Poetry 208 Classic Poems 01 They Flee from Me That Sometime Did Me Seek by Sir Thomas Wyatt 1503? - 1542 02 With How Sad Steps, O Moon, Thou Climbest the Skies by Sir Philip Sidney 1554 - 1586 03 The Passionate Shepherd to his Love by Christopher Marlowe 1564 - 1593 04 Fear No More the Heat'o The Sun by Shakespeare 1564 - 1616 05 When to the Sessions of Sweet Silent Thought by Shakespeare 1564-1616 06 Let Me Not to the Marriage of True Minds by Shakespeare 1564-1616 07 Shall I compare Thee To a Summer's Day? By Shakespeare 1564-1616 08 The Expense of Spirit in a Waste of Shame by Shakespeare 1564-1616 09 That Time of Year Thou Mayest in Me Behold by Shakespeare 1564-1616 10 Crabbéd Age and Youth by William Shakespeare 1564-1616 11 My Mistress's Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun by William Shakespeare 1564-1616 12 The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd by Sir Walter Raleigh 1552 - 1618 13 Since There's No Help by Michael Drayton 1562 - 1631 14 Death Be Not Proud by John Donne 1573 - 1631 15 Batter my Heart, Three-Personed God by John Donne 1573 - 1631 16 At the Round Earth's Imagined Corners by John Donne 1573 - 1631 17 The Good-Morrow by John Donne 1573 - 1631 18 The Sun Rising by John Donne 1573 - 1631 19 A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning by John Donne 1573 - 1631 20 Go and Catch a Falling Star by John Donne 1573 - 1631 21 Love III by George Herbert 1593 - 1633 22 The Pulley by George Herbert 1593 - 1633 23 Virtue by George Herbert 1593 - 1633 24 A Song: Ask Me No More Where Jove Bestows by Thomas Carew 1594 - 1640 25 On My First Son by Ben Johnson 1572-1637 26 Song: To Celia by Ben Johnson 1572-1637 27 Still to Be Neat by Ben Johnson 1572-1637 28 To Meadows by Robert Herrick 1591-1674 29 To Daffodills by Robert Herrick 1591-1674 30 To the Virgins, To Make Much of Time by Robert Herrick 1591-1674 31 Upon Julia's Clothes by Robert Herrick 1591-1674 32 Delight in Disorder by Robert Herrick 1591-1674 33 Go, Lovely Rose by Edmund Waller 1606-1687 34 Why So Pale and Wan, Fond Lover? By Sir John Suckling 1609 - 1641 35 To Lucasta, Going to the Wars by Richard Lovelace 1618 - 1657 36 To Althea, from Prison by Richard Lovelace 1618 - 1657 37 The Retreat by Henry Vaughan 1621 - 1695 38 To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell 1621 - 1678 39 The Garden by Andrew Marvell 1621 - 1678 40 Lycidas by John Milton 1608 - 1674 41 Ode on the Death of a Favorite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes by Thomas Gray 1716-1771 42 Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray 1716-1771 43 A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns 1759 - 1796 44 On Another's Sorrow by William Blake 1757-1827 45 Night by William Blake 1757-182746 To Spring by William Blake 1757-1827 47 To Summer by William Blake 1757-1827 48 To Autumn by William Blake 1757-1827 49 To Winter by William Blake 1757-1827 50 Milton: And Did Those Feet in Ancient Timesby William Blake 1757-1827 51 London by William Blake 1757-1827 52 Augeries of Innocence by William Blake 1757-1827 53 The Little Boy Black by William Blake 1757-1827 54 Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge 1772 - 1834 55 The Tear by George Gordon Lord Byron 1788 - 1824 56 So, We'll Go No More a-Roving by George Gordon Lord Byron 1788 - 1824 57 She Walks in Beauty by Goerge Gordon Lord Byron 1788 - 1824 58 On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer by John Keats 1795-1821 59 Ode to A Nightengale by John Keats 1795-1821 60 When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be by John Keats 1795-1821 61 Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats 1795-1821 62 I Stood Tiptoe upon a Little Hill by John Keats 1795-1821 63 I Had a Dove by John Keats 1795 -1821 64 To Autumn by John Keats 1795-1821 65 A Thing of Beauty from Endymion by John Keats 1795-1821 66 Happy is England by John Keats 1795-1821 67 La Belle Dame sans Merci by John Keats 1795-1821 68 Robin Hood by John Keats 1795-1821 69 The Cloud by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-182270 To a Skylark by Percy Bysse Shelley 1792-1822 71 A Widow Bird Sat Mourning for Her Love by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792 - 1822 72 Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822 73 A Dirge by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822 74 Ode to the West Wind by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822 75 Daffodils by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 76 To the Skylark William Wordsworth 1770-1850 77 She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 78 The World is Too Much With Us by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 79 The Solitary Reaper by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 80 Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802 by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 81 A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 82 The Minstrel Boy Thomas Moore 1779-1852 83 To a Waterfowl by William Cullen Bryant 1794-1878 84 I Remember, I Remember by Thomas Hood 1799-1845 85 Lochinvar, from Marmion by Sir Walter Scott 1771-1832 86 King John and the Abbot of Canterbury (Anonymous) 87 Western Wind Anonymous 88 Edward, Edward Anonymous 89 Sir Patrick Spens Anonymous 90 Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe 1809 - 1849 91 The Bells by Edgar Allan Poe 1809 - 1849 92 The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe 1809 - 1849 93 To Helen by Edgar Allan Poe 1809 - 1849 94 Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold (1822-1888) 95 The Latest Decalogue by Arthur Hugh Clough 1819 - 1861 96 A Book by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 97 The Grass by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 98 Certainty by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 99 Sunset by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 100 The Moon by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 101 Because I Could Not Stop For Death by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 102 Success is Counted Sweetest by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 103 I Heard a Fly Buzz by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 104 A Day by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 105 After Great Pain a Formal Feeling Comes by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 106 The Flowers by William Brighty Rands 1823-1882 107 Great, Wide, Beautiful, Wonderful World by William Brighty Rands 1823-1882 108 Hiawatha by Longfellow 1807-1882 109 The Children's Hour by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-1882 110 The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám selections by Edward Fitzgerald 1809 - 1883 111 The Lotos-Eaters by Alfred Lord Tennyson 1809-1883 112 Charge of the Light Brigade by Alfred Lord Tennyson 1809-1883 113 Break, Break, Break by Alfred Lord Tennyson 1809-1883 114 Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson 1809-1883 115 September by Helen Hunt Jackson 1830-1885 116 How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806 - 1861) 117 My Last Duchess by Robert Browning (1812-1889) 118 Home-Thoughts, from Abroad by Robert Browning (1812-1889) 119 Meeting at Night by Robert Browning (1812-1889) 120 Opportunity by Edward Roland Sill 1841 - 1887 121 Summer Days by Christina Rossetti 1830-1894 122 All Things Wait Upon Thee by Christina Rossetti 1830-1894 123 Up-Hill by Christina Rossetti 1830-1894 124 Spring Quiet by Christina Rossetti 1830-1894 125 The Barefoot Boy by John Greenleaf Whittier 1807 - 1892 126 O Captain, My Captain! by Walt Whitman 1819-1892 127 When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer by Walt Whitman 1819 - 1892 128 My Garden by Thomas Edward Brown 1830-1897 129 Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae sub Regno Cynarae by Ernest Dowson 1867 - 1900 130 Requiem by Robert Louis Stevenson 1850 - 1894 131 Pied Beauty by Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844 - 1889 132Spring and Fall by Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844 - 1889 133 The Windhover by Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844 - 1889 134 Spring and Fall by Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844 - 1889 135 Binsey Poplars Felled 1879 by Gerald Manley Hopkins 1844 - 1889 136 The Humble-Bee by Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803 - 1882 137 Andrew Lang 1844-1912 138 I Have a Rendevous with Death by Alan Seeger 1888-1916 139 Invictus by William Ernest Henley 1849-1903 140 The Creation by James Weldon Johnson 1871 - 1938 141 The Battle Hymn of the Republic by Julia Ward Howe 1819 - 1910 142 The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy 1840 - 1928 143 Loveliest of Trees by A. E. Housman 1859 - 1936 144 Bredon Hill by A.E. Housman 1859 - 1936 145 When I Was One-and-Twenty A.E. Housman 1859 - 1936 146 To An Athelete Dying Young by A.E. Housman 1859 - 1936 147 I Did Not Lose My Heart In Summer's Even by A.E. Housman 1859 - 1936 148 My Dreams Are Of a Field Afar by A.E. Housman 1859 - 1936 149 The Lads in Their Hundreds by A.E. Housman 1859 - 1936 150 Oh, When I Was in Love With You by A.E. Housman 151 A Vagabond Song by Bliss Carman 1861-1929 152 In Flanders Field by John McCrae 1872 - 1918 153 Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer 1863 - 1940 154 The Lake Isle of Innisfree by Yeats 1865 - 1939 155 The Song of Wandering Aengus by William Butler Yeats 1865 - 1939 156 The Second Coming by William Butler Yeats 1865 - 1939 157 Leda and the Swan by William Butler Yeats 1865 - 1939 158 Sailing to Byzantium by William Butler Yeats 1865 - 1939 159 The Wild Swans at Coole by William Butler Yeats 1865 - 1939 160 Leisure by W.H. Davies 1870 - 1940 161 Patterns by Amy Lowell 1874 - 1925 162 Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen 1893 - 1918 163 Dulce Et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen 1893 - 1918 164 The Song of Elf by G. K. Chesterton 1874-1936 165 The Song of the Oak by G. K. Chesterton 1874-1936 166 Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight by Vachel Lindsay 1879 - 1931 167 The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes 1880 - 1958 168 Stars by Sara Teasdale 1884-1933169 Barter by Sara Teasdale 1884-1933170 The Coin by Sara Teasdale 1884 1933 171 April by Sara Teasdale 1884 1933 172 Night Song at Amalfi by Sara Teasdale 1884 - 1933 173 If by Rudyard Kipling 1865 - 1936 174 Gunga Din by Rudyard Kipling 1865-1936 175 Reading Aloud by Christopher Morley 1890-1957 176 The House with Nobody in It by Joyce Kilmer 1886 - 1918 177 High Flight by John Gillespie Magee 1922-1941 178 Mr. Flood's Party by Edwin Arlington Robinson 1869 - 1935 179 God's World by Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892-1950 180 Travel by Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892 - 1950 181 Renascence by Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892 - 1950 182 Recuerdo by Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892 - 1950 183 Spring by Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892 - 1950 184 The Man With the Hoe by Edwin Markham 1852 - 1940 185 Silver by Walter de la Mare 1873-1956186 The Listeners by Walter de la Mare 1873-1956 187 The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost 1874-1963 188 Stopping By Woods on A Snowy Evening by Robert Frost 1874-1963 189 Mending Wall by Robert Frost 1874-1963 190 Design by Robert Frost 1874-1963 191 Chicago by Carl Sandburg 1878 - 1967 192 Sea Fever by John Masefield 1878- 1967 193 Cargoes by John Masefield 1878 -1967 194 Tewkesbury Road by John Masefield 1878- 1967 195 Janet Waking by John Crowe Ransom 1888 - 1974 196 Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas 1914 - 1953 197 Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas 1914 - 1953 198 A Refusal to Mourn the Death, By Fire, of a Child in London by Dylan Thomas 1914 - 1953 199 The Force That Through the Green Fuse Drives by Dylan Thomas 1914 - 1953 200 Character Building by Edward Anthony 201 Résumé by Dorothy Parker 1893-1967 202 Musee des Beaux Arts by W.H. Auden 1907-1973 203 Song: Stop All The Clocks by W.H. Auden 1907-1973 204 Admonition by Herman Bitterman 1914-1944 205 Prayer Before Birth by Louis MacNeice 1907 - 1963 206 The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner by Randall Jarrell (1969?) 