers are made of crepe-de-chine, their shoes are 

made of python, 

Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with 

heads of bison. 

John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa, 

Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker, 

Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey, 

Kept its bones for dumb-bells to use when he was fifty. 

It's no go tile Yogi-Man, it's no go Blavatsky, 

All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi.

LOUIS MAC NEICE [1232] 

Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the 

heather, 

Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna. 

It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture, 

All we want is a Dunlop tyre and the devil mend the puncture. 

The Laird o'Phelps spent Hogmannay declaring he was 

sober; 

Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot 

over. 

Mrs. Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion, 

Said to the midwife "Take it away; I'm through with overproduction." 

It's no go the gossip column, it's no go the Ceilidh, 

All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby. 

Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage, 

Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage. 

His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were 

lavish, 

Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the 

parish. 

It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible, 

All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle. 

It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium, 

It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums. 

It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections, 

Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a 

pension. 

It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet; 

Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the 

profit. 

The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall for ever, 

But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the 

weather.

[1233] XATIn.EEN RAINE 

KATHLEEN RAINE 

The Pythoness 

I am that serpent-haunted cave 

Whose navel breeds the fates of men. 

All 'Hisdom issues from a hole in the earth: 

The gods form in my darkness, and dissolve again. 

From my blind womb all kingdoms come, 

And from my grave seven sleepers prophesy. 

No babe unborn but wakens to my dream, 

No lover but at last entombed in me sballlie. 

I am that feared and longed-for burning place 

Where man and phoenix are consumed away, 

And from my low polluted bed arise 

New sons, new suns, new skies. 

THEODORE ROETHKE 

Big Wind 

Where were the greenhouses going, 

Lunging into the lashing 

Wind driving water 

So far down the river 

All the faucets stopped? 

So we drained the manure-machine 

For the steam plant, 

Pumping the stale mixture 

Into the rusty boilers, 

Watching the pressure gauge 

Waver over to red, 

As the seams hissed 

And the live steam 

Drove to the far 

End of the rose-house, 

Where the worst wind was, 

Creaking the cypress window-frames,

THEODORE ROETHXE [1234] 

Cracking so much thin glass 

We stayed all night, 

Stuffing the holes with burlap; 

But she rode it out, 

That old rose-house, 

She hove into the teeth of it, 

The core and pith of that ugly storm, 

Ploughing with her stiff prow, 

Bucking into the wind-waves 

That broke over the whole of her, 

Flailing her sides with spray, 

Flinging long strings of wet across the roof-top, 

Finally veering, wearing themselves out, merely 

Whistling thinly under the wind-vents; 

She sailed into the calm morning, 

Carrying her full cargo of roses. 

STEPHEN SPENDER 

Tbougbts during an Air Raid 

Of course, the entire effort is to put myself 

Outside the ordinary range 

Of what are called statistics. A hundred are killed 

In the outer suburbs. Well, well, I carryon. 

So long as the great "I" is propped upon 

This girdered bed which seems more like a hearse, 

In the hotel bedroom with Dowering wallpaper 

Which rings in wreathes above, I can ignore 

The pressure of those names under my fingers 

Heavy and black as I rustle the paper, 

The wireless wail in the lounge margin. 

Yet supposing that a bomb should dive 

Its nose right through this bed, with me upon it? 

The thought is obscene. Still, there are many 

To whom my death would be only a name, 

One figure in a column. The essential is 

That all the 'T's should remain separate 

Propped up under flowers, and no one suffer 

For his neighbour. Then horror is postponed

[1235J STEPHEN SPENDEB 

For everyone until it settles on him 

And drags him to that incommunicable grief 

"mch is all mystery or nothing. 

"1 Think Continually of Those 

I think continually of those who were truly great. 

Who, from the womb, remembered the soul's history 

Through mrridors of light where the hours are suns, 

Endless and singing. Whose lovely ambition 

Was that their lips, still touched with fire, 

Should tell of the Spirit, clothed from head to foot in song. 

And who hoarded from the Spring branches 

The desirtlS falling across their bodies like blossoms. 

What is precious is never to forget 

The delight of the blood drawn from ageless springs 

Breaking 1hrough rocks in worlds before our earth. 

Never to deny its pleasure in the morning simple light 

Nor its grave evening demand for love. 

Never to allow gradually the traffic to smother 

With noise and fog, the flowering of the Spirit. 

Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest fields, 

See how these names are f~ted by the waving grass, 

And by the streamers of white cloud 

And whispers of wind in the listening sky. 

The names of those who in their lives fought for life, 

Who wore at their hearts the fire's centre. 

Born of the sun, they travelled a short while toward the sun, 

And left the vivid air signed with their honour. 

FREDERIC PROKOSCH 

Eclogue 

No one dies cleanly now, 

All, all of us rot away: 

No longer down the wood

FREVE1UC PROKOSCH [1236] 

Angelic shapes delight 

The innocent and gay. 

Poisonous things are spared, 

The gifted are the sad 

And solitude breeds hate. 

Yellow is every hough, 

No one dies cleanly now. 

All, all of us rot away. 

In broken barges drift 

The warm and cinnamon-skinned 

And in black Europe's wind 

The ice-edged lanterns sway. 

The carousels are silent, 

The towns are torn by sea 

And in their coiling streets 

The dragon snares his prey 

Till all of us rot awayl 

No longer down the wood 

May the tall victor lead 

The shy swan-breasted maid 

Or generous pageants move. 

The loved are sick of love, 

Love is strangled with words: 

Beauty sighs in her bed: 

The faithful, calm and good 

Follow the songs of birds 

No longer down the wood. 

Angelic shapes delight 

Only the perpetual child. 

The murderer plans his night 

And the green hunter's horn 

Drives the unwanted wild. 

o mourn, willows, weepl 

Till the clear spring return 

And to the warming heart 

The curious wonders creep; 

A cry; a living sleep.

[1237] W. !!t. nODGERS 

WILLIAM ROBERT RODGERS 

Neither Here nor There 

In that land all is and nothing's ought; 

No myners or notices, only birds; 

No walls anywhere, only lean wire of words 

Womling brokenly out from eaten thought; 

No oats growing, only ankle-lace grass 

Easing and not resenting the feet that pass; 

No enormous beasts, only names of them; 

No bones made, bans laid, or boons expected, 

No contracts, entails, hereditaments, 

Anything at all that might tie or hem. 

In that land all's lackadaisical; 

No lakes of coddled spawn, and no locked ponds 

Of settled purpose, no netted fishes; 

But only inkling streams and running fronds 

Fritillaried with dreams, weedy with wishes; 

No arrogant talk is heard, haggling phrase, 

But undertones, and hesitance, and haze; 

On clear days mountains of meaning are seen 

Humped high on the horizon; no one goes 

To con their meaning, no one cares or knows. 

In that land all's Hat, indifferent; there 

Is neither springing house nor hanging tent, 

No aims are entertained, and nothing is meant, 

For there are no ends and no trends, no roads, 

Only follow your nose to anywhere. 

No one is born there, no one stays or dies, 

For it is a timeless land, it lies 

Between the act and the attrition, it 

Marks off bound from rebound, make from break, tit 

From tat, also today from tomorrow. 

No Gause there comes to term, but each departs 

Elsewhere to whelp its deeds, expel its darts; 

There are no homecomings, of course, no good-byes 

In that land, neither yearning nor scorning, 

Though at night there is the smell of morning.

ELIZABETH BISHOP [12381 

ELIZABETH BISHOP 

The Fish 

I caught a tremendous fish 

and held him beside the boat 

half out of water, with my hook 

fast in a corner of his mouth. 

He didn't fight. 

He hadn't fought at all. 

He hung a grunting weight, 

battered and venerable 

and homely. Here and there 

his brown skin hung in strips 

like ancient wall-paper, 

and its pattern of darker brown 

was like wall-paper: 

shapes like full-blown roses 

stained and lost through age. 

He was speckled with barnacles, 

fine rosettes of lime, 

and infested 

with tiny white sea-lice, 

and underneath two or three 

rags of green weed hung down. 

While his gills were breathing in 

the terrible oxygen 

-the frightening gills 

fresh and crisp with blood, 

that can cut so badly- 

I thought of the coarse white flesh 

packed in like feathers, 

the big bones and the little bones, 

the dramatic reds and blacks 

of his shiny entrails, 

and the pink swim-bladder 

like a big peony. 

I looked into his eyes 

which were far larger than mine 

but shallower, and yellowed, 

'\

[12391 ELIZABETH BlSHOP 

the irises backed and packed 

with tarnished tinfoil 

seen through the lenses 

of old scratched isinglass. 

They shifted a little, but not 

to return my stare. 

-It was more like the tipping 

of an object toward the light. 

I admired his sullen face, 

the mechanism of his jaw, 

and then I saw 

that from his lower lip 

-if you could call it a lipgrim, 

wet, and weapon-like, 

hung five old pieces of fish-line, 

or four and a wire leader 

with the swivel still attached, 

with all their five hooks 

grown firmly in his mouth. 

A green line, frayed at the end 

where he broke it, two heavier lines, 

and a fine black thread 

still crimped from the strain and snap 

when it broke and he got away. 

Like medals with their ribbons 

frayed and wavering, 

a five-haired beard of wisdom 

trailing from his aching jaw. 

I stared and stared 

and victory filled up 

the little rented boat, 

from the pool of bilge 

where oil had spread a rainbow 

around the rusted engine 

to the bailer rusted orange, 

the sun-cracked thwarts, 

the oarlocks on their strings, 

the gunnels-until everything 

was rainbow, rainbow, rainbowl 

And I let the fish go.

GEORGE BARKER [1240) 

\ 

GEORGE BARKER 

\ 

Sonnet to My Mother 

Most near, most dear, most loved and most far, 

Under the window where I often found her 

\ 

Sitting as huge as Asia, seismic with laughter, 

Gin and chicken helpless in her Irish hand, 

Irresistible as Rabelais but most tender for 

The lame dogs and hurt birds that surround her, 

She is a procession no one can follow after 

But be like a little dog following a brass band. 

She will not glance up at the bomber or condescend 

To drop her gin and scuttle to a cellar, 

But lean on the mahogany table like a mountain 

Whom only faith can move, and so I send 

o all my faith and all my love to tell her 

That she will move from mourning into morning. 

To Any Member of My Generation 

What was it you rememberr-the summer mornings 

Down by the river at Richmond with a girl, 

And as you kissed, clumsy in bathing costumes, 

History guffawed in a rosebush. 0 what a warning 

H only we had known, if only we had knownl 

And when you looked in mirrors was this meaning 

Plain as the pain in the centre of a pearl? 

Horrible tomorrow in goddamning postures 

Making absurd the past we cannot disown? 

Whenever we kissed we cocked the future's rifles 

And from our wildoat words, like dragons' teeth, 

Death underfoot now arises. When we were gay 

Dancing together in what we hoped was life, 

Who was it iu our arms but the whores of death 

Whom we have found in our beds today, today?

[1241] DELMORE SCHWARTZ 

DELMORE SCHWARTZ 

FROM The Repetitive Heart 

All clowns are masked and all personae 

Flow from choices; sad and gay, wise, 

Moody and humorous are chosen faces, 

And yet not so! For all are circumstances, 

Given, like a tendency 

To cold:l or like blond hair and wealth, 

Or war and peace or gifts for mathematics, 

Fall from the sky, rise from the ground, stick to us 

In time, surround us: Socrates is mortal. 

Gifts and choices! All men are masked, 

And we are clowns who think to choose our faces 

And we are taught in time of circumstances 

And we have colds, blond hair and mathematics, 

For we have gifts which interrupt our choices, 

And -all our choices grasp in Blind Man's Buff: 

"My wife was very different, after marriage," 

"I practise law, but botany's my pleasure," 

Save postage stamps or photographs, 

But saVI;3 your soul! Only the past is immortal. 

m 

Decide to take a trip, read books of travel, 

Go quickly! Even Socrates is mortal, 

Mention the name of happiness: it is 

Atlantis" Ultima Thule, or the limelight, 

Cathay or Heaven. But go quickly 

And remember: there are circumstances, 

And he who chooses chooses what is given, 

And he who chooses is ignorant of Choice, 

-Choose love, for love is full of children, 

Full of choices, children choosing 

Botany, mathematics, law and love, 

So full .of choices! So full of children! 

And the past is immortal, the future is inexhaustible!

!CARL SHAPmO [1242J 

KARL SHAPIRO 

Buick 

As a sloop with a sweep of immaculate wing on her delicate 

spine 

And a keel as steel as a root that holds in the sea as she 

leans, 

Leaning and laughing, my warm-hearted beauty, you ride, 

you ride, 

You tack on the curves with parabola speed and a kiss of 

good-bye, 

Like a thoroughbred sloop, my new high-spirited spirit, my 

kiss. 

As my foot suggests that you leap in the air with your hips 

of a girl, 

My finger that praises your wheel and announces your voices 

of song, 

Flouncing your skirts, you blueness of joy, you flirt of politeness, 

You leap, you intelligence, essence of wheelness with silvery 

nose, 

And your platinum clocks of excitement stir like the hairs of 

a fern. 

But how alien you are from the booming belts of your birth 

and the smoke 

Where you turned on the stinging lathes of Detroit and 

Lansing at night 

And shrieked at the torch in your secret parts and the amorous 

tests, 

But now with your eyes that enter the future of roads you 

forget; 

You are all instinct with your phosphorous glow and your 

streaking hair. 

And now when we stop it is not as the bird from the shell 

that I leave 

Or the leathery pilot who steps from his bird with a sneer 

of delight,

[1243] KARL SHAPIRO 

And not as the ignorant beast do you squat and watch me 

depart, 

But with exquisite breathing you smile, with satisfaction of 

lovle, 

And I touch you again as you tick in the silence and settle 

in sleep. 

HENRY REED 

(1914 

Lessons of the War: Naming of Parts 

Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday, 

We had duily cleaning. And tomorrow morning, 

We shall have what to do after Bring. But today, 

Today we have naming of parts. Japonica 

Glistens like coral in all of the neighbouring gardens, 

And today we have naming of parts. 

This is the lower sling swivel. And this 

Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see, 

When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel, 

Which in your case you have not got. The branches 

Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures, 

Which in our case we have not got. 

This is the safety-catch, which is always released 

With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me 

See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy 

If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms 

Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see 

Any of them using their finger. 

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this 

Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it 

Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this 

Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards 

The early hees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers: 

They call it easing the Spring.

f 

HENRY REED [1244] 

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy 

If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt, 

And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of 

balance, 

Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom 

Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards 

and forwards, 

For today we have naming of parts. 

DYLAN THOMAS 

(1914-1953) 

"The Force That through the Green Fuse ..." 

The force that through the green fnse drives the Hower 

Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees 

Is my destroyer. 

And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose 

My youth is bent by the same wintry fever. 

The force that drives the water through the rocks 

Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams 

Turns mine to wax. 

And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins 

Howat the mountain spring the same mouth sucks. 

The hand that whirls the water in the pool 

Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind 

Hauls my shroud sail. 

And I am dumb to tell the hanging man 

How of my clay is made the hangman's lime. 

The lips of time leech to the fountain head; 

Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood 

Shall calm her sores. 

And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind 

How time has ticked a heaven round the stars. 

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb 

Howat my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

[1245J DYLAN THOMAS 

"Light Breaks Where No Sun Shines" 

Light breaks where no sun shines; 

Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart 

Push in their tides; 

And, broken ghosts with glowwonns in their heads, 

The things of light 

File through the Hesh where no Hesh decks the bones. 

A candle in the thighs 

Wanns youth and seed and burns the seeds of age; 

Where no seed stirs, 

The fruilt of man unwrinkles in the stars, 

Bright as a fig; 

Where no wax is, the candle shows its hairs. 

Dawn breaks behind the eyes; 

From poles of skull and toe the windy blood 

Slides liI:e a sea; 

Nor fenced, nor staked, the gushers of the sky 

Spout to the rod 

Divining in a smile the oil of tears. 

Night in the sockets rounds, 

Like some pitch moon, the limit of the globes; 

Day lights the bone; 

Where no cold is, the skinning gales unpin 

The winlter's robes; 

The Hhn of spring is hanging from the lids. 

Light breaks on secret lots, 

On tips of thought where thoughts smell in the rain; 

When logics die, 

The secret of the soil grows through the eye, 

And blood jumps in the sun; 

Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.

DYLAN THOMAS [1246] 

Fern HilI 

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs 

About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green, 

The night above the dingle starry, 

Time let me hail and climb 

Golden in the heydays of his eyes, 

And honored among wagons I was prince of the apple towns 

And once below a time I lordly had the treeS and leaves 

Trail with daisies and barley 

Down the rivers of the windfall light. 

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns 

About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home, 

In the sun that is young once only, 

Time let me play and be 

Golden in the mercy of his means, 

And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the 

calves 

Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold, 

And the sabbath rang slowly 

In the pebbles of the holy streams. 

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay 

Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was 

air 

And playing, lovely and watery 

And fire green as grass. 

And nightly under the simple stars 

As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away, 

All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars 

 

Flying with the ricks, and horses 

Flashing into the dark. 

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white 

With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was 

all 

Shining, it was Adam and maiden, 

The sky gathered again 

And the sun grew round that very day. 

So it must have been after the birth of the simple light

[1247] DYLAN THOMAS 

In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walling 

warm 

Out of the whinnying green stable 

Oil! to the Belds of praise. 

And honored among foxes and pheasants by the gay house 

Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long, 

In the sun born over and over, 

I ran my heedless ways, 

My wishes raced through the house high hay 

And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows 

In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs 

Before the children green and golden 

FoUow him out of grace, 

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would 

take me 

Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand, 

In the moon that is always rising, 

Nor that riding to sleep 

I should hear him fly with the high Belds 

And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land. 

Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, 

Time held me green and dying 

Though I sang in my chains like the sea. 

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night 

Do Dt go gentle into that good night, 

Old aoge 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.

