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diff --git a/2621-0.txt b/2621-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..45c2555 --- /dev/null +++ b/2621-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,20890 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 2621 *** + + + + +THE HOME BOOK OF VERSE, + +Volume 3 + +By Burton Egbert Stevenson + + +Contents of Volumes 1 through 4 of our Etext editions: + + + + PART I + + POEMS OF YOUTH AND AGE + + The Human Seasons John Keats + + + THE BABY + + "Only a Baby Small" Matthias Barr + Only Harriet Prescott Spofford + Infant Joy William Blake + Baby George Macdonald + To a New-Born Baby Girl Grace Hazard Conkling + To Little Renee William Aspenwall Bradley + A Rhyme of One Frederick Locker-Lampson + To a New-Born Child Cosmo Monkhouse + Baby May William Cox Bennett + Alice Herbert Bashford + Songs for Fragoletta Richard Le Gallienne + Choosing a Name Mary Lamb + Weighing the Baby Ethel Lynn Beers + Etude Realiste Algernon Charles Swinburne + Little Feet Elizabeth Akers + The Babie Jeremiah Eames Rankin + Little Hands Laurence Binyon + Bartholomew Norman Gale + The Storm-Child May Byron + "On Parent Knees" William Jones + "Philip, My King" Dinah Maria Mulock Craik + The King of the Cradle Joseph Ashby-Sterry + The Firstborn John Arthur Goodchild + No Baby in the House Clara Dolliver + Our Wee White Rose Gerald Massey + Into the World and Out Sarah M. P. Piatt + "Baby Sleeps" Samuel Hinds + Baby Bell Thomas Bailey Aldrich + + + IN THE NURSERY + + Mother Goose's Melodies Unknown + Jack and Jill Unknown + The Queen of Hearts Unknown + Little Bo-Peep Unknown + Mary's Lamb Sarah Josepha Hale + The Star Jane Taylor + "Sing a Song of Sixpence" Unknown + Simple Simon Unknown + A Pleasant Ship Unknown + "I Had a Little Husband" Unknown + "When I Was a Bachelor" Unknown + "Johnny Shall Have a New + Bonnet" Unknown + The City Mouse and the + Garden Mouse Christina Rossetti + Robin Redbreast Unknown + Solomon Grundy Unknown + "Merry Are the Bells" Unknown + "When Good King Arthur + Ruled This Land" Unknown + The Bells of London Unknown + "The Owl and the Eel and + the Warming Pan" Laura E. Richards + The Cow Ann Taylor + The Lamb William Blake + Little Raindrops Unknown + "Moon, So Round and Yellow" Matthias Barr + The House That Jack Built Unknown + Old Mother Hubbard Unknown + The Death and Burial of + Cock Robin Unknown + Baby-Land George Cooper + The First Tooth William Brighty Rands + Baby's Breakfast Emilie Poulsson + The Moon Eliza Lee Follen + Baby at Play Unknown + The Difference Laura E. Richards + Foot Soldiers John Banister Tabb + Tom Thumb's Alphabet Unknown + Grammar in Rhyme Unknown + Days of the Month Unknown + The Garden Year Sara Coleridge + Riddles Unknown + Proverbs Unknown + Kind Hearts Unknown + Weather Wisdom Unknown + Old Superstitions Unknown + + + THE ROAD TO SLUMBERLAND + + Wynken, Blynken, and Nod Eugene Field + The Sugar-Plum Tree Eugene Field + When the Sleepy Man Comes Charles G. D. Roberts + Auld Daddy Darkness James Ferguson + Willie Winkle William Miller + The Sandman Margaret Thomson Janvier + The Dustman Frederick Edward Weatherly + Sephestia's Lullaby Robert Greene + "Golden Slumbers Kiss Your + Eyes" Thomas Dekker + "Sleep, Baby, Sleep" George Wither + Mother's Song Unknown + A Lullaby Richard Rowlands + A Cradle Hymn Isaac Watts + Cradle Song William Blake + Lullaby Carolina Nairne + Lullaby of an Infant Chief Walter Scott + Good-Night Jane Taylor + "Lullaby, O Lullaby" William Cox Bennett + Lullaby Alfred Tennyson + The Cottager to Her Infant Dorothy Wordsworth + Trot, Trot! Mary F. Butts + Holy Innocents Christina Georgina Rossetti + Lullaby Josiah Gilbert Holland + Cradle Song Josiah Gilbert Holland + An Irish Lullaby Alfred Perceval Graves + Cradle Song Josephine Preston Peabody + Mother-Song from "Prince + Lucifer" Alfred Austin + Kentucky Babe Richard Henry Buck + Minnie and Winnie Alfred Tennyson + Bed-Time Song Emilie Poulsson + Tucking the Baby In Curtis May + "Jenny Wi' the Airn Teeth" Alexander Anderson + Cuddle Doon Alexander Anderson + Bedtime Francis Robert St. Clair Erskine + + + THE DUTY OF CHILDREN + + Happy Thought Robert Louis Stevenson + Whole Duty of Children Robert Louis Stevenson + Politeness Elizabeth Turner + Rules of Behavior Unknown + Little Fred Unknown + The Lovable Child Emilie Poulsson + Good and Bad Children Robert Louis Stevenson + Rebecca's After-Thought Elizabeth Turner + Kindness to Animals Unknown + A Rule for Birds' Nesters Unknown + "Sing on, Blithe Bird" William Motherwell + "I Like Little Pussy" Jane Taylor + Little Things Julia Fletcher Carney + The Little Gentleman Unknown + The Crust of Bread Unknown + "How Doth the Little Busy + Bee" Isaac Watts + The Brown Thrush Lucy Larcom + The Sluggard Isaac Watts + The Violet Jane Taylor + Dirty Jim Jane Taylor + The Pin Ann Taylor + Jane and Eliza Ann Taylor + Meddlesome Matty Ann Taylor + Contented John Jane Taylor + Friends Abbie Farwell Brown + Anger Charles and Mary Lamb + "There Was a Little Girl" H. W. Longfellow + The Reformation of Godfrey + Gore William Brighty Rands + The Best Firm Walter G. Doty + A Little Page's Song William Alexander Percy + How the Little Kite Learned + to Fly Unknown + The Butterfly and the Bee William Lisle Bowles + The Butterfly Adelaide O'Keefe + Morning Jane Taylor + Buttercups and Daisies Mary Howitt + The Ant and the Cricket Unknown + After Wings Sarah M. B. Piatt + Deeds of Kindness Epes Sargent + The Lion and the Mouse Jeffreys Taylor + The Boy and the Wolf John Hookham Frere + The Story of Augustus, Who + Would Not Have Any Soup Heinrich Hoffman + The Story of Little + Suck-A-Thumb Heinrich Hoffman + Written in a Little Lady's + Little Album Frederick William Faber + My Lady Wind Unknown + To a Child William Wordsworth + A Farewell Charles Kingsley + + + RHYMES OF CHILDHOOD + + Reeds of Innocence William Blake + The Wonderful World William Brighty Rands + The World's Music Gabriel Setoun + A Boy's Song James Hogg + Going Down Hill On a Bicycle Henry Charles Beeching + Playgrounds Laurence Alma-Tadema + "Who Has Seen the Wind?" Christina Georgina Rossetti + The Wind's Song Gabriel Setoun + The Piper on the Hill Dora Sigerson Shorter + The Wind and the Moon George Macdonald + Child's Song in Spring Edith Nesbit + Baby Seed Song Edith Nesbit + Little Dandelion Helen Barron Bostwick + Little White Lily George Macdonald + Wishing William Allingham + In the Garden Ernest Crosby + The Gladness of Nature William Cullen Bryant + Glad Day W. Graham Robertson + The Tiger William Blake + Answer to a Child's Question Samuel Taylor Coleridge + How the Leaves Came Down Susan Coolidge + A Legend of the Northland Phoebe Cary + The Cricket's Story Emma Huntington Nason + The Singing-Lesson Jean Ingelow + Chanticleer Katherine Tynan + "What Does Little Birdie + Say?" Alfred Tennyson + Nurse's Song William Blake + Jack Frost Gabriel Setoun + October's Party George Cooper + The Shepherd William Blake + Nikolina Celia Thaxter + Little Gustava Celia Thaxter + Prince Tatters Laura E. Richards + The Little Black Boy William Blake + The Blind Boy Colley Cibber + Bunches of Grapes Walter de la Mare + My Shadow Robert Louis Stevenson + The Land of Counterpane Robert Louis Stevenson + The Land of Story-Books Robert Louis Stevenson + The Gardener Robert Louis Stevenson + Foreign Lands Robert Louis Stevenson + My Bed is a Boat Robert Louis Stevenson + The Peddler's Caravan William Brighty Rands + Mr. Coggs Edward Verrall Lucas + The Building of the Nest Margaret Sangster + "There was a Jolly Miller" Isaac Bickerstaff + One and One Mary Mapes Dodge + A Nursery Song Laura E. Richards + A Mortifying Mistake Anna Maria Pratt + The Raggedy Man James Whitcomb Riley + The Man in the Moon James Whitcomb Riley + Little Orphant Annie James Whitcomb Riley + Our Hired Girl James Whitcomb Riley + See'n Things Eugene Field + The Duel Eugene Field + Holy Thursday William Blake + A Story for a Child Bayard Taylor + The Spider and the Fly Mary Howitt + The Captain's Daughter James Thomas Fields + The Nightingale and the + Glow-Worm William Cowper + Sir Lark and King Sun: A + Parable George Macdonald + The Courtship, Merry + Marriage, and Picnic + Dinner of Cock Robin + and Jenny Wren Unknown + The Babes in the Wood Unknown + God's Judgment on a + Wicked Bishop Robert Southey + The Pied Piper of Hamelin Robert Browning + + + THE GLAD EVANGEL + + A Carol Unknown + "God Rest You Merry + Gentlemen" Unknown + 'O Little Town of Bethlehem" Phillips Brooks + A Christmas Hymn Alfred Domett + "While Shepherds Watched + their Flocks by Night" Nahum Tate + Christmas Carols Edmund Hamilton Sears + The Angels William Drummond + The Burning Babe Robert Southwell + Tryste Noel Louise Imogen Guiney + Christmas Carol Unknown + "Brightest and Best of the + Sons of the Morning" Reginald Heber + Christmas Bells Henry Wadsworth Longfellow + A Christmas Carol Gilbert Keith Chesterton + The House of Christmas Gilbert Keith Chesterton + The Feast of the Snow Gilbert Keith Chesterton + Mary's Baby Shaemas OSheel + Gates and Doors Joyce Kilmer + The Three Kings Henry Wadsworth Longfellow + Lullaby in Bethlehem Henry Howarth Bashford + A Child's Song of Christmas Marjorie L. C. Pickthall + Jest 'Fore Christmas Eugene Field + A Visit from St. Nicholas Clement Clarke Moore + Ceremonies for Christmas Robert Herrick + On the Morning of Christ's + Nativity John Milton + + + FAIRYLAND + + The Fairy Book Norman Gale + Fairy Songs William Shakespeare + Queen Mab Ben Jonson + The Elf and the Dormouse Oliver Herford + "Oh! Where Do Fairies Hide + Their Heads?" Thomas Haynes Bayly + Fairy Song Leigh Hunt + Dream Song Richard Middleton + Fairy Song John Keats + Queen Mab Thomas Hood + The Fairies of the + Caldon-Low Mary Howitt + The Fairies William Allingham + The Fairy Thrall Mary C. G. Byron + Farewell to the Fairies Richard Corbet + The Fairy Folk Robert Bird + The Fairy Book Abbie Farwell Brown + The Visitor Patrick R. Chalmers + The Little Elf John Kendrick Bangs + The Satyrs and the Moon Herbert S. Gorman + + + THE CHILDREN + + The Children Charles Monroe Dickinson + The Children's Hour Henry Wadsworth Longfellow + Laus Infantium William Canton + The Desire Katherine Tynan + A Child's Laughter Algernon Charles Swinburne + Seven Years Old Algernon Charles Swinburne + Creep Afore Ye Gang James Ballantine + Castles in the Air James Ballantine + Under My Window Thomas Westwood + Little Bell Thomas Westwood + The Barefoot Boy John Greenleaf Whittier + The Heritage James Russell Lowell + Letty's Globe Charles Tennyson Turner + Dove's Nest Joseph Russell Taylor + The Oracle Arthur Davison Ficke + To a Little Girl Helen Parry Eden + To a Little Girl Gustav Kobbe + A Parental Ode to My Son Thomas Hood + A New Poet William Canton + To Laura W-, Two Years Old Nathaniel Parker Willis + To Rose Sara Teasdale + To Charlotte Pulteney Ambrose Philips + The Picture of Little T. C. + in a Prospect of Flowers Andrew Marvell + To Hartley Coleridge William Wordsworth + To a Child of Quality Matthew Prior + Ex Ore Infantium Francis Thompson + Obituary Thomas William Parsons + The Child's Heritage John G. Neihardt + A Girl of Pompeii Edward Sandford Martin + On the Picture of a "Child + Tired of Play" Nathaniel Parker Willis + The Reverie of Poor Susan William Wordsworth + Children's Song Ford Madox Hueffer + The Mitherless Bairn William Thom + The Cry of the Children Elizabeth Barrett Browning + The Shadow-Child Harriet Monroe + Mother Wept Joseph Skipsey + Duty Ralph Waldo Emerson + Lucy Gray William Wordsworth + In the Children's Hospital Alfred Tennyson + "If I Were Dead" Coventry Patmore + The Toys Coventry Patmore + A Song of Twilight Unknown + Little Boy Blue Eugene Field + The Discoverer Edmund Clarence Stedman + A Chrysalis Mary Emily Bradley + Mater Dolorosa William Barnes + The Little Ghost Katherine Tynan + Motherhood Josephine Daskam Bacon + The Mother's Prayer Dora Sigerson Shorter + Da Leetla Boy Thomas Augustin Daly + On the Moor Gale Young Rice + Epitaph of Dionysia Unknown + For Charlie's Sake John Williamson Palmer + "Are the Children at Home?" Margaret Sangster + The Morning-Glory Maria White Lowell + She Came and Went James Russell Lowell + The First Snow-fall James Russell Lowell + "We Are Seven" William Wordsworth + My Child John Pierpont + The Child's Wish Granted George Parsons Lathrop + Challenge Kenton Foster Murray + Tired Mothers May Riley Smith + My Daughter Louise Homer Greene + "I Am Lonely" George Eliot + Sonnets from "Mimma Bella" Eugene Lee-Hamilton + Rose-Marie of the Angels Adelaide Crapsey + + + MAIDENHOOD + + Maidenhood Henry Wadsworth Longfellow + To the Virgins, to Make + Much of Time Robert Herrick + To Mistress Margaret Hussey John Skelton + On Her Coming To London Edmund Waller + "O, Saw Ye Bonny Lesley" Robert Burns + To a Young Lady William Cowper + Ruth Thomas Hood + The Solitary Reaper William Wordsworth + The Three Cottage Girls William Wordsworth + Blackmwore Maidens William Barnes + A Portrait Elizabeth Barrett Browning + To a Child of Fancy Lewis Morris + Daisy Francis Thompson + To Petronilla, Who Has + Put Up Her Hair Henry Howarth Bashford + The Gipsy Girl Henry Alford + Fanny Anne Reeve Aldrich + Somebody's Child Louise Chandler Moulton + Emilia Sarah N. Cleghorn + To a Greek Girl Austin Dobson + "Chamber Scene" Nathaniel Parker Willis + "Ah, Be Not False" Richard Watson Gilder + A Life-Lesson James Whitcomb Riley + + + THE MAN + + The Breaking Margaret Steele Anderson + The Flight of Youth Richard Henry Stoddard + "Days of My Youth" St. George Tucker + Ave Atque Vale Rosamund Marriott Watson + To Youth Walter Savage Landor + Stanzas Written on the Road + Between Florence and Pisa George Gordon Byron + Stanzas for Music George Gordon Byron + "When As a Lad" Isabel Ecclestone Mackay + "Around the Child" Walter Savage Landor + Aladdin James Russell Lowell + The Quest Ellen Mackey Hutchinson Cortissoz + My Birth-Day Thomas Moore + Sonnet on His having Arrived + to the Age of Twenty-Three John Milton + On This Day I Complete My + Thirty-Sixth Year George Gordon Byron + Growing Gray Austin Dobson + The One White Hair Walter Savage Landor + Ballade of Middle Age Andrew Lang + Middle Age Rudolph Chambers Lehmann + To Critics Walter Learned + The Rainbow William Wordsworth + Leavetaking William Watson + Equinoctial Adeline D. T. Whitney + "Before the Beginning of + Years" Algernon Charles Swinburne + Man Henry Vaughan + The Pulley George Herbert + Ode on the Intimations of + Immortality from Recollections + of Early Childhood William Wordsworth + + + THE WOMAN + + Woman Eaton Stannard Barrett + Woman From the Sanskrit of Calidasa + Simplex Munditiis Ben Jonson + Delight in Disorder Robert Herrick + A Praise of His Lady John Heywood + On a Certain Lady at Court Alexander Pope + Perfect Woman William Wordsworth + The Solitary-Hearted Hartley Coleridge + Of Those Who Walk Alone Richard Burton + "She Walks in Beauty" George Gordon Byron + Preludes from "The Angel in + The House" Coventry Patmore + A Health Edward Coote Pinkney + Our Sister Horatio Nelson Powers + From Life Brian Hooker + The Rose of the World William Butler Yeats + Dawn of Womanhood Harold Monro + The Shepherdess Alice Meynell + A Portrait Brian Hooker + The Wife Theodosia Garrison + "Trusty, Dusky, Vivid, True" Robert Louis Stevenson + The Shrine Digby Mackworth Dolben + The Voice Norman Gale + Mother Theresa Helburn + Ad Matrem Julian Fane + C.L.M John Masefield + + + STEPPING WESTWARD + + Stepping Westward William Wordsworth + A Farewell to Arms George Peele + The World Francis Bacon + "When That I Was and a + Little Tiny Boy" William Shakespeare + Of the Last Verses in the + Book Edmund Waller + A Lament Chidiock Tichborne + To-morrow John Collins + Late Wisdom George Crabbe + Youth and Age Samuel Taylor Coleridge + The Old Man's Comforts Robert Southey + To Age Walter Savage Lander + Late Leaves Walter Savage Lander + Years Walter Savage Lander + The River of Life Thomas Campbell + "Long Time a Child" Hartley Coleridge + The World I am Passing + Through Lydia Maria Child + Terminus Ralph Waldo Emerson + Rabbi Ben Ezra Robert Browning + Human Life Audrey Thomas de Vere + Young and Old Charles Kingsley + The Isle of the Long Ago Benjamin Franklin Taylor + Growing Old Matthew Arnold + Past John Galsworthy + Twilight A. Mary F. Robinson + Youth and Age George Arnold + Forty Years On Edward Ernest Bowen + Dregs Ernest Dowson + The Paradox of Time Austin Dobson + Age William Winter + Omnia Sonmia Rosamund Marriott Watson + The Year's End Timothy Cole + An Old Man's Song Richard Le Gallienne + Songs of Seven Jean Ingelow + Auspex James Russell Lowell + + + LOOKING BACKWARD + + The Retreat Henry Vaughan + A Superscription Dante Gabriel Rossetti + The Child in the Garden Henry Van Dyke + Castles in the Air Thomas Love Peacock + Sometimes Thomas S. Jones, Jr + The Little Ghosts Thomas S. Jones, Jr + My Other Me Grace Denio Litchfield + A Shadow Boat Arlo Bates + A Lad That is Gone Robert Louis Stevenson + Carcassonne John R. Thompson + Childhood John Banister Tabb + The Wastrel Reginald Wright Kauffman + Troia Fuit Reginald Wright Kauffman + Temple Garlands A. Mary F. Robinson + Time Long Past Percy Bysshe Shelley + "I Remember, I Remember" Thomas Hood + My Lost Youth Henry Wadsworth Longfellow + "Voice of the Western Wind" Edmund Clarence Stedman + "Langsyne, When Life Was + Bonnie" Alexander Anderson + The Shoogy-Shoo Winthrop Packard + Babylon Viola Taylor + The Road of Remembrance Lizette Woodworth Reese + The Triumph of Forgotten + Things Edith M. Thomas + In the Twilight James Russell Lowell + An Immorality Ezra Pound + Three Seasons Christina Georgina Rossetti + The Old Familiar Faces Charles Lamb + The Light of Other Days Thomas Moore + "Tears, Idle Tears" Alfred Tennyson + The Pet Name Elizabeth Barrett Browning + Threescore and Ten Richard Henry Stoddard + Rain on the Roof Coates Kinney + Alone by the Hearth George Arnold + The Old Man Dreams Oliver Wendell Holmes + The Garret William Makepeace Thackeray + Auld Lang Syne Robert Burns + Rock Me to Sleep Elizabeth Akers + The Bucket Samuel Woodworth + The Grape-Vine Swing William Gilmore Simms + The Old Swimmin'-Hole James Whitcomb Riley + Forty Years Ago Unknown + Ben Bolt Thomas Dunn English + "Break, Break, Break" Alfred Tennyson + + + + + PART II + + + + POEMS OF LOVE + + Eros Ralph Waldo Emerson + + + "NOW WHAT IS LOVE" + + "Now What is Love" Walter Raleigh + Wooing Song, "Love is the + Blossom where there blows" Giles Fletcher + Rosalind's Madrigal, "Love + in My bosom" Thomas Lodge + Song, "Love is a sickness + full of woes" Samuel Daniel + Love's Perjuries William Shakespeare + Venus' Runaway Ben Jonson + What is Love John Fletcher + Love's Emblems John Fletcher + The Power of Love John Fletcher + Advice to a Lover Unknown + Love's Horoscope Richard Crashaw + "Ah, how Sweet it is to + Love" John Dryden + Song, "Love still has + something of the sea" Charles Sedley + The Vine James Thomson + Song, "Fain would I change + that Note" Unknown + Cupid Stung Thomas Moore + Cupid Drowned Leigh Hunt + Song, "Oh! say not woman's + love is bought" Isaac Pocock + "In the Days of Old" Thomas Love Peacock + Song, "How delicious is the + winning" Thomas Campbell + Stanzas, "Could love for + ever" George Gordon Byron + "They Speak o' Wiles" William Thom + "Love will Find Out the Way" Unknown + A Woman's Shortcomings Elizabeth Barrett Browning + "Love hath a Language" Helen Selina Sheridan + Song, "O, let the solid + ground" Alfred Tennyson + Amaturus William Johnson-Cory + The Surface and the Depths Lewis Morris + A Ballad of Dreamland Algernon Charles Swinburne + Endymion Henry Wadsworth Longfellow + Fate Susan Marr Spalding + "Give all to Love" Ralph Waldo Emerson + "O, Love is not a Summer + Mood" Richard Watson Gilder + "When will Love Come" Pakenham Beatty + "Awake, My Heart" Robert Bridges + The Secret George Edward Woodberry + The Rose of Stars George Edward Woodberry + Song of Eros from "Agathon" George Edward Woodberry + Love is Strong Richard Burton + "Love once was like an April + Dawn" Robert Underwood Johnson + The Garden of Shadow Ernest Dowson + The Call Reginald Wright Kauffman + The Highway Louise Driscoll + Song, "Take it, love" Richard Le Gallienne + "Never Give all the Heart" William Butler Yeats + Song, "I came to the door of + the house of love" Alfred Noyes + "Child, Child" Sara Teasdale + Wisdom Ford Madox Hueffer + Epilogue from "Emblems of + Love" Lascelles Abercrombie + On Hampstead Heath Wilfrid Wilson Gibson + Once on a Time Kendall Banning + + + IN PRAISE OF HER + + First Song from + "Astrophel and Stella" Philip Sidney + Silvia William Shakespeare + Cupid and Campaspe John Lyly + Apollo's Song from "Midas" John Lyly + "Fair is my Love for April's + in her Face" Robert Greene + Samela Robert Greene + Damelus' Song of His + Diaphenia Henry Constable + Madrigal, "My Love in her + attire doth show her wit" Unknown + On Chloris Walking in + the Snow William Strode + "There is a Lady Sweet + and Kind" Unknown + Cherry-Ripe Thomas Campion + Amarillis Thomas Campion + Elizabeth of Bohemia Henry Wotton + Her Triumph Ben Jonson + Of Phillis William Drummond + A Welcome William Browne + The Complete Lover William Browne + Rubies and Pearls Robert Herrick + Upon Julia's Clothes Robert Herrick + To Cynthia on Concealment + of her Beauty Francis Kynaston + Song, "Ask me no more where + Jove bestows" Thomas Carew + A Devout Lover Thomas Randolph + On a Girdle Edmund Waller + Castara William Habington + To Amarantha that She would + Dishevel her Hair Richard Lovelace + Chloe Divine Thomas D'Urfey + My Peggy Allan Ramsay + Song, "O ruddier than the + cherry" John Gay + "Tell me, my Heart, if this + be Love" George Lyttleton + The Fair Thief Charles Wyndham + Amoret Mark Akenside + Song, "The shape alone let + others Prize" Mark Akenside + Kate of Aberdeen John Cunningham + Song, "Who has robbed the + ocean cave" John Shaw + Chloe Robert Burns + "O Mally's Meek, Mally's + Sweet" Robert Burns + The Lover's Choice Thomas Bedingfield + Rondeau Redouble John Payne + "My Love She's but a + Lassie yet" James Hogg + Jessie, the Flower + o' Dunblane Robert Tannahill + Margaret and Dora Thomas Campbell + Dagonet's Canzonet Ernest Rhys + Stanzas for Music, "There be + none of Beauty's daughters" George Gordon Byron + "Flowers I would Bring" Aubrey Thomas de Vere + "It is not Beauty I Demand" George Darley + Song, "She is not fair to + outward view" Hartley Coleridge + Song, "A violet in her + lovely hair" Charles Swain + Eileen Aroon Gerald Griffin + Annie Laurie Unknown + To Helen Edgar Allan Poe + "A Voice by the Cedar Tree" Alfred Tennyson + Song, "Nay, but you, who do + not love her" Robert Browning + The Henchman John Green1eaf Whittier + Lovely Mary Donnelly William Allingham + Love in the Valley George Meredith + Marian George Meredith + Praise of My Lady William Morris + Madonna Mia Algernon Charles Swinburne + "Meet we no Angels, Pansie" Thomas Ashe + To Daphne Walter Besant + "Girl of the Red Mouth" Martin MacDermott + The Daughter of Mendoza Mirabeau Bonaparte Lamar + "If She be made of White + and Red" Herbert P. Horne + The Lover's Song Edward Rowland Sill + "When First I Saw Her" George Edward Woodberry + My April Lady Henry Van Dyke + The Milkmaid Austin Dobson + Song, "This peach is pink + with such a pink" Norman Gale + In February Henry Simpson + "Love, I Marvel What You + Are" Trumbull Stickney + Ballade of My Lady's Beauty Joyce Kilmer + Ursula Robert Underwood Johnson + Villanelle of His Lady's + Treasures Ernest Dowson + Song, "Love, by that + loosened hair" Bliss Carman + Song, "O, like a queen's her + happy tread" William Watson + Any Lover, Any Lass Richard Middleton + Songs Ascending Witter Bynner + Song, "'Oh! Love,' they + said, 'is King of Kings'" Rupert Brooke + Song, "How do I love you" Irene Rutherford McLeod + To.... In Church Alan Seeger + After Two Years Richard Aldington + Praise Seumas O'Sullivan + + + PLAINTS AND PROTESTATIONS + + "Forget not Yet" Thomas Wyatt + Fawnia Robert Greene + The Passionate Shepherd to + His Love Christopher Marlowe + The Nymph's Reply to the + Passionate Shepherd Walter Raleigh + "Wrong not, Sweet Empress + of My Heart" Walter Raleigh + To His Coy Love Michael Drayton + Her Sacred Bower Thomas Campion + To Lesbia Thomas Campion + "Love me or Not" Thomas Campion + "There is None, O None but + You" Thomas Campion + Of Corinna's Singing Thomas Campion + "Were my Heart as some + Men's are" Thomas Campion + "Kind are her Answers" Thomas Campion + To Celia Ben Jonson + Song, "O, do not wanton + with those eyes" Ben Jonson + Song, "Go and catch a + falling star" John Donne + The Message John Donne + Song, "Ladies, though to + your conquering eyes" George Etherege + To a Lady Asking Him how + Long He would Love Her" George Etherege + To Aenone Robert Herrick + To Anthea, who may Command + him Anything Robert Herrick + The Bracelet: To Julia Robert Herrick + To the Western Wind Robert Herrick + To my Inconstant Mistress Thomas Carew + Persuasions to Enjoy Thomas Carew + Mediocrity in Love Rejected Thomas Carew + The Message Thomas Heywood + "How Can the Heart forget + Her" Francis Davison + To Roses in the Bosom of + Castara William Habington + To Flavia Edmund Waller + "Love not Me for Comely + Grace" Unknown + "When, Dearest, I but Think + of Thee" Suckling or Felltham + A Doubt of Martyrdom John Suckling + To Chloe William Cartwright + I'll Never Love Thee More James Graham + To Althea, from Prison Richard Lovelace + Why I Love Her Alexander Brome + To his Coy Mistress Andrew Marvell + A Deposition from Beauty Thomas Stanley + "Love in thy Youth, Fair + Maid" Unknown + To Celia Charles Cotton + To Celia Charles Sedley + A Song, "My dear mistress + Has a Heart" John Wilmot + Love and Life John Wilmot + Constancy John Wilmot + Song, "Too late, alas, I + must Confess" John Wilmot + Song, "Come, Celia, let's + agree at last" John Sheffield + The Enchantment Thomas Otway + Song, "Only tell her that I + love" John Cutts + "False though She be" William Congreve + To Silvia Anne Finch + "Why, Lovely Charmer" Unknown + Against Indifference Charles Webbe + A Song to Amoret Henry Vaughan + The Lass of Richmond Hill James Upton + Song, "Let my voice ring out + and over the earth" James Thomson + Gifts James Thomson + Amynta Gilbert Elliot + "O Nancy! wilt Thou go + with Me" Thomas Percy + Cavalier's Song Robert Cunninghame-Graham + "My Heart is a Lute" Anne Barnard + Song, "Had I a heart for + falsehood framed" Richard Brinsley Sheridan + Meeting George Crabbe + "O Were my Love you Lilac + Fair" Robert Burns + "Bonnie Wee Thing" Robert Burns + Rose Aylmer Walter Savage Landor + "Take back the Virgin Page" Thomas Moore + "Believe me, if all Those + Endearing Young Charms" Thomas Moore + The Nun Leigh Hunt + Only of Thee and Me Louis Untermeyer + To-- Percy Bysshe Shelley + From the Arabic Percy Bysshe Shelley + The Wandering Knight's Song John Gibson Lockhart + Song, "Love's on the + highroad" Dana Burnett + The Secret Love A. E. + The Flower of Beauty George Darley + My Share of the World Alice Furlong + Song, "A lake and a fairy + boat" Thomas Hood + "Smile and Never Heed Me" Charles Swain + Are They not all Ministering + Spirits Robert Stephen Hawker + Maiden Eyes Gerald Griffin + Hallowed Places Alice Freeman Palmer + The Lady's "Yes" Elizabeth Barrett Browning + Song, "It is the miller's + daughter" Alfred Tennyson + Lilian Alfred Tennyson + Bugle Song, from "The + Princess" Alfred Tennyson + Ronsard to His Mistress William Makepeace Thackeray + "When You are Old" William Butler Yeats + Song, "You'll love me yet, + and I can tarry" Robert Browning + Love in a Life Robert Browning + Life in a Love Robert Browning + The Welcome Thomas Osborne Davis + Urania Matthew Arnold + Three Shadows Dante Gabriel Rossetti + Since we Parted Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton + A Match Algernon Charles Swinburne + A Ballad of Life Algernon Charles Swinburne + A Leave-Taking Algernon Charles Swinburne + A Lyric Algernon Charles Swinburne + Maureen John Todhunter + A Love Symphony Arthur O'Shaughnessy + Love on the Mountain Thomas Boyd + Kate Temple's Song Mortimer Collins + My Queen Unknown + "Darling, Tell me Yes" John Godfrey Saxe + "Do I Love Thee" John Godfrey Saxe + "O World, be Nobler" Laurence Binyon + "In the Dark, in the Dew" Mary Newmarch Prescott + Nanny Francis Davis + A Trifle Henry Timrod + Romance Robert Louis Stevenson + "Or Ever the Knightly Years + were Gone" William Ernest Henley + Rus in Urbe Clement Scott + My Road Oliver Opdyke + A White Rose John Boyle O'Reilly + "Some Day of Days" Nora Perry + The Telephone Robert Frost + Where Love is Amelia Josephine Burr + That Day You Came Lizette Woodworth Reese + Amantium Irae Ernest Dowson + In a Rose Garden John Bennett + "God Bless You, Dear, + To-day" John Bennett + To-day Benjamin R. C. Low + To Arcady Charles Buxton Going + Wild Wishes Ethel M. Hewitt + "Because of You" Sophia Almon Hensley + Then Rose Terry Cooke + The Missive Edmund Gosse + Plymouth Harbor Mrs. Ernest Radford + The Serf's Secret William Vaughn Moody + "O, Inexpressible as