207 How To Eat a Poem by Eve Merriam 1916-1992 208 The Thought-Fox by Ted Hughes 1930-1998 __________ 01 They Flee from Me That Sometime Did Me Seek by Sir Thomas Wyatt 1503? - 1542 They flee from me that sometime did me seek, With naked foot stalking in my chamber. I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek That are now wild and do not remember That sometime they put themselves in danger To take bread at my hand; and now they range Busily seeking with a continual change. Thanked be fortune, it hath been otherwise Twenty times better; but once in special, In thin array after a pleasant guise, When her loose gown did from her shoulders did fall, And she me caught in her arms long and small, Therewithall sweetly did me kiss, And softly said, "Dear heart, how like you this?" It was no dream, I lay broad waking. But all is turned thorough my gentleness, Into a strange fashion of forsaking; And I have leave to go of her goodness, And she also to use newfangleness. But since that I so kindly am served, I would fain know what she hath deserved. __________ 02 With How Sad Steps, O Moon, Thou Climbest the Skies by Sir Philip Sidney 1554 - 1586 With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies ! How silently, and with how wan a face ! What, may it be that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? Sure, if that long with love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; I read it in thy looks; thy languisht grace To me that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue there, ungratefulness? __________ 03 The Passionate Shepherd to his Love by Christopher Marlowe 1564 - 1593 Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods or steepy mountain yields. And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle; A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of th purest gold; A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my love. The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my love. __________ 04 Fear No More the Heat'o The Sun by Shakespeare 1564 - 1616 from Cymbelline Guiderius: Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages; Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Arviragus: Fear no more the frown o' the great, Thou art past the tyrant's stroke: Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Guiderius: Fear no more the lightning-flash, Arviragus: Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Guiderius: Fear not slander, censure rash; Arviragus: Thou hast finish'd joy and moan: Both: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. Guiderius: No exorciser harm thee! Arviragus: Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Guiderius: Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Arvirgus: Nothing ill come near thee! Both: Quiet consummation have; And renowned be thy grave! __________ 05 When to the Sessions of Sweet Silent Thought by Shakespeare 1564-1616 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste : Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight : Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end. __________ 06 Let Me Not to the Marriage of True Minds by Shakespeare 1564-1616 Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. __________ 07 Shall I compare Thee To a Summer's Day? By Shakespeare 1564-1616 Shall I compare thee to a summer's day ? Thou art more lovely and more temperate : Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date : Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest : So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee. __________ 08 The Expense of Spirit in a Waste of Shame by Shakespeare 1564-1616 Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action; and till action, lust Is perjur'd, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust; Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight; Past reason hunted; and, no sooner had, Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait, On purpose laid to make the taker mad: Mad in pursuit, and in possession so; Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme; A bliss in proof, and prov'd, a very woe; Before, a joy propos'd; behind, a dream. All this the world well knows; yet none knows well To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. __________ 09 That Time of Year Thou Mayest in Me Behold by Shakespeare 1564-1616 That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. __________ 10 Crabbéd Age and Youth by William Shakespeare 1564-1616 Crabbéd Age and Youth Cannot live together: Youth is full of pleasance, Age is full of care; Youth like summer morn, Age like winter weather; Youth like summer brave, Age like winter bare. Youth is full of sport, Age's breath is short; Youth is nimble, Age is lame; Youth is hot and bold, Age is weak and cold; Youth is wild, and Age is tame. Age, I do abhor thee; Youth, I do adore thee; O, my Love, my Love is young! Age, I do defy thee: O, sweet shepherd, hie thee! For methinks thou stay'st too long. __________ 11 My Mistress's Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun by William Shakespeare 1564-1616 My mistress's eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lip's red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun, If hair be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; In some perfumes there is more delight Than the breath with which my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know, Music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare. __________ 12 The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd by Sir Walter Raleigh 1552 - 1618 If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love. Time drives the flocks from field to fold When rivers rage and rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb; The rest complains of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yields; A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall, Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten-- In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, Thy coral claps and somber studs, All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy love. But could youth last and love still breed, Had joys no date nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy love. __________ 13 Since There's No Help by Michael Drayton 1562 - 1631 Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part-- Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes, --Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover. __________ 14 Death Be Not Proud by John Donne 1573 - 1631 Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. __________ 15 Batter my Heart, Three-Personed God by John Donne 1573 - 1631 Batter my heart, three-personed God, for you As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new. I, like an usurped town to another due, Labor to admit to you, but oh, to no end; Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captived, and proves weak or untrue. Yet dearly I love you, and would be lovéd fain But am betrothed unto your enemy; Divorce me, untie or break that knot again; Take me to you, imprison me, for I, Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me. __________ 16 At the Round Earth's Imagined Corners by John Donne 1573 - 1631 At the round earth's imagin'd corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls, and to your scatter'd bodies go; All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow, All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance hath slain, and you whose eyes Shall behold God and never taste death's woe. But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space, For if above all these my sins abound, 'Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace When we are there; here on this lowly ground Teach me how to repent; for that's as good As if thou'hadst seal'd my pardon with thy blood. __________ 17 The Good-Morrow by John Donne 1573 - 1631 I wonder by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we lov'd? Were we not wean'd till then, But suck'd on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the seven sleepers' den? 'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be. If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desir'd, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee. And now good morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear; For love, all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room, an everywhere. Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone, Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown, Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one. My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest; Where can we find two better hemispheres, Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally; If our two loves be one, or, thou and I Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die. __________ 18 The Sun Rising by John Donne 1573 - 1631 Busy old fool, unruly sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late school-boys and sour prentices, Go tell court-huntsmen, that the king will ride, Call country ants to harvest offices; Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time. Thy beams, so reverend, and strong Why shouldst thou think? I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, But that I would not lose her sight so long; If her eyes have not blinded thine, Look, and tomorrow late, tell me, Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me. Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay. She's all states, and all princes, I, Nothing else is. Princes do but play us; compared to this, All honour's mimic; all wealth alchemy. Thou sun art half as happy as we, In that the world's contracted thus; Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be To warm the world, that's done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere. __________ 19 A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning by John Donne 1573 - 1631 As virtuous men passe mildly away, And whisper to their soules, to goe, Whilst some of their sad friends do say, The breath goes now, and some say, no; So let us melt, and make no noise, No teare-floods, nor sigh-tempests move, T'were prophanation of our joyes To tell the layetie our love. Moving of th' earth brings harmes and feares, Men reckon what it did and meant, But trepidation of the speares, Though greater farre, is innocent. Dull sublunary lovers love (Whose soule is sense) cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove Those things which elemented it. But we by a love, so much refin'd, That our selves know not what it is, Inter-assured of the mind, Care lesse, eyes, lips, and hands to misse. Our two soules therefore, which are one, Though I must goe, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to ayery thinnesse beate. If they be two, they are two so As stiffe twin compasses are two, Thy soule the fixt foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if th' other doe. And though it in the center sit, Yet when the other far doth rome, It leanes, andhearkens after it, And growes erect, as that comes home. Such wilt thou be to mee, who must Like th' other foot, obliquely runne; Thy firmnes drawes my circle just, And makes me end, where I begunne. __________ 20 Go and Catch a Falling Star by John Donne 1573 - 1631 Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the devil's foot, Teach me to hear mermaids singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind. If thou be'st born to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights, Till age snow white hairs on thee, Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me, All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear, No where Lives a woman true, and fair. If thou find'st one, let me know, Such a pilgrimage were sweet; Yet do not, I would not go, Though at next door we might meet; Though she were true, when you met her, And last, till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two, or three. __________ 21 Love III by George Herbert 1593 - 1633 Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back, Guilty of dust and sin. But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, If I lacked anything. A guest, I answer'd, worthy to be here: Love said, You shall be he. I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear, I cannot look on thee. Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, Who made the eyes but I? Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them: let my shame Go where it doth deserve. And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame? My dear, then I will serve. You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat: So I did sit and eat. __________ 22 The Pulley by George Herbert 1593 - 1633 When God at first made man, Having a glass of blesings standing by; Let us (said he) pour on him all we can: Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span. So strength first made a way; The beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure: When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that alone of all his treasure Rest in the bottom lay. For if I should (said he) Bestow this jewel also on my creature, He would adore my gifts instead of me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature: So both should losers be. Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness: Let him be rish and weary, that at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to my breast. __________ 23 Virtue by George Herbert 1593 - 1633 Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright! The bridal of the earth and sky-- The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. __________ 24 A Song: Ask Me No More Where Jove Bestows by Thomas Carew 1594 - 1640 Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauty's orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. Ask me no more whither doth stray The golden atoms of the day; For in pure love heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair. Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale, when May is past; For in your sweet, dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note. Ask me no more where those stars light, That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere. Ask me no more if east or west The phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies. __________ 25 On My First Son by Ben Johnson 1572-1637 Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy; My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy. Seven years tho' wert lent to me, and I thee pay, Exacted by thy fate, on the just day. O, could I lose all father now! For why Will man lament the state he should envy? To have so soon 'scap'd world's and flesh's rage, And if no other misery, yet age? Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say, "Here doth lie Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry." For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such, As what he loves may never like too much. __________ 26 Song: To Celia by Ben Johnson 1572-1637 Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee As giving it a hope, that there It could not withered be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee. __________ 27 Still to Be Neat by Ben Johnson 1572-1637 Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd: Lady, it is to be presum'd, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: Such sweet neglect more taketh me han all th' adulteries of art; They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. __________ 28 To Meadows by Robert Herrick 1591-1674 Ye have been fresh and green, Ye have been fill'd with flowers, And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours. You have beheld how they With wicker arks did come To kiss and bear away The richer cowslips home. You've heard them sweetly sing, And seen them in a round: Each virgin like a spring, With honeysuckles crown'd. But now we see none here Whose silv'ry feet did tread And with dishevell'd hair Adorn'd this smoother mead. Like unthrifts, having spent Your stock and needy grown, You're left here to lament Your poor estates, alone. __________ 29 To Daffodills by Robert Herrick 1591-1674 Fair Daffodills, we weep to see You haste away so soon: As yet the early-rising Sun Has not attained his Noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the Even-song; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a Spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or any thing. We die, As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the Summer's rain; Or as the pearls of Morning's dew Ne'er to be found again. __________ 30 To the Virgins, To Make Much of Time by Robert Herrick 1591-1674 Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a-flying; And the same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And, while ye may, go marry; For, having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry. __________ 31 Upon Julia's Clothes by Robert Herrick 1591-1674 Whenas in silks my Julia goes Then, then, (methinks) how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free; Oh, how that glittering taketh me! __________ 32 Delight in Disorder by Robert Herrick 1591-1674 A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness. A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fair distraction; An erring lace which here and there Enthralls the crimson stomacher; A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbons to flow confusedly; A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat; A careless shoestring, in whose tie I see a wild civility; Do more bewitch me than when art Is too precise in every part. __________ 33 Go, Lovely Rose by Edmund Waller 1606-1687 Go, lovely Rose-- Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that 's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die--that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair! __________ 34 Why So Pale and Wan, Fond Lover? By Sir John Suckling 1609 - 1641 Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't? Prithee, why so mute? Quit, quit, for shame; this will not move, This cannot take her; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The devil take her! __________ 35 To Lucasta, Going to the Wars by Richard Lovelace 1618 - 1657 Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind That from nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly. True, a mew mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore; I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more. __________ 36 To Althea, from Prison by Richard Lovelace 1618 - 1657 When Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair, And fetter'd to her eye, The gods, that wanton in the air, Know no such liberty. When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes, that tipple in the deep, Know no such liberty. When (like committed linnets) I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my king; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage; If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone that soar above, Enjoy such liberty. __________ 37 The Retreat by Henry Vaughan 1621 - 1695 Happy those early days! when I Shin'd in my angel-infancy. Before I understood this place Appoint'd for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy ought But a white, celestial thought, When yet I had not walk'd above A mile, or two, from my first love, And looking back (at that short space,) Could see a glimpse of his bright face; When on some gild'd cloud or flower My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shodows of eternity; Before I taught my tongue to wound My conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispence A sev'ral sin to ev'ry sense, But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness. O how I long to travel back And tread again that ancient track! That I might once more reach that plain, Where first I left my glorious train, From whence th'enlightened spirit sees That shady city of palm trees; But (ah!) my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way. Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move, And when this dust falls to the urn In that state I came return. __________ 38 To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell 1621 - 1678 Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness Lady were no crime. We would sit down and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Times winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in thy marble vault shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honor turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust: The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapped power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run. __________ 39 The Garden by Andrew Marvell 1621 - 1678 How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their uncessant labours see Crown'd from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all flow'rs and all trees do close To weave the garlands of repose. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear! Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men; Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow. Society is all but rude, To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So am'rous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name; Little, alas, they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, that mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race: Apollo hunted Daphne so, Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wond'rous life in this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons as I pass, Ensnar'd with flow'rs, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find, Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide; There like a bird it sits and sings, Then whets, and combs its silver wings; And, till prepar'd for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walk'd without a mate; After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one To live in paradise alone. How well the skillful gard'ner drew Of flow'rs and herbs this dial new, Where from above the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run; And as it works, th' industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckon'd but with herbs and flow'rs! __________ 40 Lycidas by John Milton 1608 - 1674 A Lament for a friend drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637 Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear, I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude, And with forc'd fingers rude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due: For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not flote upon his watry bear Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of som melodious tear. Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse, So may som gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destin'd Urn, And as he passes turn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd. For we were nurst upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, We drove a field, and both together heard What time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev'ning, bright Toward Heav'ns descent had slop'd his westering wheel. Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to th'Oaten Flute; Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel, From the glad sound would not be absent long, And old Damaetas lov'd to hear our song. But O the heavy change, now thou art gon, Now thou art gon, and never must return! Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves, With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown, And all their echoes mourn. The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green, Shall now no more be seen, Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes. As killing as the Canker to the Rose, Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze, Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear, When first the White thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear. Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep Clos'd o're the head of your lov'd Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream: Ay me, I fondly dream! Had ye bin there--for what could that have don? What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore, The Muse her self, for her inchanting son Whom Universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar, His goary visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore. Alas! what boots it with uncessant care To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade, And strictly meditate the thankles Muse, Were it not better don as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of Noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes; But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears, And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise, Phoebus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears; Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes, And perfet witnes of all judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed. O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocall reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood: But now my Oate proceeds, And listens to the Herald of the Sea That came in Neptune's plea, He ask'd the Waves, and ask'd the Fellon winds, What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? And question'd every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked Promontory, They knew not of his story, And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd, The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine, Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. It was that fatall and perfidious Bark Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow, His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. Ah; Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? Last came, and last did go, The Pilot of the Galilean lake, Two massy Keyes he bore of metals twain, (The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain) He shook his Miter'd locks, and stern bespake, How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain, Anow of such as for their bellies sake, Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold? Of other care they little reck'ning make, Then how to scramble at the shearers feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest. Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to hold A Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the least That to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw, The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed, But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim Woolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing sed, But that two-handed engine at the door, Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past, That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse, And call the Vales, and bid them hither cast Their Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use, Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes, That on the green terf suck the honied showres, And purple all the ground with vernal flowres. Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies. The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine, The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat, The glowing Violet. The Musk-rose, and the well attir'd Woodbine. With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed, And every flower that sad embroidery wears: Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies. For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding Seas Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou to our moist vows deny'd, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great vision of the guarded Mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold; Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth. And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth. Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more, For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar, So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore, Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves Where other groves, and other streams along, With Nectar pure his oozy Lock's he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song, In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the Saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet Societies That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more; Hence forth thou art the Genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th'Okes and rills, While the still morn went out with Sandals gray, He touch'd the tender stops of various Quills, With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay: And now the Sun had stretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropt into the Western bay; At last he rose, and twitch'd his Mantle blew: To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new. __________ 41 Ode on the Death of a Favorite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes by Thomas Gray 1716-1771 'Twas on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima reclined, Gazed on the lake below. Her conscious tail her joy declared; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw; and purr'd applause. Still had she gazed; but 'midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue Thro' richest purple to the view Betray'd a golden gleam. The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize. What female heart can gold despise? What Cat's averse to fish? Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent Again she stretch'd, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between. (Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled.) The slipp'ry verge her feet beguiled, She tumbled headlong in. Eight times emerging from the flood She mew'd to ev'ry wat'ry god, Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd: Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard. A Fav'rite has not friend! From hence, ye Beauties undeceived, Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all that glisters, gold. __________ 42 Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray 1716-1771 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. "One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; "The next with dirges due in sad array Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." The Epitaph Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown. Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heav'n did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear, He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bosom of his Father and his God. __________ 43 A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns 1759 - 1796 O my Luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June: O my Luve's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune! As fair thou art, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am I: And I will love thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry: Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt with the sun; I will luve thee still my dear, When the sands of life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only Luve, And fare thee weel a while! And I will come again , my Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile. __________ 44 On Another's Sorrow by William Blake 1757-1827 Can I see another's woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another's grief, And not seek for kind relief? Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow's share? Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow filled? Can a mother sit and hear An infant groan, an infant fear? No, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be! And can He who smiles on all Hear the wren with sorrows small, Hear the small bird's grief and care, Hear the woes that infants bear - And not sit beside the nest, Pouring pity in their breast, And not sit the cradle near, Weeping tear on infant's tear? And not sit both night and day, Wiping all our tears away? O no! never can it be! Never, never can it be! He doth give His joy to all: He becomes an infant small, He becomes a man of woe, He doth feel the sorrow too. Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, And thy Maker is not by: Think not thou canst weep a tear, And thy Maker is not near. O He gives to us His joy, That our grief He may destroy: Till our grief is fled and gone He doth sit by us and moan. __________ 45 Night by William Blake 1757-1827The sun descending in the west, The evening star does shine;The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine.The moon, like a flower,In heaven's high bower, With silent delight, Sits and smiles on the night. Farewell, green fields and happy groves, Where flocks have took delight.Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves The feet of angels bright;Unseen, they pour out blessing,And joy without ceasing, On each bud and blossom, And each sleeping bosom. __________ 46 To Spring by William Blake 1757-1827 O thou, with dewy locks, who lookest down Thro' the clear windows of the morning; turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring! The hills tell each other, and the list'ning Vallies hear; all our longing eyes are turned Up to thy bright pavillions: issue forth, And let thy holy feet visit our clime. Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee. O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head, Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee! __________ 47 To Summer by William Blake 1757-1827 O thou, who passest thro' our vallies in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer, Oft pitched'st here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy, thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair. Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our springs Sit down, and in our mossy vallies, on Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream: Our vallies love the Summer in his pride. Our bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire: Our youth are bolder than the southern swains: Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance: We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy, Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven, Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat. __________ 48 To Autumn by William Blake 1757-1827 O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof, there thou may'st rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe; And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers. "The narrow bud opens her beauties to "The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins; "Blossoms hang round the brows of morning, and "Flourish down the bright cheek of modest eve, "Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing, "And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head. "The spirits of the air live on the smells "Of fruit; and joy, with pinions light, roves round "The gardens, or sits singing in the trees." Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat, Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load. __________ 49 To Winter by William Blake 1757-1827 O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors: The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car. He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep Rides heavy; his storms are unchain'd; sheathed In ribbed steel, I dare not lift mine eyes; For he hath rear'd his sceptre o'er the world. Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks: He withers all in silence, and his hand Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life. He takes his seat upon the cliffs, the mariner Cries in vain. Poor little wretch! that deal'st With storms; till heaven smiles, and the monster Is driv'n yelling to his caves beneath mount Hecla. __________ 50 Milton: And Did Those Feet in Ancient Timesby William Blake 1757-1827 And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England's mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England's pleasant pastures seen? And did the Countenance Divine Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here Among these dark Satanic mills? Bring me my bow of burning gold: Bring me my arrows of desire: Bring me my spear: O clouds unfold! Bring me my chariot of fire. I will not cease from mental fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand Till we have built Jerusalem In England's green and pleasant land. __________ 51 London by William Blake 1757-1827 I wander thro' each charter'd street, Near where the charter'd Thames does flow, And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every Man, In every Infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear. How the Chimney-sweeper's cry Every black'ning Church appalls; And the hapless Soldier's sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls. But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlot's curse Blasts the new born Infant's tear, And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse. __________ 52 Augeries of Innocence by William Blake 1757-1827 To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower, Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand And Eternity in an hour. A Robin Red breast in a Cage Puts all Heaven in a Rage. A dove house fill'd with doves and Pigeons Shudders Hell thro' all its regions. A dog starv'd at his Master's Gate Predicts the ruin of the State. A Horse misus'd upon the Road Calls to Heaven for Human blood. Each outcry of the hunted Hare A fibre from the Brain does tear. A Skylark wounded in the wing, A Cherubim does cease to sing. The Game Cock clipp'd and arm'd for fight Does the Rising Sun affright. Every Wolf's and Lion's howl Raises from Hell a Human Soul. The wild deer, wand'ring here and there, Keeps the Human Soul from Care. The Lamb misus'd breeds public strife And yet forgives the Butcher's Knife. The Bat that flits at close of Eve Has left the Brain that won't believe. The Owl that calls upon the Night Speaks the Unbeliever's fright. He who shall hurt the little Wren Shall never be belov'd by Men. He who the Ox to wrath has mov'd Shall never be by Woman lov'd. The wanton Boy that kills the Fly Shall feel the Spider's enmity. He who torments the Chafer's sprite Weaves a Bower in endless Night. The Catterpillar on the Leaf Repeats to thee thy Mother's grief. Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly, For the Last Judgement draweth nigh. He who shall train the Horse to War Shall never pass the Polar Bar. The Beggar's Dog and Widow's Cat, Feed them and thou wilt grow fat. The Gnat that sings his Summer's song Poison gets from Slander's tongue. The poison of the Snake and Newt Is the sweat of Envy's Foot. The poison of the Honey Bee Is the Artist's Jealousy. The Prince's Robes and Beggars' Rags Are Toadstools on the Miser's Bags. A truth that's told with bad intent Beats all the Lies you can invent. It is right it should be so; Man was made for Joy and Woe; And when this we rightly know Thro' the World we safely go. Joy and Woe are woven fine, A Clothing for the Soul divine; Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine. The Babe is more than swadling Bands; Throughout all these Human Lands Tools were made, and born were hands, Every Farmer Understands. Every Tear from Every Eye Becomes a Babe in Eternity. This is caught by Females bright And return'd to its own delight. The Bleat, the Bark, Bellow and Roar Are Waves that Beat on Heaven's Shore. The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath Writes Revenge in realms of death. The Beggar's Rags, fluttering in Air, Does to Rags the Heavens tear. The Soldier arm'd with Sword and Gun, Palsied strikes the Summer's Sun. The poor Man's Farthing is worth more Than all the Gold on Afric's Shore. One Mite wrung from the Labrer's hands Shall buy and sell the Miser's lands: Or, if protected from on high, Does that whole Nation sell and buy. He who mocks the Infant's Faith Shall be mock'd in Age and Death. He who shall teach the Child to Doubt The rotting Grave shall ne'er get out. He who respects the Infant's faith Triumph's over Hell and Death. The Child's Toys and the Old Man's Reasons Are the Fruits of the Two seasons. The Questioner, who sits so sly, Shall never know how to Reply. He who replies to words of Doubt Doth put the Light of Knowledge out. The Strongest Poison ever known Came from Caesar's Laurel Crown. Nought can deform the Human Race Like the Armour's iron brace. When Gold and Gems adorn the Plow To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow. A Riddle or the Cricket's Cry Is to Doubt a fit Reply. The Emmet's Inch and Eagle's Mile Make Lame Philosophy to smile. He who Doubts from what he sees Will ne'er believe, do what you Please. If the Sun and Moon should doubt They'd immediately Go out. To be in a Passion you Good may do, But no Good if a Passion is in you. The Whore and Gambler, by the State Licenc'd, build that Nation's Fate. The Harlot's cry from Street to Street Shall weave Old England's winding Sheet. The Winner's Shout, the Loser's Curse, Dance before dead England's Hearse. Every Night and every Morn Some to Misery are Born. Every Morn and every Night Some are Born to sweet Delight. Some ar Born to sweet Delight, Some are born to Endless Night. We are led to Believe a Lie When we see not Thro' the Eye Which was Born in a Night to Perish in a Night When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light. God Appears and God is Light To those poor Souls who dwell in the Night, But does a Human Form Display To those who Dwell in Realms of day. __________ 53 The Little Boy Black by William Blake 1757-1827 My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but O my soul is white! White as an angel is the English child, But I am black, as if bereaved of light. My mother taught me underneath a tree, And, sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kissed me, And, pointing to the East, began to say: 'Look on the rising sun: there God does live, And gives His light, and gives His heat away, And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday. 