DYLAN THOMAS [1248] 

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in Hight, 

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, 


Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight 

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, 


And you, my father, there on the sad height, 

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. 



ROBERT LOWELL 

(19 17 

The Quaker Graveyard in Nantucket 

(FOR WARREN WINSLOW, DEAD AT SEA) 

Let man have dominion over the lishes of the sea 

and the fowls of the air and the heasts and the whole 

earth, aud every creeping creature that moveth upon 

the earth. 

A brackish reach of shoal off Madaket, 

The sea was still breaking violently and night 

Had steamed into our North Atlantic Fleet, 

When the drowned sailor clutched the drag-net. Light 

Flashed from his matted head and marble feet, 

He grappled at the net 

With the coiled, hurdling muscles of his thighs: 

The corpse was bloodless, a botch of reds and whites, 

Its open, staring eyes 

Were lustreless dead-lights 

Or cabin-windows on a stranded hulk 

Heavy with sand. We weight the body, close 

Its eyes and heave it seaward whence it came, 

Where the heel-headed dogfish barks its nose 

On Ahab's void and forehead; and the name 

Is blocked in yellow chalk.

[1249] ROBERT LOWELL 

Sailors, who pitch this portent at the sea 

Where dreadnoughts shall confess 

Its hell-bent deity, 

When you are powerless 

To sand-bag this Atlantic bulwark, faced 

By the earth-shaker, green. unwearied, chaste 

In his steel scales: ask for no Orphean lute 

To pluck life back. The guns of the steeled Heet 

Recoil and then repeat 

The hoarse salute. 

Whenever winds are moving and their breath 

Heaves at the roped-in bulwarks of this pier, 

Tho terns and sea-gulls tremble at your death 

In lhese home waters. Sailor, can you hear 

The Pequod's sea wings, beating landward, fall 

Headlong and break on our Atlantic wall 

Off 'Sconset. where the yawing S-boats splash 

Tho bellbuoy, with ballooning spinnakers, 

As the entangled, screeching mainsheet clears 

The blocks: off Madaket, where lubbers lash 

The heavy surf and throw their long lead squids 

For blue-fish? Sea-gulls blink their heavy lids 

Seaward. The winds' wings beat upon the stones, 

Cousin, and scream for you and the claws rush 

At the sea's throat and wring it in the slush 

Of this old Quaker graveyard where the bones 

Cry out in the long night for the hurt beast 

Bobbing by Ahab's whaleboats in the East. 

All you recovered from Poseidon died 

With you, my cousin, and the harrowed brine 

Is fruitless on the blue beard of the god, 

Stretching beyond ns to the castles in Spain, 

Nantucket's westward haven. To Cape Cod 

Guns, cradled on the tide, 

Blast the eelgrass about a waterclock 

n 

m

ROBERT LOWELL [1250] 

Of bilge and backwasb, roil tbe salt and sand 

Lashing earth's scaffold, rock 

Our warships in the hand 

Of the great God, where time's contrition blues 

Whatever it was these Quaker sailors lost 

In the mad scramble of their lives. They died 

When time was open-eyed, 

Wooden and childish; only bones abide 

There, in the nowhere, where their boats were tossed 

Sky-high, where mariners had fabled news 

Of Is, the whited monster. What it cost 

Them is their secret. In the sperm-whale's slick 

I see the Quakers drown and hear their cry: 

"If God himself had not been on our side, 

If God himself had not been on our side, 

When the Atlantic rose against us, why, 

Then it had swallowed us up quick." 

This is the end of the whaleroad and the whale 

Who spewed Nantucket bones on the thrashed swen 

And stirred the troubled waters to whirlpools 

To send the Pequod packing off to hell: 

This is the end of them, three-quarters fools, 

Snatching at straws to sail 

Seaward and seaward on the turntail whale, 

Spouting out blood and water as it rolls, 

Sick as a dog to these Atlantic shoals: 

Clamavimus, 0 depths. Let the sea-gulls wail 

IV 

For water, for the deep where the high tide 

Mutters to its hurt self, mutters and ebbs. 

Waves wallow in their wash, go out and ant, 

Leave only the death-rattle of the crabs, 

The beach increasing, its enormous snout 

Sucking the ocean's side. 

This is the end of running on the waves; 

We are poured out like water. Who will dance 

The mast-lashed master of Leviathans 

Up from this field of Quakers in their unstoned graves?

(1251] ROBERT LOWELL 

v 

When the whale's viscera go and the roll 

Of its corruption overruns this world 

Beyond tree-swept Nantucket and Wood's Hole 

And Martha's Vineyard, Sailor, will your sword 

Whistle and fall and sink into the fat? 

In the great ash-pit of Jehoshaphat 

The bones cry for the blood of the white whale, 

The fnt flukes arch and whack about its ears, 

The death-lance churns into the sanctuary, tears 

The gun-blue swingle, heaving like a Hail, 

And hacks the coiling life out: it works and drags 

And rips the sperm-whale's midriff into rags, 

Gob~~ts of blubber spill to wind and weather, 

Sailor, and gulls go round the stoven timbers 

Where the morning stars sing out together 

And thunder shakes the white surf and dismembers 

The red Hag hammered in the mast-head. Hide 

Our steel, Jonas Messias, in Thy side. 

VI 

OUR LADY OF W ALSINGHAM 

There once the penitents took off their shoes 

And then walked barefoot the remaining mile; 

And the small trees, a stream and hedgerows file 

Slowly along the munching English lane, 

Like cows at the old shrine, until you lose 

Track of your dragging pain. 

The slream Bows down under the druid tree, 

Shiloah's whirlpools gurgle and make glad 

The castle of God. Sailor, you were glad 

And whistled Sion by that stream. But see: 

Our Lady, too small for her canopy, 

Sits near the altar. There's no comenness 

At all or charm in that expressionless 

Face with its heavy eyends. As before, 

This face, for centuries a memory, 

Non eu speCies, neque decor,

ROBERT LOWELL [ 1252] 

Expressionless, expresses God: it goes 

Past castled Sian. She knows what God knows, 

Not Calvary's Cross nor crib at Bethlehem 

Now, and the world shall come to Walsingham. 

VII 

The empty winds are creaking and the oak 

Splatters and splatters on the cenotaph, 

The boughs are trembling and a gaff 

Bobs on the untimely stroke 

Of the greased wash exploding on a shoal-bell 

In the old mouth of the Atlantic. It's well; 

Atlantic, you are fouled with the blue sailors, 

Sea-monsters, upward angel, downward fish: 

Unmarried and corroding, spare of Hesh, 

Mart once of supercilious, wing'd clippers; 

Atlantic, where your bell-trap guts its spoil 

You could cut the brackish winds with a knife 

Here in Nantucket, and cast up the time 

When the Lord God formed man from the sea's slime 

And breathed into his face the breath of life, 

And blue-lung'd combers lumbered to the kill. 

The Lord survives the rainbow of his will. 

RICHARD WILBUR 

Alter the Last Bulletins 

After the last bulletins the windows darken 

And the whole city founders easily and deep, 

Sliding on all its pillows 

To the thronged Atlantis of personal sleep, 

And the wind rises. The wind rises and bowls 

The day's litter of news in the alleys. Trash 

Tears itself on the railings, 

Soars and falls with a soft crash,

[1258] RICHARD WILBUR 

Tumbles and soars again. Unruly Bights 

Scamper the park, and taking a statue for dead 

Strike at positive eyes, 

Batter and! Hap the stolid head 

And scratch the noble name. In empty lots 

(}ur journah spkal in a fierce noyade 

Of all we thought to think, 

Or caught in corners cramp and wad 

And twist our words. And some from gutters Hail 

Thek tatters at the tired patrolman's feet, 

Like all that fisted snow 

That cried beside his long retreat 

Damn you! damn youl to the emperor's horse's heels. 

Oh none too soon through the ak white and dry 

Will the clear announcer's voice 

Beat like a dove, and you and I 

From the heart's anarch and responsible town 

Rise by the subway-mouth to life again, 

Bearing the morning papers, 

And cross the park where saintlike men, 

White and absorbed, with stick and bag remove 

The litter of the night, and footsteps rouse 

With confident morning sound 

The songbirds in the public boughs.

INDEX OF POETS 

INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

AND TITLES 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

INDEX OF POETS 

(Pages 1-654 are in Volume One; pages 655-1253 

in Volume Twa.) 

Abercrombie, Lascelles (1881 

1938), 1147 

Adams, Uo'nie (II. 1899), U.S., 

1218 

A.E.-George William Russell 

(1867-1935), 1103 

Aiken, Conrad (II. 1889), U.S., 

1188 

Alexander, William, Earl of Stir 

ling (156;'7-1640),212 

Allingham, William (1824-1889), 

974 

Anonymous (A.D. 600-800), 1 

Anonymous (13th century), 2. 

Anonymous (14th century), 3-4 

Anonymous (15th century), 20-25 

Anonymous (15th-16th century), 

64-65 

Anonymous (16th century). 66-76, 

9 

Anonymous 1 

(17th century), 353 

377 

Anonymous ( 18th century), 608 

610 

Anonymous f19th Certtury), 1122. 

Anonymous ballads (periods uncer 

tain), 35-;7 

Anonymous earols (periods uncer 

tain), 5~)3 

Arnold, Matthew (1822-1888), 959 

Auden, Wystan Hugh (II. 1907), 

l:u6 

Aytoun, Sir Robert (1570-1638). 

22.4 

Bacon, Leonard (1887-1954). U.S., 

1173 

Ballads, anonymous (periods uncertain), 

35-:>7 

Barbour. John (13207-1395), ; 

Barker, Georl~e (II. 1913). 1240 

Barnelield. Richard ( 1574-1627) , 

26, 

Basse, William (15837-16 53?), "97 

Beattie, James (1735-1803), 598 

Beaumont, :Francis 

.:1199 

(1584-1616), 

Beaumont, Sir John (1583-1627), 

293 

Beddoes, Thomas Lovell (18c3 

1849), 807 

Bchn, Aphra (1640-1689), 499 

Belloe, Hilaire (1870-1953), 1110 

Benet, Stephen Vincent (1898 

1943), U.S., 1208 

Bentley, Richard (166::-1742), ;10 

Berkeley, George (168;-1753), 521 

Bickerstaffe, Isaac (17357-1811?), 

598 

Binyon, Laurence (1869-194.), 

1109 

Bishop, Elizabeth (II. 1911), U.S., 

12>8 

Bishop, Samuel (1731-1795), ;96 

Blair, Robert (1699-1746), 543 

Blake, William (1757-1817),610 

Blunden, Edmund (:II. 1896), 1207 

Blffilt, Wilfrid Seawen (1840 

19:n), 10;1 

Boothby, Sir Brooke (1734-1824), 

597 

Bowles, William Lisle ( 1762 

18;0), 654 

Breton, Nicholas (1;42-16a6), 81 

Bridges, Robert (1844-1930), 1063 

Brontt!, Charlotte (1816-18S;), 

916 

Brontt!, Emily Jane (1818-1848) ,910 

Brooke, Lord (1;54-1628). 122 

Brooke, RUfert (1887-191;), 1178 

Browne 0 Tavistock, William 

(1591-16431), 320 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett (1806 

1861). 815 

Browniug, Robert (1812-1889), 

883 

Bruce, Michael (1746-1767), 601 

Bryant, William Cullen ( 1794 

1878), U.S., 76; 

Burus, Robert (1759-1796), 62; 

Butler, Samuel (1612-168c), 426 

Byrom, John (1692-1763), 54. 

Byron, George Noel Gordon, Lord 

(1788-182.4). 719 

1257

INDEX OF POETS [1258] 

Campbell, Joseph (a. 1881), 1148 

Campbell, Roy (1902-1957), So. 

Afr., 1222 

Campion, Thomas (1567-1619), 

2.13 

Carew, Thomas (1598?-1639?), 

348 

Carey, Henry (1687-1743), ;27 

Carols, anonymous (periods uncer· 

tain). 58-63 

Cartwright, William (1611-1643), 

423 

Chalkhill, John (15-7-16-7),271 

Chaplin, Ralph (a. 1880), U.S., 

1147 

Chapman. George (1560-1634). 

145 

Chatterton, Thomas (17 $2-1770), 

606 

Chaucer, Geoffrey (13407-1400), 6 

Chesterton, Gilbert Keith (1874 

1936), 1121 

Clare, John (1793-1864). 764 

Cleveland, John (1613-1658). 440 

Clough. Arthur Hugh (1819-1861), 

926 

Coleridge, Hartley (1796-1849), 

795 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor (1772 

1834), 679 

Collins, William (172.1-1759). 572 

Colum, Padraic (D. 1881). 1148 

Congreve, William (1670-1729). 

519 

Constable, Henry (15627-16137). 

153 

Corbet. Richard (1582-1635), 289 

Cory, William Johnson (1823 

1892 ), 973 

Cotton. Charles (1630-1687). 472 

Cowley. Abraham (1618-1667), 

447 

Cowper. William (1731-1800), ;88 

Crane, Hart (1899-1932). U.S., 

1210 

Crane, Stephen (1871-1900). U.S., 

1113 

Crashaw, Richard (16137-1649). 

430 

Cummings, Edward Estlin (a. 

1894). U.S., 1201 

Curran. John Philpot (1750-1817). 

604 

Daniel, Samuel (1562-1619), 154 

Darley, George (1795-1846), 794 

Davenant. Sir William (1606 

1668), 384 

Davidson, John (1857-1909), 1077 

Davies, Sir John (1561)-1626), 223 

Davies, William Henry (1870 

1940), 1109 

Day, John (15-7-16407), 242 

Dekker, Thomas (15707-16417). 

225 

De La Mare. Walter (1873-1956), 

lu8 

Deloney, Thomas (15437-16077). 

87 

Denham, Sir John (1615-1669). 

442 

Dickinson, Emily (1830-1886). 

U.S., 1000 

Dobson, Henry Austin (1840 

1921), 1050 

Donne. John (1573-1631). 244 

Doolittle. Hilda (D. 1886), U.S., 

1168 

Douglas, Lord Alfred (1870-1945), 

1110 

Dowson, Ernest (1867-1900), 110:1 

Drayton, Michael (156;-1631). 

159 

Drummond of Hawthomden, Wil· 

liam (1585-1649), 302 

Dryden. John (1631-1700),478 

Dunbar. William (1460-15201). 

32 

Dyer. Sir Edward (15457-1607), 

89 

Dyer, John (17001-17>8). 544 

Earle. Giles (15-1-16-7), 30; 

Eliot. Thomas Stearns (D. 1888), 

U.S.• u80 

Elliot, Jane (17:17-1805). 582 

Emerson. Ralph Waldo (1803 

1882), U.S•• 800 

Empson, William (D. 1906), 12.25 

Etherege, Sir George (16351-1691), 

495 

Evans. Abel (1679-1737). S:zl 

Farley. Henry (15-7-16-1). 276 

Fawkes, Francis (1720-1777), 570 

Fielding. HerlIY (17°7-1754), 551 

Finch. Anne. Countesl of Win· 

chelsea (1661?-17:aO), 510 

Fitzgerald, Edward (180g-1883). 

8;2 

Flecker, James Elroy (1884-1915). 

1156

[1259] INDEX 01" POETS 

Fletcher, Giles, the younger (1,887 

1623), ;18 

Fletcher, John (1579-162.5), 276 

Fletcher. Phineas (1582-1650). 

290 

Ford, Ford Madox (1873-1939), 

1116 

Ford, John (1586-1639), 308 

Freneau, Philip (1752-1832), U.S., 

606 

Frost, Robert (ll. 1875), U.s., 

IUS 

Gascoigne, George (15:&51-1;77), 

81 

Gay, John (l.685-1732). 522 

Glover, Richard (17U-178S), 555 

Goldsmith, Oliver (17287-1774), 

584 

Graham, Jattles, Marquess of Mont· 

rose (16u-1650), 424 

Grainger. James (17:21-1767). 570 

Graves. Robert (D. 18(5), 1205 

Gray, Thom:!s (1716-1771), 5,9 

Greene, Robert (15607-1,92), 139 

Greville, FuJke, Lord Brooke (1554 

1628), 122 

Griffin, Bartholomew (1$-1 

1602), 91. 

Habington. William (1605-1654), 

378 

Hall, John (1627-1656),471 

Hall, Joseph (1574-1656), 267 

Hardy. Thomas (1840-192.8), 1045 

Hawes. Stephen (14757-1,2.3?), 34 

H.D.-Hilda Doolittle (II. 1886). 

U.S., us; 

Henley, William Ernest (1849 

1(03), 1067 

Henry VIII, King (1491-1547), 

66 

Herbert, George (1593-1633). 340 

Herbert of Cherbury, Lord (1583 

1648), 294 

Herrick, Robert (1591-1674), 32.5 

Heywood, Thomas (15757-16507), 

271 

Hodgson, Ralph (D. 1871),1114 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell (1809 

18(4), U.S., 830 

Hood, Thomas (1799-1845), 79, 

Hopkins, Gerard Manley (1844 

1889), III59 

Hopper, Nora (1871-1906), 11U 

Housman, Alfred Edward (1859 

1(36), 1079 

Howard, Henry, Earl of SUffey 

(1516-1547), 79 

Hulme, Thomas Ernest (1883 

1917), 1152 

Hunt, James Henry Leigh (1784 

1859), 712 

Huxley, Aldous (a. 1894), 1199 

Jeffers, Robinson (II. 1887), U.S., 

1169 

Johnson, Lionel (1867-1

INDEX OF POETS [12601 

MacDonald, Wilson Pugsley (B. 

lS80), Can., 1145 

MacLeish, Archibald (B. 1892) • 

U.S., 1193 

MacNeice, Louis (B. 1907), 1231 

Mangan, James Clarence (1803 

1849). 813 

Marlowe, Christopher (1 ;64 

1593), 168 

Marston, John (15757-1634), 268 

Marvell, Andrew (1621-1678),4$$ 

Mase6eld. John (B. 187S), 1134 

Massinger, Philip (1583-1640). 