Sweet" George Edward Woodberry + The Cyclamen Arlo Bates + The West-Country Lover Alice Brown + "Be Ye in Love with + April-Tide" Clinton Scollard + Unity Alfred Noyes + The Queen William Winter + A Lover's Envy Henry Van Dyke + Star Song Robert Underwood Johnson + "My Heart Shall be Thy + Garden" Alice Meynell + At Night Alice Meynell + Song, "Song is so old" Hermann Hagedorn + "All Last Night" Lascelles Abercrombie + The Last Word Frederic Lawrence Knowles + "Heart of my Heart" Unknown + My Laddie Amelie Rives + The Shaded Pool Norman Gale + Good-Night S. Weir Mitchell + The Mystic Witter Bynner + "I Am the Wind" Zoe Akins + "I Love my Life, But not Too + Well" Harriet Monroe + "This is my Love for You" Grace Fallow Norton + + + MY LADY'S LIPS + + Lips and Eyes Thomas Middleton + The Kiss Ben Jonson + "Take, O Take Those + Lips Away" John Fletcher + A Stolen Kiss George Wither + Song, "My Love bound me + with a kiss" Unknown + To Electra Robert Herrick + "Come, Chloe, and Give Me + Sweet Kisses" Charles Hanbury Williams + A Riddle William Cowper + To a Kiss John Wolcot + Song, "Often I have heard + it said" Walter Savage Landor + The First Kiss of Love George Gordon Byron + "Jenny Kissed Me" Leigh Hunt + "I Fear Thy Kisses, Gentle + Maiden" Percy Bysshe Shelley + Love's Philosophy Percy Bysshe Shelley + Song, "The moth's kiss, + first" Robert Browning + Summum Bonum Robert Browning + The First Kiss Theodore Watts-Dunton + To My Love John Godfrey Saxe + To Lesbia John Godfrey Saxe + Make Believe Alice Cary + Kissing's No Sin Unknown + To Anne William Maxwell + Song, "There is many a love + in the land, my love" Joaquin Miller + Phyllis and Corydon Arthur Colton + + + AT HER WINDOW + + "Hark, Hark, the Lark" William Shakespeare + "Sleep, Angry Beauty" Thomas Campion + Matin Song Nathaniel Field + The Night-Piece: To Julia Robert Herrick + Morning William D'Avenant + Matin Song Thomas Heywood + The Rose Richard Lovelace + Song, "See, see, she wakes! + Sabina wakes" William Congreve + Mary Morison Robert Burns + Wake, Lady Joanna Baillie + The Sleeping Beauty Samuel Rogers + "The Young May Moon" Thomas Moore + "Row Gently Here" Thomas Moore + Morning Serenade Madison Cawein + Serenade Aubrey Thomas De Vere + Lines to an Indian Air Percy Bysshe Shelley + Good-Night Percy Bysshe Shelley + Serenade George Darley + Serenade Thomas Hood + Serenade Edward Coote Pinkney + Serenade Henry Timrod + Serenade Henry Wadsworth Longfellow + "Come into the Garden, Maud" Alfred Tennyson + At Her Window Frederick Locker-Lampson + Bedouin Song Bayard Taylor + Night and Love Edward George Earle Bulwer-Lytton + Nocturne Thomas Bailey Aldrich + Palabras Carinosas Thomas Bailey Aldrich + Serenade Oscar Wilde + The Little Red Lark Alfred Perceval Graves + Serenade Richard Middleton + + + THE COMEDY OF LOVE + + A Lover's Lullaby George Gascoigne + Phillida and Corydon Nicholas Breton + "Crabbed Age and Youth" William Shakespeare + "It Was a Lover and His + Lass" William Shakespeare + "I Loved a Lass" George Wither + To Chloris Charles Sedley + Song, "The merchant, to + secure his Treasure" Matthew Prior + Pious Selinda William Congreve + Fair Hebe John West + A Maiden's Ideal of a + Husband Henry Carey + "Phillada Flouts Me" Unknown + "When Molly Smiles" Unknown + Contentions Unknown + "I Asked My Fair, One Happy + Day" Samuel Taylor Coleridge + The Exchange Samuel Taylor Coleridge + "Comin' Through the Rye" Robert Burns + "Green Grow the Rashes, O" Robert Burns + Defiance Walter Savage Landor + Of Clementina Walter Savage Landor + "The Time I've Lost in + Wooing" Thomas Moore + Dear Fanny Thomas Moore + A Certain Young Lady Washington Irving + "Where Be You Going, You + Devon Maid" John Keats + Love in a Cottage Nathaniel Parker Willis + Song of the Milkmaid from + "Queen Mary" Alfred Tennyson + "Wouldn't You Like to Know" John Godfrey Saxe + "Sing Heigh-ho" Charles Kingsley + The Golden Fish George Arnold + The Courtin' James Russell Lowell + L'Eau Dormante Thomas Bailey Aldrich + A Primrose Dame Gleeson White + If James Jeffrey Roche + Don't James Jeffrey Roche + An Irish Love-Song Robert Underwood Johnson + Growing Old Walter Learned + Time's Revenge Walter Learned + In Explanation Walter Learned + Omnia Vincit Alfred Cochrane + A Pastoral Norman Gale + A Rose Arlo Bates + "Wooed and Married and A'" Alexander Ross + "Owre the Moor Amang the + Heather" Jean Glover + Marriage and the Care O't Robert Lochore + The Women Folk James Hogg + "Love is Like a Dizziness" James Hogg + "Behave Yoursel' before + Folk" Alexander Rodger + Rory O'More; or, Good Omens Samuel Lover + Ask and Have Samuel Lover + Kitty of Coleraine Charles Dawson Shanly + The Plaidie Charles Sibley + Kitty Neil John Francis Waller + "The Dule's i' this Bonnet + o' Mine" Edwin Waugh + The Ould Plaid Shawl Francis A. Fahy + Little Mary Cassidy Francis A. Fahy + The Road Patrick R. Chalmers + Twickenham Ferry Theophile Marzials + + + THE HUMOR OF LOVE + + Song, "I prithee send me + back my Heart" John Suckling + A Ballad Upon a Wedding John Suckling + To Chloe Jealous Matthew Prior + Jack and Joan Thomas Campion + Phillis and Corydon Richard Greene + Sally in Our Alley Henry Carey + The Country Wedding Unknown + "O Merry may the Maid be" John Clerk + The Lass o' Gowrie Carolina Nairne + The Constant Swain and + Virtuous Maid Unknown + When the Kye Comes Hame James Hogg + The Low-Backed Car Samuel Lover + The Pretty Girl of Loch Dan Samuel Ferguson + Muckle-Mouth Meg Robert Browning + Muckle-Mou'd Meg James Ballantine + Glenlogie Unknown + Lochinvar Walter Scott + Jock of Hazeldean Walter Scott + Candor Henry Cuyler Bunner + "Do you Remember" Thomas Haynes Bayly + Because Edward Fitzgerald + Love and Age Thomas Love Peacock + To Helen Winthrop Mackworth Praed + At the Church Gate William Makepeace Thackeray + Mabel, in New Hampshire James Thomas Fields + Toujours Amour Edmund Clarence Stedman + The Doorstep Edmund Clarence Stedman + The White Flag John Hay + A Song of the Four Seasons Austin Dobson + The Love-Knot Nora Perry + Riding Down Nora Perry + "Forgettin'" Moira O'Neill + "Across the Fields to Anne" Richard Burton + Pamela in Town Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz + Yes? Henry Cuyler Bunner + The Prime of Life Walter Learned + Thoughts on the Commandments George Augustus Baker + + + THE IRONY OF LOVE + + "Sigh no More, Ladies" William Shakespeare + A Renunciation Edward Vere + A Song, "Ye happy swains, + whose hearts are free" George Etherege + To His Forsaken Mistress Robert Ayton + To an Inconstant Robert Ayton + Advice to a Girl Thomas Campion + Song, "Follow a shadow, it + still flies you" Ben Jonson + True Beauty Francis Beaumont + The Indifferent Francis Beaumont + The Lover's Resolution George Wither + His Further Resolution Unknown + Song, "Shall I tell you whom + I love" William Browne + To Dianeme Robert Herrick + Ingrateful Beauty Threatened Thomas Carew + Disdain Returned Thomas Carew + "Love Who Will, for I'll + Love None" William Browne + Valerius on Women Thomas Heywood + Dispraise of Love, and + Lovers' Follies Francis Davison + The Constant Lover John Suckling + Song, "Why so pale and wan, + fond Lover" John Suckling + Wishes to His Supposed + Mistress Richard Crashaw + Song, "Love in fantastic + Triumph sate" Aphra Behn + Les Amours Charles Cotton + Rivals William Walsh + I Lately Vowed, but 'Twas + in Haste John Oldmixon + The Touchstone Samuel Bishop + Air, "I ne'er could any + luster see" Richard Brinsley Sheridan + "I Took a Hansom on Today" William Ernest Henley + Da Capo Henry Cuyler Bunner + Song Against Women Willard Huntington Wright + Song of Thyrsis Philip Freneau + The Test Walter Savage Landor + "The Fault is not Mine" Walter Savage Landor + The Snake Thomas Moore + "When I Loved You" Thomas Moore + A Temple to Friendship Thomas Moore + The Glove and the Lions Leigh Hunt + To Woman George Gordon Byron + Love's Spite Aubrey Thomas de Vere + Lady Clara Vere de Vere Alfred Tennyson + Shadows Richard Monckton Milnes + Sorrows of Werther William Makepeace Thackeray + The Age of Wisdom William Makepeace Thackeray + Andrea del Sarto Robert Browning + My Last Duchess Robert Browning + Adam, Lilith, and Eve Robert Browning + The Lost Mistress Robert Browning + Friend and Lover Mary Ainge de Vere + Lost Love Andrew Lang + Vobiscum est Iope Thomas Campion + Four Winds Sara Teasdale + To Marion Wilfrid Scawen Blunt + Crowned Amy Lowell + Hebe James Russell Lowell + "Justine, You Love me Not" John Godfrey Saxe + Snowdrop William Wetmore Story + When the Sultan Goes to + Ispahan Thomas Bailey Aldrich + The Shadow Dance Louise Chandler Moulton + "Along the Field as we + Came by" Alfred Edward Housman + "When I was One-and-Twenty" Alfred Edward Housman + "Grieve Not, Ladies" Anna Hempstead Branch + Suburb Harold Monro + The Betrothed Rudyard Kipling + + + LOVE'S SADNESS + + "The Night has a Thousand + Eyes" Francis William Bourdillon + "I Saw my Lady Weep" Unknown + Love's Young Dream Thomas Moore + "Not Ours the Vows" Bernard Barton + The Grave of Love Thomas Love Peacock + "We'll go no More a Roving" George Gordon Byron + Song, "Sing the old song, + amid the sounds dispersing" Aubrey Thomas de Vere + The Question Percy Bysshe Shelley + The Wanderer Austin Dobson + Egyptian Serenade George William Curtis + The Water Lady Thomas Hood + "Tripping Down the + Field-path" Charles Swain + Love Not Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton + "A Place in Thy Memory" Gerald Griffin + Inclusions Elizabeth Barrett Browning + Mariana Alfred Tennyson + Ask Me no More Alfred Tennyson + A Woman's Last Word Robert Browning + The Last Ride Together Robert Browning + Youth and Art Robert Browning + Two in the Campagna Robert Browning + One Way of Love Robert Browning + "Never the Time and the + Place" Robert Browning + Song, "Oh! that we two were + Maying" Charles Kingsley + For He Had Great Possessions Richard Middleton + Windle-straws Edward Dowden + Jessie Thomas Edward Brown + The Chess-board Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton + Aux Italiens Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton + Song, "I saw the day's + white rapture" Charles Hanson Towne + The Lonely Road Kenneth Rand + Evensong Ridgely Torrence + The Nymph's Song to Hylas William Morris + No and Yes Thomas Ashe + Love in Dreams John Addington Symonds + "A Little While I fain would + Linger Yet" Paul Hamilton Hayne + Song, "I made another + garden, yea" Arthur O'Shaughnessy + Song, "Has summer come + without the rose" Arthur O'Shaughnessy + After Philip Bourke Marston + After Summer Philip Bourke Marston + Rococo Algernon Charles Swinburne + Rondel Algernon Charles Swinburne + The Oblation Algernon Charles Swinburne + The Song of the Bower Dante Gabriel Rossetti + Song, "We break the glass, + whose sacred wine" Edward Coote Pinkney + Maud Muller John Greenleaf Whittier + La Grisette Oliver Wendell Holmes + The Dark Man Nora Hopper + Eurydice Francis William Bourdillon + A Woman's Thought Richard Watson Gilder + Laus Veneris Louise Chandler Moulton + Adonais Will Wallace Harney + Face to Face Frances Cochrane + Ashore Laurence Hope + Khristna and His Flute Laurence Hope + Impenitentia Ultima Ernest Dowson + Non Sum Quails Eram Bonae + sub Regno Cynarae Ernest Dowson + Quid non Speremus, Amantes? Ernest Dowson + "So Sweet Love Seemed" Robert Bridges + An Old Tune Andrew Lang + Refuge William Winter + Midsummer Ella Wheeler Wilcox + Ashes of Roses Elaine Goodale + Sympathy Althea Gyles + The Look Sara Teasdale + "When My Beloved Sleeping + Lies" Irene Rutherford McLeod + Love and Life Julie Mathilde Lippman + Love's Prisoner Mariana Griswold Van Rensselaer + Rosies Agnes I. Hanrahan + At the Comedy Arthur Stringer + "Sometime It may Be" Arthur Colton + "I heard a Soldier" Herbert Trench + The Last Memory Arthur Symonds + "Down by the Salley Gardens" William Butler Yates + Ashes of Life Edna St. Vincent Millay + A Farewell Alice Brown + + + THE PARTED LOVERS + + Song, "O mistress mine, + where are you roaming" William Shakespeare + "Go, Lovely Rose" Edmund Waller + To the Rose: A Song Robert Herrick + Memory William Browne + To Lucasta, Going to the + Wars Richard Lovelace + To Lucasta, Going beyond + the Seas Richard Lovelace + Song to a Fair Young Lady, + Going out of the Town in + the Spring John Dryden + Song, "To all you ladies now + at land" Charles Sackville + Song, "In vain you tell your + parting lover" Matthew Prior + Black-Eyed Susan John Gay + Irish Molly O Unknown + Song, "At setting day and + rising morn" Allan Ramsay + Lochaber no More Allan Ramsey + Willie and Helen Hew Ainslie + Absence Richard Jago + "My Mother Bids me Bind + my Hair" Anne Hunter + "Blow High! Blow Low" Charles Dibdin + The Siller Croun Susanna Blamire + "My Nannie's Awa" Robert Burns + "Ae Fond Kiss" Robert Burns + "The Day Returns" Robert Burns + My Bonnie Mary Robert Burns + A Red, Red Rose Robert Burns + I Love My Jean Robert Burns and John Hamilton + The Rover's Adieu, from + "Rokeby" Walter Scott + "Loudoun's Bonnie Woods and + Braes" Robert Tannahill + "Fare Thee Well" George Gordon Byron + "Maid of Athens, Ere We + Part" George Gordon Byron + "When We Two Parted" George Gordon Byron + "Go, Forget Me" Charles Wolfe + Last Night George Darley + Adieu Thomas Carlyle + Jeanie Morrison William Motherwell + The Sea-lands Orrick Johns + Fair Ines Thomas Hood + A Valediction Elizabeth Barrett Browning + Farewell John Addington Symonds + "I Do Not Love Thee" Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton + The Palm-tree and the Pine Richard Monckton Milnes + "O Swallow, Swallow Flying + South" Alfred Tennyson + The Flower's Name Robert Browning + To Marguerite Matthew Arnold + Separation Matthew Arnold + Longing Matthew Arnold + Divided Jean Ingelow + My Playmate John Greenleaf Whittier + A Farewell Coventry Patmore + Departure Coventry Patmore + A song of Parting H. C. Compton Mackenzie + Song, "Fair is the night, + and fair the day" William Morris + At Parting Algernon Charles Swinburne + "If She But Knew" Arthur O'Shaughnessy + Kathleen Mavourneen Louisa Macartney Crawford + Robin Adair Caroline Keppel + "If You Were Here" Philip Bourke Marston + "Come to Me, Dearest" Joseph Brenan + Song, "'Tis said that + absence Conquers love" Frederick William Thomas + Parting Gerald Massey + The Parting Hour Olive Custance + A Song of Autumn Rennell Rodd + The Girl I Left Behind Me Unknown + "When We are Parted" Hamilton Aide + Remember or Forget Hamilton Aide + Nancy Dawson Herbert P. Horne + My Little Love Charles B. Hawley + For Ever William Caldwell Roscoe + Auf Wiedersehen James Russell Lowell + "Forever and a Day" Thomas Bailey Aldrich + Old Gardens Arthur Upson + Ferry Hinksey Laurence Binyon + Wearyin' fer You Frank L. Stanton + The Lovers of Marchaid Marjorie L. C. Pickthall + Song, "She's somewhere in + the sunlight strong" Richard Le Gallienne + The Lover Thinks of His Lady + in the North Shaemas O Sheel + Chanson de Rosemonde Richard Hovey + Ad Domnulam Suam Ernest Dawson + Marian Drury Bliss Carman + Love's Rosary Alfred Noyes + When She Comes Home James Whitcomb Riley + + + THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE + + Song, "My silks and fine + array" William Blake + The Flight of Love Percy Bysshe Shelley + "Farewell! If ever Fondest + Prayer" George Gordon Byron + Porphyria's Lover Robert Browning + Modern Beauty Arthur Symons + La Belle Dame Sans Merci John Keats + Tantalus--Texas Joaquin Miller + Enchainment Arthur O'Shaughnessy + Auld Robin Gray Anne Barnard + Lost Light Elizabeth Akers + A Sigh Harriet Prescott Spofford + Hereafter Harriet Prescott Spofford + Endymion Oscar Wilde + "Love is a Terrible Thing" Grace Fallow Norton + The Ballad of the Angel Theodosia Garrison + "Love Came Back at Fall + o' Dew" Lizette Woodworth Reese + I Shall not Care Sara Teasdale + Outgrown Julia C. R. Dorr + A Tragedy Edith Nesbit + Left Behind Elizabeth Akers + The Forsaken Merman Matthew Arnold + The Portrait Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton + The Rose and Thorn Paul Hamilton Hayne + To Her--Unspoken Amelia Josephine Burr + A Light Woman Robert Browning + From the Turkish George Gordon Byron + A Summer Wooing Louise Chandler Moulton + Butterflies John Davidson + Unseen Spirits Nathaniel Parker Willis + "Grandmither, Think Not I + Forget" Willa Sibert Cather + Little Wild Baby Margaret Thomson Janvier + A Cradle Song Nicholas Breton + Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament Unknown + A Woman's Love John Hay + A Tragedy Theophile Marzials + "Mother, I Cannot Mind My + Wheel" Walter Savage Landor + Airly Beacon Charles Kingsley + A Sea Child Bliss Carman + From the Harbor Hill Gustav Kobbe + Allan Water Matthew Gregory Lewis + Forsaken Unknown + Bonnie Doon Robert Burns + The Two Lovers Richard Hovey + The Vampire Rudyard Kipling + Agatha Alfred Austin + "A Rose Will Fade" Dora Sigerson Shorter + Affaire d'Amour Margaret Deland + A Casual Song Roden Noel + The Way of It John Vance Cheney + "When Lovely Woman Stoops + to Folly" Oliver Goldsmith + Folk-Song Louis Untermeyer + A Very Old Song William Laird + "She Was Young and Blithe + and Fair" Harold Monro + The Lass that Died of Love Richard Middleton + The Passion-Flower Margaret Fuller + Norah Zoe Akins + Of Joan's Youth Louise Imogen Guiney + There's Wisdom in Women Rupert Brooke + Goethe and Frederika Henry Sidgwick + The Song of the King's + Minstrel Richard Middleton + Annie Shore and Johnnie Doon Patrick Orr + Emmy Arthur Symons + The Ballad of Camden Town James Elroy Flecker + + + LOVE AND DEATH + + Helen of Kirconnell Unknown + Willy Drowned in Yarrow Unknown + Annan Water Unknown + The Lament of the Border + Widow Unknown + Aspatia's Song from "The + Maid's Tragedy" John Fletcher + A Ballad, "'Twas when the + seas were roaring" John Gay + The Braes of Yarrow John Logan + The Churchyard on the Sands Lord de Tabley + The Minstrel's Song + from "Aella" Thomas Chatterton + Highland Mary Robert Burns + To Mary in Heaven Robert Burns + Lucy William Wordsworth + Proud Maisie Walter Scott + Song, "Earl March looked on + His dying child" Thomas Campbell + The Maid's Lament Walter Savage Landor + "She is Far from the Land" Thomas Moore + "At the Mid Hour of Night" Thomas Moore + On a Picture by Poussin John Addington Symonds + Threnody Ruth Guthrie Harding + Strong as Death Henry Cuyler Banner + "I Shall not Cry Return" Ellen M. H. Gates + "Oh! Snatched away in + Beauty's Bloom" George Gordon Byron + To Mary Charles Wolfe + My Heart and I Elizabeth Barrett Browning + Rosalind's Scroll Elizabeth Barrett Browning + Lament of the Irish Emigrant Helen Selina Sheridan + The King of Denmark's Ride Caroline E. S. Norton + The Watcher James Stephens + The Three Sisters Arthur Davison Ficke + Ballad May Kendall + "O that 'Twere Possible" Alfred Tennyson + "Home They Brought Her + Warrior Dead" Alfred Tennyson + Evelyn Hope Robert Browning + Remembrance Emily Bronte + Song,"The linnet in the + rocky dells" Emily Bronte + Song of the Old Love Jean Ingelow + Requiescat Matthew Arnold + Too Late Dinah Maria Mulock Craik + Four Years Dinah Maria Mulock Craik + Barbara Alexander Smith + Song, "When I am dead, my + dearest" Christina Georgina Rossetti + Sarrazine's Song to Her + Dead Lover Arthur O'Shaughnessy + Love and Death Rosa Mulholland + To One in Paradise Edgar Allan Poe + Annabel Lee Edgar Allan Poe + For Annie Edgar Allan Poe + Telling the Bees John Greenleaf Whittier + A Tryst Louise Chandler Moulton + Love's Resurrection Day Louise Chandler Moulton + Heaven Martha Gilbert Dickinson + Janette's Hair Charles Graham Halpine + The Dying Lover Richard Henry Stoddard + "When the Grass Shall + Cover Me" Ina Coolbrith + Give Love Today Ethel Talbot + Until Death Elizabeth Akers + Florence Vane Phillip Pendleton Cooke + "If Spirits Walk" Sophie Jewett + Requiescat Oscar Wilde + Lyric, "You would have + understood me, had you + waited" Ernest Dowson + Romance Andrew Lang + Good-Night Hester A. Benedict + Requiescat Rosamund Marriott Watson + The Four Winds Charles Henry Luders + The King's Ballad Joyce Kilmer + Heliotrope Harry Thurston Peck + "Lydia is Gone this Many + a Year" Lizette Woodworth Reese + After Lizette Woodworth Reese + Memories Arthur Stringer + To Diane Helen Hay Whitney + "Music I Heard" Conrad Aiken + Her Dwelling-place Ada Foster Murray + The Wife from Fairyland Richard Le Gallienne + In the Fall o' Year Thomas S. Jones, Jr + The Invisible Bride Edwin Markham + Rain on a Grave Thomas Hardy + Patterns Amy Lowell + Dust Rupert Brooke + Ballad, "The roses in my + garden" Maurice Baring + "The Little Rose is Dust, + My Dear" Grace Hazard Conkling + Dirge Adelaide Crapsey + The Little Red Ribbon James Whitcomb Riley + The Rosary Robert Cameron Rogers + + + LOVE'S FULFILLMENT + + "My True-love Hath My Heart" Philip Sidney + Song, "O sweet delight" Thomas Campion + The Good-Morrow John Donne + "There's Gowd in the Breast" James Hogg + The Beggar Maid Alfred Tennyson + Refuge A.E. + At Sunset Louis V. Ledoux + "One Morning Oh! so Early" Jean Ingelow + Across the Door Padraic Colum + May Margaret Theophile Marzials + Rondel, "Kissing her hair, + I sat against her feet" Algernon Charles Swinburne + A Spring Journey Alice Freeman Palmer + The Brookside Richard Monckton Milnes + Song, "For me the jasmine + buds unfold" Florence Earle Coates + What My Lover Said Homer Greene + May-Music Rachel Annand Taylor + Song, "Flame at the core of + the World" Arthur Upson + A Memory Frederic Lawrence Knowles + Love Triumphant Frederic Lawrence Knowles + Lines, "Love within the + lover's breast" George Meredith + Love among the Ruins Robert Browning + Earl Mertoun's Song Robert Browning + Meeting at Night Robert Browning + Parting at Morning Robert Browning + The Turn of the Road Alice Rollit Coe + "My Delight and Thy Delight" Robert Bridges + "O, Saw Ye the Lass" Richard Ryan + Love at Sea Algernon Charles Swinburne + Mary Beaton's Song Algernon Charles Swinburne + Plighted Dinah Maria Mulock Craik + A Woman's Question Adelaide Anne Procter + "Dinna Ask Me" John Dunlop + A Song, "Sing me a sweet, + low song of night" Hildegarde Hawthorne + The Reason James Oppenheim + "My Own Cailin Donn" George Sigerson + Nocturne Amelia Josephine Burr + Surrender Amelia Josephine Burr + "By Yon Burn Side" Robert Tannahill + A Pastoral, "Flower of the + medlar" Theophile Marzials + "When Death to Either shall + Come" Robert Bridges + The Reconciliation Alfred Tennyson + Song, "Wait but a little + while" Norman Gale + Content Norman Gale + Che Sara Sara Victor Plarr + "Bid Adieu to Girlish Days" James Joyce + To F.C. Mortimer Collins + Spring Passion Joel Elias Spingarn + Advice to a Lover S. Charles Jellicoe + "Yes" Richard Doddridge Blackmore + Love Samuel Taylor Coleridge + Nested Habberton Lulham + The Letters Alfred Tennyson + Prothalamion Edmund Spenser + Epithalamion Edmund Spenser + The Kiss Sara Teasdale + Marriage Wilfrid Wilson Gibson + The Newly-wedded Winthrop Mackworth Praed + I Saw Two Clouds at Morning John Gardiner Calkins Brainard + Holy Matrimony John Keble + The Bride Laurence Hope + A Marriage Charm Nora Hopper + "Like a Laverock in the + Lift" Jean Ingelow + My Owen Ellen Mary Patrick Downing + Doris: A Pastoral Arthur Joseph Munby + "He'd Nothing but His + Violin" Mary Kyle Dallas + Love's Calendar William Bell Scott + Home Dora Greenwell + Two Lovers George Eliot + The Land of Heart's Desire Emily Huntington Miller + My Ain Wife Alexander Laing + The Irish Wife Thomas D'Arcy McGee + My Wife's a Winsome Wee + Thing Robert Burns + Lettice Dinah Maria Mulock Craik + "If Thou Wert by My Side, + My Love" Reginald Heber + The Shepherd's Wife's Song Robert Greene + "Truth doth Truth Deserve" Philip Sidney + The Married Lover Coventry Patmore + My Love James Russell Lowell + Margaret to Dolcino Charles Kingsley + Dolcino to Margaret Charles Kingsley + At Last Richard Henry Stoddard + The Wife to Her Husband Unknown + A Wife's Song William Cox Bennett + The Sailor's Wife William Julius Mickle + Jerry an' Me Hiram Rich + "Don't be Sorrowful, + Darling" Rembrandt Peale + Winifreda Unknown + An Old Man's Idyl Richard Realf + The Poet's Song to his Wife Bryan Waller Procter + John Anderson Robert Burns + To Mary Samuel Bishop + The Golden Wedding David Gray + Moggy and Me James Hogg + "O, Lay Thy Hand in Mine, + Dear" Gerald Massey + The Exequy Henry King + + + LOVE SONNETS + + Sonnets from "Amoretti" Edmund Spenser + Sonnets from "Astrophel and + Stella" Philip Sidney + Sonnets from "To Delia" Samuel Daniel + Sonnets from "Idea" Michael Drayton + Sonnets from "Diana" Henry Constable + Sonnets William Shakespeare + "Alexis, Here She Stayed" William Drummond + "Were I as Base as is the + Lowly Plain" Joshua Sylvester + A Sonnet of the Moon Charles Best + To Mary Unwin William Cowper + "Why art Thou Silent" William Wordsworth + Sonnets from "The House + of Life" Dante Gabriel Rossetti + Sonnets Christina Georgina Rossetti + How My Songs of Her Began Philip Bourke Marston + At the Last Philip Bourke Marston + To One who Would Make a + Confession Wilfrid Scawen Blunt + The Pleasures of Love Wilfrid Scawen Blunt + "Were but my Spirit Loosed + upon the Air" Louise Chandler Moulton + Renouncement Alice Meynell + "My Love for Thee" Richard Watson Gilder + Sonnets after the Italian Richard Watson Gilder + Stanzas from "Modern Love" George Meredith + Love in the Winds Richard Hovey + "Oh, Death Will Find Me" Rupert Brooke + The Busy Heart Rupert Brooke + The Hill Rupert Brooke + Sonnets from "Sonnets to + Miranda" William Watson + Sonnets from "Thysia" Morton Luce + Sonnets from "Sonnets from + the Portuguese" Elizabeth Barrett Browning + One Word More Robert Browning + + + + PART III + + + + POEMS OF NATURE + + "The World is too Much With + Us" William Wordsworth + + + MOTHER NATURE + + The Book of the World William Drummond + Nature Jones Very + Compensation Celia Thaxter + The Last Hour Ethel Clifford + Nature Henry David Thoreau + Song of Nature Ralph Waldo Emerson + "Great Nature is an + Army Gay" Richard Watson Gilder + To Mother Nature Frederic Lawrence Knowles + Quiet Work Matthew Arnold + Nature Henry Wadsworth Longfellow + "As an Old Mercer" Mahlon Leonard Fisher + Good Company Karle Wilson Baker + "Here is the Place where + Loveliness Keeps House" Madison Cawein + God's World Edna St. Vincent Millay + Wild Honey Maurice Thompson + Patmos Edith M. Thomas + + + DAWN AND DARK + + Song, "Phoebus, arise" William Drummond + Hymn of Apollo Percy Bysshe Shelley + Prelude to "The New Day" Richard Watson Gilder + Dawn on the Headland William Watson + The Miracle of the Dawn Madison Cawein + Dawn-angels A. Mary F. Robinson + Music of the Dawn Virginia Bioren Harrison + Sunrise on Mansfield + Mountain Alice Brown + Ode to Evening William Collins + "It is a Beauteous Evening + Calm and Free" William Wordsworth + Gloaming Robert Adger Bowen + Evening Melody Aubrey de Vere + In the Cool of the Evening Alfred Noyes + Twilight Olive Custance + Twilight at Sea Amelia C. Welby + "This is My Hour" Zoe Akins + Song to the Evening Star Thomas Campbell + The Evening Cloud John Wilson + Song: To Cynthia Ben Jonson + My Star Robert Browning + Night William Blake + To Night Percy Bysshe Shelly + To Night Joseph Blanco White + Night John Addington Symonds + Night James Montgomery + He Made the Night Lloyd Mifflin + Hymn to the Night Henry Wadsworth Longfellow + Night's Mardi Gras Edward J. Wheeler + Dawn and Dark Norman Gale + Dawn George B. Logan, Jr + A Wood Song Ralph Hodgson + + + THE CHANGING YEAR + + A Song for the Seasons Bryan Waller Procter + A Song of the Seasons Cosmo Monkhouse + Turn o' the Year Katherine Tynan + The Waking Year Emily Dickinson + Song, "The year's at the + spring" Robert Browning + Early Spring Alfred Tennyson + Lines Written in Early + Spring William Wordsworth + In Early Spring Alice Meynell + Spring Thomas Nashe + A Starling's Spring Rondel James Cousins + "When Daffodils begin to + Peer" William Shakespeare + Spring, from "In Memoriam" Alfred Tennyson + The Spring Returns Charles Leonard Moore + "When the Hounds of Spring" Algernon Charles Swinburne + Song, "Again rejoicing + Nature sees" Robert Burns + To Spring William Blake + An Ode on the Spring Thomas Gray + Spring Henry Timrod + The Meadows in Spring Edward Fitzgerald + The Spring William Barnes + "When Spring Comes Back to + England" Alfred Noyes + New Life Amelia Josephine Burr + "Over the Wintry Threshold" Bliss Carman + March William Morris + Song in March William Gilmore Simms + March Nora Hopper + Written in March William Wordsworth + The Passing of March Robert Burns Wilson + Home Thoughts, from Abroad Robert Browning + Song, "April, April" William Watson + An April Adoration Charles G. D. Roberts + Sweet Wild April William Force Stead + Spinning in April Josephine Preston Peabody + Song: On May Morning John Milton + A May Burden Francis Thompson + Corinna's Going a-Maying Robert Herrick + "Sister, Awake" Unknown + May Edward Hovell-Thurlow + May Henry Sylvester Cornwell + A Spring Lilt Unknown + Summer Longings Denis Florence MacCarthy + Midsummer John Townsend Trowbridge + A Midsummer Song Richard Watson Gilder + June, from "The Vision