'And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 'For, when our souls have learned the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice, Saying, "Come out from the grove, my love and care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice."' Thus did my mother say, and kissed me, And thus I say to little English boy. When I from black, and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God like lambs we joy, I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me. __________ 54 Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge 1772 - 1834 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise. __________ 55 The Tear by George Gordon Lord Byron 1788 - 1824 When Friendship or Love Our sympathies move; When Truth, in a glance, should appear, The lips may beguile, With a dimple or smile, But the test of affection's a Tear: Too oft is a smile But the hypocrite's wile, To mask detestation, or fear; Give me the soft sigh, Whilst the soultelling eye Is dimm'd, for a time, with a Tear: Mild Charity's glow, To us mortals below, Shows the soul from barbarity clear; Compassion will melt, Where this virtue is felt, And its dew is diffused in a Tear: The man, doom'd to sail With the blast of the gale, Through billows Atlantic to steer, As he bends o'er the wave Which may soon be his grave, The green sparkles bright with a Tear; The Soldier braves death For a fanciful wreath In Glory's romantic career; But he raises the foe When in battle laid low, And bathes every wound with a Tear. If, with high-bounding pride, He return to his bride! Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear; All his toils are repaid When, embracing the maid, From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. Sweet scene of my youth! Seat of Friendship and Truth, Where Love chas'd each fast-fleeting year Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, For a last look I turn'd, But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear: Though my vows I can pour, To my Mary no more, My Mary, to Love once so dear, In the shade of her bow'r, I remember the hour, She rewarded those vows with a Tear. By another possest, May she live ever blest! Her name still my heart must revere: With a sigh I resign, What I once thought was mine, And forgive her deceit with a Tear. Ye friends of my heart, Ere from you I depart, This hope to my breast is most near: If again we shall meet, In this rural retreat, May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. When my soul wings her flight To the regions of night, And my corse shall recline on its bier; As ye pass by the tomb, Where my ashes consume, Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear. __________ 56 So, We'll Go No More a-Roving by George Gordon Lord Byron 1788 - 1824 So we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart still be as loving, And the moon still be as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul outwears the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon. __________ 57 She Walks in Beauty by Goerge Gordon Lord Byron 1788 - 1824 She walks in beauty like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to the tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One ray the more, one shade the less Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress Or softly lightens o'er her face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling place. And on that cheek and o'er that brow So soft, so calm yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow But tell of days in goodness spent A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent. __________ 58 On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer by John Keats 1795-1821 Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet never did I breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold. Then I felt like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes He star'd at the Pacific--and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-- Silent upon a peak in Darien. __________ 59 Ode to A Nightengale by John Keats 1795-1821 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness,-- That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain-- To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep? __________ 60 When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be by John Keats 1795-1821 When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, Before high piled books, in charact'ry, Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour! That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love!--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. __________ 61 Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats 1795-1821 Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal--yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea-shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.' __________ 62 I Stood Tiptoe upon a Little Hill by John Keats 1795-1821 I stood tiptoe upon a little hill;The air was cooling and so very still,That the sweet buds which with a modest pridePull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,Their scanty-leaved, and finely tapering stems,Had not yet lost their starry diademsCaught from the early sobbing of the morn.The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn,And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they sleptOn the blue fields of heaven, and then there creptA little noiseless noise among the leaves,Born of the very sigh that silences heaves;For not the faintest motion could be seenOf all the shades that slanted o'er the green. __________ 63 I Had a Dove by John Keats 1795 -1821 I had a dove and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving: O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied, With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving; Sweet little red feet! why should you die - Why should you leave me, sweet bird! why? You lived alone in the forest tree, Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me? I kissed you oft and gave you white peas: Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees? __________ 64 To Autumn by John Keats 1795-1821 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-- While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. __________ 65 A Thing of Beauty from Endymion by John Keats 1795-1821 A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its lovliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep; and such are daffodils With the green world they live in; and clear rills That for themselves a cooling covert make 'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake, Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: And such too is the grandeur of the dooms We have imagined for the mighty dead; An endless fountain of immortal drink, Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. __________ 66 Happy is England by John Keats 1795-1821 Happy is England! I could be content To see no other verdure than its own; To feel no other breezes than are blown Through its tall woods with high romances blent: Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment For skies Italian, and an inward groan To sit upon an Alp as on a throne, And half forget what world or worldling meant. Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters; Enough their simple loveliness for me, Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging: Yet do I often warmly burn to see Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing, And float with them about the summer waters. __________ 67 La Belle Dame sans Merci by John Keats 1795-1821 O, what can ail thee, Knight at arms, Alone and palely loitering; The sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing. O, what can ail thee, Knight at arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too. I met a Lady in the Meads Full beautiful, a faery's child; Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. I made a Garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant Zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long; For sideways would she lean, and sing A faery's song. She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna dew; And sure in language strange she said, "I love thee true." She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore, And there I shut her wild sad eyes With kisses four. And there she lulled me asleep, And there I dream'd, Ah Woe betide, The latest dream I ever dreamt On the cold hill side. I saw pale Kings, and Princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; Who cry'd--"La belle Dame sans merci Hath thee in thrall!" I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke, and found me here On the cold hill side. And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering; Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing. __________ 68 Robin Hood by John Keats 1795-1821 No! those days are gone away, And their hours are old and gray, And their minutes buried all Under the down-trodden pall Ofthe leaves of many years: Many times have winter's shears, Frozen North, and chilling East, Sounded tempests to the feast Of the forest's whispering fleeces, Since men knew nor rent nor leases. No, the bugle sounds no more, And the twanging bow no more; Silent is the ivory shrill Past the heath and up the hill; There is no mid-forest laugh, Where lone Echo gives the half To some wight, amaz'd to hear Jesting, deep in forest drear. On the fairest time of June You may go, with sun or moon, Or the seven stars to light you, Or the polar ray to right you; But you never may behold Little John, or Robin bold; Never one, of all the clan, Thrumming on an empty can Some old hunting ditty, while He doth his green way beguile To fair hostess Merriment, Down beside the pasture Trent; For he left the merry tale, Messenger for spicy ale. Gone, the merry morris din; Gone, the song of Gamelyn; Gone, the tough-belted outlaw Idling in the "grene shawe"; All are gone away and past! And if Robin should be cast Sudden from his turfed grave, And if Marian should have Once again her forest days, She would weep, and he would craze: He would swear, for all his