298 

Masters. Edgar Lee (1869-1950), 

U.S .• 1104 

May, Thomas (159;-16;0),346 

McCrae. John (1872-1918), Can., 

1115 

McGinley. Phyllis (B. 190;), U.S.• 

1225 

Melville, Hennan (1819-1891), 

U.S., 950 

Meredith. George (1828-1909), 

976 

Messinger, Robert Hinckley (18n 

1874), U.S., 882 

Mew, Charlotte (1870-1928), 1111 

Meynell, Alice (1849-1922), 106; 

Mickle. William Julius (1735 

1788), 599 

Middleton, Thomas (15707-1627). 

Ransom, John Crowe (B. 

232 

Millay, Edna St. Vincent (1892 

1950), U.s., 1195 

Milton. John (1608-1674), 387 

Mitchell, Silas Weir (1829-1914). 

U.S., 992 

Monro, Harold (1879-1932), 1140 

Montrose. Marquess of (1612 

16;0), 424 

Moore, Marianne (B. 1887), U.S., 

1174 

Moore, Thomas (1779-185=1), 710 

Mortis, William (18)4-1896). 

1010 

Muir, Edwin (B. 1887),1172 

Munday, Anthony (1553-1633). 

120 

O'Shaughnessy, Arthur William 

Edgar (1844-1881). 1063 

Otway, Thomas (1652-1685), 506 

Owen, Wilfred (1893-1918), 1197 

Patmore, Coventry Kersey Dighton 

(1823-1896), 973 

Peacock, Thomas Love (178; 

1866). 714 

Peele, George (15587-1597). 134 

Philips, Katherine (1631-1664),494 

Plan, Victor (1863-1929), 1086 

Poe, Edgar Allan (1809'-1849), 

U.s., 865 

Pope, Alexander (1688-1744), ;29 

Pound, Ezra (B. 1885), U.S., 1164 

Praed, Winthrop Mackworth 

(180~-1839), 799 

Prior, Matthew (1664-172.1), ;u 

Prokosch, Frederic (D. 1909), U.s., 

1236 

Putrlam, Howard Phelps (1894 

1948), U.S., 1204 

Rliine, Kathleen (B. 1908), U33 

Raleigh, Sir Walter (1552-1618), 

92, 169 

Rarosay. Allan (1686-1758), ;26 

Randolph, Thomas (1605-1635), 

;,8 

1888). 

U.S., 1186 

Reed, Henry (B. 1914), 1243 

Robinson, Edwin Arlington (1869 

1935). U.S.• 1106 

Rochester, Earl of (1647-1680), 

50:& 

Rodgers, William Robert (D. 1909), 

1237 

Roetbke, Theodore (B. 19(8), U.S., 

1233 

Rosenberg, Isaac (1890-1918), 

1190 

Rossetti, Christina Georgina (1830 

1894), 993 

Rossetti, Dante Gabriel ( 18:&8 

188l), 986 

Rowlands, Richard, alias Verstegan 

(156S-1630), :Z10 

Russell, George William (1867 

1935), 110 3 

Oldham, John (16;3-1683), 507 

Oldys, Williant (1696--1761), 543 

Sandburg, Carl (B. 1878), U.S., 

1137

[1261] INDEX OF POETS 

Santayana, George (1863-195:1.). 

U.S., 1087 

Sassoon, Siegfried (D. 1886). 1167 

Schwartz, Delmore (D. 1913), U.S., 

1:141 

Scott, Sir Walter (1771-1832),670 

Scott of Amwell, John (1730 

1783), 588 

Sedley, Sir Charles (1639-1701), 

497 

Seeger, Alan (1888-1916), U.S., 

1179 

Shadwell, TIlomas (164:1.1-1692), 

502 

Shakespeare, William (1564-1616), 

180 

Shapiro, Karl (D. 1913), U.s., 124:/. 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822), 

740 

Shenstone, \Villiam (1714-176;), 

558 

Sheridan, Riehard Brinsley (1751 

1816),60; 

Shirley, James (1596-1666), 347 

Sidney, Sir Philip (1554-1586). 

u; 

Sitwell. Edith (n. 1887). 1170 

Sitwell, Osbert (D. 1892.), 1190 

Sitwell, Sacbeverell (D. 1900), 

1219 

Skelton, John (14601-1 ;29), :1.6 

Slessor. Kenneth (n. 1901). Aus.• 

1221 

Smart, Christopher (1722-1771). 

575 

Smith, CharI.)tte (1749-1806), 60:1. 

Southwell, Robert (15611-1595), 

1;0 

Spender, Stephen (n. 1909),12.34 

Spenser. Edmund (1552-1599),98 

Stanley. TholDas (1625-1678), 470 

Steele. Sir Richard (167::1.-1729). 

520 

Stephens, James (1882-19;0), 11;1 

Stevens, ,"Vallace (1879-19:n), 

U.S., 114:1. 

Stevenson, Robert Louis (1850 

1894), 1070 

Stickney, Tmmbull (1874-1904), 

U.S., 112,. 

Stiding, Earl of (15671-1640), :1.12 

Suckling. Si~ John (1609-1642), 

416 

Surrey, Earl of (1)16-1547), 79 

Swift, Jonathan (1667-1745), 515 

Swinburne, Algernon Charles 

(1837-1909), 1017 

Sylvester, Joshua (156;-1618), 158 

Symons, Arthur (1865-1945), 1094 

Tate, Allen (n. 1899), U.S., 1215 

Tennyson, Alfred, Lord (1809 

1892), 845 

Thackeray, Wfiliam Makepeace 

(1811-1863), 878 

Thomas, Dylan (1914-1953), 1144 

Thomas, Edward (1878-1917) , 

1136 

Thompson, Francis (1859-1907), 

1082) 

Thompson, William (17147 

17667), 555 

Thomson, James, the elder (1700 

1748), 545 

Thomson, James, the younger 

(1834-18111), 1004 

Thoreau, Henry David (1817 

1862.), U.S., 917 

Tichboume, Chidiock (1;587 

1586), 138 

Toumeur, Cyril (15751-1626), 2n 

Van Doren, Mark (D. 1894), U.S., 

1200 

Vaughan, Henry (162.2-1695), 46:1. 

Waller, Edmund (1606-1687), 385 

Walsh, William (1663-1708), 511 

Warton, Thomas, the elder (1688 

1745), 542 

Warton, Thomas, the younger 

(1728-1790), 583 

Webster, John (1580-16307). 288 

White, Joseph Blanco (1775 

1841 ),701 

Whitman, Walt (1819-1892). 

U.S.• 927 

Whittier, John Greenleaf (1807 

1892), U.S., 829 

Wickham, Anna (B. 1884), 1155 

Wilbur, Richard (D. 1921), U.S., 

US:/. 

Wilde, Oscar (1856-1900), 107:1. 

Williams, William Carlos (B. 

1883), U.S., 1153 

Wilmot, John, Earl of Rochester 

(1647-1680), 502 

Winchelsea, Countess of (16611 

1720), 510 

Wither, George (1;88-1667), 311

INDEX OF POETS [1262] 

Wolfe, Charles (1791-1823), 739 Wylie, Elinor (188;;-1928), U.S... 

Wootton, Sir Henry (1;68-1639), 1166 

:z.:n 

Wordsworth, William (1770 

1850), 655 Yeats, William Butler (186;; 

Wyatt, Sir Thomas (1;;03-154:z.), 1939), 1089 

76 Young, Edward (1683-1765), sn

INDEX OF FIRST LINES AND TITLES 

(Pages 1-654 are in Volume One; pages 655-1253 

in Volume Two.) 

A book, a friend, a song, a glass 

;;; 

A brackish reach of shoal off Madaket 

1248 

A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also 

9 

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass 

by 659 

A Frankeleyn was in his compaignye 

9 

AI fredome is a noble thingl 5 

A Gentle Squire would gladly entertain 

267 

A ghost, that loved a lady fair 811 

A good Wif was ther of biside 

Bathe 10 

A little child, a limber elf 698 

A little mushroom table spread 330 

A little onward lend thy guiding 

hand 413 

A little while a little love 986 

A little while, a little while 922 

A man may live: thrice Nestor's life 

7 2 

A Marchant was ther with a forked 

berd 8 

A newspaper is a collection of half· 

injustices 1114 

A pa~ glance, a lightning long 

the skies 304 

A rose, as fair as ever saw the north 

;24 

A slumber did my spirit seal 657 

A Solis Orrus Cardine . .. 1118 

A Sonnet is a moment's monnment 

988 

A street there is in Paris famous 

879 

A sweet disorder in the dress 32:; 

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever 

788 

A touch of cold in the Autumn 

night 1152 

A weary lot i.~ thine, fair maid 675 

Absalom and Achitophel 489 

1263 

Absent from thee I languish still 

503 

Abstinence sows sand all over 6::10 

Accept, thou shrine of my dead 

saint 339 

Address to a Haggis 633 

Address to the Unea Guid or the 

Rigidly Righteous 6;1 

Adieu; farewell earth's bliss 211 

Admiral Hosier's Ghost ;;; 

Adonais 759 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever 

648 

Aella 606 

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the 

open road 934 

After a Lecture on Keats 831 

After Apple-Picking 1126 

After the last bulletins the windows 

darken u. 5:1. 

After the pangs of a desperate lover 

480 

Aftermath 1167 

Afterwards 1050 

Agaiost Gamesche 

z9 

Against Women either Good or Bad 

72 

AL ChlorisI that I now could sit 

498 

Ah, fading joy, how quickly art thou 

pastl 479 

AL, fair Zenocrate, divine Zenocrate 

173 

Ah, Faustus 177 

Ah, gentle, tender lady minel 878 

Ah, how sweet it is to love 481 

Ahl Sun-Bowerl weary of time 617 

Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair 

143 

Ahl what a weary race my feet have 

lm1 583 

Ah, what aVlllls the sceptred race 

70, 

AL, what is love? It is a pretty thing 

139

FIRST LINES AND TITLES [1264] 

Ahl where must needy poet seek for 

aid ;15 

"A-Hunting We Will Go" ;51 

Alas, the moon should ever beam 

797 

Alas, 'tis true I have gone here and 

there 

:1.08 

Alchemist, The 

:1.41 

All, all of a piece throughout 494 

All clowns are masked and all personae 

1241 

All human things are subject to decay 

490 


1201 

All my past life is mine no more 

50 3 

All That's Past 

1119 

AIl the Bowen of the spring 289 

AIl things are current found 919 

All things uncomely and broken, all 

things worn out and old 1090 

Although thy hand and faith and 

good works too 

:I. 53 

Amarantha sweet and fair 444 

Amazing monsterl that, for aught I 

know 

713 

Ambitious Gorgons, wide-mouthed 

Lamians 

:1.70 

Amoret 

519 

Amyntas led me to a grove 500 

An age in her embraces past 502 

An idle poet, here and there 973 

An old man bending I come among 

new faces 

937 

An old song made by an agM old 

pate 

.369 

An thou were my ain thing 526 

Anactoria 

1022 

Ancient Mariner, The Rime of the 

679 

And as for me, though that my wit 

be lite 

17 

And did those feet in ancient time 

622 

And ever must I fan this lire? 957 

And here face down beneath the 

sun 

1193 

And mony ane sings 0' grass, 0' grass 

37 

And my dear one sat in the shadows; 

very softly she 1116 

And now methinks I could e'en 

chide myself 

:1.75 

And now, with gleams of half- 

extinguished thought 667 

And this comely dame 

27 

And, truly, I would rather be struck 

dumb 

789 

And when I am entombed in my 

place 

800 

And will a' not come again? 192 

-And yet this great wink of 

eternity 

1210 

And you who love, you who attach 

yourselves 

1188 

Angel in the House, The 973 

Annabel Lee 

877 

Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun 677 

AnnU$ Mirabilis 

486 

Anthem for Doomed Youth 1198 

Antonio and Me1lida 

:1.68 

Antonio'$ Revenge 

269 

Apparition, The 

:I. So 

Appreciation 

985 

April 

806 

Arcades 

388 

Argument of His Boole, The 32.5 

~ 955 

Art thou pale for weariness 754 

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden 

slumbers? 

:1.2.6 

"Art thou that she than whom no 

fairer is 

3S3 

"Artemidoral Gods invisible 709 

As a sloop with a sweep of im 

maculate wing on her delicate 

spine 

12.42 

As a twig trembles, which a bird 

949 

As a white candle 

1148 

As after noon, one summer's day 

513 

As cedars beaten with continual 

storms 

145 

As I in hoary winter's night 150 

As I sat under a sycamore tree 60 

As I went down to Dymchurcb 

Wall 

1077 

As I fell upon a day 

:1.6; 

As Joseph was a-walking 59 

As near Porto-Bello lying ;;s 

As one that for a weary space has 

lain 

1062 

As the holly groweth green 66 

As to His Choice of Her 1052 

As toilsome I wandet'd Virginia's 

woods 

937 

As we rush, as we rush in the Train 

1010 

As when the moon hath comforted 

the night 

147

[1265] 

As when upon a tranced summer· 

night 

793 

As you came from the Holy Land 73 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows 

350 

Ask me why I !/Clld you here 3.27 

Astrophel and Stella 

1:15 

At Castle Wood 

924 

At Dover Cliffs,luly 20, 1,8, 654 

At length the finIShed garden to the 

view 

549 

At Parting 

1032 

At the earliest ending of winter 

1145 

At the mid hour of night, when 

stars are weep~, I fly 711 

At the midnight In the silence of 

the sIeep-time 

916 

At the round earth's imagined cor· 

ners, blow 

.262 

At Tmm~gtonn nat fer from 

Cantebflgge 

1:1 

Atalanta in Calydon, Chomses from 

1038 

Atheist's Tragedy, The .273 

AtIantides, The 

918 

Aubade 

1:131 

Auguries of Innocence 621 

Auld Robin Gray 

603 

AutItur', Reso.lutioo, TIte 311 

Autumn (Thomas Hood) 79; 

Automn (Thl)mas Ernest Hulme) 

1152 

Autumn Soo@' 

987 

Autumnal. The 

254 

Ave atque Vale (In Memory of 

Cbarles Baudelaire) 1033 

Avenge 0 Lord Thy slaughtered 

saints, whose bones 408 

Avoid the reeking herd 1166 

Awake, }Eolian lyre, awake 566 

Away, delighlll; go seek some other 

dwelling 

284 

Away with th,ege self-loving lads U2 

Bacchus 

803 

Back and side go bare. go bare 64 

Bagpipe Music 

1231 

Balade de Bon Conseil 18 

Ballad: La Belle Dame sans Merci 

779 

Ballad: "0 What Is That Sound 

.. 

12.27 

879 

991 

Ballad of Bouillabaisse, The 

Ballad of Dead Ladies, The 

Ballad of Reading Gaol, The 1072 

Ballad upon /I Wedding, A 418 

Banks 0' Doon. The 648 

Barbara Allen's Cmelty ;5 

Bards, The 

12.05 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth 775 

Bavarian Gentians 

11 59 

Be composed-be at ease with me- 

I am Walt Whitman 948 

Be in me as the eternal moods 

1164 

Be with me. Beauty, for the fire is 

dying 

1136 

Beauty 

992 

Beauty elear and fair 282 

Beauty sat bathing by a spring 12.0 

Beauty. sweet love. is like the mom· 

ing dew 

1;7 

Beautyl thou art a wanderer on the 

earth 

709 

Before the beginning of years 1040 

BelIold the fatal day arri\rel ;17 

BelIold you not this globe, this 

golden bowl 

228 

Being set, let's sport a while, my 

fair 

382 

Being your slave, what should I do 

but tend 

203 

Belle of the Ball·Room, The 799 

Beneath my palm·trees. by the river 

side 

790 

Beowulf 

Bermudas 

455 

Bid me to live, and I win live H; 

Big Wind 

1233 

Birb of AberfeIdy, The 643 

Birth of Robin Hood, The 37 

Birthday, A 

997 

Bishop Orders His Tomb at Saint 

Pla;red'S Church, The 89; 

Black is the beauty of the brightest 

day 

174 

Blind Date 

1189 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind 187 

Bonie lassie. will ye go 643 

Bonny Genrge Campbell ;4 

Brahma 

807 

Break of Day in the Trenches 1190 

Breathe not, hid Heart: cease silently 

1046 

Breathless, we !lung us on the 

windy hill 

1178 

Bridge, The 

1194 

Bright star! would I were steadfast 

as thou art 

794 

Bring me wine, but wine which 

never grew 

803


Bring us in good ale, and bring us Cast our caps and cares away :1.80 

in good ale 

24 Castle of Indolence, The 545 

Britannia's Pastorals 

320 Catch, A 

715 

Brown Tug, The 

Bruce, The 

570 

5 

Celestial Surgeon, The 

Certain Sonnets 

1070 

u8 

Bubble-breasted swells the dome 

1200 

Change 

253 

Character of a Happy Life, The ::21 

Buick 

1242 Charlie, He's My Darling 652. 

Burning Babe, The 

150 Chevy Chase 

43 

Burnt Norton 

1185 Chicago 

1137 

Bussy d'Ambois 

145 Chicken-skin, delicate, white 1050 

Busy, curious, thirsty Byl 543 Child. I will give you rings to wear 

But ahl let me under some Kentish 

1094 

hill 

290 Childe Harold's PiIgrimage 723 

But are ye sure the news is true? Children of my happier prime 9'>7 

600 Child's Song 

711 

But, grant thy poetry should find Chivalry 

1103 

success 

507 Chloe found Amyntas lying 479 

But who considers well will find indeed 

461 

But who the melodies of mom can 

Chloe, why wish you that your years 

4Z3 

Chloris, whl1st thou and I were free 

tell? 