of + Sir Launfal" James Russell Lowell + June Harrison Smith Morris + Harvest Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz + Scythe Song Andrew Lang + September George Arnold + Indian Summer Emily Dickinson + Prevision Ada Foster Murray + A Song of Early Autumn Richard Watson Gilder + To Autumn John Keats + Ode to Autumn Thomas Hood + Ode to the West Wind Percy Bysshe Shelley + Autumn: a Dirge Percy Bysshe Shelley + Autumn Emily Dickinson + "When the Frost is on the + Punkin" James Whitcomb Riley + Kore Frederic Manning + Old October Thomas Constable + November C. L. Cleaveland + November Mahlon Leonard Fisher + Storm Fear Robert Frost + Winter: a Dirge Robert Burns + Old Winter Thomas Noel + The Frost Hannah Flagg Gould + The Frosted Pane Charles G. D. Roberts + The Frost Spirit John Greenleaf Whittier + Snow Elizabeth Akers + To a Snowflake Francis Thompson + The Snow-Shower William Cullen Bryant + Midwinter John Townsend Trowbridge + A Glee for Winter Alfred Domett + The Death of the Old Year Alfred Tennyson + Dirge for the Year Percy Bysshe Shelley + + + WOOD AND FIELD AND RUNNING BROOK + + Waldeinsamkeit Ralph Waldo Emerson + "When in the Woods I Wander + All Alone" Edward Hovell-Thurlow + Aspects of the Pines Paul Hamilton Hayne + Out in the Fields Unknown + Under the Leaves Albert Laighton + "On Wenlock Edge" Alfred Edward Housman + "What Do We Plant" Henry Abbey + The Tree Jones Very + The Brave Old Oak Henry Fothergill Chorley + "The Girt Woak Tree that's + in the Dell" William Barnes + To the Willow-tree Robert Herrick + Enchantment Madison Cawein + Trees Joyce Kilmer + The Holly-tree Robert Southey + The Pine Augusta Webster + "Woodman, Spare that Tree" George Pope Morris + The Beech Tree's Petition Thomas Campbell + The Poplar Field William Cowper + The Planting of the + Apple-Tree William Cullen Bryant + Of an Orchard Katherine Tynan + An Orchard at Avignon A. Mary F. Robinson + The Tide River Charles Kingsley + The Brook's Song Alfred Tennyson + Arethusa Percy Bysshe Shelley + The Cataract of Lodore Robert Southey + Song of the Chattahoochee Sidney Lanier + "Flow Gently, Sweet Afton" Robert Burns + Canadian Boat-Song Thomas Moore + The Marshes of Glynn Sidney Lanier + The Trosachs William Wordsworth + Hymn before Sunrise in the + Vale of Chamouni Samuel Taylor Coleridge + The Peaks Stephen Crane + Kinchinjunga Cale Young Rice + The Hills Julian Grenfell + Hemlock Mountain Sarah N. Cleghorn + Sunrise on Rydal Water John Drinkwater + The Deserted Pasture Bliss Carman + To Meadows Robert Herrick + The Cloud Percy Bysshe Shelley + April Rain Robert Loveman + Summer Invocation William Cox Bennett + April Rain Mathilde Blind + To the Rainbow Thomas Campbell + + + GREEN THINGS GROWING + + My Garden Thomas Edward Brown + The Garden Andrew Marvell + A Garden Andrew Marvell + A Garden Song Austin Dobson + In Green Old Gardens Violet Fane + A Benedictine Garden Alice Brown + An Autumn Garden Bliss Carman + Unguarded Ada Foster Murray + The Deserted Garden Elizabeth Barrett Browning + A Forsaken Garden Algernon Charles Swinburne + Green Things Growing Dinah Maria Mulock Craik + A Chanted Calendar Sydney Dobell + Flowers Henry Wadsworth Longfellow + Flowers Thomas Hood + A Contemplation Upon Flowers Henry King + Almond Blossom Edwin Arnold + White Azaleas Harriet McEwen Kimball + Buttercups Wilfrid Thorley + The Broom Flower Mary Howitt + The Small Celandine William Wordsworth + To the Small Celandine William Wordsworth + Four-leaf Clover Ella Higginson + Sweet Clover Wallace Rice + "I Wandered Lonely as a + Cloud" William Wordsworth + To Daffodils Robert Herrick + To a Mountain Daisy Robert Burns + A Field Flower James Montgomery + To Daisies, Not to Shut so + Soon Robert Herrick + Daisies Bliss Carman + To the Daisy William Wordsworth + To Daisies Francis Thompson + To the Dandelion James Russell Lowell + Dandelion Annie Rankin Annan + The Dandelions Helen Gray Cone + To the Fringed Gentian William Cullen Bryant + Goldenrod Elaine Goodale Eastman + Lessons from the Gorse Elizabeth Barrett Browning + The Voice of The Grass Sarah Roberts Boyle + A Song the Grass Sings Charles G. Blanden + The Wild Honeysuckle Philip Freneau + The Ivy Green Charles Dickens + Yellow Jessamine Constance Fenimore Woolson + Knapweed Arthur Christopher Benson + Moly Edith Matilda Thomas + The Morning-Glory Florence Earle Coates + The Mountain Heart's-Ease Bret Harte + The Primrose Robert Herrick + To Primroses filled with + Morning Dew Robert Herrick + To an Early Primrose Henry Kirke White + The Rhodora Ralph Waldo Emerson + The Rose William Browne + Wild Roses Edgar Fawcett + The Rose of May Mary Howitt + A Rose Richard Fanshawe + The Shamrock Maurice Francis Egan + To Violets Robert Herrick + The Violet William Wetmore Story + To a Wood-Violet John Banister Tabb + The Violet and the Rose Augusta Webster + To a Wind-Flower Madison Cawein + To Blossoms Robert Herrick + "'Tis the Last Rose of + Summer" Thomas Moore + The Death of the Flowers William Cullen Bryant + + + GOD'S CREATURES + + Once on a Time Margaret Benson + To a Mouse Robert Burns + The Grasshopper Abraham Cowley + On the Grasshopper and + Cricket John Keats + To the Grasshopper and the + Cricket Leigh Hunt + The Cricket William Cowper + To a Cricket William Cox Bennett + To an Insect Oliver Wendell Holmes + The Snail William Cowper + The Housekeeper Charles Lamb + The Humble-Bee Ralph Waldo Emerson + To a Butterfly William Wordsworth + Ode to a Butterfly Thomas Wentworth Higginson + The Butterfly Alice Freeman Palmer + Fireflies Edgar Fawcett + The Blood Horse Bryan Waller Procter + Birds Moira O'Neill + Birds Richard Henry Stoddard + Sea-Birds Elizabeth Akers + The Little Beach Bird Richard Henry Dana + The Blackbird Frederick Tennyson + The Blackbird Alfred Edward Housman + The Blackbird William Ernest Henley + The Blackbird William Barnes + Robert of Lincoln William Cullen Bryant + The O'Lincon Family Wilson Flagg + The Bobolink Thomas Hill + My Catbird William Henry Venable + The Herald Crane Hamlin Garland + The Crow William Canton + To the Cuckoo John Logan + The Cuckoo Frederick Locker-Lampson + To the Cuckoo William Wordsworth + The Eagle Alfred Tennyson + The Hawkbit Charles G. D. Roberts + The Heron Edward Hovell-Thurlow + The Jackdaw William Cowper + The Green Linnet William Wordsworth + To the Man-of-War-Bird Walt Whitman + The Maryland Yellow-Throat Henry Van Dyke + Lament of a Mocking-bird Frances Anne Kemble + "O Nightingale! Thou + Surely Art" William Wordsworth + Philomel Richard Barnfield + Philomela Matthew Arnold + On a Nightingale in April William Sharp + To the Nightingale William Drummond + The Nightingale Mark Akenside + To the Nightingale John Milton + Philomela Philip Sidney + Ode to a Nightingale John Keats + Song, 'Tis sweet to hear the + merry lark Hartley Coleridge + Bird Song Laura E. Richards + The Song the Oriole Sings William Dean Howells + To an Oriole Edgar Fawcett + Song: the Owl Alfred Tennyson + "Sweet Suffolk Owl" Thomas Vautor + The Pewee John Townsend Trowbridge + Robin Redbreast George Washington Doane + Robin Redbreast William Allingham + The Sandpiper Celia Thaxter + The Sea-Mew Elizabeth Barrett Browning + To a Skylark William Wordsworth + To a Skylark William Wordsworth + The Skylark James Hogg + The Skylark Frederick Tennyson + To a Skylark Percy Bysshe Shelley + The Stormy Petrel Bryan Waller Procter + The First Swallow Charlotte Smith + To a Swallow Building Under + our Eaves Jane Welsh Carlyle + Chimney Swallows Horatio Nelson Powers + Itylus Algernon Charles Swinburne + The Throstle Alfred Tennyson + Overflow John Banister Tabb + Joy-Month David Atwood Wasson + My Thrush Mortimer Collins + "Blow Softly, Thrush" Joseph Russell Taylor + The Black Vulture George Sterling + Wild Geese Frederick Peterson + To a Waterfowl William Cullen Bryant + The Wood-Dove's Note Emily Huntington Miller + + + THE SEA + + Song for all Seas, all Ships Walt Whitman + Stanzas from "The Triumph + of Time" Algernon Charles Swinburne + The Sea from "Childe + Harold's Pilgrimage" George Gordon Byron + On the Sea John Keats + "With Ships the Sea was + Sprinkled" William Wordsworth + A Song of Desire Frederic Lawrence Knowles + The Pines and the Sea Christopher Pearse Cranch + Sea Fever John Masefield + Hastings Mill C. Fox Smith + "A Wet Sheet and a Flowing + Sea" Allan Cunningham + The Sea Bryan Waller Procter + Sailor's Song from "Death's + Jest Book" Thomas Lovell Beddoes + "A Life on the Ocean Wave" Epes Sargent + Tacking Ship off Shore Walter Mitchell + In Our Boat Dinah Maria Mulock Craik + Poor Jack Charles Dibdin + "Rocked in the Cradle of the + Deep" Emma Hart Willard + Outward John G. Neihardt + A Passer-by Robert Bridges + Off Riviere du Loup Duncan Campbell Scott + Christmas at Sea Robert Louis Stevenson + The Port o' Heart's Desire John S. McGroarty + On the Quay John Joy Bell + The Forging of the Anchor Samuel Ferguson + Drifting Thomas Buchanan Read + "How's My Boy" Sydney Dobell + The Long White Seam Jean Ingelow + Storm Song Bayard Taylor + The Mariner's Dream William Dimond + The Inchcape Rock Robert Southey + The Sea Richard Henry Stoddard + The Sands of Dee Charles Kingsley + The Three Fishers Charles Kingsley + Ballad Harriet Prescott Spofford + The Northern Star Unknown + The Fisher's Widow Arthur Symons + Caller Herrin' Carolina Nairne + Hannah Binding Shoes Lucy Larcom + The Sailor William Allingham + The Burial of the Dane Henry Howard Brownell + Tom Bowling Charles Dibdin + Messmates Henry Newbolt + The Last Buccaneer Charles Kingsley + The Last Buccaneer Thomas Babington Macaulay + The Leadman's Song Charles Dibdin + Homeward Bound William Allingham + + + THE SIMPLE LIFE + + The Lake Isle of Innisfree William Butler Yeats + A Wish Samuel Rogers + Ode on Solitude Alexander Pope + "Thrice Happy He" William Drummond + "Under the Greenwood Tree" William Shakespeare + Coridon's Song John Chalkhill + The Old Squire Wilfrid Scawen Blunt + Inscription in a Hermitage Thomas Warton + The Retirement Charles Cotton + The Country Faith Norman Gale + Truly Great William H. Davies + Early Morning at Bargis Hermann Hagedorn + The Cup John Townsend Trowbridge + A Strip of Blue Lucy Larcom + An Ode to Master Anthony + Stafford Thomas Randolph + "The Midges Dance Aboon the + Burn" Robert Tannahill + The Plow Richard Hengist Horne + The Useful Plow Unknown + "To One Who has Been Long in + City Pent" John Keats + The Quiet Life William Byrd + The Wish Abraham Cowley + Expostulation and Reply William Wordsworth + The Tables Turned William Wordsworth + Simple Nature George John Romanes + "I Fear no Power a Woman + Wields" Ernest McGaffey + A Runnable Stag John Davidson + Hunting Song Richard Hovey + "A-Hunting We Will Go" Henry Fielding + The Angler's Invitation Thomas Tod Stoddart + The Angler's Wish Izaak Walton + The Angler John Chalkhill + + + WANDERLUST + + To Jane: the Invitation Percy Bysshe Shelley + "My Heart's in the + Highlands" Robert Burns + "Afar in the Desert" Thomas Pringle + Spring Song in the City Robert Buchanan + In City Streets Ada Smith + The Vagabond Robert Louis Stevenson + In the Highlands Robert Louis Stevenson + The Song my Paddle Sings E. Pauline Johnson + The Gipsy Trail Rudyard Kipling + Wanderlust Gerald Gould + The Footpath Way Katherine Tynan + A Maine Trail Gertrude Huntington McGiffert + Afoot Charles G. D. Roberts + From Romany to Rome Wallace Irwin + The Toil of the Trail Hamlin Garland + "Do You Fear the Wind?" Hamlin Garland + The King's Highway John S. McGroarty + The Forbidden Lure Fannie Stearns Davis + The Wander-Lovers Richard Hovey + The Sea-Gipsy Richard Hovey + A Vagabond Song Bliss Carman + Spring Song Bliss Carman + The Mendicants Bliss Carman + The Joys of the Road Bliss Carman + The Song of the Forest + Ranger Herbert Bashford + A Drover Padraic Colum + Ballad of Low-lie-down Madison Cawein + The Good Inn Herman Knickerbocker Viele + Night for Adventures Victor Starbuck + Song, "Something calls and + whispers" Georgiana Goddard King + The Voortrekker Rudyard Kipling + The Long Trail Rudyard Kipling + + + + PART IV + + + + FAMILIAR VERSE, AND POEMS HUMOROUS AND SATIRIC + + Ballade of the Primitive Jest Andrew Lang + + + THE KINDLY MUSE + + Time to be Wise Walter Savage Landor + Under the Lindens Walter Savage Landor + Advice Walter Savage Landor + To Fanny Thomas Moore + "I'd be a Butterfly" Thomas Haynes Bayly + "I'm not a Single Man" Thomas Hood + To ----- Winthrop Mackworth Praed + The Vicar Winthrop Mackworth Praed + The Belle of the Ball-room Winthrop Mackworth Praed + The Fine Old English + Gentleman Unknown + A Ternerie of Littles, upon + a Pipkin of Jelly Sent to + a Lady Robert Herrick + Chivalry at a Discount Edward Fitzgerald + The Ballad of Bouillabaisse William Makepeace Thackeray + To my Grandmother Frederick Locker-Lampson + My Mistress's Boots Frederick Locker-Lampson + A Garden Lyric Frederick Locker-Lampson + Mrs. Smith Frederick Locker-Lampson + The Skeleton in the Cupboard Frederick Locker-Lampson + A Terrible Infant Frederick Locker-Lampson + Companions Charles Stuart Calverley + Dorothy Q Oliver Wendell Holmes + My Aunt Oliver Wendell Holmes + The Last Leaf Oliver Wendell Holmes + Contentment Oliver Wendell Holmes + The Boys Oliver Wendell Holmes + The Jolly Old Pedagogue George Arnold + On an Intaglio Head of + Minerva Thomas Bailey Aldrich + Thalia Thomas Bailey Aldrich + Pan in Wall Street Edmund Clarence Stedman + Upon Lesbia--Arguing Alfred Cochrane + To Anthea, who May Command + Him Anything Alfred Cochrane + The Eight-Day Clock Alfred Cochrane + A Portrait Joseph Ashby-Sterry + "Old Books are Best" Beverly Chew + Impression Edmund Gosse + "With Strawberries" William Ernest Henley + Ballade of Ladies' Names William Ernest Henley + To a Pair of Egyptian + Slippers Edwin Arnold + Without and Within James Russell Lowell + "She was a Beauty" Henry Cuyler Bunner + Nell Gwynne's Looking-Glass Laman Blanchard + Mimnermus in Church William Johnson-Cory + Clay Edward Verrall Lucas + Aucassin and Nicolete Francis William Bourdillon + Aucassin and Nicolette Edmund Clarence Stedman + On the Hurry of This Time Austin Dobson + "Good-Night, Babette" Austin Dobson + A Dialogue from Plato Austin Dobson + The Ladies of St. James's Austin Dobson + The Cure's Progress Austin Dobson + A Gentleman of the Old + School Austin Dobson + On a Fan Austin Dobson + "When I Saw You Last, Rose" Austin Dobson + Urceus Exit Austin Dobson + A Corsage Bouquet Charles Henry Luders + Two Triolets Harrison Robertson + The Ballad of Dead Ladies Dante Gabriel Rossetti + Ballade of Dead Ladies Andrew Lang + A Ballad of Dead Ladies Justin Huntly McCarthy + If I Were King Justin Huntly McCarthy + A Ballade of Suicide Gilbert Keith Chesterton + Chiffons! William Samuel Johnson + The Court Historian Walter Thornbury + Miss Lou Walter de La Mare + The Poet and the Wood-louse Helen Parry Eden + Students Florence Wilkinson + "One, Two, Three" Henry Cuyler Bunner + The Chaperon Henry Cuyler Bunner + "A Pitcher of Mignonette" Henry Cuyler Bunner + Old King Cole Edwin Arlington Robinson + The Master Mariner George Sterling + A Rose to the Living Nixon Waterman + A Kiss Austin Dobson + Biftek aux Champignons Henry Augustin Beers + Evolution Langdon Smith + A Reasonable Affliction Matthew Prior + A Moral in Sevres Mildred Howells + On the Fly-leaf of a Book of + Old Plays Walter Learned + The Talented Man Winthrop Mackworth Praed + A Letter of Advice Winthrop Mackworth Praed + A Nice Correspondent Frederick Locker-Lampson + Her Letter Bret Harte + A Dead Letter Austin Dobson + The Nymph Complaining for + the Death of her Fawn Andrew Marvell + On the Death of a Favorite + Cat Drowned in a Tub of + Goldfishes Thomas Gray + Verses on a Cat Charles Daubeny + Epitaph on a Hare William Cowper + On the Death of Mrs. + Throckmorton's Bullfinch William Cowper + An Elegy on a Lap-Dog John Gay + My Last Terrier John Halsham + Geist's Grave Matthew Arnold + "Hold" Patrick R. Chalmers + + + THE BARB OF SATIRE + + The Vicar of Bray Unknown + The Lost Leader Robert Browning + Ichabod John Greenleaf Whittier + What Mr. Robinson Thinks James Russell Lowell + The Debate in the Sennit James Russell Lowell + The Marquis of Carabas Robert Brough + A Modest Wit Selleck Osborn + Jolly Jack William Makepeace Thackeray + The King of Brentford William Makepeace Thackeray + Kaiser & Co A. Macgregor Rose + Nongtongpaw Charles Dibdin + The Lion and the Cub John Gay + The Hare with Many Friends John Gay + The Sycophantic Fox and the + Gullible Raven Guy Wetmore Carryl + The Friend of Humanity and + the Knife-Grinder George Canning + Villon's Straight Tip to all + Cross Coves William Ernest Henley + Villon's Ballade Andrew Lang + A Little Brother of the Rich Edward Sandford Martin + The World's Way Thomas Bailey Aldrich + For My Own Monument Matthew Prior + The Bishop Orders His Tomb + at Saint Praxed's Church Robert Browning + Up at a Villa--Down in the + City Robert Browning + All Saints' Edmund Yates + An Address to the Unco Guid Robert Burns + The Deacon's Masterpiece Oliver Wendell Holmes + Ballade of a Friar Andrew Lang + The Chameleon James Merrick + The Blind Men and the + Elephant John Godfrey Saxe + The Philosopher's Scales Jane Taylor + The Maiden and the Lily John Fraser + The Owl-Critic James Thomas Fields + The Ballad of Imitation Austin Dobson + The Conundrum of the + Workshops Rudyard Kipling + The V-a-s-e James Jeffrey Roche + Hem and Haw Bliss Carmen + Miniver Cheevy Edwin Arlington Robinson + Then Ag'in Sam Walter Foss + A Conservative Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman + Similar Cases Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman + Man and the Ascidian Andrew Lang + The Calf-Path Sam Walter Foss + Wedded Bliss Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman + Paradise: A Hindoo Legend George Birdseye + Ad Chloen, M. A. Mortimer Collins + "As Like the Woman as + You Can" William Ernest Henley + "No Fault in Women" Robert Herrick + "Are Women Fair" Francis Davison (?) + A Strong Hand Aaron Hill + Women's Longing John Fletcher + Triolet Robert Bridges + The Fair Circassian Richard Garnett + The Female Phaeton Matthew Prior + The Lure John Boyle O'Reilly + The Female of the Species Rudyard Kipling + The Woman with the Serpent's + Tongue William Watson + Suppose Anne Reeve Aldrich + Too Candid by Half John Godfrey Saxe + Fable Ralph Waldo Emerson + Woman's Will Unknown + Woman's Will John Godfrey Saxe + Plays Walter Savage Landor + Remedy Worse than the + Disease Matthew Prior + The Net of Law James Jeffrey Roche + Cologne Samuel Taylor Coleridge + Epitaph on Charles II John Wilmot + Certain Maxims of Hafiz Rudyard Kipling + A Baker's Duzzen uv + Wise Sawz Edward Rowland Sill + Epigram Samuel Taylor Coleridge + Epigram Unknown + Epigram Richard Garnett + Epigram Richard Garnett + Epigram Walter Savage Landor + Epigram William Erskine + Epigram Richard Brinsley Sheridan + Epigram Alexander Pope + Epigram Samuel Johnson + Epigram John Gay + Epigram Alexander Pope + Epigram Samuel Taylor Coleridge + Epigram Unknown + Epigram Samuel Taylor Coleridge + Epigram Unknown + Epigram Matthew Prior + Epigram George Macdonald + Epigram Jonathan Swift + Epigram Byron's epitaph for Pitt + Epigram David Garrick + Epigram John Harington + Epigram John Byrom + Epigram Richard Garnett + Epigram Thomas Moore + Epigram Unknown + Epigram Samuel Taylor Coleridge + Epigram John Dryden + Epigram Thomas Hood + Written on a Looking-glass Unknown + An Epitaph George John Cayley + On the Aristocracy of + Harvard John Collins Bossidy + On the Democracy of Yale Frederick Scheetz Jones + A General Summary Rudyard Kipling + + + THE MIMICS + + An Omar for Ladies Josephine Daskam Bacon + "When Lovely Woman" Phoebe Cary + Fragment in Imitation of + Wordsworth Catherine M. Fanshaw + Only Seven Henry Sambrooke Leigh + Lucy Lake Newton Mackintosh + Jane Smith Rudyard Kipling + Father William Lewis Carroll + The New Arrival George Washington Cable + Disaster Charles Stuart Calverley + 'Twas Ever Thus Henry Sambrooke Leigh + A Grievance James Kenneth Stephen + "Not a Sou Had he Got" Richard Harris Barham + The Whiting and the Snail Lewis Carroll + The Recognition William Sawyer + The Higher Pantheism in a + Nutshell Algernon Charles Swinburne + The Willow-tree William Makepeace Thackeray + Poets and Linnets Tom Hood, the Younger + The Jam-pot Rudyard Kipling + Ballad Charles Stuart Calverley + The Poster-girl Carolyn Wells + After Dilletante Concetti Henry Duff Traill + If Mortimer Collins + Nephilidia Algernon Charles Swinburne + Commonplaces Rudyard Kipling + The Promissory Note Bayard Taylor + Mrs. Judge Jenkins Bret Harte + The Modern Hiawatha George A. Strong + How Often Ben King + "If I should Die To-night" Ben King + Sincere Flattery James Kenneth Stephen + Culture in the Slums William Ernest Henley + The Poets at Tea Barry Pain + Wordsworth James Kenneth Stephen + + + + +PART III + + + + +POEMS OF NATURE + + +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 wreathed horn. + +William Wordsworth [1770-1850] + + + + +MOTHER NATURE + + + + +THE BOOK OF THE WORLD + +Of this fair volume which we World do name, +If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care, +Of him who it corrects, and did it frame, +We clear might read the art and wisdom rare; +Find out his power which wildest powers doth tame, +His providence extending everywhere, +His justice which proud rebels doth not spare, +In every page, no, period of the same. +But silly we, like foolish children, rest +Well pleased with colored vellum, leaves of gold, +Fair dangling ribbons, leaving what is best, +On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold; +Or, if by chance we stay our minds on aught, +It is some picture on the margin wrought. + +William Drummond [1585-1649] + + + + +NATURE + +The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, +Because my feet find measure with its call; +The birds know when the friend they love is nigh, +For I am known to them, both great and small. +The flower that on the lonely hillside grows +Expects me there when spring its bloom has given; +And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows, +And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven; +For he who with his Maker walks aright, +Shall be their lord as Adam was before; +His ear shall catch each sound with new delight, +Each object wear the dress that then it wore; +And he, as when erect in soul he stood, +Hear from his Father's lips that all is good. + +Jones Very [1813-1880] + + + + +COMPENSATION + +In that new world toward which our feet are set, +Shall we find aught to make our hearts forget +Earth's homely joys and her bright hours of bliss? +Has heaven a spell divine enough for this? +For who the pleasure of the spring shall tell +When on the leafless stalk the brown buds swell, +When the grass brightens and the days grow long, +And little birds break out in rippling song? + +O sweet the dropping eve, the blush of morn, +The starlit sky, the rustling fields of corn, +The soft airs blowing from the freshening seas, +The sunflecked shadow of the stately trees, +The mellow thunder and the lulling rain, +The warm, delicious, happy summer rain, +When the grass brightens and the days grow long, +And little birds break out in rippling song! + +O beauty manifold, from morn till night, +Dawn's flush, noon's blaze and sunset's tender light! +O fair, familiar features, changes sweet +Of her revolving seasons, storm and sleet +And golden calm, as slow she wheels through space, +From snow to roses,--and how dear her face, +When the grass brightens, when the days grow long, +And little birds break out in rippling song! + +O happy earth! O home so well beloved! +What recompense have we, from thee removed? +One hope we have that overtops the whole,-- +The hope of finding every vanished soul, +We love and long for daily, and for this +Gladly we turn from thee, and all thy bliss, +Even at thy loveliest, when the days are long, +And little birds break out in rippling song. + +Celia Thaxter [1835-1894] + + + + +THE LAST HOUR + +O joys of love and joys of fame, +It is not you I shall regret; +I sadden lest I should forget +The beauty woven in earth's name: + +The shout and battle of the gale, +The stillness of the sun-rising, +The sound of some deep hidden spring, +The glad sob of the filling sail, + +The first green ripple of the wheat, +The rain-song of the lifted leaves, +The waking birds beneath the eaves, +The voices of the summer heat. + +Ethel Clifford [18-- + + + + +NATURE + +O Nature! I do not aspire +To be the highest in thy choir,-- +To be a meteor in thy sky, +Or comet that may range on high; +Only a zephyr that may blow +Among the reeds by the river low; +Give me thy most privy place +Where to run my airy race. + +In some withdrawn, unpublic mead +Let me sigh upon a reed, +Or in the woods, with leafy din, +Whisper the still evening in: +Some still work give me to do,-- +Only--be it near to you! + +For I'd rather be thy child +And pupil, in the forest wild, +Than be the king of men elsewhere, +And most sovereign slave of care; +To have one moment of thy dawn, +Than share the city's year forlorn. + +Henry David Thoreau [1817-1862] + + + + +SONG OF NATURE + +Mine are the night and morning, +The pits of air, the gull of space, +The sportive sun, the gibbous moon, +The innumerable days. + +I hide in the solar glory, +I am dumb in the pealing song, +I rest on the pitch of the torrent, +In slumber I am strong. + +No numbers have counted my tallies, +No tribes my house can fill, +I sit by the shining Fount of Life +And pour the deluge still; + +And ever by delicate powers +Gathering along the centuries +From race on race the rarest flowers, +My wreath shall nothing miss. + +And many a thousand summers +My gardens ripened well, +And light from meliorating stars +With firmer glory fell. + +I wrote the past in characters +Of rock and fire the scroll, +The building in the coral sea, +The planting of the coal. + +And thefts from satellites and rings +And broken stars I drew, +And out of spent and aged things +I formed the world anew; + +What time the gods kept carnival, +Tricked out in star and flower, +And in cramp elf and saurian forms +They swathed their too much power. + +Time and Thought were my surveyors, +They laid their courses well, +They boiled the sea, and piled the layers +Of granite, marl and shell. + +But he, the man-child glorious,-- +Where tarries he the while? +The rainbow shines his harbinger, +The sunset gleams his smile. + +My boreal lights leap upward, +Forthright my planets roll, +And still the man-child is not born, +The summit of the whole. + +Must time and tide forever run? +Will never my winds go sleep in the west? +Will never my wheels which whirl the sun +And satellites have rest? + +Too much of donning and doffing, +Too slow the rainbow fades, +I weary of my robe of snow, +My leaves and my cascades; + +I tire of globes and races, +Too long the game is played; +What without him is summer's pomp, +Or winter's frozen shade? + +I travail in pain for him, +My creatures travail and wait; +His couriers come by squadrons, +He comes not to the gate. + +Twice I have moulded an image, +And thrice outstretched my hand, +Made one of day and one of night +And one of the salt sea-sand. + +One in a Judaean manger, +And one by Avon stream, +One over against the mouths of Nile, +And one in the Academe. + +I moulded kings and saviors, +And bards o'er kings to rule;-- +But fell the starry influence short, +The cup was never full. + +Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more, +And mix the bowl again; +Seethe, Fate! the ancient elements, +Heat, cold, wet, dry, and peace, and pain. + +Let war and trade and creeds and song +Blend, ripen race on race, +The sunburnt world a man shall breed +Of all the zones and countless days. + +No ray is dimmed, no atom worn, +My oldest force is good as new, +And the fresh rose on yonder thorn +Gives back the bending heavens in dew. + +Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882] + + + + +"GREAT NATURE IS AN ARMY GAY" + +Great nature is an army gay, +Resistless marching on its way; +I hear the bugles clear and sweet, +I hear the tread of million feet. +Across the plain I see it pour; +It tramples down the waving grass; +Within the echoing mountain-pass +I hear a thousand cannon roar. +It swarms within my garden gate; +My deepest well it drinketh dry. +It doth not rest; it doth not wait; +By night and day it sweepeth by; +Ceaseless it marcheth by my door; +It heeds me not, though I implore. +I know not whence it comes, nor where +It goes. For me it doth not care-- +Whether I starve, or eat, or sleep, +Or live, or die, or sing, or weep. +And now the banners all are bright, +Now torn and blackened by the fight. +Sometimes its laughter shakes the sky, +Sometimes the groans of those who die. +Still through the night and through the livelong day +The infinite army marches on its remorseless way. + +Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1909] + + + + +TO MOTHER NATURE + +Nature, in thy largess, grant +I may be thy confidant! +Taste who will life's roadside cheer +(Though my heart doth hold it