oaks, Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes, Have rotted on the briny seas; She would weep that her wild bees Sang not to her---strange! that honey Can't be got without hard money! So it is; yet let us sing Honour to the old bow-string! Honour to the bugle-horn! Honour to the woods unshorn! Honour to the Lincoln green! Honour to the archer keen! Honour to tight little John, And the horse he rode upon! Honour to bold Robin Hood, Sleeping in the underwood! Honour to maid Marian, And to all the Sherwood clan! Though their days have hurried by Let us two a burden try. __________ 69 The Cloud by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822 I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,From the seas and the streams;I bear light shade for the leaves when laidIn their noonday dreams.From my wings are shaken the dews that wakenThe sweet buds every one,When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,As she dances about the sun.I wield the flail of the lashing hail,And whiten the green plains under;And then again I dissolve it in rain,And laugh as I pass in thunder. __________ 70 To a Skylark by Percy Bysse Shelley 1792-1822 Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of Heaven, In the broad day-light Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight, Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awaken'd flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, Sprite or Bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow The world should listen then, as I am listening now. __________ 71 A Widow Bird Sat Mourning for Her Love by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792 - 1822 A widow bird sat mourning for her love Upon a wintry bough, The frozen wind crept on above; The freezing stream below. There was no leaf upon the forest bare, No flow'r upon the ground And little motion in the air, Except the mill-wheel's sound. __________ 72 Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822 I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which still survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed: And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Nothing else remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away. __________ 73 A Dirge by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822 Rough Wind, that moanest loud Grief too sad for song; Wild wind, when sullen cloud Knells all the night long; Sad storm, whose tears are vain, Bare woods, whose branches strain, Deep caves and dreary main, _ Wail, for the world's wrong! __________ 74 Ode to the West Wind by Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822 I O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The wingéd seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odors plain and hill: Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear! II Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread On the blue surface of thine aery surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh, hear! III Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear! IV If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. V Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? __________ 75 Daffodils by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. __________ 76 To the Skylark William Wordsworth 1770-1850 Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still! Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; A privacy of glorious light is thine; Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine; Type of the wise who soar, but never roam; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home! __________ 77 She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love: A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! --Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me! __________ 78 The World is Too Much With Us by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn. __________ 79 The Solitary Reaper by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings?-- Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;-- I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more. __________ 80 Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802 by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still! __________ 81 A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal by William Wordsworth 1770-1850 A slumber did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees. __________ 82 The Minstrel Boy Thomas Moore 1779-1852 The minstrel boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you'll find him, His father's sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him. "Land of song!" said the warrior bard, "Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee!" The minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain Could not bring his proud soul under; The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, For he tore its cords asunder, And said, "No chain shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery! Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery!" __________ 83 To a Waterfowl by William Cullen Bryant 1794-1878 Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sing On the chafed ocean side? There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast-- The desert and illimitable air-- Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. __________ 84 I Remember, I Remember by Thomas Hood 1799-1845 I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The vi'lets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,-- The tree is living yet! I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow! I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heav'n Than when I was a boy. __________ 85 Lochinvar, from Marmion by Sir Walter Scott 1771-1832 Oh! young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through the wide Border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword he weapons had none. He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone. So faithful in love and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He stayed not for brake and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none, But ere he alighted at Netherby gate The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, -- For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word, -- "Oh! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" -- "I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide -- And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine, There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar. The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, WIth a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar, -- "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridgroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, " 'Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before he he sprung! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran! There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? __________ 86 King John and the Abbot of Canterbury (Anonymous) An ancient story I'll tell you anon, Of a notable prince, that was called King John; He ruled over England with main and might, But he did great wrong, and maintained little right. And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry, Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury; How for his housekeeping and high renown, They rode post to bring him to London town. A hundred men, as the King heard say, The Abbot kept in his house every day; And fifty gold chains, without any doubt, In velvet coats waited the Abbot about. "How now, Father Abbot? I hear it of thee, Thou keepest a far better house than me; And for thy housekeeping and high renown, I fear thou work'st treason against my crown." "My liege," quoth the Abbot, "I would it were known, I am spending nothing but what is my own; And I trust your grace will not put me in fear, For spending my own true-gotten gear." "Yes, yes, Father Abbot, thy fault is high, And now for the same thou needest must die; And except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head struck off from thy body shall be." "Now first," quo' the King, "as I sit here, With my crown of gold on my head so fair, Among all my liegemen of noble birth, Thou must tell to one penny what I am worth." "Secondly, tell me, beyond all doubt, How quickly I may ride the whole world about; And at the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly, what do I think?" "O, these are deep questions for my shallow wit, And I cannot answer your Grace as yet; But if you will give me a fortnight's space, I'll do my endeavor to answer your Grace." "Now a fortnight's space to thee will I give, And that is the longest thou hast to live; For unless thou answer my questions three, Thy life and thy lands are forfeit to me." Away rode the Abbot all sad at this word; He rode to Cambridge and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could by his learning an answer devise. Then home rode the Abbot, with comfort so cold, And he met his shepherd, a-going to fold: "Now, good Lord Abbot, you are welcome home; What news do you bring us from great King John?" "Sad news, sad news, Shepherd, I must give; That I have but three days more to live. I must answer the King his questions three, Or my head struck off from my body shall be." "The first is to tell him, as he sits there, With his crown of gold on his head so fair Among all his liegemen of noble birth, To within one penny, what he is worth." "The second, to tell him, beyond all doubt, How quickly he may ride this whole world about; And at question the third, I must not shrink, But tell him there truly, what does he think?" "O, cheer up, my lord; did you never hear yet That a fool may teach a wise man wit? Lend me your serving-men, horse, and apparel, And I'll ride to London to answer your quarrel." "With your pardon, it oft has been told to me That I'm like your lordship as ever can be: And if you will but lend me your gown, There is none shall know us at London town." "Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, With sumptuous raiment gallant and brave; With crosier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope, Fit to draw near to our father, the pope." "Now welcome, Sir Abbot," the King he did say, "Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day; For if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall be." "And first, as thou seest me sitting here, With my crown of gold on my head so fair, Among my liegemen of noble birth, Tell to one penny what I am worth." "For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Among the false Jews as I have been told; And twenty-nine is the worth of thee; For I think thou are one penny worse than he." The King, he laughed, and swore by St. Bittle, "I did not think I was worth so little! Now secondly tell me, beyond all doubt, How quickly I may ride this world about." "You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth again; And then your Grace need never doubt But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about." The King he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, "I did not think I could do it so soon! Now from question the third thou must not shrink, But tell me truly, what do I think?" "Yea, that I shall do, and make your Grace merry: You think I'm the Abbot of Canterbury. But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for me." The King he laughed, and swore by the mass, "I'll make thee Lord Abbot this day in his place!" "Now nay, my Liege, be not in such speed; For alas! I can neither write nor read." "Four nobles a week, then I'll give to thee, For this merry jest thou has shown to me; And tell the old Abbot, when thou gettest home, Thou has brought a free pardon from good King John." __________ 87 Western Wind Anonymous Western wind, when will thou blow? The small rain down can rain. Christ, if my love were in my arms, And I in my bed again! __________ 88 Edward, Edward Anonymous 'Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude, Edward, Edward? Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude, And why sae sad gang ye, O?' 'O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude, Mither, mither; O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude, And I had nae mair but he, O.' 'Your hawk's blude was never sae red, Edward, Edward; Your hawk's blude was never sae red, My dear son, I tell thee, O.' 'O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed, Mither, mither; O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed, That erst was sae fair and free, O.' 'Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair, Edward, Edward; Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair; Some other dule ye dree, O.' 'O I hae kill'd my father dear, Mither, mither; O I hae kill'd my father dear, Alas, and wae is me, O!' 'And whatten penance will ye dree for that, Edward, Edward? Whatten penance will ye dree for that? My dear son, now tell me, O.' 'I'll set my feet in yonder boat, Mither, mither; I'll set my feet in yonder boat, And I'll fare over the sea, O.' 'And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha', Edward, Edward? And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha', That were sae fair to see, O?' 'I'll let them stand till they doun fa', Mither, mither; I'll let them stand till they doun fa', For here never mair maun I be, O.' 'And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, When ye gang owre the sea, O?' 'The warld's room: let them beg through life, Mither, mither; The warld's room: let them beg through life; For them never mair will I see, O.' 'And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear, My dear son, now tell me, O?' 'The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear, Mither, mither; The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear: Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!' dule ye dree] grief you suffer. __________ 89 Sir Patrick Spens Anonymous I. The Sailing THE king sits in Dunfermline town Drinking the blude-red wine; 'O whare will I get a skeely skipper To sail this new ship o' mine?' O up and spak an eldern knight, Sat at the king's right knee; 'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sail'd the sea.' Our king has written a braid letter, And seal'd it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand. 'To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem; The king's daughter o' Noroway, 'Tis thou must bring her hame.' The first word that Sir Patrick read So loud, loud laugh'd he; The neist word that Sir Patrick read The tear blinded his e'e. 'O wha is this has done this deed And tauld the king o' me, To send us out, at this time o' year, To sail upon the sea? 'Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter o' Noroway, 'Tis we must fetch her hame.' They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn Wi' a' the speed they may; They hae landed in Noroway Upon a Wodensday. II. The Return 'Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a'! Our gude ship sails the morn.' 'Now ever alack, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm. 'I saw the new moon late yestreen Wi' the auld moon in her arm; And if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm.' They hadna sail'd a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea. The ankers brak, and the topmast lap, It was sic a deadly storm: And the waves cam owre the broken ship Till a' her sides were torn. 'Go fetch a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And let nae the sea come in.' They fetch'd a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And they wapp'd them round that gude ship's side, But still the sea came in. O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords To wet their cork-heel'd shoon; But lang or a' the play was play'd They wat their hats aboon. And mony was the feather bed That flatter'd on the faem; And mony was the gude lord's son That never mair cam hame. O lang, lang may the ladies sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand! And lang, lang may the maidens sit Wi' their gowd kames in their hair, A-waiting for their ain dear loves! For them they'll see nae mair. Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour, 'Tis fifty fathoms deep; And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet! skeely] skilful. lift] sky. lap] sprang. flatter'd] tossed afloat. kames] combs. __________ 90 Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe 1809 - 1849 IT was many and many a year ago In this kingdom by the sea That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child, and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee, With a love that the winged seraphs in heaven Coveted her and me. And that was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee, So that her high-born kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulcher In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me-- Yes! that was the reason (as all men know In this kingdom by the sea) That a wind blew out of a cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those that were older than we, Of many far wiser than we, And neither the angels in heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. And so, all the night tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride, In her sepulcher there by the sea-- In her tomb by the sounding sea. __________ 91 The Bells by Edgar Allan Poe 1809 - 1849 Hear the sledges with the bells-- Silver bells-- What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells,-- From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding-bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight From the molten-golden notes! And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gust of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the Future! how it tells Of rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! Hear the loud alarum bells-- Brazen bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulancy tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire Leaping higher, higher, higher With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor, Now--now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear, it fully knows, By the twanging And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking of the swelling in the anger of the bells-- Of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells,-- In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! Hear the tolling of the bells-- Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In a silence of the night How we shiver with affright At the meloncholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats, Is a groan: And the people--ah, the people-- They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone-- They are neither man nor woman-- They are neither brute nor human-- They are Ghouls! And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, A paean from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells! And he dances and he yells; Keeping time, time, time In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells-- Of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells, To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells,-- Of the bells, bells, bells-- To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells,-- To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. __________ 92 The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe 1809 - 1849 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -- Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost Lenore -- For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -- Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me -- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -- This it is, and nothing more," Presently my heart grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you" -- here I opened wide the door; -- Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!" Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -- Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -- 'Tis the wind and nothing more!" Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -- Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -- Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore -- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning -- little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -- Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore." But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered -- not a feather then he fluttered -- Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before -- On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -- Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never-nevermore.'" But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -- What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet violet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from the memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! -- Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -- On this home by Horror haunted -- tell me truly, I implore -- Is there -- is there balm in Gilead? -- tell me -- tell me, I implore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!' said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore -- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked upstarting -- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted -- nevermore. __________ 93 To Helen by Edgar Allan Poe 1809 - 1849 Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome. Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand, Ah! Psyche