598 

By numbers here from shame or Choice, The 

475 

989 

censure free 

55:3 Choose me your Valentine 3:&6 

By our first strange and fatal interview 

Choric Song of the Lotos-Eaters 

25; 

847 

By Saint Mary, my lady 31 Chorus 

124 

By the !sar, in the twilight 1157 Chorus from a Tragedy 1173 

By the rude bridge that arched the Choruses from Atalanta in Calydon 

Hood 

80; 

1038 

Bytuenl! Mersh and Averil 3 Christa bel 

698 

Christmas Carol. A 

315 

Caesar and Pompey 

146 Christ's Victory in Heaven 318 

Call for the robin redbreast and the Christ's Victory on Earth 319 

WTen 

288 Chronicle, The 

453 

CaU, The 

471 Chronicle of the Drum, The 878 

Call the roller of big cigars 1142. City in the Sea, The 813 

Calm was the day, and through the City of Dreadful Night, The 1004 

trembling air 

100 Civilized, crying bow to be human 

Camuens 

957 again: this will tell you how 1169 

Camoens in the Hospital 958 Clear eyes do dim lit last 1120 

Can I not sing but "Hoy" :31 Climate of Thought, The 1205 

Can I see another's woe 614 Clod and the Pebble, The 615 

Can I, who have for others oft Close up the casement, draw the 

compiled 

293 blind 

1047 

Can life be a blessing 483 Cloud, The 

7S2 

Can you paint a thought? or number 

Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain 

308 

226 

Canonization, The 

246 Collar, The 

341 

Canterbury Tales, The Prologue to Come away, come away, death 190 

the 

6 Come back, ye wandering Muses, 

Canto LXXXI 

1165 come back home 

70:1. 

Care-charmer sleep. son of the sable Come, dear chl1dren, let us away 

night 

158 

¢o 

Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of Come down, 0 maid, from yonder 

all woes 

279 mountain height 

860

[1267] FIRST LINES AND TITLES 

Come follow, follow me 374 Cupid and my Campaspe played 

Come, gentle 7..ephyr, tricked with 

121 

those ~umes 

138 Cupid's Mistaken 

513 

Come hither Womankind and all Cut is the branch that m~ht have 

their worth 

2.95 grown full straight 179 

Come, keen :lambics, with your 

badger's feet 

441 Dame1us' Song to His Diaphenia 

Cornel leave tllis sullen state, and 

153 

let not wine 

463 Dante 

768 

Come little hllbe, come sllly soul Daphnis eame on a summer's day 

82. 

354 

Come live with me, and be my love Darest thon now 0 soul 948 

168 Darle Roween 

812 

Come, my L~lcasia, since we see Daughters of Tinte, the hypocritic 

494 

80; 

Come, Sleep; 0 Sleepl the certain 

on England down the 

knot of peal:e 

12.6 entish hills 

1156 

Come sons of Summer, by whose Days 

805 

toil 

328 Dead Poet, The 

1110 

Come, spur away 

378 Dear Cloe, how blubber'd is that 

Come, thou monarch of the vine pretty face 

514 

194 Dear, do not your fair beauty 

Come to me :in the silence of the wrong 

346 

n~ht 

998 Dear, had the world in its caprice 

Come unto th,:se yellow sands 197 

889 

Come, virgin tapers of pure wax Dear hopei Earth's dowry and 

430 heav'n's debtl 

436 

Come, worthy Greek, Ulysses, come Dear quirister, who from tltose shadows 

sends 

302 

154 

Complaint of Chaucer to His Purse, Dear Tom, this brown jug that now 

The 

19 foaros with mild ale 570 

Comus 

397 Dear, why should you command me 

Concord Hymn 

805 to my rest 

168 

Confessional, The 

88; Dearest, do not you deJay me :a80 

Confessions 

908 Deatlt, be not proud though some 

Conformers, The 

1048 have called tltee 

263 

Conspiracy at Charles, Duke of Byron, 

The 

147 Decanter of Madeila, Aged 86, to 

Death of Robin Hood, The 38 

Convendon 

1152 George Bancroft, Aged 86, A 992 

Cool Tombs 

1138 Declaration 

1094 

Coc>pets Hill 

442 Dedication (To Leigh Hunt, Esq.) 

Coquet, The 

499 

768 

Coridou's Song 

2.71 Deil's AWl! wi' the Exciseman, The 

Corinna to Tanagra 

708 

649 

Coronach 

672 Deirdre (James Stephens) 11;1 

Could Love ior ever 

7:at Deirdre (William Butler Yeats) 

Counting the Beats 

1206 

1090 

Country Summer 

1118 Delight in Disorder p; 

Crabbed age and youth cannot live Description of II City Shower, A 

together 

91 

515 

Cradle Song. A 

612. Description of the Morning, A 

Cromwell, ollr chief of men, who 

;1; 

through a cloud 

407 Deserted Village, The ;8; 

Crossing the Bar 

865 Deserter, The 

604 

Cry of the Children, The 819 Diaphenia, like the datiadowndilly 

Cumnor HaJl 

599 

153

[1268] 

Did all the lets and bars appear 

951 

Did not the heavenly rhetoric of 

thine eye 

180 

Dim, as the borrowed beams of 

moon and stars 

491 

Dip down upon the northern shore 

861 

Dirce 

707 

Dirge in Cymbeline 

574 

Discipline 

342 

Discovery 

1110 

Disdain Returned 

349 

Disdains Zenocrate to live with me? 

171 

Divina Commedia 

8:18 

Divine Image, The 

613 

Do not conceal thy radiant eyes 310 

Do not go gentle into that good 

night 

1:147 

Do not let any woman read this 

versel 

1151 

Do not weep, maiden, for war is 

kind 

1113 

Do ye hear the children weeping, 

o my brothers 

819 

"Do you remember me? or are 

you proud?" 

707 

Doctor Faustus, The TragicaI History 

of 

176 

Does the road wind up-hill all the 

way? 

998 

Don Tuan 

729 

aWpl4 (Doria) 

1164 

Doubt me, my dim companionl 

1001 

Dover Beach 

972 

"Down a downl" 

130 

Dream-Pedlary 

808 

Drink to me only with thine eyes 

:1;5 

Drink to-day, and drown all sorrow 

:1.82 

Drover, A 

Drum, The 

Dunciad, The 

Dying Patriot, The 

Dying Speech of an Old Philosopher 

1148 

588 

541 

1156 

Eagle and the Mole, The 1166 

Eagle That Is Forgotten, The 1139 

Earth has not anything to show 

more fair 

660 

Earth was not Earth before her sons 

appeared 

985 

Earthly Paradise, The 1015 

Easily to the old 

1145 

Eat thou and drink; tomorrow thon 

shalt die 

989 

Echo 

998 

Ecologue 

1:135 

Ecstasy, The 

250 

Edward the Second 

179 

Eftsoons they heard a most melodious 

sound 

119 

Egeria, sweet creation of some heart 

726 

Elected Silence, sing to me 1060 

Elegy in a Country Churchyard 

1122 

Elegy over a Tomb 296' 

Elegy Written in a Country 

Churchyard 

S59, 

Eleventh Song 

127 

Elinor Rumming 

"7 

Elisa, or an Elegy npon the Unripe 

Decease of Sit Anthony lrby :1.91 

Eloisa to Abelard 

53 5 

Emperor of lce-Cream, The 1142. 

Enchantment, The 

506 

End, The 

!l00 

Endpnion 

788 

England Reclaimed 

1192 

Englandl the time is come when 

thou shouldst wean 661 

Epilogue 

916 

Epilogue to Rhymes and Rhythms 

1069 

Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot 539 

Epitaph (Lascelles Abercrombie) 

1147 

Epitaph, An (Walter De La Mare) 

1118 

Epitaph on II jacobite 799 

Epitaph on an Army of Mercenaries 

1080 

Epitaph on Elizabeth, L.H. :1.34 

Epitaph on SaIathiel Pavey, a Child 

of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel, An 

"33 

Epitaph on Sir Isaac Newton ~42. 

Epitaph on Sir 101m Vanbrngh sn 

Epitaph on the Admirable Dramatic 

Poet William Shakespeare, 

An 

387 

Epitaph on the Lady Mary Vi1liers 

HO 

Epitaphium Citharistriae 1086 

Epitaphs: For a Fickle Man 1::100 

Epithalamion 

104 

Epithalamium 

430

[1269] FIBST LlNES ANI> TITLES 

Essay on Criticism, An 530 Farewell, The 

377 

Essay on Man 

536 Farewelll thou art too dear for my 

Essay on Solitu,:le 

451 possessing 

:/.0; 

Esther 

1051 Farewell, thou busy world, and may 

Eugenia, youug and fair and sweet 

472 

474 Farewell to Juliet 

1054 

Eve of St. Agnes, The 781 Farewell, too little and too lately 

Even as the shadows of the statues known 

491 

lengthen 

1190 Farewell, ungrateful traitor 483 

Even such is Time, that takes in Fatel I have asked few things of 

trust 

97 thee 

704 

Exequy, The 

339 "Father of Jealousy, be thou accursed 

Exit 

1145 

from the earthl 621 

Ertempore to Voltaire Criticising Faustus, The Tragical History of 

Milton 

5:a Doctor 

176 

Eyes that last J saw in tears u8S Fear no more the heat 0' the sun 

195 

Fem Hill 

1:446 

Fie on sinful fantasyJ 

192 

Fill a glass with golden wine 1068 

Fine knacks for ladies, cheap choice, 

brave and new 

356 

Fire and Ice 

1133 

First time he kissed me, he but 

only kissed 

818 

Fish, The 

1238 

Fish, the Man, and the Spirit, The 

7U 

Flee fro the prees, and dwelle with 

Faery Queen, The (Sir Walter Raleigh) 

93 

Faery Queen, The (Edmund Spenser) 

116 

Faery Song, A 

1089 

Fain would I change that note 3;8 

Fain would I have a pretty thing 

74 

Fair Amoret is gone astray 519 

Fair and fair, tmd twice so fair 134 

Fair daffodils, we weep to see 33:1 

Fair fa' your honest,. sonsie face 

633 

Fair Helen 

53 

Fair Iris and her swain 484 

Fair is my love and cruel as she's 

fair 

1;6 

Fair is my love, for April is her 

face 

144 

Fair is my love that feeds among 

the lilies 

91 

Fair Isabel, 1")or simple Isabell 783 

Fair lady, when you see the grace 

381 

Fairies, The 

974 

Fairies' F are'I'Te11, The 289 

Fairy Fiddler, The 

1112 

Faithful Shepherdess, The 286 

Falcon, The 

36 

False love, :md hast thou played 

me this 

675 

False though she be to me and love 

;19 

F alstaif s Lament over Prince Hal 

Become Henry V 

958 

Fan, The 5~5 

Farewell! if ,=ver fondest prayer 7~0 

Farewell, rewards and fairies :/.89 

sothfastnesse 

18 

Flow not so fast, ye fountains 3)7 

Fly hence, shadows, that do keep 

308 

Follow a shadow, it shl1 flies you 

234 

Follow thy fair sun, unhappy 

shadowI 

:U; 

Follow your saint, follow with accents 

sweetl 

213 

Fondly, too curious Nature, to 

adorn 

300 

For a day and a night Love sang 

to us, played with us 

103~ 

For a Dead Lady 

1106 

For a Venetian Pastoral by Giorgione 

988 

For Forms of Government let fools 

contest 

537 

For God's sake hold your tongue, 

and let me love 

246 

For his religion, it was fit 427 

For Hope 

436 

For I the ballad will repeat 192 

For 101 the board with cups and 

spoons is crowned 

533 

FOI My Funeral 

1081

FIRST IJNES AND TITLES [ 1270} 

For rigorous teachers seized my 

youth 

971 

For that lovely face will fail 348 

For the Fanen 

1109 

For why should we the busy soul 

believe 

lIZ 3 

Forbearance 

801 

Foreign Ruler, A 

708 

Forget not yet the tried intent 77 

Forsaken Merman, The 960 

Forward, then, ye jadesl 175 

Found a family, build a state 956 

Four Quartets 

n85 

FEa Lippo Lippi 

898 

Fragments of a Lost Gnostic Poem 

of the Twelfth Century 956 

Frascati'$ 

12.00 

Fresh spring, the ilerald of Love's 

mighty king 

98 

Fresh Start, The 

1155 

Friendship's Mystery 

494 

From Dublin soon to London 

spread 

;17 

From Feathers to Iron 12.2.4 

From Oberon, in fairy land 371 

From pent-up aching rivers 931 

From the dark woods that breathe 

of fallen showers 12.2.2. 

From the hag and hungry goblin 

30 ; 

From you have I been absent in 

the spring 

206 

From you, Ianthe, little troubles 

pa" 

706 

Full fathom five thy father lies 197 

Full many a glorious morning have 

I seen 

201 

Garden, The 

457 

Garden of Love, The 617 

Garden of Proserpine, The 1028 

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may 

32.8 

Gentle nymphs, be not refusing 320 

Get Up and Bar the Door ;6 

Give all to love 

802. 

Give Beauty all her right 214 

Give her but a least excuse to love 

mel 

883 

Give me a spirit that on life's rough 

sea 

147 

Give me more love or more disdain 

349 

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet 

97 

Give place, you ladies, and begone 

70 

Give to me the life I love 1070 

Glee-The Ghosts 

719 

Gloomy Night embraced the place 

437 

Glories, pleasures, pomps, delights 

and ease 

309 

Glory and Loveliness have passed 

away 

768 

Glory be to God for dappled 

things 

1062. 

Go and catch a falling star 2.45 

Go, fetch to me a pint 0' wine 646 

Co, for they calI you, Shepherd, 

from the hill 

964 

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall 

stand 

81; 

Co, lite! bok, go, litel myn tragedye 

1; 

Go, lovely Rosel 

:;86 

Go, Soul, the body's guest 95 

God bl~ the Kingl-l mean the 

Faith's defender 

54:1 

God Lyaeus, ever young 279 

Cod of our fathers, known of old 

1101 

Cod rest you merry, gentlemen 61 

Cod's in His Heaven: He never issues 

1199 

Golden slumbers kiss your eyes 2.27 

Good master, you and I were born 

992. 

Good-Morrow, The 2.44 

Good morrow to the day so fail' 

333 

Good-Night 

755 

Good-night? all! no; the hour is ill 

755 

Good night, my Love, may gentle 

rest 

475 

Gorbo, as thou cam'st this way 1;9 

Gossamer, The 

602 

Grace for a Child 

!n6 

Grave, The 

543 

Great, Good and Just, could I but 

rate 

42.5 

Greater Love 

1196 

Green grow the rashes, 0 642. 

Grim in my little black coat as the 

sleazy beetle 

1186 

Grongar Hill 

541 

Ha hal ha hal this world doth pass 

:;60

[1271J FIRST LINES AND 'lTILES 

Hal whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie? 

629 

Habit of Perfection, The 1060 

Had we bul: world enongh and 

tune 

456 

Hail, beauteous stranger of the 

grovel 

601 

Hail holy light, offspring of Heav'n's 

first-born 

408 

Hail, old patrician trees, so great 

and goodl 

451 

Hail Sister Springsl 

438 

Happy Life, The 

;55 

Happy the man whose wish and 

care 

;29 

Happy those early days when I 

466 

Hark, harkI the lark at heaven's 

gate sings 

194 

Hark, how tile birds do sing 340 

HarkI how tlle sacred calm that 

breathes around 

,63 

Hark, now everythiug is still 288 

Harp of the North, farewelll The 

hills grow dad: 

674 

Harp of the Northl that mouldering 

long hast hung 

671 

Harpalus Complaint 

67 

Hasbrouclc a.nd the Rose u04 

Hasbrouclc was there and so were 

Bill 

!l04 

Hast thou named all the birds 

without a gun 

Se1 

Haunted Palace, The 

875 

Have ye beheld (with much delight) 

334 

Have you forgotteR yet? 1167 

Having bittell on life like a sharp 

apple 

1231 

Haymakers, rakers, reapers, and 

mowers 

227 

He disappeared in the dead of 

winter 

1218 

He first deceased; she for a little 

tried 

223 

"He gave the little wealth he had 

519 

He Has Fallcm from the Height ot 

His Love 

1053 

He is gone on the mountaill 672 

He says, My reign is peace, so slays 

70 8 

He that has and a little tiny wit 

193 

He that loves a rosy cheek 349 

He who has once been happy is 

for aye 

10 51 

Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell 

700 

Hear, ye ladies that despise 278 

Hear ye virgins, and I'll teach 331 

Heart, we will forget hintl 1002 

Heaven-Haven 

1059 

Heav'n from all creatures hides the 

book of Fate 

536 

Helen, thr beauty is to me 878 

Hence, al you vain delights 281 Hence loathed Melancholy 389 

Hence, vain deluding joys 393 

Her pretty feet 

335 

Her Triumph 

235 

Heraclitus 

973 

Here a little child I stand 336 

Here be grapes, whose lusty blood 

286 

Here be woods as green 287 

Here lies a most beautiful lady 

1118 

Here lies OUI sovereign lord the 

King 

506 

Here, where the world is quiet 1018 

Here's to the maiden of bashful 

fifteenI 

605 

Hermit hoar, in solemn cell 554 

Hero and Leander 

170 

Heroism 

806 

Hey nonny nol 

353 

Hide, oh, hide those hms of snow 

:1.83 

Hie away, hie away 

676 

Hie upon Hielands 

54 

Hierusalem, my happy home 366 

High steward of thy vines 243 

Highland Mary 

650 

Hill, The (Rupert Brooke) 1178 

Hill, The (Edgar Lee Masters) 1104 

His golden locks time hath to silver 

turned 

135 

His Metrical Vow (On the Death 

of King Charles I) 425 

His Own Epitaph 

526 

Hoclc-Cart or Harvest Home, Tile 

3].8 

Hog Butcher for the World 1137 

Holdl are you mad! you damned, 

confounded dogl 

493 

Hold back thy hours, dark Night, 

till we have done 

276 

Holy Sonnets 

:1.62 

Holy Willie's Prayer 626

FIRST LINES AND :.nn-ES [12721 

Homer's Iliads 

I call the old time back: I bring 

Honest Whore, The 

231 these lays 

829 

Horatian Ode upon CromweIl, A I care not for these ladies 220; 

459 I caught a tremendous fish 1238 

Hound of Heaven, The 108:a I celebrate myself, and sing myself 

House of Life, The 988 

928 

How, butler, howl 

25 I did but look and love awhile 506 

How do I love thee? Let me count I dream of a tOSe-red tree 890 

the ways 

818 I dreamed I saw that ancient Irish 

How happy could I be with either queen 

1103 

S24 I dreamed of him last night, I saw 

How happy is he born and taught his face 

1110 

221 I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden 754 

How happy the lover 48; I first adventure, with foolhardy 

How many times do I love thee, might 

267 

dear? 