dear-- +Song and wine and trees and grass, +All the joys that flash and pass), +I must put within my prayer +Gifts more intimate and rare. +Show me how dry branches throw +Such blue shadows on the snow,-- +Tell me how the wind can fare +On his unseen feet of air,-- +Show me how the spider's loom +Weaves the fabric from her womb,-- +Lead me to those brooks of morn +Where a woman's laugh is born,-- +Let me taste the sap that flows +Through the blushes of a rose, +Yea, and drain the blood which runs +From the heart of dying suns,-- +Teach me how the butterfly +Guessed at immortality,-- +Let me follow up the track +Of Love's deathless Zodiac +Where Joy climbs among the spheres +Circled by her moon of tears,-- +Tell me how, when I forget +All the schools have taught me, yet +I recall each trivial thing +In a golden far off Spring,-- +Give me whispered hints how I +May instruct my heart to fly +Where the baffling Vision gleams +Till I overtake my dreams, +And the impossible be done +When the Wish and Deed grow one! + +Frederic Lawrence Knowles [1869-1905] + + + + +QUIET WORK + +One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee, +One lesson which in every wind is blown, +One lesson of two duties kept at one +Though the loud world proclaim their enmity-- +Of toil unsevered from tranquillity; +Of labor, that in lasting fruit outgrows +Far noisier schemes, accomplished in repose, +Too great for haste, too high for rivalry. + +Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring, +Man's fitful uproar mingling with his toil, +Still do thy sleepless ministers move on, +Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting; +Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil; +Laborers that shall not fail, when man is gone. + +Matthew Arnold [1822-1888] + + + + +NATURE + +As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, +Leads by the hand her little child to bed, +Half willing, half reluctant to be led, +And leave his broken playthings on the floor, +Still gazing at them through the open door, +Nor wholly reassured and comforted +By promises of others in their stead, +Which, though more splendid, may not please him more; +So Nature deals with us, and takes away +Our playthings one by one, and by the hand +Leads us to rest so gently, that we go +Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, +Being too full of sleep to understand +How far the unknown transcends the what we know. + +Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882] + + + + +"AS AN OLD MERCER" + +As an old mercer in some sleepy town +Swings wide his windows new day after day, +Sets all his wares around in arch array +To please the taste of passers up and down,-- +His hoard of handy things of trite renown, +Of sweets and spices and of faint perfumes, +Of silks and prints,--and at the last illumes +His tiny panes to foil the evening's frown; +So Nature spreads her proffered treasures: such +As daily dazzle at the morning's rise,-- +Fair show of isle and ocean merchandise, +And airy offerings filmy to the touch; +Then, lest we like not these, in Dark's bazaars +She nightly tempts us with her store of stars. + +Mahlon Leonard Fisher [1874- + + + + +GOOD COMPANY + +To-day I have grown taller from walking with the trees, +The seven sister-poplars who go softly in a line; +And I think my heart is whiter for its parley with a star +That trembled out at nightfall and hung above the pine. +The call-note of a redbird from the cedars in the dusk +Woke his happy mate within me to an answer free and fine; +And a sudden angel beckoned from a column of blue smoke-- +Lord, who am I that they should stoop--these holy folk of thine? + +Karle Wilson Baker [1878- + + + + +"HERE IS THE PLACE WHERE LOVELINESS KEEPS HOUSE" + +Here is the place where Loveliness keeps house, +Between the river and the wooded hills, +Within a valley where the Springtime spills +Her firstling wind-flowers under blossoming boughs: +Where Summer sits braiding her warm, white brows +With bramble-roses; and where Autumn fills +Her lap with asters; and old Winter frills +With crimson haw and hip his snowy blouse. +Here you may meet with Beauty. Here she sits +Gazing upon the moon, or all the day +Tuning a wood-thrush flute, remote, unseen; +Or when the storm is out, 'tis she who flits +From rock to rock, a form of flying spray, +Shouting, beneath the leaves' tumultuous green. + +Madison Cawein [1865-1914] + + + + +GOD'S WORLD + +O world, I cannot hold thee close enough! +Thy winds, thy wide gray skies! +Thy mists, that roll and rise! +Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag +And all but cry with color! That gaunt crag +To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! +World, world, I cannot get thee close enough! + +Long have I known a glory in it all +But never knew I this. +Here such a passion is +As stretcheth me apart. Lord, I do fear +Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year. +My soul is all but out of me--let fall +No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call. + +Edna St. Vincent Millay [1892- + + + + +WILD HONEY + +Where hints of racy sap and gum +Out of the old dark forest come; +Where birds their beaks like hammers wield, +And pith is pierced and bark is peeled; +Where the green walnut's outer rind +Gives precious bitterness to the wind; +There lurks the sweet creative power, +As lurks the honey in the flower. +In winter's bud that bursts in spring, +In nut of autumn's ripening, +In acrid bulb beneath the mold, +Sleeps the elixir, strong and old, +That Rosicrucians sought in vain,-- +Life that renews itself again! +What bottled perfume is so good +As fragrance of split tulip-wood? +What fabled drink of god or muse +Was rich as purple mulberry juice? +And what school-polished gem of thought +Is like the rune from Nature caught? +He is a poet strong and true +Who loves wild thyme and honey-dew; +And like a brown bee works and sings +With morning freshness on his wings, +And a golden burden on his thighs,-- +The pollen-dust of centuries! + +Maurice Thompson [1844-1901] + + + + +PATMOS + +All around him Patmos lies, +Who hath spirit-gifted eyes, +Who his happy sight can suit +To the great and the minute. +Doubt not but he holds in view +A new earth and heaven new; +Doubt not but his ear doth catch +Strain nor voice nor reed can match: +Many a silver, sphery note +Shall within his hearing float. +All around him Patmos lies, +Who unto God's priestess flies: +Thou, O Nature, bid him see, +Through all guises worn by thee, +A divine apocalypse. +Manifold his fellowships: +Now the rocks their archives ope; +Voiceless creatures tell their hope +In a language symbol-wrought; +Groves to him sigh out their thought; +Musings of the flower and grass +Through his quiet spirit pass. +'Twixt new earth and heaven new +He hath traced and holds the clue, +Number his delights ye may not; +Fleets the year but these decay not. +Now the freshets of the rain, +Bounding on from hill to plain, +Show him earthly streams have rise +In the bosom of the skies. +Now he feels the morning thrill, +As upmounts, unseen and still, +Dew the wing of evening drops. +Now the frost, that meets and stops +Summer's feet in tender sward, +Greets him, breathing heavenward. +Hieroglyphics writes the snow, +Through the silence falling slow; +Types of star and petaled bloom +A white missal-page illume. +By these floating symbols fine, +Heaven-truth shall be divine. + +All around him Patmos lies, +Who hath spirit-gifted eyes; +He need not afar remove, +He need not the times reprove, +Who would hold perpetual lease +Of an isle in seas of peace. + +Edith M. Thomas [1854-1925] + + + + + + + + + + +DAWN AND DARK + + + + + + + + + + +SONG + +Phoebus, arise, +And paint the sable skies +With azure, white, and red: +Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed, +That she thy career may with roses spread: +The nightingales thy coming each where sing, +Make an eternal Spring! +Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; +Spread forth thy golden hair +In larger locks than thou wast wont before, +And, emperor-like, decore +With diadem of pearl thy temples fair: +Chase hence the ugly night, +Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. + +This is that happy morn, +That day, long-wished day, +Of all my life so dark, +(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn, +And fates not hope betray,) +Which, only white, deserves +A diamond for ever should it mark. +This is the morn should bring unto this grove +My Love, to hear and recompense my love. +Fair king, who all preserves, +But show thy blushing beams, +And thou two sweeter eyes +Shalt see, than those which by Peneus' streams +Did once thy heart surprise. +Nay, suns, which shine as clear +As thou, when two thou didst to Rome appear. +Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise: +If that ye, winds, would hear +A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, +Your stormy chiding stay; +Let Zephyr only breathe, +And with her tresses play, +Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death. +--The winds all silent are, +And Phoebus in his chair +Ensaffroning sea and air, +Makes vanish every star: +Night like a drunkard reels +Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels; +The fields with flowers are decked in every hue, +The clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue: +Here is the pleasant place, +And everything save her, who all should grace. + +William Drummond [1585-1649] + + + + +HYMN OF APOLLO + +The sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie, +Curtained with star-inwoven tapestries, +From the broad moonlight of the sky, +Fanning the busy dreams from my dim eyes,-- +Waken me when their Mother, the gray Dawn, +Tells them that dreams and that the moon is gone. + +Then I arise, and climbing Heaven's blue dome, +I walk over the mountains and the waves, +Leaving my robe upon the ocean foam; +My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves +Are filled with my bright presence, and the air +Leaves the green Earth to my embraces bare. + +The sunbeams are my shafts, with which I kill +Deceit, that loves the night and fears the day; +All men who do or even imagine ill +Fly me, and from the glory of my ray +Good minds and open actions take new might, +Until diminished by the reign of Night. + +I feed the clouds, the rainbows, and the flowers, +With their ethereal colors; the Moon's globe, +And the pure stars in their eternal bowers, +Are cinctured with my power as with a robe; +Whatever lamps on Earth or Heaven may shine, +Are portions of one power, which is mine. + +I stand at noon upon the peak of Heaven; +Then with unwilling steps I wander down +Into the clouds of the Atlantic even; +For grief that I depart they weep and frown: +What look is more delightful than the smile +With which I soothe them from the western isle? + +I am the eye with which the Universe +Beholds itself, and knows it is divine; +All harmony of instrument or verse, +All prophecy, all medicine, is mine, +All light of art or nature;--to my song +Victory and praise in its own right belong. + +Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822] + + + + +PRELUDE +From "The New Day" + +The night was dark, though sometimes a faint star +A little while a little space made bright. +The night was dark and still the dawn seemed far, +When, o'er the muttering and invisible sea, +Slowly, within the East, there grew a light +Which half was starlight, and half seemed to be +The herald of a greater. The pale white +Turned slowly to pale rose, and up the height +Of heaven slowly climbed. The gray sea grew +Rose-colored like the sky. A white gull flew +Straight toward the utmost boundary of the East +Where slowly the rose gathered and increased. +There was light now, where all was black before: +It was as on the opening of a door +By one who in his hand a lamp doth hold +(Its flame being hidden by the garment's fold),-- +The still air moves, the wide room is less dim. +More bright the East became, the ocean turned +Dark and more dark against the brightening sky-- +Sharper against the sky the long sea line. +The hollows of the breakers on the shore +Were green like leaves whereon no sun doth shine, +Though sunlight make the outer branches hoar. +From rose to red the level heaven burned; +Then sudden, as if a sword fell from on high, +A blade of gold flashed on the ocean's rim. + +Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1909] + + + + +DAWN ON THE HEADLAND + +Dawn--and a magical stillness: on earth, quiescence profound; +On the waters a vast Content, as of hunger appeased and stayed; +In the heavens a silence that seems not mere privation of sound, +But a thing with form and body, a thing to be touched and weighed! +Yet I know that I dwell in the midst of the roar of the cosmic wheel, +In the hot collision of Forces, and clangor of boundless Strife, +Mid the sound of the speed of the worlds, the rushing worlds, and the peal +Of the thunder of Life. + +William Watson [1858-1935] + + + + +THE MIRACLE OF THE DAWN + +What would it mean for you and me +If dawn should come no more! +Think of its gold along the sea, +Its rose above the shore! +That rose of awful mystery, +Our souls bow down before. + +What wonder that the Inca kneeled, +The Aztec prayed and pled +And sacrificed to it, and sealed,-- +With rites that long are dead,-- +The marvels that it once revealed +To them it comforted. + +What wonder, yea! what awe, behold! +What rapture and what tears +Were ours, if wild its rivered gold,-- +That now each day appears,-- +Burst on the world, in darkness rolled, +Once every thousand years! + +Think what it means to me and you +To see it even as God +Evolved it when the world was new! +When Light rose, earthquake-shod, +And slow its gradual splendor grew +O'er deeps the whirlwind trod. + +What shoutings then and cymballings +Arose from depth and height! +What worship-solemn trumpetings, +And thunders, burning-white, +Of winds and waves, and anthemings +Of Earth received the Light. + +Think what it meant to see the dawn! +The dawn, that comes each day!-- +What if the East should ne'er grow wan, +Should nevermore grow gray! +That line of rose no more be drawn +Above the ocean's spray! + +Madison Cawein [1865-1914] + + + + +DAWN-ANGELS + +All night I watched awake for morning, +At last the East grew all a flame, +The birds for welcome sang, or warning, +And with their singing morning came. + +Along the gold-green heavens drifted +Pale wandering souls that shun the light, +Whose cloudy pinions, torn and rifted, +Had beat the bars of Heaven all night. + +These clustered round the moon, but higher +A troop of shining spirits went, +Who were not made of wind or fire, +But some divine dream-element. + +Some held the Light, while those remaining +Shook out their harvest-colored wings, +A faint unusual music raining, +(Whose sound was Light) on earthly things. + +They sang, and as a mighty river +Their voices washed the night away, +From East to West ran one white shiver, +And waxen strong their song was Day. + +A. Mary F. Robinson [1857- + + + + +MUSIC OF THE DAWN +At Sea, October 23, 1907 + +In far forests' leafy twilight, now is stealing gray dawn's shy light, +And the misty air is tremulous with songs of many a bird; +While from mountain steeps descending, every streamlet's voice is blending +With the anthems of great pine trees, by the breath of daylight stirred. + +But I turn from Fancy's dreaming of the green earth, to the gleaming +Of the fluttering wings of morning rushing o'er the jewelled deep; +And the ocean's rhythmic pounding, with each lucent wave resounding, +Seems the music made when God's own hands His mighty harpstrings sweep. + +Virginia Bioren Harrison [1847- + + + + +SUNRISE ON MANSFIELD MOUNTAIN + +O swift forerunners, rosy with the race! +Spirits of dawn, divinely manifest +Behind your blushing banners in the sky, +Daring invaders of Night's tenting-ground,-- +How do ye strain on forward-bending foot, +Each to be first in heralding of joy! +With silence sandalled, so they weave their way, +And so they stand, with silence panoplied, +Chanting, through mystic symbollings of flame, +Their solemn invocation to the light. + +O changeless guardians! O ye wizard firs! +What strenuous philter feeds your potency, +That thus ye rest, in sweet wood-hardiness. +Ready to learn of all and utter naught? +What breath may move ye, or what breeze invite +To odorous hot lendings of the heart? +What wind--but all the winds are yet afar, +And e'en the little tricksy zephyr sprites, +That fleet before them, like their elfin locks, +Have lagged in sleep, nor stir nor waken yet +To pluck the robe of patient majesty. + +Too still for dreaming, too divine for sleep, +So range the firs, the constant, fearless ones. +Warders of mountain secrets, there they wait, +Each with his cloak about him, breathless, calm, +And yet expectant, as who knows the dawn, +And all night thrills with memory and desire, +Searching in what has been for what shall be: +The marvel of the ne'er familiar day, +Sacred investiture of life renewed, +The chrism of dew, the coronal of flame. + +Low in the valley lies the conquered rout +Of man's poor trivial turmoil, lost and drowned +Under the mist, in gleaming rivers rolled, +Where oozy marsh contends with frothing main. +And rounding all, springs one full, ambient arch, +One great good limpid world--so still, so still! +For no sound echoes from its crystal curve +Save four clear notes, the song of that lone bird +Who, brave but trembling, tries his morning hymn, +And has no heart to finish, for the awe +And wonder of this pearling globe of dawn. + +Light, light eternal! veiling-place of stars! +Light, the revealer of dread beauty's face! +Weaving whereof the hills are lambent clad! +Mighty libation to the Unknown God! +Cup whereat pine-trees slake their giant thirst +And little leaves drink sweet delirium! +Being and breath and potion! Living soul +And all-informing heart of all that lives! +How can we magnify thine awful name +Save by its chanting: Light! and light! and light! +An exhalation from far sky retreats, +It grows in silence, as 'twere self-create, +Suffusing all the dusky web of night. +But one lone corner it invades not yet, +Where low above a black and rimy crag +Hangs the old moon, thin as a battered shield, +The holy, useless shield of long-past wars, +Dinted and frosty, on the crystal dark. +But lo! the east,--let none forget the east, +Pathway ordained of old where He should tread. +Through some sweet magic common in the skies +The rosy banners are with saffron tinct: +The saffron grows to gold, the gold is fire, +And led by silence more majestical +Than clash of conquering arms, He comes! He comes! +He holds his spear benignant, sceptrewise, +And strikes out flame from the adoring hills. + +Alice Brown [1857- + + + + +ODE TO EVENING + +If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, +May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, +Like thy own solemn springs, +Thy springs and dying gales; + +O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun +Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, +With brede ethereal wove, +O'erhang his wavy bed: + +Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat +With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, +Or where the beetle winds +His small but sullen horn, + +As oft he rises, 'midst the twilight path +Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum: +Now teach me, maid composed, +To breathe some softened strain, + +Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, +May not unseemly with its stillness suit, +As, musing slow, I hail +Thy genial loved return! + +For when thy folding-star arising shows +His paly circlet, at his warning lamp +The fragrant Hours, and Elves +Who slept in buds the day, + +And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, +And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, +The pensive Pleasures sweet, +Prepare thy shadowy car: + +Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lake +Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallowed pile, +Or upland fallows gray +Reflect its last cool gleam. + +Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, +Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut +That, from the mountain's side, +Views wilds and swelling floods, + +And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires, +And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all +Thy dewy fingers draw +The gradual dusky veil. + +While Spring shall pour his showers, as of the wont, +And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! +While Summer loves to sport +Beneath thy lingering light; + +While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves, +Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, +Affrights thy shrinking train, +And rudely rends thy robes: + +So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, +Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, +Thy gentlest influence own, +And hymn thy favorite name! + +William Collins [1721-1759] + + + + +"IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE" + +It is a beauteous evening, calm and free; +The holy time is quiet as a Nun +Breathless with adoration; the broad sun +Is sinking down in his tranquility; +The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea; +Listen! the mighty Being is awake, +And doth with his eternal motion make +A sound like thunder--everlastingly. +Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, +If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, +Thy nature is not therefore less divine: +Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year, +And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, +God being with thee when we know it not. + +William Wordsworth [1770-1850] + + + + +GLOAMING + +Skies to the West are stained with madder; +Amber light on the rare blue hills; +The sough of the pines is growing sadder; +From the meadow-lands sound the whippoorwills. +Air is sweet with the breath of clover; +Dusk is on, and the day is over. + +Skies to the East are streaked with golden; +Tremulous light on the darkening pond; +Glow-worms pale, to the dark beholden; +Twitterings hush in the hedge beyond. +Air is sweet with the breath of clover; +Silver the hills where the moon climbs over. + +Robert Adger Bowen [1868- + + + + +EVENING MELODY + +O that the pines which crown yon steep +Their fires might ne'er surrender! +O that yon fervid knoll might keep, +While lasts the world, its splendor! + +Pale poplars on the breeze that lean, +And in the sunset shiver, +O that your golden stems might screen +For aye yon glassy river! + +That yon white bird on homeward wing +Soft-sliding without motion, +And now in blue air vanishing +Like snow-flake lost in ocean, + +Beyond our sight might never flee, +Yet forward still be flying; +And all the dying day might be +Immortal in its dying! + +Pellucid thus in saintly trance, +Thus mute in expectation, +What waits the earth? Deliverance? +Ah no! Transfiguration! + +She dreams of that "New Earth" divine, +Conceived of seed immortal; +She sings "Not mine the holier shrine, +Yet mine the steps and portal!" + +Aubrey Thomas de Vere [1814-1902] + + + + +"IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING" + +In the cool of the evening, when the low sweet whispers waken, +When the laborers turn them homeward, and the weary have their will, +When the censers of the roses o'er the forest aisles are shaken, +Is it but the wind that cometh o'er the far green hill? + +For they say 'tis but the sunset winds that wander through the heather, +Rustle all the meadow-grass and bend the dewy fern; +They say 'tis but the winds that bow the reeds in prayer together, +And fill the shaken pools with fire along the shadowy burn. + +In the beauty of the twilight, in the Garden that He loveth, +They have veiled His lovely vesture with the darkness of a name! +Through His Garden, through His Garden, it is but the wind that moveth, +No more! But O the miracle, the miracle is the same. + +In the cool of the evening, when the sky is an old story, +Slowly dying, but remembered, ay, and loved with passion still... +Hush!... the fringes of His garment, in the fading golden glory +Softly rustling as He cometh o'er the far green hill. + +Alfred Noyes [1880- + + + + +TWILIGHT + +Spirit of Twilight, through your folded wings +I catch a glimpse of your averted face, +And rapturous on a sudden, my soul sings +"Is not this common earth a holy place?" + +Spirit of Twilight, you are like a song +That sleeps, and waits a singer,--like a hymn +That God finds lovely and keeps near Him long, +Till it is choired by aureoled cherubim. + +Spirit of Twilight, in the golden gloom +Of dreamland dim I sought you, and I found +A woman sitting in a silent room +Full of white flowers that moved and made no sound. + +These white flowers were the thoughts you bring to all, +And the room's name is Mystery where you sit, +Woman whom we call Twilight, when night's pall +You lift across our Earth to cover it. + +Olive Custance [1874- + + + + +TWILIGHT AT SEA + +The twilight hours, like birds, flew by, +As lightly and as free, +Ten thousand stars were in the sky, +Ten thousand on the sea; +For every wave, with dimpled face, +That leaped upon the air, +Had caught a star in its embrace, +And held it trembling there. + +Amelia C. Welby [1819-1852] + + + + +"THIS IS MY HOUR" + +I +The ferries ply like shuttles in a loom, +And many barques come in across the bay +To lights and bells that signal through the gloom +Of twilight gray; + +And like the brown soft flutter of the snow +The wide-winged sea-birds droop from closing skies, +And hover near the water, circling low, +As the day dies. + +The city like a shadowed castle stands, +Its turrets indistinctly touching night; +Like earth-born stars far fetched from faerie lands, +Its lamps are bright. + +This is my hour,--when wonder springs anew +To see the towers ascending, pale and high, +And the long seaward distances of blue, +And the dim sky. + +II +This is my hour, between the day and night; +The sun has set and all the world is still, +The afterglow upon the distant hill +Is as a holy light. + +This is my hour, between the sun and moon; +The little stars are gathering in the sky, +There is no sound but one bird's startled cry,-- +One note that ceases soon. + +The gardens and, far off, the meadow-land, +Are like the fading depths beneath a sea, +While over waves of misty shadows we +Drift onward, hand in hand. + +This is my hour, that you have called your own; +Its hushed beauty silently we share,-- +Touched by the wistful wonder in the air +That leaves us so alone. + +III +In rain and twilight mist the city street, +Hushed and half-hidden, might this instant be +A dark canal beneath our balcony, +Like one in Venice, Sweet. + +The street-lights blossom, star-wise, one by one; +A lofty tower the shadows have not hid +Stands out--part column and part pyramid-- +Holy to look upon. + +The dusk grows deeper, and on silver wings +The twilight flutters like a weary gull +Toward some sea-island, lost and beautiful, +Where a sea-syren sings. + +"This is my hour," you breathe with quiet lips; +And filled with beauty, dreaming and devout, +We sit in silence, while our thoughts go out-- +Like treasure-seeking ships. + +Zoe Akins [1886- + + + + +SONG TO THE EVENING STAR + +Star that bringest home the bee, +And sett'st the weary laborer free! +If any star shed peace, 'tis thou +That send'st it from above, +Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow +Are sweet as hers we love. + +Come to the luxuriant skies, +Whilst the landscape's odors rise, +Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard +And songs when toil is done, +From cottages whose smoke unstirred +Curls yellow in the sun. + +Star of love's soft interviews, +Parted lovers on thee muse; +Their remembrancer in Heaven +Of thrilling vows thou art, +Too delicious to be riven +By absence from the heart. + +Thomas Campbell [1777-1844] + + + + +THE EVENING CLOUD + +A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, +A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow; +Long had I watched the glory moving on +O'er the still radiance of the lake below. +Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow! +Even in its very motion there was rest; +While every breath of eve that chanced to blow +Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. +Emblem, methought, of the departed soul! +To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, +And by the breath of mercy made to roll +Right onwards to the golden gates of heaven, +Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies, +And tells to man his glorious destinies. + +John Wilson [1785-1854] + + + + +SONG: TO CYNTHIA +From "Cynthia's Revels" + +Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, +Now the sun is laid to sleep, +Seated in thy silver chair, +State in wonted manner keep: +Hesperus entreats thy light, +Goddess excellently bright. + +Earth, let not thy envious shade +Dare itself to interpose; +Cynthia's shining orb was made +Heaven to clear, when day did close: +Bless us then with wished sight, +Goddess excellently bright. + +Lay thy bow of pearl apart, +And thy crystal-shining quiver; +Give unto the flying hart +Space to breathe, how short soever: +Thou that mak'st a day of night, +Goddess excellently bright. + +Ben Jonson [1573?-1637] + + + + +MY STAR + +All that I know +Of a certain star +Is, it can throw +(Like the angled spar) +Now a dart of red, +Now a dart of blue, +Till my friends have said +They would fain see, too, +My star that dartles the red and the blue! +Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled: +They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it. +What matter to me if their star is a world? +Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it. + +Robert Browning [1812-1889] + + + + +NIGHT + +The 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 grove, +Where flocks have ta'en delight; +Where lambs have nibbled, silent move +The feet of angels bright: +Unseen, they pour blessing, +And joy without ceasing, +On each bud and blossom, +On each sleeping bosom. + +They look in every thoughtless nest, +Where birds are covered warm; +They visit caves of every beast, +To keep them all from harm. +If they see any weeping +That should have been sleeping, +They pour sleep on their head, +And sit down by their bed. + +When wolves and tigers howl for prey +They pitying stand and weep, +Seeking to drive their thirst away, +And keep them from the sheep. +But, if they rush dreadful, +The angels, most heedful, +Receive each mild spirit +New worlds to inherit. + +And there the lion's ruddy eyes +Shall flow with tears of gold: +And pitying the tender cries, +And walking round the fold, +Saying: "Wrath by His meekness, +And by His health, sickness, +Are driven away +From our immortal day. + +"And now beside thee, bleating lamb, +I can lie down and sleep. +Or think on Him who bore thy name, +Graze after thee, and weep. +For, washed in life's river, +My bright mane for ever +Shall shine like the gold, +As I guard o'er the fold." + +William Blake [1757-1827] + + + + +TO NIGHT + +Swiftly walk o'er the western wave, +Spirit of Night! +Out of the misty eastern cave +Where, all the long and lone daylight, +Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, +Which make thee terrible and dear, +Swift be thy flight! + +Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, +Star-inwrought! +Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; +Kiss her until she be wearied out, +Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, +Touching all with thine opiate wand-- +Come, long-sought! + +When I arose and saw the dawn, +I sighed for thee; +When light rode high, and the dew was gone, +And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, +And the weary Day turned to his rest, +Lingering like an unloved guest, +I sighed for thee. + +Thy brother Death came, and cried, +"Would'st thou me?" +Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, +Murmured like a noontide bee, +"Shall I nestle near thy side? +Would'st thou me?"--And I replied, +"No, not thee." +Death will come when thou art dead, +Soon, too soon-- +Sleep will come when thou art fled; +Of neither would I ask the boon +I ask of thee, beloved Night-- +Swift be thine approaching flight, +Come soon, soon! + +Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822] + + + + +TO NIGHT + +Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew +Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, +Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, +This glorious canopy of light and blue? +Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew, +Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, +Hesperus with the host of heaven came, +And lo! creation widened on man's view. +Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed +Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find, +While fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, +That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind! +Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious strife?-- +If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life? + +Joseph Blanco White [1775-1841] + + + + +NIGHT + +Mysterious night! Spread wide thy silvery plume! +Soft as swan's down, brood o'er the sapphirine +Breadth of still shadowy waters dark as wine; +Smooth out the liquid heavens that stars illume! +Come with fresh airs breathing the faint perfume +Of deep-walled gardens, groves of whispering pine; +Scatter soft dews, waft pure sea-scent of brine; +In sweet repose man's pain, man's love resume! +Deep-bosomed night! Not here where down the marge +Marble with palaces those lamps of earth +Tremble on trembling blackness; nay, far hence, +There on the lake where space is lone and large, +And man's life lost in broad indifference, +Lilt thou the soul to spheres that gave her birth! + +John Addington Symonds [1840-1893] + + + + +NIGHT + +Night is the time for rest; +How sweet, when labors close, +To gather round an aching breast +The curtain of repose, +Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head +Down on our own delightful bed! + +Night is the time for dreams; +The gay romance of life, +When truth that is, and truth that seems, +Blend in fantastic strife; +Ah! visions, less beguiling far +Than waking dreams by daylight are! + +Night is the time for toil; +To plough the classic field, +Intent to find the buried spoil +Its wealthy furrows yield; +Till all is ours that sages taught, +That poets sang, or heroes wrought. + +Night is the time to weep; +To wet with unseen tears +Those graves of Memory, where sleep +The joys of other years; +Hopes, that were Angels at their birth, +But perished young, like things of earth. + +Night is the time to watch; +O'er ocean's dark expanse, +To hail the Pleiades, or catch +The full moon's earliest glance, +That brings into the homesick mind +All we have loved and left behind. + +Night is the time for care; +Brooding on hours misspent, +To see the spectre of Despair +Come to our lonely tent; +Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host, +Summoned to die by Caesar's ghost. + +Night is the time to think; +When, from the eye, the soul +Takes flight; and, on the utmost brink, +Of yonder starry pole +Descries beyond the abyss of night +The dawn of uncreated light. + +Night is the time to pray; +Our Saviour oft withdrew +To desert mountains far away; +So will his followers do,-- +Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, +And hold communion there with God. + +Night is the time for Death; +When all around is peace, +Calmly to yield the weary breath, +From sin and suffering cease, +Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign +To parting friends;--such death be mine! + +James Montgomery [1771-1854] + + + + +HE MADE THE NIGHT + +Vast Chaos, of eld, was God's dominion, +'Twas His beloved child, His own first born; +And He was aged ere the thought of morn +Shook the sheer steeps of dim Oblivion. +Then all the works of darkness being done +Through countless aeons hopelessly forlorn, +Out to the very utmost verge and bourne, +God at the last, reluctant, made the sun. +He loved His darkness still, for it was old; +He grieved to see His eldest child take flight; +And when His Fiat Lux the death-knell tolled, +As the doomed Darkness backward by Him rolled, +He snatched a remnant flying into light +And strewed it with the stars, and called it Night. + +Lloyd Mifflin [1846-1921] + + + + +HYMN TO THE NIGHT + +I heard the trailing garments of the Night +Sweep through her marble halls! +I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light +From the celestial walls! + +I felt her presence, by its spell of might, +Stoop o'er me from above; +The calm, majestic presence of the Night, +As of the one I love. + +I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, +The manifold, soft chimes, +That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, +Like some old poet's rhymes. + +From the cool cisterns of the midnight air +My spirit drank repose; +The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,-- +From those deep cisterns flows. + +O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear +What man has borne before! +Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, +And they complain no more. + +Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! +Descend with broad-winged flight, +The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, +The best-beloved Night! + +Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882] + + + + +NIGHT'S MARDI GRAS + +Night is the true democracy. When day +Like some great monarch with his train has passed. +In regal pomp and splendor to the last, +The stars troop forth along the Milky Way, +A jostling crowd, in radiant disarray, +On heaven's broad boulevard in pageants vast. +And things of earth, the hunted and outcast, +Come from their haunts and hiding-places; yea, +Even from the nooks and crannies of the mind +Visions uncouth and vagrant fancies start, +And specters of dead joy, that shun the light, +And impotent regrets and terrors blind, +Each one, in form grotesque, playing its part +In the fantastic Mardi Gras of Night. + +Edward J. Wheeler [1859-1922] + + + + +DAWN AND DARK + +God with His million cares +Went to the left or right, +Leaving our world; and the day +Grew night. + +Back from a sphere He came +Over a starry lawn, +Looked at our world; and the dark +Grew dawn. + +Norman Gale [1862- + + + + +DAWN + +His radiant fingers so adorning +Earth that in silent joy she thrills, +The ancient day stands every morning +Above the flowing eastern hills. + +This day the new-born world hath taken +Within his mantling arms of white, +And sent her forth by fear unshaken +To walk among the stars in light. + +Risen with laughter unto leaping, +His feet untired, undimmed his eyes, +The old, old day comes up from sleeping, +Fresh as a flower, for new emprise. + +The curtain of the night is parted +That once again the dawn may tread, +In spotless garments, ways uncharted +And death a million times is dead. + +Slow speechless music robed in splendor +The deep sky sings eternally, +With childlike wonderment to render +Its own unwearied symphony. + +Reborn between the great suns spinning +Forever where men's prayers ascend, +God's day in love hath its beginning, +And the beginning hath no end. + +George B. Logan, Jr. [1892- + + + + +A WOOD SONG + +Now one and all, you Roses, +Wake up, you lie too long! +This very morning closes +The Nightingale his song; + +Each from its olive chamber +His babies every one +This very morning clamber +Into the shining sun. + +You Slug-a-beds and Simples, +Why will you so delay! +Dears, doff your olive wimples, +And listen while you may. + +Ralph Hodgson [1871- + + + + + + + + + + + +THE CHANGING YEAR + + + + + + + + + + +A SONG FOR THE SEASONS + +When the merry lark doth gild +With his song the summer hours, +And their nests the swallows build +In the roofs and tops of towers, +And the golden broom-flower burns +All about the waste, +And the maiden May returns +With a pretty haste,-- +Then, how merry are the times! +The Spring times! the Summer times! + +Now, from off the ashy stone +The chilly midnight cricket crieth, +And all merry birds are flown, +And our dream of pleasure dieth; +Now the once blue, laughing sky +Saddens into gray, +And the frozen rivers sigh, +Pining all away! +Now, how solemn are the times! +The Winter times! the Night times! + +Yet, be merry; all around +Is through one vast change revolving; +Even Night, who lately frowned, +Is in paler dawn dissolving; +Earth will burst her fetters strange, +And in Spring grow free; +All things in the world will change, +Save--my love for thee! +Sing then, hopeful are all times! +Winter, Spring, Summer times! + +Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874] + + + + +A SONG OF THE SEASONS + +Sing a song of Spring-time, +The world is going round, +Blown by the south wind: +Listen to its sound. +"Gurgle" goes the mill-wheel, +"Cluck" clucks the hen; +And it's O for a pretty girl +To kiss in the glen. + +Sing a song of Summer, +The world is nearly still, +The mill-pond has gone to sleep, +And so has the mill. +Shall we go a-sailing, +Or shall we take a ride, +Or dream the afternoon away +Here, side by side? + +Sing a song of Autumn, +The world is going back; +They glean in the corn-field, +And stamp on the stack. +Our boy, Charlie, +Tall, strong, and light: +He shoots all the day +And dances all the night. + +Sing a song of Winter, +The world stops dead; +Under snowy coverlid +Flowers lie abed. +There's hunting for the young ones +And wine for the old, +And a sexton in the churchyard +Digging in the cold. + +Cosmo Monkhouse [1840-1901] + + + + +TURN O' THE YEAR + +This is the time when bit by bit +The days begin to lengthen sweet +And every minute gained is joy-- +And love stirs in the heart of a boy. + +This is the time the sun, of late +Content to lie abed till eight, +Lifts up betimes his sleepy head-- +And love stirs in the heart of a maid. + +This is the time we dock the night +Of a whole hour of candlelight; +When song of linnet and thrush is heard-- +And love stirs in the heart of a bird. + +This is the time when sword-blades green, +With gold and purple damascene, +Pierce the brown crocus-bed a-row-- +And love stirs in a heart I know. + +Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931] + + + + +THE WAKING YEAR + +A lady red upon the hill +Her annual secret keeps; +A lady white within the field +In placid lily sleeps! + +The tidy breezes with their brooms +Sweep vale, and hill, and tree! +Prithee, my pretty housewives! +Who may expected be? + +The neighbors do not yet suspect! +The woods exchange a smile,-- +Orchard, and buttercup, and bird, +In such a little while! + +And yet how still the landscape stands, +How nonchalant the wood, +As if the resurrection +Were nothing very odd! + +Emily Dickinson [1830-1886] + + + + +SONG +From "Pippa Passes" + +The year's at the spring, +And day's at the morn; +Morning's at seven; +The hill-side's dew-pearled; +The lark's on the wing; +The snail's on the thorn; +God's in His Heaven-- +All's right with the world! + +Robert Browning [1812-1889] + + + + +EARLY SPRING + +Once more the Heavenly Power +Makes all things new, +And domes the red-plowed hills +With loving blue; +The blackbirds have their wills, +The throstles too. + +Opens a door in Heaven; +From skies of glass +A Jacob's ladder falls +On greening grass, +And o'er the mountain-walls +Young angels pass. + +Before them fleets the shower, +And burst the buds, +And shine the level lands, +And flash the floods; +The stars are from their hands +Flung through the woods, + +The woods with living airs +How softly fanned, +Light airs from where the deep, +All down the sand, +Is breathing in his sleep, +Heard by the land. + +O, follow, leaping blood, +The season's lure! +O heart, look down and up, +Serene, secure, +Warm as the crocus cup, +Like snow-drops, pure! + +Past, Future glimpse and fade +Through some slight spell, +A gleam from yonder vale, +Some far blue fell; +And sympathies, how frail, +In sound and smell! + +Till at thy chuckled note, +Thou twinkling bird, +The fairy fancies range, +And, lightly stirred, +Ring little bells of change +From word to word. + +For now the Heavenly Power +Makes all things new, +And thaws the cold, and fills +The flower with dew; +The blackbirds have their wills, +The poets too. + +Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892] + + + + +LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING + +I heard a thousand blended notes, +While in a grove I sat reclined, +In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts +Bring sad thoughts to the mind. + +To her fair works did Nature link +The human soul that through me ran; +And much it grieved my heart to think +What Man has made of Man. + +Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, +The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; +And 'tis my faith that every flower +Enjoys the air it breathes. + +The birds around me hopped and played, +Their thoughts I cannot measure,-- +But the least motion which they made +It seemed a thrill of pleasure. + +The budding twigs spread out their fan +To catch the breezy air; +And I must think, do all I can, +That there was pleasure there. + +If this belief from heaven be sent, +If such be Nature's holy plan, +Have I not reason to lament +What Man has made of Man? + +William Wordsworth [1770-1850] + + + + +IN EARLY SPRING + +O Spring, I know thee! Seek for sweet surprise +In the young children's eyes. +But I have learnt the years, and know the yet +Leaf-folded violet. +Mine ear, awake to silence, can foretell +The cuckoo's fitful bell. +I wander in a gray time that encloses +June and the wild hedge-roses. +A year's procession of the flowers doth pass +My feet, along the grass. +And all you sweet birds silent yet, I know +The notes that stir you so, +Your songs yet half devised in the dim dear +Beginnings of the year. +In these young days you meditate your part; +I have it all by heart. +I know the secrets of the seeds of flowers +Hidden and warm with showers, +And how, in kindling Spring, the cuckoo shall +Alter his interval. +But not a flower or song I ponder is +My own, but memory's. +I shall be silent in those days desired +Before a world inspired. +O dear brown birds, compose your old song-phrases, +Earth, thy familiar daisies. + +The poet mused upon the dusky height, +Between two stars towards night, +His purpose in his heart. I watched, a space, +The meaning of his face: +There was the secret, fled from earth and skies, +Hid in his gray young eyes. +My heart and all the Summer wait his choice, +And wonder for his voice. +Who shall foretell his songs, and who aspire +But to divine his lyre? +Sweet earth, we know thy dimmest mysteries, +But he is lord of his. + + Alice Meynell [1850-1922] + + + + +SPRING +From "Summer's Last Will and Testament" + +Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; +Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, +Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing-- +Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! + +The palm and may make country houses gay, +Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, +And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay-- +Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! + +The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, +Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, +In every street these tunes our ears do greet-- +Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-too! +Spring, the sweet Spring! + +Thomas Nashe [1567-1601] + + + + +A STARLING'S SPRING RONDEL + +I clink my castanet +And beat my little drum; +For spring at last has come, +And on my parapet, +Of chestnut, gummy-wet, +Where bees begin to hum, +I clink my castanet, +And beat my little drum. + +"Spring goes," you say, "suns set." +So be it! Why be glum? +Enough, the spring has come; +And without fear or fret +I clink my castanet, +And beat my little drum. + +James Cousins [1873- + + + + +"WHEN DAFFODILS BEGIN TO PEER" +From "The Winter's Tale" + +When daffodils begin to peer, +With heigh! the doxy, over the dale, +Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year; +For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. + +The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, +With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing! +Doth set my pugging tooth on edge; +For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. + +The, lark, that tirra-lirra chants, +With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay, +Are summer songs for me and my aunts, +While we lie tumbling in the hay. + +William Shakespeare [1564-1616] + + + + +SPRING +From "In Memoriam" + +LXXXIII +Dip down upon the northern shore, +O sweet new-year, delaying long; +Thou doest expectant Nature wrong, +Delaying long, delay no more. + +What stays thee from the clouded noons, +Thy sweetness from its proper place? +Can trouble live with April days, +Or sadness in the summer moons? + +Bring orchis, bring the fox-glove spire, +The little speedwell's darling blue, +Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew, +Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. + +O thou, new-year, delaying long, +Delayest the sorrow in my blood, +That longs to burst a frozen bud, +And flood a fresher throat with song. + +CXV +Now fades the last long streak of snow, +Now burgeons every maze of quick +About the flowering squares, and thick +By ashen roots the violets blow. + +Now rings the woodland loud and long, +The distance takes a lovelier hue, +And drowned in yonder living blue +The lark becomes a sightless song. + +Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, +The flocks are whiter down the vale, +And milkier every milky sail, +On winding stream or distant sea; + +Where now the seamew pipes, or dives +In yonder greening gleam, and fly +The happy birds, that change their sky +To build and brood, that live their lives + +From land to land; and in my breast +Spring wakens too: and my regret +Become an April violet, +And buds and blossoms like the rest. + +Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892] + + + + +"THE SPRING RETURNS" + +The Spring returns! What matters then that War +On the horizon like a beacon burns, +That Death ascends, man's most desired star, +That Darkness is his hope? The Spring returns! +Triumphant through the wider-arched cope +She comes, she comes, unto her tyranny, +And at her coronation are set ope +The prisons of the mind, and man is free! +The beggar-garbed or over-bent with snows, +Each mortal, long defeated, disallowed, +Feeling her touch, grows stronger limbed, and knows +The purple on his shoulders and is proud. +The Spring returns! O madness beyond sense, +Breed in our bones thine own omnipotence! + +Charles Leonard Moore [1854- + + + + +"WHEN THE HOUNDS OF SPRING" +Chorus from "Atalanta in Calydon" + +When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, +The mother of months in meadow or plain +Fills the shadows and windy places +With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; +And the brown bright nightingale amorous +Is half assuaged for Itylus, +For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces, +The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. + +Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers, +Maiden most perfect, lady of light, +With a noise of winds and many rivers, +With a clamor of waters, and with might; +Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, +Over the splendor and speed of thy feet; +For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, +Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night. + +Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, +Fold our hands round her knees, and cling? +O that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her, +Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring! +For the stars and the winds are unto her +As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; +For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, +And the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing. + +For winter's rains and ruins are over, +And all the season of snows and sins; +The days dividing lover and lover, +The light that loses, the night that wins; +And time remembered, is grief forgotten, +And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, +And in green underwood and cover +Blossom by blossom the spring begins. + +The full streams feed on flower of rushes, +Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, +The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes +From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; +And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, +And the oat is heard above the lyre, +And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes +The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. + +And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, +Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, +Follows with dancing and fills with delight +The Maenad and the Bassarid; +And soft as lips that laugh and hide +The laughing leaves of the trees divide, +And screen from seeing and leave in sight +The god pursuing, the maiden hid. + +The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair +Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes; +The wild vine slipping down leaves bare +Her bright breast shortening into sighs; +The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, +But the berried ivy catches and cleaves +To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare +The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. + +Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909] + + + + +SONG + +Again rejoicing Nature sees +Her robe assume its vernal hues; +Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, +All freshly steeped in morning dews. + +In vain to me the cowslips blaw, +In vain to me the violets spring; +In vain to me in glen or shaw, +The mavis and the lintwhite sing. + +The merry ploughboy cheers his team, +Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks, +But life to me's a weary dream, +A dream of ane that never wauks. + +The wanton coot the water skims, +Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, +The stately swan majestic swims, +And everything is blest but I. + +The shepherd steeks his faulding slap, +And owre the moorland whistles shrill; +Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step +I meet him on the dewy hill. + +And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, +Blithe waukens by the daisy's side, +And mounts and sings on flittering wings, +A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. + +Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, +And raging bend the naked tree; +Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, +When Nature all is sad like me! + +Robert Burns [1759-1796] + + + + +TO SPRING + +O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down +Through the clear windows of the morning, turn +Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, +Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring! + +The hills tell one another, and the listening +Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned +Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth +And let thy holy feet visit our clime! + +Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds +Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste +Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls +Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee. + +O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour +Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put +Thy golden crown upon her languished head, +Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee! + +William Blake [1757-1827] + + + + +AN ODE ON THE SPRING + +Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours, +Fair Venus' train, appear, +Disclose the long-expecting flowers, +And wake the purple year! +The Attic warbler pours her throat +Responsive to the cuckoo's note, +The untaught harmony of spring: +While, whispering pleasure as they fly, +Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky +Their gathered fragrance fling. + +Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch +A broader browner shade, +Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech +O'er-canopies the glade, +Beside some water's rushy brink +With me the Muse shall sit, and think +(At ease reclined in rustic state) +How vain the ardor of the crowd, +How low, how little are the proud, +How indigent the great! + +Still is the toiling hand of Care: +The panting herds repose: +Yet, hark, how through the peopled air +The busy murmur glows! +The insect-youth are on the wing, +Eager to taste the honied spring +And float amid the liquid noon; +Some lightly o'er the current skim, +Some show their gaily-gilded trim +Quick-glancing to the sun. + +To Contemplation's sober eye +Such is the race of Man: +And they that creep, and they that fly, +Shall end where they began. +Alike the Busy and the Gay +But flutter through life's little day, +In Fortune's varying colors dressed: +Brushed by the hand of rough Mischance, +Or chilled by Age, their airy dance +They leave, in dust to rest. + +Methinks I hear, in accents low, +The sportive kind reply: +Poor moralist! and what art thou? +A solitary fly! +Thy joys no glittering female meets, +No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, +No painted plumage to display; +On hasty wings thy youth is flown; +Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone-- +We frolic, while 'tis May. + +Thomas Gray [1716-1771] + + + + +SPRING + +Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air +Which dwells with all things fair, +Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, +Is with us once again. + +Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns +Its fragrant lamps, and turns +Into a royal court with green festoons +The banks of dark lagoons. + +In the deep heart of every forest tree +The blood is