807 I lied Him down the nights and 

How oft, when pressed to marriage, down the days 

108, 

have I said 

535 I gazed within thy earnest eyes 924 

How shall I report 

26 I hate that dmm's discordant sound 

How should I love my best? 294 

S88 

How should I your true love know I have a garden of my own 711 

191 I have a gentil col 

23 

How sleep the brave, who sink to I have a rendezvous with Death 

rest 

5'72 

1179, 

How soon doth man decayl 345 I have desired to go 1059 

How soon hath Time the subtle I have had enough of women, and 

thief of youth 

388 enough of love 

1095 

How sweet I r03m'd from field to I have had playmates, I have had 

field 

610 companions 

701 

How vainly men themselves amaze "I have no name 614 

457 I have put my days and dreams Ollt 

Howard Lamson 

1105 of mind 

1017 

Hudibras 

426 1 have walked aud prayed for this 

Hymen 

1169 youug child an hour 109:a 

Hymn of the Nativity, A 437 I hear an army charging upon the 

Hymn to Christ at the Author's land 

11 So 

Last Going into Germany, A 263 I heard the trailing garments of the 

Hymn to God the Father, A 264 Night 

8:13 

Hymn to the Night 823 I kiss you good-bye, my darling 

Hyperion 

793 

1157 

I know a little garden-close 1011 

I am as light as any roe 2:3 I know where I'm goiug llU 

I am poor brother Lippo, by your I know you: solitary griefs 1103 

leavel 

898 I laid me down upon a bank 619 

I am that serpent-haunted cave 1233 I long to know 

146 

I am the only being whose doom I looked and saw your eyes 986 

92 3 I looked out into the morning 1009 

I am to follow her. There is much 1 love all beauteous things 1064 

grace 

983 I loved a lass, a fair oue 312 

I amI yet what I am, who tares, I loved thee once; I'll love no more 

or knows? 

764 

22.4 

I arise from dreams of thee 751 1M., R. T. Hamilton Bruce 1067 

I asked a thief to steal me a peach I must have wanton poets, pleasant 

wits 

179 620 

 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting 

1I0wers 

752 

I must not think of thee; and, tired 

yet strong 

1067

[1278] FIRST LINES .AND TITLES 

"I never hurt maid in aU my time 

38 

I played with you 'mid cowslips 

blowing 

71 

I pray thee leavl~, love me no more 

160 

I prithee let my heart alone 471 

I prithee send me back my heart 

42.J 

I remember a house where all were 

good 

1061 

I saw Etemitythe other night 467 

I saw him dead, a leaden slmnber 

lies 

460 

I saw my lady weep 3;; 

I saw old Autumn in the misty 

mom 

795 

I send my head up to thee, all my 

heart ~1 

I sing of a maiden 

20 

I sing of autumn and the falling 

fmit 

1160 

I sing of Brooi:s, of Blossoms, Birds 

and Bowers 

325 

I sing of gho!;ts and people under 

ground 

1200 

I speak for each no-tongued tree 

10;8 

I stayed the llight for shelter at a 

farm 

1129 

I stood in Venice on the Bridge of 

Sighs 

726 

I strove with none, for noue was 

worth my strife 

704 

I strock the board, and cried, No 

morel 

341 

I tell thee, Dick, where I have 

been 

418 

I that in heiJI was and gladness 32 

I think CIDltinually of those who 

were truly great 

123; 

I thought once how Theocritus had 

sung 

81; 

I to my perils 

1081 

I, too, dislike it: there are things 

that are inlportant beyond all this 

fiddle 

1175 

I took my heart in my hand 999 

I walk on grass as soft as wool 1170 

I wander thro' each charter'd street 

618 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 657 

weep for Adonais-he is deadl 

7;9 

I went to the Garden of Love 

617 

I will erljoy thee now, my Celia, 

come 

!l51 

I will have one built 242 

I wish I were where Helen lies 53 

I, with whose colours Myra dressed 

her head 

123 

I wonder by my troth what thou 

and I 

244 

Ianthe's Troubles 

706 

Ice cannot shiver in the cold 110; 

If all the world and love were 

young 

169 

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral 

song 

572 

If chaste and pure devotion of my 

youth 

165 

If for a woman I would die 510 

If I drink water while this doth 

last 

716 

If I had chosen thee, thou sllouldst 

have been 

1052 

If I had thought thou conldst have 

died 

739 

If I have faltered more or less 

107 

If I 0 

leave all for thee, wilt thou 

exchange 

817 

If I should die, think only this of 

me 

1179 

If I were dead, and in my place 

462 

If I do come to pass 187 

If music and sweet poetry agree 

:;.66 

If sadly thinking 

604 

If the red slayer think he slays 807 

If there were dreams to sell 808 

If thou hast wisdom, hear me, 

Celia 

240 

If thou must love me, let it be for 

nought 

816 

If to be abseut were to be 445 

II Peuseroso 

393 

I'm ceded, I've stopped being theirs 

1001 

I'm going out to clean the pasture 

spring 

1125 

I'm o'er young, I'm o'er young 644 

I'm O'er Young to Marry Yet 644 

I'm wife; I've finished that 100:;' 

Image ot Death, The 

15:;' 

Immolated 

957 

Immortality of the Soul, The n 3 

lmpercipient, The 

1045 

Iu a Gondola 

891 

In Answer to a Question 1053

FIRST LINES AND 'l'I1lJ1:S [1274] 

In Clementina's artless mien 704 Into the SaUent 

n07 

In Debtor's Yard the stones are Into these loves who but for passion 

looks 

166 

bard 

1072 

In Distrust of Merits 1176 Introduction to Songs of Innocence 

In Flanders fields the poppies blow 

611 

1115 Invective against the Wicked of the 

In good King Charles's golden days World, An 

8; 

608 Is it the tinkling of mandolins 

In his last bin Sir Peter lies 714 which disturbs you? 1124 

In life three ghostly friars were we "Is there anybody there?" said the 

719 Traveller 

1118 

In lowly dale, fast by a river's side Is there for honest poverty 653 

545 IsabeHa or The Pot of Basil 783 

In Memoriam 

861 It chanced his lips did meet her 

In Memory of W.B. Yeats 12.28 forehead cool 

982 

In Misery's darkest eavern known It fell about the Martinmas time 

5n 

56 

It flows th:lh old hushed Egypt 

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's 

reed 

670 

In placid houn well pleased we 

dream 

955 

In Praise of AIe 

376 

In Romney Marsh 

1077 

In Scarlet town, where I was born 

55 

In somer, when the shawes be 

sheyne 

37 

In that land an is and nothing's 

ought 

1237 

In the lint Ill11k of these did Zimrl 

stand 

489 

In the greenest growth of the May- 

time 

1030 

In the greenest of our valleys 875 

In the men:y month of May 85 

In the Valley of the EIwy 1061 

In the white-ftowered bawthom 

brake 

1016 

In th'olde dayes of the Kyng AIthour 

14 

In vain, in vain-the all-composing 

hour 

541 

In vain to me the smiling momings 

shine 

569 

In wbat tom ship soever I embark 

263 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 699 

Indian Serenade, The 751 

Indulge thy smiling scorn, if smiling 

still 

713 

Infant Toy 

614 

Infantryman, An 

1208 

Inner Temple Masque, The 321 

Interlude, An 

1030 

Intimations of Immortality 662 

Into my heart an air that kills lOBo 

and its 

712 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and 

free 

659 

It is a Iie-their Priests, their Pope 

88; 

It is an ancient Mariner 679 

It is not, Celia, in our power 496 

It is not death, that sometime in a 

sigh 

798 

It keeps eternal whispering around 

779 

It little profits that an idle king 

863 

It once might bave been, once only 

909 

It was a dismal and a fearful night 

447 

It was a' for OUI rlghtfu' King 377 

It was a friar of orden free 71; 

It was a lover and his lass 188 

It was many and many a year ago 

877 

It was the cooling hour, just when 

the rounded 

731 

It was upon a Lammas night 641 

It's autumn in the c:ountry I remember 

In) 

It's no go the men:y-go-round, it's 

no go the rickshaw 

11.31 

I've heard them lilting at our ewe- 

milking 58~ 

Jenny kissed me when we met 714 

Ternsalem 

623 

Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way 

196 

John Anderson, my jo, John 646

[1275] FIRST LINES AND TITI.ES 

Tohn Brown's Body 1208 

John Gilpin 

588 

John Gilpin was a citizen 588 

John Marr 

95Z 

loin once again, my Celia, join 476 

Joseph was an old man 58 

Joy, rose..lipped dryad, loves to dwell 

54Z 

Toyful New Ballad, A 87 

Just as my fingm on these keys 

114Z 

Just for a handful of silver he left 

us 

884 

King Charles II 

506 

Kissing 

29;; 

Kissing her hair I sat against her 

feet 

1021 

Know then thyseH, presume not 

God to scan 

536 

Know'st thou not at the fall of the 

leaf 

987 

Kubla Khan 

699 

La Belle Dame sans Merci 779 

La FigHa Che Piange 1184 

Lacking my love, I go from place 

to place 

99 

Lady of the Lake, The 671 

Lady Who OHm Her Looking 

Glass, The 

513 

L'A11egro 

389 

Lame, inlpotent conclusion to 

youth's dreams 

1054 

Lament for Flodden 582 

Lament tor the Mabrls, The 32 

Land of Heart's Desire, The 1090 

Last night, Ib, yesternight, betwixt 

her Ups and mine 1102 

Latest Decalogue, The 9z6 

Laura Sleeping 

476 

Lawn as white as driven snow 196 

Lay a garland on my hearse 277 

Lay of the Last Minstrel, The 670 

Leaf after leaf drops off, flower 

after flower 

710 

Leave me, 0 Love, which reachest 

but to dust 

130 

Leave-Taking, A Ion 

Legend of Good Women, The 17 

Lenten is come with love to toune 

4 

L'Envoi: The Return of the Sire 

de Nesle 

956 

Lessons of the War: Naming of 

Parts 

1243 

Let but a fellow in a fox-furred 

gown 

85 

Let me enjoy the earth no less 

1049 

Let me not to the marriage of true 

minds 

z08 

Let othm sing of knights and 

paladins 

157 

Let schoolmastm puzzle their 

brains 

587 

Let Sporus tremble--A What? that 

thing of silk 

540 

Let us go hence, my songs; she 

will not hear 

1021 

Let ns go then, you and I 1180 

Lethe 

1168 

Let's contend no mote, Love 888 

Letter from a Girl to Her Own 

Old Age, A 

106; 

Lie, The 

95 

Life and Death of Jason, Tbe 1011 

Life is a jest, and all things show 

R 

5~ 

Life is a long discovery, isn't it? 

1110 

Life of Lifel thy lips enkindle 74a 

Light breaks where no sun shines 

1 245 

Light-hearted I walked into the 

valley wood 

1152 

Light-winged Smoke, lcarlan bird 

919 

Like as the waves make toward the 

pebbled shore 

20; 

Like the Idalian Queen 302 

Like the sweet apPle which reddens 

upon the topmost bongh 992. 

Like to Diana in her summer-weed 

141 

Lines OD the Mermaid Tavern ,,6 

Lines Written among the Eoganean 

Hills 

743 

Listen, and when thy hand this 

paper presses 

1065 

Listeners, The 

1118 

Uttle Boy Lost, A 

618 

Little Ivory Figures Pulled with 

String 

1124 

Lol Death has reared himself a 

throne 

873 

Lo, thus, as prostrate, "In the dust 

I write 

1004 

London (William Blake) 618 

London (Samuel JobusOll) 553

FIRST LINES AND 'ITrLES [1276] 

Lone Founts 9" 

Long betwixt love and fear Phillis 

tormented 482 

Long Trail, The 1095 

Look at the starsl look, look up 

at the skiesl 1061 

Look once more ere we leave this 

specular Mount 412 

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell 

337 

Lord, when the sense of Thy sweet 

grace 435 

Lord, with what care hast Thou 

begirt us roundl 344 

Lost Leader, The 884 

Lotos-Eaters, Choric Song of The 

847 

Love 344 

LOVlnlT~e-----rr7 

_ Love and Life ,03 

Love Dade me welcome; yet my 

soul drew hack 344 

Love for such a cherry lip 232 

Love guards the roses of thy lips 

134 

Love, how ignobly hast thou met 

thy dooml 1053 

Love in II Village 598 

Love in fantastic triumph sate 501 

Love in ber eyes sits playing 523 

l&Y.e-jll:ldlCJ!~s", -r , __~ . 

Lovein my OOSInil'1ike il>ee 131 

Love in tlie Valley 976 

Love in tby youth, fair maid; be 

wise 363 

Love is a sickness full of woes 154 

Love is Enough: though the World 

be a-waning 1017 

Love is the blossom where there 

blows 319 

Love me or not, love her I must 

or die :.. 216 

Love not me for comely grace" 360 

Love of King David and Fair Bethsabe, 

The 137 

"Love seeketh not Itself to please 

61, 

Love Song of T. Alfred Prufrode, 

The 1180 

Love Sonnet, A 312 

Love Sonnets of Proteus, The 1052 

Love still lias something of the sea 

497 

Loye to fa!1lJ:s j. ahml'S b1ivd --6:1.0 

r- toveUest of trees, the cherry now 

1079 

Lover Beseecheth His Mistress Not 

to Forget His Steadfast Faith and 

True Intent, The 11 

Lover Compfaineth the Unkindness 

of His Love, The 17 

Lover Showeth How He Is Forsaken 

of Snch as He Sometime 

Enioyed, The 76 

Lover Tens of the Rose in His 

Heart, The _ 10

[ 1277] FIRST LINES AND TITLES 

Methought I saw the grave where 

Laura lay 

93 

'Mid the mountains Euganean 743 

Midcentury Love Letter 122; 

Midnight LamentatiaD 1140 

Milton 

622, 

Mind Content, A 

142 

Minstrel, The 

598 

Missing Dates 

1225 

Mistress, The 

502 

Mnem~e 

1123 

Modern Love 

982 

Momos 

1106 

Morola Innominata 

993 

Montrose to His Mistress 424 

Moorland Night 

1111 

Morning-Watch, The 46; 

Mortality, behold and fear 301 

MortiJication 

345 

Most near, most dear, most loved 

and most far 

1240 

Moum not the dead that in the cool 

earth lie 

1147 

Mourning Bride, The 520 

Mr. Flood's Party 

1107 

Mr. Francis Beaumont's Letter to 

Ben Jonson 

301 

Mrs. Southern's Enemy 1190 

Much have I traveIled in the realms of gold 

769 

Music bas charms to soothe a savage 

breast 

520 

Music to hear, why hear'st thou 

music sadly? 

199 

Music, when soft voices die 757 

Must I then see, alasl eternal night 

296 

Mutability 

757 

My Bonie Mary 

646 

My childrenl speak not ill of one 

another 

710 

My dear and only love, I pray 42.4 

My dearest Betty, my more loved 

heart 

291 

My eye descending from the Hill, 

surveys 

442 

My face is wet against the moor 

land grass-the moorland grass is 

wet 

1111 

My father used to say 1174 

My female friends, whose tender 

hearts 

;18 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness 

pains 

769 

My heart is like a singiug bird 

997 

My heart leaps up when I behold 

65'5 

My heart rebels against my generation 

1087 

My letters I an dead paper, mute and 

whiteI 

816 

My life closed twice bef;:2re i close 

1000 

My little Son, who cd from 

thoughtful eyF 973 

My long. two-po.in ladder's sticking 

through ee 1126 

My Lost You' 82; 

My love in ¥r attire doth show her 

wit I 3;6 

My love n strengthened, though 

more weak in seemiug 206 

My love, she's but a lassie yet 647 

My lute, awake, perform the last 

77 

My lute, be as thou wast when thou 

didst grow 

304 

My mind to me a kingdom is 89 

My name is O'Kelly, I've heard the 

Revelly 

1100 

My November Guest 1126 

My Peggy is a young thing ;:1.6 

My Phyllis hath the morning sun 

133 

My prime of youth is but a frost of 

cares 

1;8 

My sorrow, when she's here with 

me 

1126 

My soul looked down from a vague 

height with Death 1197 

My study's ornament;. thou shell of 

death 

274 

My thoughts are fixed in contemplation 

268 

My toweD at lastl These ravings 

end 

9;6 

My true love hath my heart, and I 

have h~ 

12; 

Mysterious Nightl when our first 

parent knew 

701 

Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in 

night ;42 

Nay but you, who do not love her 

908 

Neither Here nor There 1237 

Never love unless you can 21; 

Never more will the wind 1169 

Never seek to tell thy love 619 

New Jerusalem, The 366

FIRST LINES AND TITLES [ 1278] 

Nile, The 

712 Now hardly here and there a hackney 

Nimphirlia, the Court of Fayrie 

coach 

51 5 

163 Now sleeps the crimson petal, now 

Ninth Philosopher's Song 1199 the white 

859 

No coward soul is mine 9%; Now that the Spring hath filled our 

No. I'll have no bawds 241 veins 

323 

No longer mourn for me when I am Now the full-throated daffodils 

dead 

204 

1224 

No more dams I'n make for fish Now the hungry lion roars 18" 

198 

No more the swanboat on the artificial 

Now the lusty spring is seen 2.78 

Now the rich cherry, whose sleek 

lake 

1189 wood 

1218 

No more with overftowing light Now winter nights enlarge 218 

1106 Nuns fret not at their convent's 

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither narrow room 

658 

twist 

778 Nymphs and shepherds dance n0 

No, no, poor suffering heart, no more 

389 

change endeavour 

486 

No one dies cleanly now 1235 

No Spring. nor Summer Beauty o come, soft rest of eares! come, 

hath such grace 

254 Night! 14$ 

Non Sum QuaIis Eram Bonae sub o foolishness of Ulenl that lend 

Regno Cynarae 

1102 their ears 

399 

Nor skin nor hide nor fteece 1168 

for a bowl of fat eanary :I. 32 

Not, Celia, that 1 juster am 497 o for doors to be open and an invite 

with gilded edges 1226 

Not drunk is he, who from the 

floor 

716 o ~ive me back my rigorous English 

Sunday 

115 S 

Not every man has gentians in his 

house 

1159 o Goddess! hear these tuueless 

Not I, not I, but the wind that numbers,. wrung 

773 

blows through me! 1158 o happy seafarers are ye 1011 

Not Ideas about the Thing but the 0, how much more doth beauty 

Thing Itself 

1145 beauteous seem :1.02 

Not Iris in her pride and bravery o joysl infinite sweetuess! with 

136 what flowers 

465 

"Not Marble nor the Gilded Monu o June, 0 June, that we desired so 

ments" (Archibald MacLeish) 

1016 

1194 o leave them, Muse! 0 leave them 

Not marble, nor the gl1ded monu to their woes 

793 

ments (William Sbakespeare) o Lord, wilt thon not look upon 

202 our sore afflictions 

622 

Not solely that the Future she destroys 

o Melancholy, linger here awhile! 