all aglee, +And there's a look about the leafless bowers +As if they dreamed of flowers. + +Yet still on every side we trace the hand +Of Winter in the land, +Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, +Flushed by the season's dawn; + +Or where, like those strange semblances we find +That age to childhood bind, +The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, +The brown of Autumn corn. + +As yet the turf is dark, although you know +That, not a span below, +A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, +And soon will burst their tomb. + +Already, here and there, on frailest stems +Appear some azure gems, +Small as might deck, upon a gala day, +The forehead of a fay. + +In gardens you may note amid the dearth, +The crocus breaking earth; +And near the snowdrop's tender white and green, +The violet in its screen. + +But many gleams and shadows needs must pass +Along the budding grass, +And weeks go by, before the enamored South +Shall kiss the rose's mouth. + +Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn +In the sweet airs of morn; +One almost looks to see the very street +Grow purple at his feet. + +At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, +And brings, you know not why, +A feeling as when eager crowds await +Before a palace gate + +Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start, +If from a beech's heart +A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, +"Behold me! I am May!" + +Henry Timrod [1829-1867] + + + + +THE MEADOWS IN SPRING + +'Tis a dull sight +To see the year dying, +When winter winds +Set the yellow wood sighing: +Sighing, oh! sighing. + +When such a time cometh, +I do retire +Into an old room +Beside a bright fire: +Oh, pile a bright fire! + +And there I sit +Reading old things, +Of knights and lorn damsels, +While the wind sings-- +Oh, drearily sings! + +I never look out +Nor attend to the blast; +For all to be seen +Is the leaves falling fast: +Falling, falling! + +But close at the hearth, +Like a cricket, sit I, +Reading of summer +And chivalry-- +Gallant chivalry! + +Then with an old friend +I talk of our youth! +How 'twas gladsome, but often +Foolish, forsooth: +But gladsome, gladsome! + +Or to get merry +We sing some old rhyme, +That made the wood ring again +In summer time-- +Sweet summer time! + +Then go we to smoking, +Silent and snug: +Naught passes between us, +Save a brown jug-- +Sometimes! + +And sometimes a tear +Will rise in each eye, +Seeing the two old friends +So merrily-- +So merrily! + +And ere to bed +Go we, go we, +Down on the ashes +We kneel on the knee, +Praying together! + +Thus, then, live I, +Till, 'mid all the gloom, +By heaven! the bold sun +Is with me in the room +Shining, shining! + +Then the clouds part, +Swallows soaring between; +The spring is alive, +And the meadows are green! + +I jump up, like mad, +Break the old pipe in twain, +And away to the meadows, +The meadows again! + +Edward Fitzgerald [1809-1883] + + + + +THE SPRING + +When wintry weather's all a-done, +An' brooks do sparkle in the zun, +An' naisy-builden rooks do vlee +Wi' sticks toward their elem tree; +When birds do zing, an' we can zee +Upon the boughs the buds o' spring,-- +Then I'm as happy as a king, +A-vield wi' health an' zunsheen. + +Vor then the cowlsip's hangen flower +A-wetted in the zunny shower, +Do grow wi' vi'lets, sweet o' smell, +Bezide the wood-screened graegle's bell; +Where drushes' aggs, wi' sky-blue shell, +Do lie in mossy nest among +The thorns, while they do zing their zong +At evenen in the zunsheen. + +An' God do meake his win' to blow +An' rain to vall vor high an' low, +An' bid his mornen zun to rise +Vor all alike, an' groun' an' skies +Ha' colors vor the poor man's eyes: +An' in our trials He is near, +To hear our mwoan an' zee our tear, +An' turn our clouds to zunsheen. + +An' many times when I do vind +Things all goo wrong, an' v'ok unkind, +To zee the happy veeden herds, +An' hear the zingen o' the birds, +Do soothe my sorrow mwore than words; +Vor I do zee that 'tis our sin +Do meake woone's soul so dark 'ithin, +When God would gi'e woone zunsheen. + +William Barnes [1801-1886] + + + + +"WHEN SPRING COMES BACK TO ENGLAND" + +When Spring comes back to England +And crowns her brows with May, +Round the merry moonlit world +She goes the greenwood way: +She throws a rose to Italy, +A fleur-de-lys to France; +But round her regal morris-ring +The seas of England dance. + +When Spring comes back to England +And dons her robe of green, +There's many a nation garlanded +But England is the Queen; +She's Queen, she's Queen of all the world +Beneath the laughing sky, +For the nations go a-Maying +When they hear the New Year cry-- + +"Come over the water to England, +My old love, my new love, +Come over the water to England, +In showers of flowery rain; +Come over the water to England, +April, my true love; +And tell the heart of England +The Spring is here again!" + +Alfred Noyes [1880- + + + + +NEW LIFE + +Spring comes laughing down the valley +All in white, from the snow +Where the winter's armies rally +Loth to go. +Beauty white her garments shower +On the world where they pass,-- +Hawthorn hedges, trees in flower, +Daisies in the grass. +Tremulous with longings dim, +Thickets by the river's rim +Have begun to dream of green. +Every tree is loud with birds. +Bourgeon, heart,--do thy part! +Raise a slender stalk of words +From a root unseen. + +Amelia Josephine Burr [1878- + + + + +"OVER THE WINTRY THRESHOLD" + +Over the wintry threshold +Who comes with joy today, +So frail, yet so enduring, +To triumph o'er dismay? + +Ah, quick her tears are springing, +And quickly they are dried, +For sorrow walks before her, +But gladness walks beside. + +She comes with gusts of laughter,-- +The music as of rills; +With tenderness and sweetness, +The wisdom of the hills. + +Her hands are strong to comfort, +Her heart is quick to heed; +She knows the signs of sadness, +She knows the voice of need; + +There is no living creature, +However poor or small, +But she will know its trouble, +And hearken to its call. + +Oh, well they fare forever, +By mighty dreams possessed, +Whose hearts have lain a moment +On that eternal breast. + +Bliss Carman [1861-1929] + + + + +MARCH + +Slayer of winter, art thou here again? +O welcome, thou that bring'st the summer nigh! +The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain, +Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky. +Welcome, O March! whose kindly days and dry +Make April ready for the throstle's song, +Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong! + +Yea, welcome, March! and though I die ere June, +Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise, +Striving to swell the burden of the tune +That even now I hear thy brown birds raise, +Unmindful of the past or coming days; +Who sing, "O joy! a new year is begun! +What happiness to look upon the sun!" + +O, what begetteth all this storm of bliss, +But Death himself, who, crying solemnly, +Even from the heart of sweet Forgetfulness, +Bids us, "Rejoice! lest pleasureless ye die. +Within a little time must ye go by. +Stretch forth your open hands, and, while ye live, +Take all the gifts that Death and Life may give." + +William Morris [1834-1896] + + + + +SONG IN MARCH + +Now are the winds about us in their glee, +Tossing the slender tree; +Whirling the sands about his furious car, +March cometh from afar; +Breaks the sealed magic of old Winter's dreams, +And rends his glassy streams; +Chafing with potent airs, he fiercely takes +Their fetters from the lakes, +And, with a power by queenly Spring supplied, +Wakens the slumbering tide. + +With a wild love he seeks young Summer's charms +And clasps her to his arms; +Lifting his shield between, he drives away +Old Winter from his prey;-- +The ancient tyrant whom he boldly braves, +Goes howling to his caves; +And, to his northern realm compelled to fly, +Yields up the victory; +Melted are all his bands, o'erthrown his towers, +And March comes bringing flowers. + +William Gilmore Simms [1806-1870] + + + + +MARCH + +Blossom on the plum, +Wild wind and merry; +Leaves upon the cherry, +And one swallow come. + +Red windy dawn, +Swift rain and sunny; +Wild bees seeking honey, +Crocus on the lawn; +Blossom on the plum. + +Grass begins to grow, +Dandelions come; +Snowdrops haste to go +After last month's snow; +Rough winds beat and blow, +Blossom on the plum. + +Nora Hopper [1871-1906] + + + + +WRITTEN IN MARCH + +The Cock is crowing, +The stream is flowing, +The small birds twitter, +The lake doth glitter, +The green field sleeps in the sun; +The oldest and youngest +Are at work with the strongest; +The cattle are grazing, +Their heads never raising; +There are forty feeding like one! + +Like an army defeated +The snow hath retreated, +And now doth fare ill +On the top of the bare hill; +The ploughboy is whooping--anon--anon +There's joy in the mountains; +There's life in the fountains; +Small clouds are sailing, +Blue sky prevailing; +The rain is over and gone! + +William Wordsworth [1770-1850] + + + + +THE PASSING OF MARCH + +The braggart March stood in the season's door +With his broad shoulders blocking up the way, +Shaking the snow-flakes from the cloak he wore, +And from the fringes of his kirtle gray. +Near by him April stood with tearful face, +With violets in her hands, and in her hair +Pale, wild anemones; the fragrant lace +Half-parted from her breast, which seemed like fair, +Dawn-tinted mountain snow, smooth-drifted there. + +She on the blusterer's arm laid one white hand, +But he would none of her soft blandishment, +Yet did she plead with tears none might withstand, +For even the fiercest hearts at last relent. +And he, at last, in ruffian tenderness, +With one swift, crushing kiss her lips did greet. +Ah, poor starved heart!--for that one rude caress, +She cast her violets underneath his feet. + +Robert Burns Wilson [1850-1916] + + + + +HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD + +Oh, to be in England +Now that April's there, +And whoever wakes in England +Sees, some morning, unaware, +That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf +Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, +While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough +In England--now! + +And after April, when May follows +And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows! +Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge +Leans to the field and scatters on the clover +Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge-- +That's the wise thrush: he sings each song twice over, +Lest you should think he never could recapture +The first fine careless rapture! +And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, +All will be gay when noontide wakes anew +The buttercups, the little children's dower +--Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! + +Robert Browning [1812-1889] + + + + +SONG + +April, April, +Laugh thy girlish laughter; +Then, the moment after, +Weep thy girlish tears! +April, that mine ears +Like a lover greetest, +If I tell thee, sweetest, +All my hopes and fears, +April, April, +Laugh thy golden laughter, +But, the moment after, +Weep thy golden tears! + +William Watson [1858-1935] + + + + +AN APRIL ADORATION + +Sang the sun rise on an amber morn-- +"Earth, be glad! An April day is born. + +"Winter's done, and April's in the skies, +Earth, look up with laughter in your eyes!" + +Putting off her dumb dismay of snow, +Earth bade all her unseen children grow. + +Then the sound of growing in the air +Rose to God a liturgy of prayer; + +And the thronged succession of the days +Uttered up to God a psalm of praise. + +Laughed the running sap in every vein, +Laughed the running flurries of warm rain, + +Laughed the life in every wandering root, +Laughed the tingling cells of bud and shoot. + +God in all the concord of their mirth +Heard the adoration-song of Earth. + +Charles G. D. Roberts [1860- + + + + +SWEET WILD APRIL + +O sweet wild April +Came over the hills, +He skipped with the winds +And he tripped with the rills; +His raiment was all +Of the daffodils. +Sing hi, +Sing hey, +Sing ho! + +O sweet wild April +Came down the lea, +Dancing along +With his sisters three: +Carnation, and Rose, +And tall Lily. +Sing hi, +Sing hey, +Sing ho! + +O sweet wild April, +On pastoral quill +Came piping in moonlight +By hollow and hill, +In starlight at midnight, +By dingle and rill. +Sing hi, +Sing hey, +Sing ho! + +Where sweet wild April +His melody played, +Trooped cowslip, and primrose, +And iris, the maid, +And silver narcissus, +A star in the shade. +Sing hi, +Sing hey, +Sing ho! + +When sweet wild April +Dipped down the dale, +Pale cuckoopint brightened, +And windflower trail, +And white-thorn, the wood-bride, +In virginal veil. +Sing hi, +Sing hey, +Sing ho! + +When sweet wild April +Through deep woods pressed, +Sang cuckoo above him, +And lark on his crest, +And Philomel fluttered +Close under his breast. +Sing hi, +Sing hey, +Sing ho! + +O sweet wild April, +Wherever you went +The bondage of winter +Was broken and rent, +Sank elfin ice-city +And frost-goblin's tent. +Sing hi, +Sing hey, +Sing ho! + +Yet sweet wild April, +The blithe, the brave, +Fell asleep in the fields +By a windless wave +And Jack-in-the-Pulpit +Preached over his grave. +Sing hi, +Sing hey, +Sing ho! + +O sweet wild April, +Farewell to thee! +And a deep sweet sleep +To thy sisters three,-- +Carnation, and Rose, +And tall Lily. +Sing hi, +Sing hey, +Sing ho! + +William Force Stead [18-- + + + + +SPINNING IN APRIL + +Moon in heaven's garden, among the clouds that wander, +Crescent moon so young to see, above the April ways, +Whiten, bloom not yet, not yet, within the twilight yonder; +All my spinning is not done, for all the loitering days. + +Oh, my heart has two wild wings that ever would be flying! +Oh, my heart's a meadow-lark that ever would be free! +Well it is that I must spin until the light be dying; +Well it is the little wheel must turn all day for me! + +All the hill-tops beckon, and beyond the western meadows +Something calls me ever, calls me ever, low and clear: +A little tree as young as I, the coming summer shadows,-- +The voice of running waters that I ever thirst to hear. + +Oftentime the plea of it has set my wings a-beating; +Oftentimes it coaxes, as I sit in weary-wise, +Till the wild life hastens out to wild things all entreating, +And leaves me at the spinning-wheel, with dark, unseeing eyes. + +Josephine Preston Peabody [1874-1922] + + + + +SONG: ON MAY MORNING + +Now the bright morning-star, day's harbinger, +Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her +The flowery May, who from her green lap throws +The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. +Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire +Mirth and youth and warm desire! +Woods and groves are of thy dressing, +Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. +Thus we salute thee with our early song, +And welcome thee, and wish thee long. + +John Milton [1608-1674] + + + + +A MAY BURDEN + +Though meadow-ways as I did tread, +The corn grew in great lustihead, +And hey! the beeches burgeoned. +By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay! +It is the month, the jolly month, +It is the jolly month of May. + +God ripe the wines and corn, I say, +And wenches for the marriage-day, +And boys to teach love's comely play. +By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay! +It is the month, the jolly month, +It is the jolly month of May. + +As I went down by lane and lea, +The daisies reddened so, pardie! +"Blushets!" I said, "I well do see, +By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay! +The thing ye think of in this month, +Heigho! this jolly month of May." + +As down I went by rye and oats, +The blossoms smelt of kisses; throats +Of birds turned kisses into notes; +By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay! +The kiss it is a growing flower, +I trow, this jolly month of May. + +God send a mouth to every kiss, +Seeing the blossom of this bliss +By gathering doth grow, certes! +By Goddes fay, by Goddes fay! +Thy brow-garland pushed all aslant +Tells--but I tell not, wanton May! + +Francis Thompson [1859?-1907] + + + + +CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING + +Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn +Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. +See how Aurora throws her fair +Fresh-quilted colors through the air: +Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see +The dew bespangling herb and tree. +Each flower has wept, and bowed toward the east, +Above an hour since: yet you not dressed; +Nay! not so much as out of bed; +When all the birds have matins said +And sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin, +Nay, profanation, to keep in, +When as a thousand virgins on this day +Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. + +Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen +To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green, +And sweet as Flora. Take no care +For jewels for your gown or hair: +Fear not; the leaves will strew +Gems in abundance upon you: +Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, +Against you come, some orient pearls unwept; +Come, and receive them while the light +Hangs on the dew-locks of the night, +And Titan on the eastern hill +Retires himself, or else stands still +Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying: +Few beads are best, when once we go a-Maying. + +Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark +How each field turns a street, each street a park +Made green and trimmed with trees; see how +Devotion gives each house a bough +Or branch: each porch, each door, ere this, +An ark, a tabernacle is, +Made up of white-thorn, neatly interwove; +As if here were those cooler shades of love. +Can such delights be in the street +And open fields, and we not see't? +Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey +The proclamation made for May: +And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; +But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. + +There's not a budding boy or girl, this day, +But is got up, and gone to bring in May. +A deal of youth, ere this, is come +Back, and with white-thorn laden home. +Some have despatched their cakes and cream +Before that we have left to dream: +And some have wept, and wooed and plighted troth, +And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: +Many a green gown has been given; +Many a kiss, both odd and even: +Many a glance, too, has been sent +From out the eye, love's firmament; +Many a jest told of the keys betraying +This night, and locks picked, yet we're not a-Maying. + +Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, +And take the harmless folly of the time. +We shall grow old apace, and die +Before we know our liberty. +Our life is short, and our days run +As fast away as does the sun; +And, as a vapor or a drop of rain, +Once lost, can ne'er be found again: +So when or you or I are made +A fable, song, or fleeting shade, +All love, all liking, all delight +Lies drowned with us in endless night. +Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, +Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. + +Robert Herrick [1591-1674] + + + + +"SISTER, AWAKE!" + +Sister, awake! close not your eyes! +The day her light discloses, +And the bright morning doth arise +Out of her bed of roses. + +See the clear sun, the world's bright eye, +In at our window peeping: +Lo, how he blusheth to espy +Us idle wenches sleeping! + +Therefore awake! make haste, I say, +And let us, without staying, +All in our gowns of green so gay +Into the Park a-maying! + +Unknown + + + + +MAY + +May! queen of blossoms, +And fulfilling flowers, +With what pretty music +Shall we charm the hours? +Wilt thou have pipe and reed, +Blown in the open mead? +Or to the lute give heed +In the green bowers? + +Thou hast no need of us, +Or pipe or wire; +Thou hast the golden bee +Ripened with fire; +And many thousand more +Songsters, that thee adore, +Filling earth's grassy floor +With new desire. + +Thou hast thy mighty herds, +Tame and free-livers; +Doubt not, thy music too +In the deep rivers, +And the whole plumy flight +Warbling the day and night-- +Up at the gates of light, +See, the lark quivers! + +Edward Hovell-Thurlow [1781-1829] + + + + +MAY + +Come walk with me along this willowed lane, +Where, like lost coinage from some miser's store, +The golden dandelions more and more +Glow, as the warm sun kisses them again! +For this is May! who with a daisy chain +Leads on the laughing Hours; for now is o'er +Long winter's trance. No longer rise and roar +His forest-wrenching blasts. The hopeful swain, +Along the furrow, sings behind his team; +Loud pipes the redbreast--troubadour of spring, +And vocal all the morning copses ring; +More blue the skies in lucent lakelets gleam; +And the glad earth, caressed by murmuring showers, +Wakes like a bride, to deck herself with flowers! + +Henry Sylvester Cornwell [1831-1886] + + + + +A SPRING LILT + +Through the silver mist +Of the blossom-spray +Trill the orioles: list +To their joyous lay! +"What in all the world, in all the world," they say, +Is half so sweet, so sweet, is half so sweet as May?" + +"June! June! June!" +Low croon +The brown bees in the clover. +"Sweet! sweet! sweet!" +Repeat +The robins, nested over. + +Unknown + + + + +SUMMER LONGINGS + +Ah! my heart is weary waiting, +Waiting for the May,-- +Waiting for the pleasant rambles +Where the fragrant hawthorn-brambles, +With the woodbine alternating, +Scent the dewy way. +Ah! my heart is weary waiting, +Waiting for the May. + +Ah! my heart is sick with longing, +Longing for the May,-- +Longing to escape from study +To the young face fair and ruddy, +And the thousand charms belonging +To the summer's day. +Ah! my heart is sick with longing, +Longing for the May. + +Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, +Sighing for the May,-- +Sighing for their sure returning, +When the summer beams are burning, +Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying, +All the winter lay. +Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, +Sighing for the May. + +Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing, +Throbbing for the May,-- +Throbbing for the seaside billows, +Or the water-wooing willows; +Where, in laughing and in sobbing, +Glide the streams away. +Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing, +Throbbing for the May. + +Waiting sad, dejected, weary, +Waiting for the May: +Spring goes by with wasted warnings,-- +Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings,-- +Summer comes, yet dark and dreary +Life still ebbs away; +Man is ever weary, weary, +Waiting for the May! + +Denis Florence MacCarthy [1817-1882] + + + + +MIDSUMMER + +Around this lovely valley rise +The purple hills of Paradise. + +O, softly on yon banks of haze, +Her rosy face the Summer lays! + +Becalmed along the azure sky, +The argosies of cloudland lie, +Whose shores, with many a shining rift, +Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift. + +Through all the long midsummer-day +The meadow-sides are sweet with hay. +I seek the coolest sheltered seat, +Just where the field and forest meet,- +Where grow the pine-trees tall and bland, +The ancient oaks austere and grand, +And fringy roots and pebbles fret +The ripples of the rivulet. + +I watch the mowers, as they go +Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row. +With even stroke their scythes they swing, +In tune their merry whetstones ring. +Behind the nimble youngsters run, +And toss the thick swaths in the sun. +The cattle graze, while, warm and still, +Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, +And bright, where summer breezes break, +The green wheat crinkles like a lake. + +The butterfly and humblebee +Come to the pleasant woods with me; +Quickly before me runs the quail, +Her chickens skulk behind the rail; +High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, +And the woodpecker pecks and flits. +Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, +The brooklet rings its tinkling bells, +The swarming insects drone and hum, +The partridge beats its throbbing drum. +The squirrel leaps among the boughs, +And chatters in his leafy house. +The oriole flashes by; and, look! +Into the mirror of the brook, +Where the vain bluebird trims his coat, +Two tiny feathers fall and float. + +As silently, as tenderly, +The down of peace descends on me. +O, this is peace! I have no need +Of friend to talk, of book to read: +A dear Companion here abides; +Close to my thrilling heart He hides; +The holy silence is His Voice: +I lie and listen, and rejoice. + +John Townsend Trowbridge [1827-1916] + + + + +A MIDSUMMER SONG + +O, Father's gone to market-town, he was up before the day, +And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay, +And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill, +While mother from the kitchen-door is calling with a will: +"Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn! +O, where's Polly?" + +From all the misty morning air there comes a summer sound-- +A murmur as of waters from skies and trees and ground. +The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill and coo, +And over hill and hollow rings again the loud halloo: +"Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn! +O, where's Polly?" + +Above the trees the honey-bees swarm by with buzz and boom, +And in the field and garden a thousand blossoms bloom. +Within the farmer's meadow a brown-eyed daisy blows, +And down at the edge of the hollow a red and thorny rose. +But Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn! +O, where's Polly? + +How strange at such a time of day the mill should stop its clatter! +The farmer's wife is listening now and wonders what's the matter. +O, wild the birds are singing in the wood and on the hill, +While whistling up the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill. +But Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn! +O, where's Polly? + +Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1909] + + + + +JUNE +From the Prelude to "The Vision of Sir Launfal" + +Over his keys the musing organist, +Beginning doubtfully and far away, +First lets his fingers wander as they list, +And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay: +Then, as the touch of his loved instrument +Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, +First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent +Along the wavering vista of his dream. + +Not only around our infancy +Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; +Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, +We Sinais climb and know it not. + +Over our manhood bend the skies; +Against our fallen and traitor lives +The great winds utter prophecies; +With our faint hearts the mountain strives; +Its arms outstretched, the druid wood +Waits with its benedicite; +And to our age's drowsy blood +Still shouts the inspiring sea. + +Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us; +The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, +The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, +We bargain for the graves we lie in; +At the devil's booth are all things sold, +Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; +For a cap and bells our lives we pay, +Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking: +'Tis heaven alone that is given away, +'Tis only God may be had for the asking; +No price is set on the lavish summer; +June may be had by the poorest corner. +And what is so rare as a day in June? +Then, if ever, come perfect days; +Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, +And over it softly her warm ear lays; +Whether we look, or whether we listen, +We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; +Every clod feels a stir of might, +An instinct within it that reaches and towers, +And, groping blindly above it for light, +Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; +The flush of life may well be seen +Thrilling back over hills and valleys; +The cowslip startles in meadows green, +The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, +And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean +To be some happy creature's palace; +The little bird sits at his door in the sun, +Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, +And lets his illumined being o'errun +With the deluge of summer it receives; +His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, +And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; +He sings to the wide world and she to her nest,-- +In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? + +Now is the high-tide of the year, +And whatever of life hath ebbed away +Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, +Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; +Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, +We are happy now because God wills it; +No matter how barren the past may have been, +'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; +We sit in the warm shade and feel right well +How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; +We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing +That skies are clear and grass is growing; +The breeze comes whispering in our ear, +That dandelions are blossoming near, +That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, +That the river is bluer than the sky, +That the robin is plastering his house hard by; +And if the breeze kept the good news back, +For other couriers we should not lack; +We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, +And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, +Warmed with the new wine of the year, +Tells all in his lusty crowing! + +James Russell Lowell [1819-1891] + + + + +JUNE + +When the bubble moon is young, +Down the sources of the breeze, +Like a yellow lantern hung +In the tops of blackened trees, +There is promise she will grow +Into beauty unforetold, +Into all unthought-of gold. +Heigh ho! + +When the Spring has dipped her foot, +Like a bather, in the air, +And the ripples warm the root +Till the little flowers dare, +There is promise she will grow +Sweeter than the Springs of old, +Fairer than was ever told. +Heigh ho! + +But the moon of middle night, +Risen, is the rounded moon; +And the Spring of budding light +Eddies into just a June. +Ah, the promise--was it so? +Nay, the gift was fairy gold; +All the new is over-old. +Heigh ho! + +Harrison Smith Morris [1856- + + + + +HARVEST + +Sweet, sweet, sweet, +Is the wind's song, +Astir in the rippled wheat +All day long, +It hath the brook's wild gayety, +The sorrowful cry of the sea. +Oh, hush and hear! +Sweet, sweet and clear, +Above the locust's whirr +And hum of bee +Rises that soft, pathetic harmony. + +In the meadow-grass +The innocent white daisies blow, +The dandelion plume doth pass +Vaguely to and fro,-- +The unquiet spirit of a flower +That hath too brief an hour. + +Now doth a little cloud all white, +Or golden bright, +Drift down the warm, blue sky; +And now on the horizon line, +Where dusky woodlands lie, +A sunny mist doth shine, +Like to a veil before a holy shrine, +Concealing, half-revealing, things divine. + +Sweet, sweet, sweet, +Is the wind's song, +Astir in the rippled wheat +All day long. +That exquisite music calls +The reaper everywhere-- +Life and death must share. +The golden harvest falls. + +So doth all end,-- +Honored Philosophy, +Science and Art, +The bloom of the heart;-- +Master, Consoler, Friend, +Make Thou the harvest of our days +To fall within Thy ways. + +Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz [?-1933] + + + + +SCYTHE SONG + +Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe, +What is the word methinks ye know, +Endless over-word that the Scythe +Sings to the blades of the grass below? +Scythes that swing in the grass and clover, +Something, still, they say as they pass; +What is the word that, over and over, +Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass? + +Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying, +Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep; +Hush, they say to the grasses swaying, +Hush, they sing to the clover deep! +Hush--'tis the lullaby Time is singing-- +Hush, and heed not, for all things pass, +Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging +Over the clover, over the grass! + +Andrew Lang [1844-1912] + + + + +SEPTEMBER + +Sweet is the voice that calls +From babbling waterfalls +In meadows where the downy seeds are flying; +And soft the breezes blow, +And eddying come and go, +In faded gardens where the rose is dying. + +Among the stubbled corn +The blithe quail pipes at morn, +The merry partridge drums in hidden places, +And glittering insects gleam +Above the reedy stream, +Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces. + +At eve, cool shadows fall +Across the garden wall, +And on the clustered grapes to purple turning; +And pearly vapors lie +Along the eastern sky, +Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning. + +Ah, soon on field and hill +The winds shall whistle chill, +And patriarch swallows call their flocks together +To fly from frost and snow, +And seek for lands where blow +The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather. + +The pollen-dusted bees +Search for the honey-lees +That linger in the last flowers of September, +While plaintive mourning doves +Coo sadly to their loves +Of the dead summer they so well remember. + +The cricket chirps all day, +"O fairest summer, stay!" +The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning; +The wild fowl fly afar +Above the foamy bar, +And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning. + +Now comes a fragrant breeze +Through the dark cedar-trees, +And round about my temples fondly lingers, +In gentle playfulness, +Like to the soft caress +Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers. + +Yet, though a sense of grief +Comes with the falling leaf, +And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant, +In all my autumn dreams +A future summer gleams, +Passing the fairest glories of the present! + +George Arnold [1834-1865] + + + + +INDIAN SUMMER + +These are the days when birds come back, +A very few, a bird or two, +To take a backward look. + +These are the days when skies put on +The old, old sophistries of June,-- +A blue and gold mistake. + +Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee, +Almost thy plausibility +Induces my belief, + +Till ranks of seeds their witness bear, +And softly through the altered air +Hurries a timid leaf! + +Oh, sacrament of summer days, +Oh, last communion in the haze, +Permit a child to join, + +Thy sacred emblems to partake, +Thy consecrated bread to break, +Taste thine immortal wine! + +Emily Dickinson [1830-1886] + + + + +PREVISION + +Oh, days of beauty standing veiled apart, +With dreamy skies and tender, tremulous air, +In this rich Indian summer of the heart +Well may the earth her jewelled halo wear. + +The long brown fields--no longer drear and dull-- +Burn with the glow of these deep-hearted hours. +Until the dry weeds seem more beautiful, +More spiritlike than even summer's flowers. + +But yesterday the world was stricken bare, +Left old and dead in gray, enshrouding gloom; +To-day what vivid wonder of the air +Awakes the soul of vanished light and bloom? + +Sharp with the clean, fine ecstasy of death, +A mightier wind shall strike the shrinking earth, +An exhalation of creative breath +Wake the white wonder of the winter's birth. + +In her wide Pantheon--her temple place-- +Wrapped in strange beauty and new comforting, +We shall not miss the Summer's full-blown grace, +Nor hunger for the swift, exquisite Spring. + +Ada Foster Murray [1857-1936] + + + + +A SONG OF EARLY AUTUMN + +When late in summer the streams run yellow, +Burst the bridges and spread into bays; +When berries are black and peaches are mellow, +And hills are hidden by rainy haze; + +When the goldenrod is golden still, +But the heart of the sunflower is darker and sadder; +When the corn is in stacks on the slope of the hill, +And slides o'er the path the striped adder; + +When butterflies flutter from clover to thicket, +Or wave their wings on the drooping leaf; +When the breeze comes shrill with the call of the cricket, +Grasshopper's rasp, and rustle of sheaf; + +When high in the field the fern-leaves wrinkle, +And brown is the grass where the mowers have mown; +When low in the meadow the cow-bells tinkle, +And small brooks crinkle o'er stock and stone; + +When heavy and hollow the robin's whistle +And shadows are deep in the heat of noon; +When the air is white with the down o' the thistle, +And the sky is red with the harvest moon; + +O, then be chary, young Robert and Mary, +No time let slip, not a moment wait! +If the fiddle would play it must stop its tuning; +And they who would wed must be done with their mooning; +So let the churn rattle, see well to the cattle, +And pile the wood by the barn-yard gate! + +Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1909] + + + + +TO AUTUMN + +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-eaves run; +To bend with apples the mossed 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'erbrimmed their clammy cells. + +Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? +Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find +Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, +Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; +Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, +Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook +Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; +And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep +Steady thy laden head across a brook; +Or by a cider-press, with patient look, +Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. + +Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? +Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, +While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day +And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; +Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn +Among the river shallows, 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 redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, +And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. + +John Keats [1795-1821] + + + + +ODE TO AUTUMN + +I saw old Autumn in the misty morn +Stand shadowless like Silence, listening +To silence, for no lonely bird would sing +Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, +Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;-- +Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright +With tangled gossamer that fell by night, +Pearling his coronet of golden corn. + +Where are the songs of Summer?--With the sun, +Oping the dusky eyelids of the South, +Till shade and silence waken up as one, +And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth. +Where are the merry birds?--Away, away, +On panting wings through the inclement skies, +Lest owls should prey +Undazzled at noonday, +And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes. + +Where are the blooms of Summer?--In the West, +Blushing their last to the last sunny hours, +When the mild Eve by sudden Night is pressed +Like tearful Prosperine, snatched from her flowers, +To a most gloomy breast. +Where is the pride of Summer,--the green prime,-- +The many, many leaves all twinkling?--Three +On the mossed elm; three on the naked lime +Trembling,--and one upon the old oak-tree! +Where is the Dryad's immortality?-- +Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew, +Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through +In the smooth holly's green eternity. + +The squirrel gloats on his accomplished hoard, +The ants have brimmed their garners with ripe grain, +And honey bees have stored +The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells; +The swallows all have winged across the main; +But here the Autumn melancholy dwells, +And sighs her tearful spells +Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. +Alone, alone, +Upon a mossy stone, +She sits and reckons up the dead and gone, +With the last leaves for a love-rosary, +Whilst all the withered world looks drearily, +Like a dim picture of the drowned past +In the hushed mind's mysterious far away, +Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last +Into that distance, gray upon the gray. + +O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded +Under the languid downfall of her hair: +She wears a coronal of flowers faded +Upon her forehead, and a face of care;-- +There is enough of withered everywhere +To make her bower,--and enough of gloom; +There is enough of sadness to invite, +If only for the rose that died, whose doom +Is Beauty's,--she that with the living bloom +Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light: +There is enough of sorrowing, and quite +Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,-- +Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl; +Enough of fear and shadowy despair, +To frame her cloudy prison for the soul! + +Thomas Hood [1799-1845] + + + + +ODE TO THE WEST WIND + +I +O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, +Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead +Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, + +Yellow and black, and pale, and hectic red, +Pestilence stricken multitudes! O thou +Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed + +The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, +Each like a corpse within its grave, until +Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow + +Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill +(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) +With living hues and odors plain and hill; + +Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; +Destroyer and preserver; hear, O 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 airy 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: O 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: O 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. +O! 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? + +Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822] + + + + +AUTUMN: A DIRGE + +The warm sun is failing; the bleak wind is wailing; +The bare boughs are sighing; the pale flowers are dying; +And the Year +On the earth, her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, +Is lying. +Come, months, come away, +From November to May; +In your saddest array +Follow the bier +Of the dead, cold Year, +And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. + +The chill rain is falling; the nipped worm is crawling; +The rivers are swelling; the thunder is knelling +For the Year; +The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone +To his dwelling; +Come, months, come away; +Put on white, black, and gray; +Let your light sisters play-- +Ye, follow the bier +Of the dead, cold Year, +And make her grave green with tear on tear. + +Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822] + + + + +AUTUMN + +The morns are meeker than they were, +The nuts are getting brown; +The berry's cheek is plumper, +The rose is out of town. +The maple wears a gayer scarf, +The field a scarlet gown. +Lest I should be old-fashioned, +I'll put a trinket on. + +Emily Dickinson [1830-1886] + + + + +"WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN" + +When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock, +And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock, +And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens, +And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; +O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best, +With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, +As he leaves the house, bareheaded and goes out to feed the stock, +When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. + +They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere +When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here-- +Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees, +And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees; +But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze +Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days +Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock-- +When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. + +The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, +And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; +The stubble in the furries--kindo' lonesome-like, but still +A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill; +The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; +The hosses in theyr stalls below--the clover overhead!-- +O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, +When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. + +Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps +Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps; +And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through +With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!... +I don't know how to tell it--but ef sich a thing could be +As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on +me-- +I'd want to 'commodate 'em--all the whole-indurin' flock-- +When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. + +James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916] + + + + +KORE + +Yea, she hath passed hereby, and blessed the sheaves, +And the great garths, and stacks, and quiet farms, +And all the tawny, and the crimson leaves. +Yea, she hath passed with poppies in her arms, +Under the star of dusk, through stealing mist, +And blessed the earth, and gone, while no man wist. + +With slow, reluctant feet, and weary eyes, +And eye-lids heavy with the coming sleep, +With small breasts lifted up in stress of sighs, +She passed, as shadows pass, among the sheep; +While the earth dreamed, and only I was ware +Of that faint fragrance blown from her soft hair. + +The land lay steeped in peace of silent dreams; +There was no sound amid the sacred boughs. +Nor any mournful music in her streams: +Only I saw the shadow on her brows, +Only I knew her for the yearly slain, +And wept, and weep until she come again. + +Frederic Manning [18 -- + + + + +OLD OCTOBER + +Hail, old October, bright and chill, +First freedman from the summer sun! +Spice high the bowl, and drink your fill! +Thank heaven, at last the summer's done! + +Come, friend, my fire is burning bright, +A fire's no longer out of place, +How clear it glows! (there's frost to-night,) +It looks white winter in the face. + +You've been to "Richard" Ah! you've seen +A noble play: I'm glad you went; +But what on earth does Shakespeare mean +By "winter of our discontent?" + +Be mine the tree that feeds the fire! +Be mine the sun knows when to set! +Be mine the months when friends desire +To turn in here from cold and wet! + +The sentry sun, that glared so long +O'erhead, deserts his summer post; +Ay, you may brew it hot and strong: +"The joys of winter"--come, a toast! + +Shine on the kangaroo, thou sun! +Make far New Zealand faint with fear! +Don't hurry back to spoil our fun, +Thank goodness, old October's here! + +Thomas Constable [1812-1881] + + + + +NOVEMBER + +When thistle-blows do lightly float +About the pasture-height, +And shrills the hawk a parting note, +And creeps the frost at night, +Then hilly ho! though singing so, +And whistle as I may, +There comes again the old heart pain +Through all the livelong day. + +In high wind creaks the leafless tree +And nods the fading fern; +The knolls are dun as snow-clouds be, +And cold the sun does burn. +Then ho, hollo! though calling so, +I cannot keep it down; +The tears arise unto my eyes, +And thoughts are chill and brown. + +Far in the cedars' dusky stoles, +Where the sere ground-vine weaves, +The partridge drums funereal rolls +Above the fallen leaves. +And hip, hip, ho! though cheering so, +It stills no whit the pain; +For drip, drip, drip, from bare-branch tip, +I hear the year's last rain. + +So drive the cold cows from the hill, +And call the wet sheep in; +And let their stamping clatter fill +The barn with warming din. +And ho, folk, ho! though it be so +That we no more may roam, +We still will find a cheerful mind +Around the fire at home! + +C. L. Cleaveland [18--? ] + + + + +NOVEMBER + +Hark you such sound as quivers? Kings will hear, +As kings have heard, and tremble on their thrones; +The old will feel the weight of mossy stones; +The young alone will laugh and scoff at fear. +It is the tread of armies marching near, +From scarlet lands to lands forever pale; +It is a bugle dying down the gale; +It is the sudden gushing of a tear. +And it is hands that grope at ghostly doors; +And romp of spirit-children on the pave; +It is the tender sighing of the brave +Who fell, ah! long ago, in futile wars; +It is such sound as death; and, after all, +'Tis but the forest letting dead leaves fall. + +Mahlon Leonard Fisher [1874- + + + + +STORM FEAR + +When the wind works against us in the dark, +And pelts with snow +The lower chamber window on the east, +And whispers with a sort of stifled bark, +The beast, +"Come out! Come out!"-- +It costs no inward struggle not to go, +Ah, no! +I count our strength, +Two and a child, +Those of us not asleep subdued to mark +How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,-- +How drifts are piled, +Dooryard and road ungraded, +Till even the comforting barn grows far away +And my heart owns a doubt +Whether 'tis in us to arise with day +And save ourselves unaided. + +Robert Frost [1875- + + + + +WINTER: A DIRGE + +The wintry west extends his blast, +And hail and rain does blaw; +Or the stormy north sends driving forth +The blinding sleet and snaw: +While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down, +And roars frae bank to brae; +And bird and beast in covert rest, +And pass the heartless day. + +"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," +The joyless winter day. +Let others fear,--to me more dear +Than all the pride of May; +The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, +My griefs it seems to join; +The leafless trees my fancy please, +Their fate resembles mine! + +Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme +These woes of mine fulfil, +Here, firm, I rest,--they must be best, +Because they are Thy will. +Then all I want (oh, do Thou grant +This one request of mine!) +Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, +Assist me to resign! + +Robert Burns [1759-1796] + + + + +OLD WINTER + +Old Whiter sad, in snow yclad, +Is making a doleful din; +But let him howl till he crack his jowl, +We will not let him in. + +Ay, let him lift from the billowy drift +His hoary, haggard form, +And scowling stand, with his wrinkled hand +Outstretching to the storm. + +And let his weird and sleety beard +Stream loose upon the blast, +And, rustling, chime to the tinkling rime +From his bald head falling fast. + +Let his baleful breath shed blight and death +On herb and flower and tree; +And brooks and ponds in crystal bonds +Bind fast, but what care we? + +Let him push at the door,--in the chimney roar, +And rattle the window-pane; +Let him in at us spy with his icicle eye, +But he shall not entrance gain. + +Let him gnaw, forsooth, with his freezing tooth, +On our roof-tiles, till he tire; +But we care not a whit, as we jovial sit +Before our blazing fire. + +Come, lads, let's sing, till the rafters ring; +Come, push the can about;-- +From our snug fire-side this Christmas-tide +We'll keep old Winter out. + +Thomas Noel [1799-1861] + + + + +THE FROST + +The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, +And he said, "Now I shall be out of sight; +So through the valley and over the height +In silence I'll take my way. +I will not go like that blustering train, +The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, +Who make so much bustle and noise in vain, +But I'll be as busy as they!" + +Then he went to the mountain, and powdered its crest, +He climbed up the trees, and their boughs he dressed +With diamonds and pearls, and over the breast +Of the quivering lake he spread +A coat of mail, that it need not fear +The downward point of many a spear +That he hung on its margin, far and near, +Where a rock could rear its head. + +He went to the windows of those who slept, +And over each pane like a fairy crept; +Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, +By the light of the moon were seen +Most beautiful things. There were flowers and trees, +There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees, +There were cities, thrones, temples, and towers, and these +All pictured in silver sheen! + +But he did one thing that was hardly fair,-- +He peeped in the cupboard, and, finding there +That all had forgotten for him to prepare,-- +"Now, just to set them a-thinking, +I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he; +"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three, +And the glass of water they've left for me +Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking." + +Hannah Flagg Gould [1789-1865] + + + + +THE FROSTED PANE + +One night came Winter noiselessly and leaned +Against my window-pane. +In the deep stillness of his heart convened +The ghosts of all his slain. + +Leaves, and ephemera, and stars of earth, +And fugitives of grass,-- +White spirits loosed from bonds of mortal birth, +He drew them on the glass. + +Charles G. D. Roberts [1860- + + + + +THE FROST SPIRIT + +He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! You may trace his + footsteps now +On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill's + withered brow. +He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant + green came forth, +And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down + to earth. + +He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! from the frozen Labrador, +From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear + wanders o'er, +Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice and the luckless forms below +In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues grow! + +He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! on the rushing + Northern blast, +And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went past. +With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla glow +On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below. + +He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! and the quiet lake + shall feel +The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater's heel; +And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the + leaning grass, +Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass. + +He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! Let us meet him as we may, +And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away; +And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances high, +And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by! + +John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892] + + + + +SNOW + +Lo, what wonders the day hath brought, +Born of the soft and slumbrous snow! +Gradual, silent, slowly wrought; +Even as an artist, thought by thought, +Writes expression on lip and brow. + +Hanging garlands the eaves o'erbrim, +Deep drifts smother the paths below; +The elms are shrouded, trunk and limb, +And all the air is dizzy and dim +With a whirl of dancing, dazzling snow. + +Dimly out of the baffled sight +Houses and church-spires stretch away; +The trees, all spectral and still and white, +Stand up like ghosts in the failing light, +And fade and faint with the blinded day. + +Down from the roofs in gusts are hurled +The eddying drifts to the waste below; +And still is the banner of storm unfurled, +Till all the drowned and desolate world +Lies dumb and white in a trance of snow. + +Slowly the shadows gather and fall, +Still the whispering snow-flakes beat; +Night and darkness are over all: +Rest, pale city, beneath their pall! +Sleep, white world, in thy winding-sheet! + +Clouds may thicken, and storm-winds breathe: +On my wall is a glimpse of Rome,-- +Land of my longing!--and underneath +Swings and trembles my olive-wreath; +Peace and I are at home, at home! + +Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911] + + + + +TO A SNOW-FLAKE + +What heart could have thought you?-- +Past our devisal +(O filigree petal!) +Fashioned so purely, +Fragilely, surely, +From what Paradisal +Imagineless metal, +Too costly for cost? +Who hammered you, wrought you, +From argentine vapor?-- +God was my shaper. +Passing surmisal, +He hammered, He wrought me, +From curled silver vapor, +To lust of His mind:-- +Thou couldst not have thought me! +So purely, so palely, +Tinily, surely, +Mightily, frailly, +Insculped and embossed, +With His hammer of wind, +And His graver of frost." + +Francis Thompson [1859?