982 

,81i 

Not with more glories, in th'e 

memoryl thou foud deceiver 586 

theria! plain 

531 o Mistress mine, where are yon 

Nothingl Thou elder brother ev'n roaming? 

189 

to shade 

504 o mortal folk, you may behold and 

"Nought loves another as itself 618 see 

34 

Now as I \llaS young and easy under 

my dark Rosaleen 812 

the apple boughs 1246 o my luve is like a red, red rose 

Now comes my lover tripping like 

65 1 

the roe 

138 o Nightingale, that on yon bloomy 

Now fades the last long streak of spray 

387 

snow 

862 

no, beloved, I am most sure 297 

Now for the crown and throne of 

noble England 

87 

Israel 

137 o Rose, thou art siekl 617

[1279] FIRST LINES AND 'ITI'LES 

ruddier than the cherry .524 

o servant of God's holiest charge 

57.5 

o soft embalmer of the stm midnightl 

779 

solitnde, tGmantie maidl 570 

o sovereign power of lovel 0 griefl 

o balml 

790 

0, that joy so soon should waste! 

~39 

0, the month of May, the merry 

month of May 225 put myself 

o thou that from thy mansion 

1081 to sing 

o Thou, that in the heavens dost 

dwell 6::.6 mont 

waIy waIy up the bank 51 

o wearisome condition of humanity! 

124 

01 what a plague is Jove! 363 first 

o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms 

779 door 

o what is that BOIlUd which SO 

thrms the ear 

1227 

o whistle an' I'll come to ye, my Ogier the Dane 

lad 6;1 

o wild West Wind, thou breath of 

Automn's being 

748 hearted Pleasure 

o Willie brew'd a peck o· maut 

647 dead 

o ye wha are sae guid yomsel' 631 

Oberon's Feast 

330 soul 

Ode Inscribed to W. H. Channing 

. 800 

Ode (Intimations of Immortality 

from Recollections of Early Child 

hood) 

662 

Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton 

Conege 

563 

Ode on SolituGle 

;29 

Ode to Evening 

57::' 

Ode to Mr. Anthony Stallord to 

Hasten Him into the Country, 

An 

378 

Ode to Solitude ' 

570 

Ode to the Confederate Dead 1215 

Ode to the West Wind 748 

Ode upon a Question Moved, 

Whether Love Should Continue 

lor Ever?, An 

297 

Odyssey, The 

1062 

CEnone 

8;1 

O'er faded heath-Bowers spun or 

thomy furze 

602 

O'er the smooth enamelled green 

388 

Of a' the ams the wind can blaw 

6;4 

Of all the birds that I do know 

81 

Of all the girls that are so smart 

527 

Of all the torments, all the eares 

511 

Of all things human which are 

strange and wild 

1007 

Of course, the entire effort is to 

12. 34 

Of Heaven or Hell I have no power 

1015 

Of My Dear Son, Gervase Beau 

293 

Of the Last Verses in the Book 

386 

Of these the false Achitophel was 

489 

Oft have I seen at some eathedral 

828 

Often I think of the beautiful town 

825 

1016 

Oh fairest of the rural maidsl 767 

Oh By not Pleasure, pleasant- 

1056 

Obi leave the Past to bury its own 

10;; 

Oh, let a fatber's corse be on thy 

747 

Oh Lovel no habitant of earth thou 

art ~7 

Oh, no more, no more, too late 

309 

Oh, quiet peoples sleeping bed by 

bed 

1118 

Oh roses for the Bush of youth 995 

Oh, sleep forever in the Latmian 

eave 

1195 

Oh, the sweet contentment 271 

Oh, whither am I rapt beyond myself? 

230 

Old and Young Courtier, The 369 

Old castles on the cliff arise 544 

Old Eben F100d, climbing alone 

one night 

1107 

Old Familiar Faces, The 701 

Old Fortunatus 

228 

Old Noah he had an ostrich farm 

and fowls on the largest scale 

1121 

Old Stoic, The 

Old Tityrus to Eugenia 

Old wine to drinkl 

920 

474 

882

FIRST LINES AND TITLES [ 1280] 

Old W OIllllD Laments in Spring- On This Day I Complete My 

Time, An 

1170 Thirty-Sixth Year 

738 

Old Woman, The 

1148 On this feast day. 0 cursed day and 

On a day-alack the dayl 181 hour 

170 

On a Dead Child 

1064 On what foundations stands the 

On a fair morning, as I came by warrior'a pride 

; 52 

the way 

3:;; Once did She hold the gorgeous 

On a Fan That Belonged to the east in fee 

661 

Marquise de Pompadour 10;0 Once it smiled a silent dell 872 

On a Fly Drinking Out of His Cup Once npon a midnight dreary, 

543 whIle I pondered weak and weary 

On a Girdle 

385 

86; 

On a Grecian Urn 

772 One day I wrote her name upon 

On a poet's lips .: slept 740 the strand 

99 

On a Prohibitionist Poem 1122 One summer evening (led by her) 

On a starred night Prince Lucifer I found 

668 

uprose 

98; 

On a time the amorous Silvy 362 

One that I cherished 9;8 

One word is too often profaned 

On Another's Sorrow 614 

7;8 

On Catullus 

703 One Word More 

911 

On First Looking into Chapman's Orpheus with his lute made trees 

Homer 

769 

286 

On Growing Old 

1136 Others abide our question. Thou 

On Heaven 

1116 art free 

959 

On His Mistress 

25; OUI love was like most other loves 

On His Mistress, the Queen of. Bohemia 

222 Our vicar sti1l preaches that Peter 

799 

On Melancholy 

778 and Poule 

673 

On Mr. Wm. Shakespeare 297 Out of the cradle endlessly rocking 

On the Coming of. Age or II Rich 

936 

Extravagant Young Man 5:;4 Out of the night that covers me 

On the Death of a Metaphysician 

1067 

1088 

On the Death of Anne Bronte 916 

Out of the rolling ocean the crowd 

came a drop gently to me 933 

On the Death of Doctor Swift Out upon itl I have loved 421 

516 Out went the taper as she hurried 

On the Death of. Mr. Crashaw 448 in 

781 

On the Death of. Mr. Robert Levet, Over hill, over dale 182 

a Practiser in Physic 553 

On the Death of Mr. William Pack, douds, away, and welcome, 

Hervey 

447 

On the Dowager Countess of Pembroke 

32.5 

On the Extinction of the Venetian 

Republic 

661 

On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 

408 

On the Marriage of a Beauteous 

Young Gentlewoman with an Ancient 

Man 

300 

On the Nature of. Love 1053 

On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey 

301 

On the way to Kew 1068 

On these white cliffs, that calm 

above the fiood 

654 

dayl 

271 

Painfully writhed the few last weeds 

upon those houseless uplands 

1208 

Pan's Syrinx was a girl indeed 12.2 

Paradise Lost 

408 

Paradise Regained 

412. 

Pardon, goddess of the night 186 

Parliament of Bees, The 242 

Parliament of Fowls, The 1:; 

Passetyme, The 

34 

Passionate Shepherd, The 84 

PlISSionate Shepherd to His Love, 

The 

168 

Passions are likened best to Boods 

and streams 

93

[1281] 

Past ruined IliOD Helen lives 706 

Pastoral Comtship, A 382 

Pasture, The 

1125 

Pater Filio 

1063 

Patience, my lordl why, 'tis the soul 

of peace 

231 

Peace on Earth 

1153 

Peace to all such I but were there 

One whose fires 

539 

Peggy 

526 

Perfect little body. without fault or 

stain on thee 

1064 

Pericles and Apasia 

709 

Persuasions to Love 

348 

Peter Quince at the Clavier 1142 

Phantom-Wooer, The 811 

Philip Sparrow 

26 

Phmada Flouts Me 36; 

Phillida and Condon 

85 

Phoebe's Sonnet 

130 

Phoebus, arise 

303 

Phyllida was a fair maid 67 

Pied Beauty 

1062 

Pigwiggen was this fairy knight 163 

Pilgrimllge, The 

97 

Piping down the valleys wild 611 

Pleasurea, beanty, youth attend ye 

310 

Poem upon the Death ot Oliver 

Cromwell, A 

460 

Poems trom MSS. 

619 

Poet and saintl to thee alone are 

given 

448 

Poetry 

1175 

Poet's Welcome to His Love-Begotten 

Daughter, A 

625 

Poor slaves, how terrible this Death 

is to theml 

146 

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful 

earth 

209 

Praise of His Lady. A 70 

Praise ot Philip Sparrow, The 81 

Pray but one prayer for me 'twixt 

thy closed lips 

1010 

Prayer tor My Dllughter, A 1092 

Precept' of Silence, The 1103 

Prelude, The 

668 

Primrose, The 

327 

Prince's Progress, The 995 

Princess, The 

8;8 

Proem to Hellenics 

702 

Progress of Poesy, The 566 

Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, 

The 

6 

Prometheus Unbound 740 

Prothalamion 

100 

Proud of my broken heart since 

thou didst break it 1002 

Proud word you never spoke, but 

you will speak 

707 

Pulley, The 

346 

Purple Island, The 

290 

Pythoness, The 

1233 

Quaker Graveyard in Nantucket, 

The 

12.48 

Queen and huntress, chaste and 

fair 

239 

Queen of Fairies, The 374 

Question Answet d, The 620 

Rain on Rahoon falls softly, softly 

falling 

1150 

Rape ot the Lock, The 531 

Rapture, A 

351 

Raven, The 

865 

Reach, witlt your whiter hands, to 

me 

334 

Rebel Scot, The 

441 

Recessional 

11°1 

Red lips are not so Jed 1196 

Red, Red Rose, A 

651 

Reeve's Tale, The 

u 

Regeneration 

708 

Religio Laici 

491 

Relique, The 

252 

Remember 

995 

Remember me when I am gone 

away 

995 

Remember theel remember theel 

721 

Remote, unfrieuded, melancholy, 

slow 

584 

Renouncement 

1067 

Renowned Spenser lie a thought 

more nigh 

"97 

Repetitive Heart, The 1"41 

Reply 

169 

Requiem 

1071 

Requiescat 

963 

Respectability 

889 

Retirement, an Ode 

542. 

Retreat, The 

466 

Return, The 

1164 

Revengets Tragedy, The 274 

Reynard the Fox 

1134 

Riches I hold in light esteem 92.0 

Rigs 0' Barley, The 

641 

Rime of the Ancient Mariner, The 

679 

Ring out your bellsl Let mouroing 

shows be spread u8


Rise, happy youth, this bright rna· 

chine survey ;25 

River Roses 1157 

River, The 1210 

Road, The 1172. 

Robin Goodfellow 371 

Robin Hood and tbe Monk 37 

Rococo 102; 

Rokeby 675 

Romira, stay 471 

Rosalind's Madrigal 131 

Rose, The 443 

Rose-cheek'd Laura, come 221 

Roses and pinks will be strewn 

where you go 384 

Roses their sharp spines being gone 

285 

Round, A 323 

Row after row with strict impunity 

1215 

Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam of N:Ji.. 

shap6r 83% 

Ruby wine is drunk by knaves 806 

Sabrina fair 400 

Sailing to Byzantium 1093 

Sailor to His Parrot, The 1109 

Sallows like heads in Polynesia 

1207 

Sally in OUf Alley 527 

Samela. 141 

Samson Agonistes 413 

Satire II 2;9 

Satire V 270 

Say not the struggle nought availeth 

926 

Scholar Gipsy, The 964 

Screw-Guns 10


cease 

459 

So shuts the marigold her leaves 

321 

So smell those odours that do rise 

332 

• • • So the soldier replied to the 

Poet 

1222 

So we'll go no more a roving 723 

Soldier, The 

1179 

Soldier's Song 

673 

Some day, some day 828 

Some say the world will end in 

fire 

1133 

Some that have deeper digged love's 

mine than I 

248 

Something there is that doesn't 

love a wall 

1128 

Son of Erehus and Night 322 

Song of a Man Who Has Come 

Through 

1158 

Silence (Thomas Hood) 798 Song of Myself 

928 

Silence (Marianne Moore) 1174 Song of the Open Road 934 

Silent Lover, The 

93 Soug of Thyrsis 

606 

Sin 

344 Soug to Amoret, A 

4 62 

Since as in night's deck-watch ye Soug to David 

575 

show 

95::1 Song to His Cynthia 

122 

Since there's no help, come, let us Song to the Men of England 746 

kiss and part 

168 Sonnet on Death 

512. 

Sing cuccu nul Sing cuccul ::I Sonnet on Life 

,97 

Sing his praises that doth keep ::177 Sonnet on the Death of Mr. Richard 

west 

569 

SinneIs 

11 ,8 

Sir Patrick Spens 

35 Sonnet on the Sea 

779 

Sir: though (1 thank God fox it) I Sonnet to My Mother 1240 

do hate 

259 Sonnet to Sleep 

779 

Sir, you shall notice me: I am the Sonnet, to the River Loddon 583 

Man 

1142 Sonnets from the Portuguese 81; 

Siren Chorus 

794 Souls of poets dead and gone 776 

SitaIkas 

1168 Sound out, proud trumpets 1192 

Skimming lightly, wheeling still Southward through Eden went a 

952 river large 

410 

Sleep brings no joy to me 921 Spea1c, Parrot 

2.9 

Sleep, 0 sleep 

524 Spring (William Shakespeare) 181 

Sleep softly... eagle forgotten Spring (James Thomson the Elder) 

• • • under the stone 1139 

549 

Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time Spring, the sweet Spring, is the 

with my salt tears 238 year's pleasant king 210 

Slowly the poison the whole blood St. Valentine's Day 1054 

stream fills 

1:!.25 Stand close around, ye Stygian set 

Smokin' my fipe on the mount 

707 

ings, sum the mornin' cool Stand not uttering sedately 1086 

1098 Stand on the highest pavement of 

So many moral matters, and so the stair 

1184 

little used 

29 Stanzas 

72.1 

So now is come our joyful'st feast Stanzas Cancelled from the Elegy 

31; 

563 

So restless Cromwell could not Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse 

971 

Stanzas Written in Dejection, near 

Naples 

745 

Starlight Night, The 1061 

Stars of the summer nightl 824 

Starting from fish-shape Paumanok 

where I was born 

927 

Starting from PaumanoJc 927 

Stay, Fortunatus, once more hear 

me speak 

~29 

Stay near me. Speak my name. Oh, 

do not wander 

122.5 

Steer hither, steer your winged 

pines 

321 

Stick your patent name on a signboard 

1210 

Still to he neat, still to he dressed 

240 

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy 

Eveuing 

1134

FllIST LINES AND 'ITl'LES [1284] 

Storm Fear 

1127 

Strange fits of passion have I 

known 

655 

Stranger! whoe' er thou art, whose 

restless mind 

610 

Strew not earth with empty stars 

812 

Strengthened to live, strengthened 

to die for medals and positioned 

victories? 

1176 

Strew on her roses, roses 963 

Suddenly ~ become John Benbow, 

wallting down William Street 

1221 

Summer Dawn 

1010 

Sunday at Hampstead 1010 

Sunday up the River 1009 

Sunset and evening star 865 

Surprised by joy-impatient as the 

Wind 

659 

Suspiria 

82; 

Sweet are the thoughts that savour 

of oontent 

14:1 

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of 

the plain 

58; 

Sweet, be not proud of those two 

eyes 

326 

Sweet Cupid, ripen her desire 362 

Sweet day, so 0001, so calm, SO 

bright 

343 

Sweet dreams, form a shade 612 

Sweet Echo. sweetest nymph that 

liv'st unseen 

399 

Sweet, let me gal sweet, let me gol 

361 

Sweet Lullaby, A 

82 

Sweet secrecy, what tongue can tell 

thy worth? 

166 

Sweet serene sky-like Bower 443 

Sweet was the song that Youth 

sang once 

705 

Sweetest bud of beauty, may 496 

Sweetest love, I do not go 247 

Swiftly walk o'er the western wave 

155 

Sylvia the fair, in the bloom of 

fifteen 

Symphony, The 

418 

1058 

Take hands and part with laughter 

1025 

Take, 0 take those lips away 193 

Take them, 0 Deathl and bear 

away 

82.5 

Talisman, A 

1114 

Talking Bronco 

1222 

Tam 0' Shanter 

634 

- 

Tamburlaine the Great 171 

Tanagra! think not I forget 108 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what 

they mean 

859 

Tell me,. dearest, what is love? 283 

Tell me no more how fair she is 

338 

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind 

446 

Tell me not what too well I know 

103 

Tell me now in what hidden way 

is 

991 

Tell me, ten me,. smiling child 920 

Tell me, thou Star, whose wings of 

light 

1;; 

Tell me where is fancy bred 185 

Th' expense of spirit in a waste of 

shame 

208 

Thanatopsis 

76; 

Thanksgiving to God, for His 

House, A 

331 

That is no country for old men. 

The young 

1093 

That time of year thou mayst in 

me behold 

205 

That which her slender waist confined 

385 

That with this bright believing 

hand 

1045 

That Women Are but Men's Shad· 

ows 

%34 

The April winds ate magical 806 

The Archer is wakel 

11 53 

The Author's Resolution 311 

The bards falter in shame, their 

running verse 

120; 

The big mountains sit still in the 

afternoon light 

1158 

The blushing rose and purple Bower 

%98 

The budding Boweret blushes at the 

light 

606 

the Cambridge ladies who live in 

fnroished souls 

1 ;lO% 

The castled crag of Drachenfels 

72 S 

The Cities send to one another saying: 

"My sons are Mad 6%1 

The City is of Night; perchance of 

Death 

lOOS 

The dwate of thought has seldom 

been described 

12.0; 

The cobbler bent at his wooden 

foot 

1134

[ 1285] FIRST LINES AND n'nES 

The cod-piece that will house 193 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting 

day 559 

The dalkness crumbles away 1190 

The day is done, the winter sun 

9:1.4 

The dei1 cam fiddlin thm' the town 

649 

The dews of summer night did fall 

599 

The dim sea glints chill. The white 

sun is shy 1136 

The doors that knew no shrill 

alarming bell 547 

The dusky night rides down the 

sky ;51 

The earth, late choked with show 

= IP 

The first Nowell the angels did say 

62 

The first time that the sun rose on 

thine oath 817 

The flower that smiles to-day 757 

The force that through the green 

fuse drives the flower 1244 

The foontains mingle with the river 

751 

The fringed vallance of your eyes 

advance 502 

The glories of our blood and state 

347 

The God who made New Hampshire 

800 

The gown which I do use to wear 

152 

The fey sea and the long black 

lan 887 

The harp that once through Tara's 

halls 710 

The isles of Greece, the isles of 

Greecel 735 

The keener tempests came: and, 

fuming dun 

;50 

The king sits in Dmnfermliug 

toune 35 

The Lady Mary ViIliers lies 350 

The lark now leaves his watery 

nest 384 

The lyf so short, the craft so long 

to Ierne 15 

The maidens came 64 

The man of life upright 219 

The master, the swabber, the boatswain, 

and I 198 

The men that worked for England 

1122 

The merchant, to secure his treasure 

512 

The Millere was a stout carl for 

the nones 11 

The mountain sheep are sweeter 

716 

The Mnse, disgusted at an age and 

dime 

SZ1 

The nightingale has a lyre of gold 

1068 

The noble heart that harbours virtuous 

thought 116 

The eusel oock so black of hue 184 

The path through which that lovely 

twain 740 

The Percy out of Northumberland 

43 

The praisers of women in their 

proud and beautiful poems 1194 

The primrose in the green forest 

87 

The rswish dauk of clumsy winter 

ramps 269 

The Rhine was red with human 

blood 623 

The nbs and terrors in the whale 

950 

The rose is fairest when 'tis budding 

new 673 

The sea hath many thousand sands 

361 

The sea is calm to-night 972 

The shadow streamed into the wall 

1215 

The skies they were ashen and 

sober 869 

The smothered streams of love, 

which How 918 

The splendoar falls on castle walls 

858 

The star that bids the shepherd 

fold 397 

The sun has set, and the long grass 

now 92.1 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear 

745 

The sun, which doth the greatest 

comfort bring ,01 

The swans. whose pens as white as 

ivory 144 

The thirst of reign and sweetness of 

a crown 172 

The time is not remote when I 

516 

The turtle on yon withered bough 

606

FIRST LINES AND 'lTI'LES [1286] 

The wind blows out of the gates 

of the day 

10


Tid~ be runnin' the great world 

over 

1111 

Tiger, The 

616 

Tigerl Tigert bnrning bright 616 

Time in the Rock 

1188 

Time rolls his ceaseless course. The 

race of yore 

672 

Time, you old gipsy man 1114 

Tintern Abbey 

667 

Tired with all these, for restful 

death I cry 

204 

'Tis I go fiddling, fiddling 1112 

'Tis late and cold; stir up the lire 

281 

'Tis not that I am weary grown 

504 

'Tis now, since I sat down before 

416 

'Tis pleasing to be schooled in a 

strange tongue 

731 

'Tis sweet to hear 

729 

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved 

738 

'Tis with our judgments as our 

watches, none 

;;0 

Title divine is mine 1003 

To a Common Prostitute 948 

To A.D. 

1068 

To a Lady, Asking Him How Long 

He Would Love Her 496 

To a Louse on Seeing One on a 

Lady's Bonnet at Church 629 

To a Nightingale 

769 

To a Very Young Lady (Sir George 

Etherege) 

496 

To a Very Young Lady (Edmund 

Waller) 

385 

To Althea from Prison 44;; 

To Amarantha 

444 

To an Unborn Pauper Child 1046 

To Anthea, Who May Command 

Him in Anything 

335 

To Any Member of My Generation 

1240 

771 

23$ 

To Autumn 

To Celia 

To Chloe, Who Wished Herself 

Young Enough for Me 423 

To Cloe Tealous, a Better Answer 

514 

To Colin Clout 

1

FIRST LINES AND TITLES [12881 

To see a World in a Grain of Sand 'Twas on a Monday morning 6;2. 

621 

To SheIley 

703 

To Sleep 

659 

'Twas so; I saw thy birth. That 

drowsy lake 

465 

'Twas when the seas were roaring 

5n 

Who Is the Twenty years hence my eyes may 

This World 

6:


an Obscure Lodging-House, in 

the Neighbourhood of London 

610 

Verses on the Prospect of Planting 

Arts and Leaming in America 

52.1 

Verses Written in His Bible 97 

Very old are the woods 1119 

Vicar of Bray, The 608 

VirgH's Aeneid 

80 

Virgin Mary to Christ on the Cross, 

The 

151 

Virgin Mother, The 

1157 

Virtue 

343 

Visions 

324 

Visions of the Daughters of Albion 

621 

Vitae Summa Brevis Spem Nos 

Vetat Incohare Longam 1102 

Voiceless, The 

830 

Volpone or The Fox 240 

Volunteer's Reply to the Poet, The 

1222 

Vow to Love Faithfully, Howsoever 

He Be Rewarded, A 

Voyages: 11 

79 

1210 

Waiting 

1078 

Wakel For the Sun, who scattered 

into Sight 

83:1 

Walking next day upon the fatal 

shore 

273 

Wru~ Wruy 

51 

Wanderer's Song 

1095 

War Is Kind 

1113 

War-Song of Dinas VaWI, The 716 

,Was this the face that launch'd a 

thousand ships 

176 

Water, for anguish of the solstice: 

-nay 

988 

Water Lady, The 

797 

Waterfrul. The 

464 

We are the music-makers 1063 

We are what suns and winds and 

waters make us 

708 

We count the broken lyres that rest 

830 

We have cried in our despair 1091 

We needs must be divided in the 

tomb 

1091 

We saw swallows gathering in the 

sky 

984 

We who afe old, old and gay 1089 

Wealth, my lad, was made to wander 

554 

Wedding is great Juno's crown 189 

Weep no more, nor sigh nor groan 

284 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon 

my knee 

141 

Weep with me all you that read 

2.33 

Weep you no more, sad fountains 

357 

Weeper, The 

438 

Welcome Maids of Honour 31.7 

Welcome, welcome, do I sing 323 

Well I remember how you smiled 

70 7 

Well then, I now do plainly see 

450 

Were I as base as is the lowly plain 

1;8 

Western wind, when wilt thou blow 

66 

Westminster Bridge 

660 

Whan that Apnlle with his shoures 

soote 

6 

What are we first? First, animals; 

and next 

983 

What art thou, Life? The shadow 

of a dream 

597 

What bird so sings, yet does so 

wail? 

121 

What has this bugbear Death that's 

worth our carei' 

; 12 

What, have ye kithed you a knight, 

Sir Douglas the Doughty 29 

what if a much of a which of a 

wind 

1203 

What is he buzzing in my ears? 

908 

What is it men in women do require? 

620 

What is your substance, whereof 

are you made 

202 

What lips my lips have kissed, and 

where, and why 

1196 

What mist hath dinlmed that glorious 

facel 

1;1 

What mournful metamorphosis 

1219 

What needs my Shakespeare for his 

honoured bones 

387 

What now avails the pageant verse 

958 

What of her glass without her? The 

blank grey 

989 

What passing-bells for these who 

die as cattle? 

1198 

What shall he have that kill'd the 

deer? 

188

[1290] 

What then is Merlyn's message, his 

word to thee weary of pain 

10;6 

What thou lovest wen remains 

1165 

What was it you remember?-the 

summer mornings 

1240 

What! We of Spear-Danes in spent 

days 

1 

What's Fame? II fancied life in 

others' breath 

537 

When Abraham Lincoln was shoveled 

into the tombs he 11;8 

When an the world is young, lad 

949 

When as the nightingale chanted 

her vespers 

440 

When by thy scorn, 0 murd'ress, I 

am dead 

250 

When chapman billies leave the 

street 

634 

When eivil dudgeon first grew high 

4z6 

When daffodils begin to peer 195 

When daisies pied and violets blue 

181 

When do I see tbee most, beloved 

one? 

988 

When God at first made man 346 

When Helen Lived 1091 

When I am dead, my dearest 994 

When I consider how my light is 

spent 

408 

When I do count the clock that 

tells the tinle 

zoo 

When I have seen by Time's fell 

hand defae'd 

2004 

When I bear laugbter from II tavern 

door 1052 

When I lie burning in thy eye 470 

When I was on(HlIld-twenty 1080 

When icicles bang by the wall 18a 

When, in disgrace with fortone and 

men's eyes 

zoo 

When in the chronicle of wasted 

time 

2007 

When Israel, of tbe Lord beloved 

676 

When lilacs last in the dooryard 

bloom'd 

940 

When Love with unconfined wing 

445 When lovely woman stoops to folly 

586 

When my grave is broke up again 

25:1. 

When my love swears that she is 

made of truth 

209 

When our two souls stand up erect 

and strong 

816 

When priests are more in word tban 

matter 

193 

When rosy plumelets tuft the larch 

862 

When that I was and a little tiny 

boy 

190 

When the cbill Cbaroko blows 376 

When the hounds of spring are on 

winter's traces 

10;8 

When the lamp is shattered 758 

When the Present bas latched its 

postern behind my tremulous stay 

1050 

When the sbeep are in the fauld, 

and the kye at hame 603 

When the wind works against us in 

the dark 

lU7 

When thou must bome to shades of 

underground 

218 

When to the sessions of sweet silent 

thought 

201 

When we for age could neither read 

nor write 

:;86 

When we two parted 

7:1.0 

When you and I go down 1140 

Whenas in silks my Julia goes ~28 

Whenas the rye reach to the chin 

136 

Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, 

Tom and Charley 1104 

Where is the world we roved, Ned 

Bunn? 

954 

Where, like a pillow on a bed :1;0 

Where shall the lover rest 670 

Where the bee sucks, there suck I 

199 

Where the remote Bermudas ride 45S 

Where were the greenhouses going 

1233 

"Where's the need of singing now?" 

1106 

Whether on Ida's shady brow 611 

While this America settles in the 

mould of its vulgarity, heavily 

thickening to empire 1170 

Whilst thus my pen strives to eternise 

thee 

167 

Whistle an' I'll Come to Ye, My 

Lad 

651 

Who can live in beart so glad 84 

Who hath given man speech? or 

who hath set therein 1041

(1291) l!'DIBT LINES AND TITLES 

"Who is it that, this dark night With margerain gentle 

30 

U7 With what deep murmurs, through 

Who is SBvia1 what is she 180 Time's anent stealth 464 

Who, mid the grasses of the field Within unfriendly walls 1078 

768 Without Her 

989 

Who strives to mount Pamassus hill Without the evening dew and show· 

;10 ers 

477 

Who tames the lion now? 810 Womanl experience might have told 

Whoe'er she be 

432 me 

719 

Whoever loves, if he do not pro Woman's faith, and woman's trust 

pose 

257 

678 

Whose woods these are I think I Woman's Last Word, A 888 

know 

1134 Women and Roses 

890 

Why art thou slow, thou lest of Woof of the sun, ethereal gauze 

trouble, Death 

298 

917 

Why came I so untimely forth 385 Words move, music moves 1185 

Wh¥ did I write? what sin to me World, The 

467 

unknown 

539 World's Wanderers, The 755 

Why do ye weep, sweet babes1 Can Would'st thou hear what man can 

tears 

329 say 

234 

"Why is it," Queen Edain said Wound·Dresser, The 

937 

1090 Written at an Inn at Henley 5S8 

Why, lovely charmer, tell me why Written in Northampton County 

520 Asylum 

764 

Why practise, love, this small econ 

Written the Night 'before His Exe- 

CUDoD 

138 

omy 

105S 

Why should a foolish marriage vow 

481 

Why should I hate you, love, or 

why despise 

1053 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 

4:1.3 

Wife of Bath', Tale, The 14 

Will you buy any tape 197 

Willie Brew'd a Peck 0' Maut 647 

Willing Mistress, The ;00 

Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I 

begaa 

:1.64 

Winds, whisper genUy whilst she 

sleeps 

476 

Wine and Water 

1121 

Winter (Williarn Shakespeare) 182 

Winter (James Thomson the EI· 

der) 

550 

Winter Wish, A 

882 

Wisdom of Merlyn, The 10;6 

Wisb, The 

4;0 

Wishes. To His Supposed Mistress 

432 

Witch of Co&, The 1129 

With blackest moss the Bower-plots 

845 

With favoring winds, o'er sunlit seas 

829 

With how sad steps, 0 moon, thou 

climb'st the skiesl u6 

Yachts, The 

1154 

Ye banks and braes and streams 

around 

6;0 

Yo banks and braes 0' bome Doon 

648 

Ye blushing virgins happy are 378 

Yo distant spires, ye antiquo towers 

563 Ye happy swains, whose hearts are 

free 

49; 

Ye have been fresh and green 336 

Ye learned sisters, which have oftentimes 

104 

Ye litUe birds that sit and sing :159 

Ye should stay longer if we durst 

299 

Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your 

chief give earl 

532 

Years, many parti-coloured years 70; 

Yes; we'll wed, my little fay 1048 

Yet if his majesty om: sovereign 

lord 

3S3 

Yet if some voice that man could 

trust 

861 

Yet LondoD, empress of the northern 

clime 

486 

Yet once more, 0 ye laurels, and 

once more 

401.

FIRST LINES AND TlTI.ES [1292J 

You, Andrew Marvel 1193 

You are so witty, profligate and thin 

511 

You ask my love. What shall my 

love then be? 1053 

You brave heroic minds 161 

You, love, and I 1206 

You meaner beauties of the night 

222 

You nymphs, caU'd Naiads, of the 

windring brooks 198 

You spotted snakes with double 

tongue 183 

You strange, astonished-looking, 

angle-faced 712. 

You virgins, that did late despair 

347 

Youtb and AIt 909 

Youth gone, and beauty gone if ever 

there 994 

Zebras, The

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The editor wishes to express his gratitude for permission to reprint selections 

from the wolks of those authors listed below. The listing shows the 

volume or volumes from which the selections from each poet's work were 

taken, and the individuals or firms from whom permission was obtained. 

When dates are given, they refer to United States copyright registration, 

not necessarily the dates of the volumes mentioned. Permissions for poems 

that have been added to the Revised, Mid-Century Edition are acknowledged 

on pages u96-u97. 

ORIGINAL EDmON 

Asl!J.CB.oMBm, LASCELLU: Poems. 

Oxford University Press, Oxford. 

A.E. (GEOl\GJI: WILLIAM RUSSELL): 

CoUected Poems. 1926. The 

Macmfilan Company, N.Y. 

AIuN, CONl\A.D: TlDle in the Rock. 

Copr. 1932, 19n. 1934. 193>. 

1936 by Conrad Aiken. Charles 

Scribner'S Sons, N.Y. 

AUDEN, W. H.: "Look, Stranger'" 

from On This Island, 1937. Random 

House, Inc .• N.Y. Also from 

Look, Stzangerl Faber &: Faber 

Ltd, London. 

BACON, LJl:ONAllD: Bullinger Bound 

and Other Poems. Copr. 1938 by 

Leonard Bacon. Harper &: Brothers, 

N.Y. 

BELLOC, HILAmz: Sonnets and 

Verse. Sheed & Ward, Inc., N.Y. 

BOOT, STZPHU VINCENT: John 

Brown's Body. COpt. 1927, 1928 

by Stephen Vincent .Ben~t. Published 

by Farrar &: Rinehart, N.Y. 

BINTON, LAUllENCZ: Collected 

Poems. 19202. The Macmillan 

Company, N.Y. 

BLUNDEN, EDMUND: Poems, 1914 

1930. A. D. Peters, agent, London. 

.BRIDGES, RoBl!J.T: Poems. Oxford 

University Press, Oxford. 

BROOD, Rupl!l\T: Tne Collected 

Poems of Rupert Brooke. Copr. 

1915 by Dodd, Mead &: Company, 

Inc., N.Y. Complete 

Poems. McClelland & Stewart 

Ltd., Toronto. The author's representative 

and Sidgwick &: Jackson 

Ltd., London. 

CAMPBELL, Roy: Adamastor. Faber 

&: Faber Ltd, London. 

CHAPLIN, RALPH: Bars and Shadows. 

1921. Nellie Seeds Nearing, 

Ridgewood, N.J., and the author. 

CIIESTDTON, C. K.: The Col1ected 

Poems of G. K. Chesterton. Copr. 

1911, 193:1 by Dodd, Mead &: 

Company, Inc., N.Y. The execu 

I:ri:x and Methuen & Co., Ltd., 

London. 

CLOUGII, ARTB:ll:& HUGII: Last four 

lines of ''The Latest Decalogue" 

from Oxford Anthology of English 

Poetry. 1935. Oxford University 

Press, N.Y. 

COLUX, PADlWC: Wild Earth. 

1916. The Macmillan Company, 

N.Y. 

CUXMINGS, E. E.: Col1ected Poems. 

Copr. 1923, 19:15, 19~1, 193;, 

1938 by E. E. Cummings. Pub· 

lished by HatcOUrt, Brace and 

Cumpany, Inc., N.Y. 

DAVIDSON, JOlIN: "In Romney 

Marsh" from Ballads and Songs; 

"Waiting" from Fleet Street 

Eclogues. John Lane The Bodley 

Head Ltd, London. Both in 

Fleet Street and Other Poems. 

Modem Library, N.Y. 

DAVIlIS, WILLLW: HENRY: The 

Poems ot W. H. Davies. Oxford 

University Press, N.Y. Jonathan 

Cape Ltd, London. 

DE LA MAD!!, WALTER: Collected 

Poems. 1941. Henry Holt and 

Company, N.Y. Faber & Faber 

Ltd, London. 

DICKINSON, EMILY: The Poems of 

Emily Dickinson, edited by 

Martha Dickinson Bianchi and 

Alfred Leete Hampson. Reprinted 

1293

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS [12941 

by permission of Little, Brown &: 

Company, Boston. 

DOUGLAS, LoRn ALFRED: Sonnets 

and Lyrics. The author. 

ELIOT, T. S.: Collected Poems of 

T. S. Eliot. Copr. 1934. 1936 by 

Harcourt, Brace and Company, 

Inc., N.Y. Faber '" Faber Ltd, 

London. 

FORD, FORn MADo,,: Collected 

Poems of Ford MadoK Ford. 

1936. Oxford University Press, 

N.Y. 

FROST, ROBERT: Collected Poems. 

1939, 1941. Henry Holt &: Company, 

N.Y. 

HARDY, THOMAS: Collected Poems. 

192.;. The Macmillan Company, 

N.Y. 

H.D. (HILDA DOOLITTLE): Collected 

Poems of HD. 1925. Liveright 

Publishing Corp., N.Y. 

HODGSON, RALPH: Poems. 1917. 

The Macmillan Company, N.Y. 

HOUSMAN, A. E.: "I to my perils" 

and "For my funeral" from More 

Poems. 1936. Leland Hayward, 

Inc., N.Y. "Epitaph on an Army 

of Mercenaries" from Last Poems. 

1922. AIl others from A Shropshire 

Lad, Authorized Edition, 

1924. Henry Holt and Company, 

N.Y. 

HUXLEY, ALDOUS: Lecla. COpt. 1929 

by Aldous Huxley. Harper &: 

Brothers, N.Y. The Macmillan 

Company Ltd., Toronto. The 

author and Chatto & 'Vindus, 

London. 

JEFFERS, ROBINSON: "Shine, Perish· 

ing Republic" from Roan Stallion, 

Tamar. 192;. "Signpost" 

from Solstice and Other Poems. 

1935. Random House, Inc., N.Y. 

JOYCE, JAMRS: Collected Poems. 

1918, 1927. The Viking Press, 

Inc., N.Y. 

KIPLING, RUDYARD: All from Rudyard 

Kipling's Verse, Inclusive 

Edition, 1885-1932. Copr. 1891 

1932.. Reprinted by permission 

from Doubleday, Doran and 

Company, Inc., N.Y. "Recessional" 

from The Five Nations; 

all others from Barrack Room 

Ballads. The Macmillan Company 

Ltd., London and Toronto. 

LAWRENCE, D. H.: "The Ship of 

Death" and "Bavarian Gentians" 

from Last Poems. Copr. 1933 by 

Frieda Lawrence. An others from 

Collected Poems. 1929. The Viking 

Press, Inc., N.Y. Mrs. 

Frieda Lawrence and William 

Heinemann, Ltd., London. 

LEWIS, C. DAY: Collected Poems. 

19~5. Random House, Inc., N.Y. 

From Feathers to Iron. Hogarth 

Press, London, and the author. 

LOWELL, AMY: "uttle Ivory Figures 

Pulled with String" from Pictures 

of the Floating World. 1919. 

Houghton MifBin Company, Boston. 

MACDONALD, WILSON: Out of the 

Wilderness. 192.6. The author. 

~ucLErsH, AlICH1l1ALD: Poems, 

1924-1933. 1925. Hongbton Mif 

Hin Company, Boston. 

MACNI!ICE, Lours: Poems. 1937. 

Random House, Inc., N.Y. Faber 

& Faber Ltd, London. 

MASEFIELD, JOHN: Poems. 1935. 

The Macmillan Company, N.Y. 

MASTERS, EDGAll LEE: Spoon River 

Anthology. 1916. The author. 

MCCRAE, JOHN: In Flanders Fields 

and Other Poems. 1919. G. P. 

Putnam's Sons, N.Y. 

MEREDITH, GEORGE: Poems. Revised 

edition Copr. 1897. 1898 by 

George Meredith. Charles Scribner's 

Sons, N.Y. Constable & Co. 

Ud., London. 

MEW, CHARLOTTE: "Sea Love" 

from The Farmer's Bride. "Moorland 

Nighf' from The R:zmbIing 

Sailor. The Poetry Bookshop, 

London. 

MEYNI!LL, ALICE: Poems. Copt. 

192~ by Wilfrid Meynell. Charles 

Scribner's Sons, N.Y. 

MILLAY, EDNA ST. VINCENT: "Oh, 

Sleep Forever" from Fatal Interview. 

Copr. 1931 by Edna St. 

Vincent Millay. "Wbat Lips My 

Lips" from The Harp Weaver 

and Other Poems. Copr. 1920, 

1921, 1922, 1923 by Edna St. 

Vincent Millay. Published by 

Harper &: Brothers, N.Y.

[1295J 

MITCHELL, SII..AlI WEm.: conected 

Poems. 1914. The Pennsylvania 

Company, Philadelphia. 

Mono, lIAllOl.D: The Earth for 

Sale. The Poetry Boobhop, LoDdon, 

and Mrs. Harold Momo. 

MoollJl, M.A:aI.uINB: "Silence" from 

Selected Poem,. 1935. The Macmillan 

Company, N.Y. "A Talisman" 

from Observations. 19::4. 

The author. 

OWEN, WILFRED: Poems. Mrs. 

Owen and Chatto & Windus, 

London. 

PLARll, VICTOIl: In the Dorian 

Mood. John Lane The Bodley 

Head Ltd, London. 

POUNll, Ezu: Personae: The Collected 

Poems 01 Ezra Pound. 

19::6. Liveright Publishing Cotp., 

N.Y., and Virginia Rice, agent. 

PIlOmscEI, FlIEDEIlIc: Carnival. 

Copt. 1938 by Hatper &Brothers, 

N.Y. The author and Chatto & 

Windus, London. 

PUTNAM, HOWAllD P'ElELPS: Five 

Seasons. 1931. Chatres Scribner's 

Sons, N.Y. 

RANsOM, JOHN CROWE: Chills and 

Fever. 1924. Alfred A. Knopf, 

Inc., N.Y. 

ROBINSON, EDWIN AIlLINGTON: "Mr. 

Flood's Party" from Conected 


Comoany, N.Y. "For a Dead 

Lady" and "Momus" from The 

Town down the River. Copr. 

1910 by Chatles Scribner's Sons, 

N.Y. 

ROSENBEIlG, ISAAC: Poems. William 

Heinemann, Ltd., London. 

SANDBURG, CAllL: Comhuskers, 

1918. Hem:y Holt and Company, 

N.Y. 

SANTAYANA, CEOIlGE: Poems. Copr. 

1901, 1923 by Chatles Scn1>ner's 

Sons, N.Y. Constable & Co. Ltd., 

London. 

SASSOON, Sm.crnmD: Picture Show. 

Published by E. P. Dutton & Co., 

N.Y. 

ScBwAllTZ, DELM:ou: In Dreams 

Begin Responsibilities. 1939. New 

Directions, Norfolk, Corm. 

SUGD, ALAN: Poems. 1916. 

Chatles SCIl1>ner's SmlS, N.Y. 

SPENDEa, STEPHEN: The StiIl Cen· 

tre. Faber & Faber Ltd, London. 

STEPHENS, JAMES: Collected Poems. 

19::6. The Macmillan Company, 

N.Y. 

STEVENS, WALLACE: Harmonium. 

19::3. Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., 

N.Y. 

SWlNlIURNE, AI.GlIIlNON CBA!l.LES: 

Co11ected Poetical Works. Hatper 

& Brothers, N.Y. Complete 

Works. William Heinemaon, 

Ltd., London. 

SYMONS, AllTBUR: Poems. Dodd, 

Mead &: Company, Inc., N.Y. 

William Heinemann, Ltd., London. 

TATE, ALLEN: Selected Poems. 

1937. Charles Scribner's Sons, 

N.Y. 

ThOMAS, DYLAN: The World I 

Breathe. 1939. New Directions, 

Norfolk, Conn. The Map of 

Love. J. M. Dent & Sons, Ltd., 

London. 

VAN DoREN, MAu: The Collected 

Poems of Marl Van Doren. 1939. 

Henry Holt and Company, N.Y., 

and the author. 

WICJ:lIAl\(, .ANNA: The Contemplative 

Quarry and The Mao with 

a Hammer. 1921. Harcourt, 

Brace and Company, Inc., N.Y. 

WILLIAYS, WlI.LIAJ.I: CAllLOS: Complete 

Collected Poems of William 

Carlos WiIliams. 1938. New Directions, 

Norfolk, Crmn. 

WYLIE, ELINOIl: Nets to Catch the 

Wind in Collected Poems 01 Elinor 

Wylie. 1921. Alfred A. 

Knopf, Inc., N.Y. 

YEATS, WILLIAM: BUTLEIl: "The 

Land of Heart's Desire" and 

"Deirdre" from Collected Plays. 

1934. An others from Collected 


Company, N.Y.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS [1296J 

REVISED, MID-CENTURY EDmON 

ADAMS, LEONIE: Poems: A Selection. 

Copr. 1954 by Leonie 

Adams. Funk It Wagnalls Company, 

N.Y. 

AIKEN, CONRAD: "Blind Date" from 

Collected Poems. Copr. 1953 by 

Conrad Aiken. Oxford University 

Press, Inc., N.Y. 

AUDEN, W. H.: "Ballad," COpT. 

1937 by Random House, Inc., 

and "In Memory of W. B. Yeats," 

COpf. 1940 by W. H. Auden, 

both from The Collected Poetry 

of W. H. Auden. By permission 

of Random House, Inc., N.Y. 

BARlO!R, GEO:aGE: Selected Poems. 

Copr. 1941 by the Macmillan 

Company, N.Y. By permission of 

the author. 

BISHOP, ELlZAIlETIi: Poems: North 

and South-A Cold Spring. 

Copr. 1946 by Elizabeth Bishop. 

Houghton MifHin Company, Boston. 

CAMPBELL, Roy: "The Volunteer's 

Reply to the Poet" from Talking 

Bronco. Henry Regnery Company, 

Chicago. 

CRAN!!, HAIlT: The Collected 

Poems of Hart Crane. COP!' 

1933 by Liveright, Inc. By permission 

of Liveright Publishing 

Corporation, N.Y. 

CUMMINGS, E. E.: "the Cambridge 

ladies who live in furnished 

souls" and "what if a much of a 

which of a wind" from Poems, 

192 3-1 95'4. Copr. © 197.3, 1944, 

1951 by E. E. Cummings. Harcourt, 

Brace and Company, Inc., 

N.Y. By permission of Brandt & 

Brandt, N.Y. 

ELIOT, T. S.: Part V of "Burnt 

Norton" from Four Quartets. 

Copr. 1943 by T. S. Eliot. Harcourt, 

Brace and Company, Inc., 

N.Y. 

EMPSON, WILLIAM: Collected 

Poems of W il1iam Empson. 

Copr. 1935, 1940, 1949 by William 

Empson. Harcourt, Brace and 

Company, Inc., N.Y. 

FROST, ROBERT: "The Witch of 

Coos" from "Two Witches," 

"Fire and Ice," and "Stopping by 

Woods on a Snowy Evening" 

from Complete Poems of Robert 

Frost. Copr. 1930, 1949 by Henry 

Holt and Company, Inc., N.Y. 

By permission of the pnblisher. 

GRAVES, RoBOT: Collected Poems 

1955. Copr. 1955 by Robert 

Graves. Doubleday &: Company, 

Inc., N.Y. By permission of the 

author. 

LINDSAY, VACHEL: Collected Poems. 

Copr. 1913 by The Macmillan 

Company, N.Y. By permission of 

the publisher. 

LOWELL, ROBOT: Lord Weary's 

Castle. COpt. 1944, 1946 by 

Robert Lowell. Harcourt, Brace 

and Company, Inc., N.Y. 

MAcNEICl!, Loms: "Bagpipe Music" 

from Poems, 1925-1940. Copr. 

1937, 1939 by Louis Mao 

Neice. Random House, Inc., 

N.Y. 

McGINLEY, PllYLLlS: The Love 

Letters of Phyllis McGinley. 

COpf. 1953, 1954 by Phyllis 

McGinley. The Viking Press, 

Inc., N.Y. "Midcentury Love 

Letter" originally appeared in 

The New Yorker. 

MOORE, MAlUANIO:: "Poetry" and 

"In Distrust of Merits" from 

Collected Poems. Copr. 1951 by 

Marianne Moore. The Macmillan 

Company, N.Y. 

Mum, EDWIN: Collected Poems, 

19l1-1951. Grove Press, Inc., 

N.Y. 

OWEN, WILFRED: "The Show" 

from Poems of Wilfred Owen. 

All rights reserved. New Directions, 

publishers, Norfolk, Connecticut. 

POUND, EZRA: "From 'Canto 

LXXXI'" from The Cantos. 

COpf. 1934, 1937, 1940, 1948 

by Ezra Pound. New Directions, 

publishers, Norfolk, Connecticut. 

RAINE, KATHLEEN: The Pythoness 

and Other Poems. Farrar, Straus 

and Cudahy, Inc., N.Y.

R1!I!D, HENI!.Y: A Map of Verona 

and Other Poems. Copr. 1947 by 

Henry Reed. Harcourt, Brace 

[1297] 


RODGEBS, W. R.: Europa and the 

BulI. Copt. 1952 by W. R. 

Rodgers. Farrar, Straus and 

Cudahy, Inc., N.Y. 

ROETJIm, THEODOIlE: The Lost Son 

and Other Poems. Copt. © 1947 

by the United Chapter of Phi 

Beta Kappa. Doubleday &: Company, 

Inc., N.Y. 

SANDBUl\G, CAn: "Chicago" from 

Chicago Poems. COpt. 1916 by 

Henry Holt and Company, Inc., 

N.Y.; Copr. 19# by Carl Sand-. 

burg. By pennission of the pub- . 

lisher. 

SHAPmo, KAlu.: Poems, 1940-1953. 

Copr. 1942 by Karl Jay Shapiro. 

Random House, Inc., N.Y. 

SLESSOa, KIINNBTB: Poems. 1957. 

Angus and Robertson, Sydney. 

SI'ENDEa, STEl'BJ:N: "I Think Continually 

of Those..." from 

Collected Poems, 19118-1953. 

Copr. 1934 by The Modem 

LIbrary, Inc. By permission of 

Random House, Inc., N.Y. 

STEVENS, W ALLAGE: "The Emperor 

of Ice Cream" and "Not Ideas 

about the Thing but the Thing 

ItseH" from The Col1ected Poems 

of Wallace Stevens. Copr. 1931, 

1954 by Wallace Stevens. AHred 

A. Knopf, Inc., N.Y. 

STICKNEY, TaUMllULL: The Poems 

of Trumbull Sticbtey. Copr. 

1905 by L. M. Sticbtey. Houghton 

MilDin Company, Boston. By 

permission of the author's brother, 

Henry A. Stickney. 

TATE, ALLEN: "Ode to the Con. 

federate Dead" from Poems, 

1922-1947. Copr. 1932 by 

Charles Scnbner's Sons. By permission 

of the publisber. 

THOMAS, DYLAN. "Fem Hill" and 

"Do Not Go Gentle into That 

Good Night" from Collected 

Poems of Dylan Thomas. Copr. 

1952, 1953 by Dylan Thomas. 

New Directious, publishers, Norfolk, 

Connecticut. 

WlLBUl\, RIC1I.Wl: Thlngs of This 

World. Copt. © 1956 by 

Richard Wilbur. Harcourt, Brace 


WILLIAMS, WILI.LUI CAllLOS: "The 

Yachts" from The Collected Ear· 

lier Poems of William Carlos 

Williams. COpt. 1938, 1951 by 

William Carlos Williams. New 

Directions, publishers, Norfolk, 

Connecticut.

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