-1907] + + + + +THE SNOW-SHOWER + +Stand here by my side and turn, I pray, +On the lake below thy gentle eyes; +The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, +And dark and silent the water lies; +And out of that frozen mist the snow +In wavering flakes begins to flow; +Flake after flake +They sink in the dark and silent lake. + +See how in a living swarm they come +From the chambers beyond that misty veil; +Some hover in air awhile, and some +Rush prone from the sky like summer hail. +All, dropping swiftly, or settling slow, +Meet, and are still in the depths below; +Flake after flake +Dissolved in the dark and silent lake. + +Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud, +Come floating downward in airy play, +Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd +That whiten by night the Milky Way; +There broader and burlier masses fall; +The sullen water buries them all,-- +Flake after flake,-- +All drowned in the dark and silent lake. + +And some, as on tender wings they glide +From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray, +Are joined in their fall, and, side by side, +Come clinging along their unsteady way; +As friend with friend, or husband with wife, +Makes hand in hand the passage of life; +Each mated flake +Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake. + +Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste +Stream down the snows, till the air is white, +As, myriads by myriads madly chased, +They fling themselves from their shadowy height. +The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, +What speed they make, with their grave so nigh; +Flake after flake +To lie in the dark and silent lake. + +I see in thy gentle eyes a tear; +They turn to me in sorrowful thought; +Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear, +Who were for a time, and now are not; +Like these fair children of cloud and frost, +That glisten a moment and then are lost,-- +Flake after flake,-- +All lost in the dark and silent lake. + +Yet look again, for the clouds divide; +A gleam of blue on the water lies; +And far away, on the mountain-side, +A sunbeam falls from the opening skies; +But the hurrying host that flew between +The cloud and the water no more is seen; +Flake after flake, +At rest in the dark and silent lake. + +William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878] + + + + +MIDWINTER + +The speckled sky is dim with snow, +The light flakes falter and fall slow; +Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale, +Silently drops a silvery veil; +And all the valley is shut in +By flickering curtains gray and thin. + +But cheerily the chickadee +Singeth to me on fence and tree; +The snow sails round him as he sings, +White as the down of angels' wings. + +I watch the slow flakes as they fall +On bank and brier and broken wall; +Over the orchard, waste and brown, +All noiselessly they settle down, +Tipping the apple-boughs, and each +Light quivering twig of plum and peach. + +On turf and curb and bower-roof +The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof; +It paves with pearl the garden-walk; +And lovingly round tattered stalk +And shivering stem its magic weaves +A mantle fair as lily-leaves. + +The hooded beehive, small and low, +Stands like a maiden in the snow; +And the old door-slab is half hid +Under an alabaster lid. +All day it snows: the sheeted post +Gleams in the dimness like a ghost; +All day the blasted oak has stood +A muffled wizard of the wood; +Garland and airy cap adorn +The sumach and the wayside thorn, +And clustering spangles lodge and shine +In the dark tresses of the pine. + +The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old, +Shrinks like a beggar in the cold; +In surplice white the cedar stands, +And blesses him with priestly hands. + +Still cheerily the chickadee +Singeth to me on fence and tree: +But in my inmost ear is heard +The music of a holier bird; +And heavenly thoughts, as soft and white +As snow-flakes, on my soul alight, +Clothing with love my lonely heart, +Healing with peace each bruised part, +Till all my being seems to be +Transfigured by their purity. + +John Townsend Trowbridge [1827-1916] + + + + +A GLEE FOR WINTER + +Hence, rude Winter! crabbed old fellow, +Never merry, never mellow! +Well-a-day! in rain and snow +What will keep one's heart aglow? +Groups of kinsmen, old and young, +Oldest they old friends among; +Groups of friends, so old and true +That they seem our kinsmen too; +These all merry all together +Charm away chill Winter weather. + +What will kill this dull old fellow? +Ale that's bright, and wine that's mellow! +Dear old songs for ever new; +Some true love, and laughter too; +Pleasant wit, and harmless fun, +And a dance when day is done. +Music, friends so true and tried, +Whispered love by warm fireside, +Mirth at all times all together, +Make sweet May of Winter weather. + +Alfred Domett [1811-1887] + + + + +THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR + +Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, +And the winter winds are wearily sighing: +Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, +And tread softly and speak low, +For the old year lies a-dying. +Old year, you must not die; +You came to us so readily, +You lived with us so steadily, +Old year, you shall not die. + +He lieth still, he doth not move; +He will not see the dawn of day. +He hath no other life above, +He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, +And the New-year will take 'em away. +Old year, you must not go; +So long as you have been with us, +Such joy as you have seen with us, +Old year, you shall not go. + +He frothed his bumpers to the brim; +A jollier year we shall not see. +But though his eyes are waxing dim, +And though his foes speak ill of him, +He was a friend to me. +Old year, you shall not die; +We did so laugh and cry with you, +I've half a mind to die with you, +Old year, if you must die. + +He was full of joke and jest, +But all his merry quips are o'er. +To see him die, across the waste +His son and heir doth ride post-haste, +But he'll be dead before. +Every one for his own. +The night is starry and cold, my friend, +And the New-year, blithe and bold, my friend, +Comes up to take his own. + +How hard he breathes! over the snow +I heard just now the crowing cock. +The shadows flicker to and fro: +The cricket chirps; the light burns low; +'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. +Shake hands before you die. +Old year, we'll dearly rue for you. +What is it we can do for you? +Speak out before you die. + +His face is growing sharp and thin. +Alack! our friend is gone. +Close up his eyes; tie up his chin; +Step from the corpse, and let him in +That standeth there alone, +And waiteth at the door. +There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, +And a new face at the door, my friend, +A new face at the door. + +Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892] + + + + +DIRGE FOR THE YEAR + +"Orphan Hours, the Year is dead: +Come and sigh, come and weep." +"Merry Hours, smile instead, +For the Year is but asleep. +See, it smiles as it is sleeping, +Mocking your untimely weeping." + +"As an earthquake rocks a corse +In its coffin in the clay, +So white Winter, that rough nurse, +Rocks the death-cold Year to-day; +Solemn Hours! wail aloud +For your mother in her shroud." + +"As the wild air stirs and sways +The tree-swung cradle of a child, +So the breath of these rude days +Rocks the Year:--be calm and mild, +Trembling Hours; she will arise +With new love within her eyes. + +"January gray is here, +Like a sexton by her grave; +February bears the bier; +March with grief doth howl and rave, +And April weeps--but, O, ye Hours, +Follow with May's fairest flowers." + +Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822] + + + + + + + + + + + +WOOD AND FIELD AND RUNNING BROOK + + + + + + + + + + +WALDEINSAMKEIT + + + + +I do not count the hours I spend +In wandering by the sea; +The forest is my loyal friend, +Like God it useth me. + +In plains that room for shadows make +Of skirting hills to lie, +Bound in by streams which give and take +Their colors from the sky; + +Or on the mountain-crest sublime, +Or down the oaken glade, +O what have I to do with time? +For this the day was made. + +Cities of mortals woe-begone +Fantastic care derides, +But in the serious landscape lone +Stern benefit abides. + +Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy, +And merry is only a mask of sad, +But, sober on a fund of joy, +The woods at heart are glad. + +There the great Planter plants +Of fruitful worlds the grain, +And with a million spells enchants +The souls that walk in pain. + +Still on the seeds of all he made +The rose of beauty burns; +Through times that wear and forms that fade, +Immortal youth returns. + +The black ducks mounting from the lake, +The pigeon in the pines, +The bittern's boom, a desert make +Which no false art refines. + +Down in yon watery nook, +Where bearded mists divide, +The gray old gods whom Chaos knew, +The sires of Nature, hide. + +Aloft, in secret veins of air, +Blows the sweet breath of song, +O, few to scale those uplands dare, +Though they to all belong! + +See thou bring not to field or stone +The fancies found in books; +Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own, +To brave the landscape's looks. + +Oblivion here thy wisdom is, +Thy thrift, the sleep of cares; +For a proud idleness like this +Crowns all thy mean affairs. + +Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882] + + + + +"WHEN IN THE WOODS I WANDER ALL ALONE" + +When in the woods I wander all alone, +The woods that are my solace and delight, +Which I more covet than a prince's throne, +My toil by day and canopy by night; +(Light heart, light foot, light food, and slumber light, +These lights shall light us to old age's gate, +While monarchs, whom rebellious dreams affright, +Heavy with fear, death's fearful summons wait;) +Whilst here I wander, pleased to be alone, +Weighing in thought the worlds no-happiness, +I cannot choose but wonder at its moan, +Since so plain joys the woody life can bless: +Then live who may where honied words prevail, +I with the deer, and with the nightingale! + +Edward Hovell-Thurlow [1781-1829] + + + + +OUT IN THE FIELDS + +The little cares that fretted me, +I lost them yesterday +Among the fields above the sea, +Among the winds at play, +Among the lowing of the herds, +The rustling of the trees, +Among the singing of the birds, +The humming of the bees. + +The foolish fears of what might pass +I cast them all away +Among tile clover-scented grass, +Among the new-mown hay, +Among the hushing of the corn, +Where drowsy poppies nod, +Where ill thoughts die and good are born-- +Out in the fields of God. + +Unknown +[Has been erroneously attributed to Elizabeth +Barrett Browning and Louise Imogen Guiney] + + + + +ASPECTS OF THE PINES + +Tall, somber, grim, against the morning sky +They rise, scarce touched by melancholy airs, +Which stir the fadeless foliage dreamfully, +As if from realms of mystical despairs. + +Tall, somber, grim, they stand with dusky gleams +Brightening to gold within the woodland's core, +Beneath the gracious noontide's tranquil beams,-- +But the weird winds of morning sigh no more. + +A stillness, strange, divine, ineffable, +Broods round and o'er them in the wind's surcease, +And on each tinted copse and shimmering dell +Rests the mute rapture of deep hearted peace. + +Last, sunset comes--the solemn joy and might +Borne from the West when cloudless day declines-- +Low, flute-like breezes sweep the waves of light, +And, lifting dark green tresses of the pines, + +Till every lock is luminous, gently float, +Fraught with hale odors up the heavens afar, +To faint when twilight on her virginal throat +Wears for a gem the tremulous vesper star. + +Paul Hamilton Hayne [1830-1886] + + + + +UNDER THE LEAVES + +Oft have I walked these woodland paths, +Without the blessed foreknowing +That underneath the withered leaves +The fairest buds were growing. + +To-day the south-wind sweeps away +The types of autumn's splendor, +And shows the sweet arbutus flowers,-- +Spring's children, pure and tender. + +O prophet-flowers!--with lips of bloom, +Outvying in your beauty +The pearly tints of ocean shells,-- +Ye teach me faith and duty! + +Walk life's dark ways, ye seem to say, +With love's divine foreknowing +That where man sees but withered leaves, +God sees sweet flowers growing. + +Albert Laighton [1829-1887] + + + + +"ON WENLOCK EDGE" + +On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble; +His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves; +The gale, it plies the saplings double, +And thick on Severn snow the leaves. + +'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger +When Uricon the city stood: +'Tis the old wind in the old anger, +But then it threshed another wood. + +Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman +At yonder heaving hill would stare: +The blood that warms an English yeoman, +The thoughts that hurt him, they were there. + +There, like the wind through woods in riot, +Through him the gale of life blew high; +The tree of man was never quiet: +Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I. + +The gale, it plies the saplings double, +It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone: +To-day the Roman and his trouble +Are ashes under Uricon. + +Alfred Edward Housman [1859-1936] + + + + +"WHAT DO WE PLANT?" + +What do we plant when we plant the tree? +We plant the ship, which will cross the sea. +We plant the mast to carry the sails; +We plant the planks to withstand the gales-- +The keel, the keelson, the beam, the knee; +We plant the ship when we plant the tree. + +What do we plant when we plant the tree? +We plant the houses for you and me. +We plant the rafters, the shingles, the floors, +We plant the studding, the lath, the doors, +The beams and siding, all parts that be; +We plant the house when we plant the tree. + +What do we plant when we plant the tree? +A thousand things that we daily see; +We plant the spire that out-towers the crag, +We plant the staff for our country's flag, +We plant the shade, from the hot sun free; +We plant all these when we plant the tree. + +Henry Abbey [1842-1911] + + + + +THE TREE + +I love thee when thy swelling buds appear, +And one by one their tender leaves unfold, +As if they knew that warmer suns were near, +Nor longer sought to hide from winter's cold; +And when with darker growth thy leaves are seen +To veil from view the early robin's nest, +I love to lie beneath thy waving screen, +With limbs by summer's heat and toil oppressed; +And when the autumn winds have stripped thee bare, +And round thee lies the smooth, untrodden snow, +When naught is thine that made thee once so fair, +I love to watch thy shadowy form below, +And through thy leafless arms to look above +On stars that brighter beam when most we need their love. + +Jones Very [1813-1880] + + + + +THE BRAVE OLD OAK + +A song to the oak, the brave old oak, +Who hath ruled in the greenwood long; +Here's health and renown to his broad green crown, +And his fifty arms so strong. +There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down, +And the fire in the west fades out; +And he showeth his might on a wild midnight, +When the storms through his branches shout. + +Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak, +Who stands in his pride alone; +And still flourish he, a hale green tree, +When a hundred years are gone! +In the days of old, when the spring with cold +Had, brightened his branches gray, +Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet, +To gather the dew of May. +And on that day to the rebeck gay +They frolicked with lovesome swains; +They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid, +But the tree it still remains. + +He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes +Were a merry sound to hear, +When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small +Were filled with good English cheer. +Now gold hath sway we all obey, +And a ruthless king is he; +But he never shall send our ancient friend +To be tossed on the stormy sea. + +Henry Fothergill Chorley [1808-1872] + + + + +"THE GIRT WOAK TREE THAT'S IN THE DELL" + +The girt woak tree that's in the dell! +There's noo tree I do love so well; +Vor times an' times when I wer young, +I there've a-climbed, an' there've a-zwung, +An' picked the eacorns green, a-shed +In wrestlen storms vrom his broad head. +An' down below's the cloty brook +Where I did vish with line an' hook, +An' beat, in playsome dips and zwims, +The foamy stream, wi' white-skinned lim's. +An' there my mother nimbly shot +Her knitten-needles, as she zot +At evenen down below the wide +Woak's head, wi' father at her zide. +An' I've a-played wi' many a bwoy, +That's now a man an' gone awoy; +Zoo I do like noo tree so well +'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell. + +An' there, in leater years, I roved +Wi' thik poor maid I fondly loved,-- +The maid too feair to die so soon,-- +When evenen twilight, or the moon, +Cast light enough 'ithin the pleace +To show the smiles upon her feace, +Wi' eyes so clear's the glassy pool, +An' lips an' cheaks so soft as wool. +There han' in han', wi' bosoms warm, +Wi' love that burned but thought noo harm, +Below the wide-boughed tree we passed +The happy hours that went too vast; +An' though she'll never be my wife, +She's still my leaden star o' life. +She's gone: an' she've a-left to me +Her mem'ry in the girt woak tree; +Zoo I do love noo tree so well +'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell. + +An' oh! mid never ax nor hook +Be brought to spweil his steately look; +Nor ever roun' his ribby zides +Mid cattle rub ther heairy hides; +Nor pigs rout up his turf, but keep +His lwonesome sheade vor harmless sheep; +An' let en grow, an' let en spread, +An' let en live when I be dead. +But oh! if men should come an' vell +The girt woak tree that's in the dell, +An' build his planks 'ithin the zide +O' zome girt ship to plough the tide, +Then, life or death! I'd goo to sea, +A sailen wi' the girt woak tree: +An' I upon his planks would stand, +An' die a-fighten vor the land,-- +The land so dear,--the land so free,-- +The land that bore the girt woak tree; +Vor I do love noo tree so well +'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell. + +William Barnes [1801-1886] + + + + +TO THE WILLOW-TREE + +Thou art to all lost love the best, +The only true plant found, +Wherewith young men and maids distressed, +And left of love, are crowned. + +When once the lover's rose is dead, +Or laid aside forlorn: +Then willow-garlands 'bout the head +Bedewed with tears are worn. + +When with neglect, the lovers' bane, +Poor maids rewarded be +For their love lost, their only gain +Is but a wreath from thee. + +And underneath thy cooling shade, +When weary of the light, +The love-spent youth and love-sick maid +Come to weep out the night. + +Robert Herrick [1591-1674] + + + + +ENCHANTMENT + +The deep seclusion of this forest path,-- +O'er which the green boughs weave a canopy; +Along which bluet and anemone +Spread dim a carpet; where the Twilight hath +Her cool abode; and, sweet as aftermath, +Wood-fragrance roams,--has so enchanted me, +That yonder blossoming bramble seems to be +A Sylvan resting, rosy from her bath: +Has so enspelled me with tradition's dreams, +That every foam-white stream that, twinkling, flows, +And every bird that flutters wings of tan, +Or warbles hidden, to my fancy seems +A Naiad dancing to a Faun who blows +Wild woodland music on the pipes of Pan. + +Madison Cawein [1865-1914] + + + + +TREES + +I think that I shall never see +A poem lovely as a tree. + +A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed +Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; + +A tree that looks at God all day +And lifts her leafy arms to pray; + +A tree that may in summer wear +A nest of robins in her hair; + +Upon whose bosom snow has lain; +Who intimately lives with rain. + +Poems are made by fools like me, +But only God can make a tree. + +Joyce Kilmer [1886-1918] + + + + +THE HOLLY-TREE + +O reader! hast thou ever stood to see +The Holly-tree? +The eye that contemplates it well perceives +Its glossy leaves +Ordered by an Intelligence so wise +As might confound the Atheist's sophistries. + +Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen, +Wrinkled and keen; +No grazing cattle, through their prickly round, +Can reach to wound; +But, as they grow where nothing is to fear, +Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. + +I love to view these things with curious eyes, +And moralize; +And in this wisdom of the Holly-tree +Can emblem see +Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme,-- +One which may profit in the after-time. + +Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear +Harsh and austere; +To those who on my leisure would intrude, +Reserved and rude; +Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, +Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree. + +And should my youth--as youth is apt, I know,-- +Some harshness show, +All vain asperities I, day by day, +Would wear away, +Till the smooth temper of my age should be +Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree. + +And as, when all the summer trees are seen +So bright and green, +The Holly-leaves their fadeless hues display +Less bright than they; +But when the bare and wintry woods we see, +What then so cheerful as the Holly-tree?-- + +So, serious should my youth appear among +The thoughtless throng; +So would I seem, amid the young and gay, +More grave than they; +That in my age as cheerful I might be +As the green winter of the Holly-tree. + +Robert Southey [1774-1843] + + + + +THE PINE + +The elm lets fall its leaves before the frost, +The very oak grows shivering and sere, +The trees are barren when the summer's lost: +But one tree keeps its goodness all the year. + +Green pine, unchanging as the days go by, +Thou art thyself beneath whatever sky: +My shelter from all winds, my own strong pine, +'Tis spring, 'tis summer, still, while thou art mine. + +Augusta Webster [1837-1894] + + + + +"WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE" + +Woodman, spare that tree! +Touch not a single bough! +In youth it sheltered me, +And I'll protect it now. +'Twas my forefather's hand +That placed it near his cot; +There, woodman, let it stand, +Thy axe shall harm it not! + +That old familiar tree, +Whose glory and renown +Are spread o'er land and sea,-- +And wouldst thou hew it down? +Woodman, forbear thy stroke! +Cut not its earth-bound ties; +O, spare that aged oak, +Now towering to the skies! + +When but an idle boy +I sought its grateful shade; +In all their gushing joy +Here, too, my sisters played. +My mother kissed me here; +My father pressed my hand-- +Forgive this foolish tear, +But let that old oak stand! + +My heart-strings round thee cling, +Close as thy bark, old friend! +Here shall the wild-bird sing, +And still thy branches bend. +Old tree! the storm still brave! +And, woodman, leave the spot; +While I've a hand to save, +Thy axe shall harm it not. + +George Pope Morris [1802-1864] + + + + +THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION + +O leave this barren spot to me! +Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! +Though bush or floweret never grow +My dark unwarming shade below; +Nor summer bud perfume the dew +Of rosy blush, or yellow hue; +Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, +My green and glossy leaves adorn; +Nor murmuring tribes from me derive +Th' ambrosial amber of the hive; +Yet leave this barren spot to me: +Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! + +Thrice twenty summers I have seen +The sky grow bright, the forest green; +And many a wintry wind have stood +In bloomless, fruitless solitude, +Since childhood in my pleasant bower +First spent its sweet and sportive hour; +Since youthful lovers in my shade +Their vows of truth and rapture made, +And on my trunk's surviving frame +Carved many a long-forgotten name. +Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, +First breathed upon this sacred ground; +By all that Love has whispered here, +Or Beauty heard with ravished ear; +As Love's own altar honor me: +Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! + +Thomas Campbell [1777-1844] + + + + +THE POPLAR FIELD + +The poplars are felled; farewell to the shade; +And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade; +The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, +Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. + +Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view +Of my favorite field, and the bank where they grew; +And now in the grass behold they are laid, +And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade. + +The blackbird has fled to another retreat, +Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat; +And the scene where his melody charmed me before +Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. + +My fugitive years are all hasting away, +And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, +With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head, +Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. + +'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, +To muse on the perishing pleasures of man; +Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see, +Have a being less durable even than he. + +William Cowper [1731-1800] + + + + +THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE + +Come, let us plant the apple-tree. +Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; +Wide let its hollow bed be made; +There gently lay the roots, and there +Sift the dark mould with kindly care, +And press it o'er them tenderly, +As, round the sleeping infant's feet, +We softly fold the cradle-sheet; +So plant we the apple-tree. + +What plant we in this apple-tree? +Buds, which the breath of summer days +Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; +Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, +Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest; +We plant, upon the sunny lea, +A shadow for the noontide hour, +A shelter from the summer shower, +When we plant the apple-tree. + +What plant we in this apple-tree? +Sweets for a hundred flowery springs +To load the May-winds restless wings, +When, from the orchard-row, he pours +Its fragrance through our open doors; +A world of blossoms for the bee, +Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, +For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, +We plant with the apple-tree. + +What plant we in this apple-tree? +Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, +And redden in the August noon, +And drop, when gentle airs come by, +That fan the blue September sky, +While children come, with cries of glee, +And seek them where the fragrant grass +Betrays their bed to those who pass, +At the foot of the apple-tree. + +And when, above this apple-tree, +The winter stars are quivering bright, +And winds go howling through the night, +Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, +Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth, +And guests in prouder homes shall see, +Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine +And golden orange of the line, +The fruit of the apple-tree. + +The fruitage of this apple-tree +Winds and our flag of stripe and star +Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, +Where men shall wonder at the view, +And ask in what fair groves they grew; +And sojourners beyond the sea +Shall think of childhood's careless day, +And long, long hours of summer play, +In the shade of the apple-tree. + +Each year shall give this apple-tree +A broader flush of roseate bloom, +A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, +And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, +The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. +The years shall come and pass, but we +Shall hear no longer, where we lie, +The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, +In the boughs of the apple-tree. + +And time shall waste this apple-tree. +Oh, when its aged branches throw +Thin shadows on the ground below, +Shall fraud and force and iron will +Oppress the weak and helpless still? +What shall the tasks of mercy be, +Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears +Of those who live when length of years +Is wasting this little apple-tree? + +"Who planted this old apple-tree?" +The children of that distant day +Thus to some aged man shall say; +And, gazing on its mossy stem, +The gray-haired man shall answer them: +"A poet of the land was he, +Born in the rude but good old times; +'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes, +On planting the apple-tree." + +William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878] + + + + +OF AN ORCHARD + +Good is an Orchard, the Saint saith, +To meditate on life and death, +With a cool well, a hive of bees, +A hermit's grot below the trees. + +Good is an Orchard: very good, +Though one should wear no monkish hood. +Right good, when Spring awakes her flute, +And good in yellowing time of fruit. + +Very good in the grass to lie +And see the network 'gainst the sky, +A living lace of blue and green, +And boughs that let the gold between. + +The bees are types of souls that dwell +With honey in a quiet cell; +The ripe fruit figures goldenly +The soul's perfection in God's eye. + +Prayer and praise in a country home, +Honey and fruit: a man might come, +Fed on such meats, to walk abroad, +And in his Orchard talk with God. + +Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931] + + + + +AN ORCHARD AT AVIGNON + +The hills are white, but not with snow: +They are as pale in summer time, +For herb or grass may never grow +Upon their slopes of lime. + +Within the circle of the hills +A ring, all flowering in a round, +An orchard-ring of almond fills +The plot of stony ground. + +More fair than happier trees, I think, +Grown in well-watered pasture land +These parched and stunted branches, pink +Above the stones and sand. + +O white, austere, ideal place, +Where very few will care to come, +Where spring hath lost the waving grace +She wears for us at home! + +Fain would I sit and watch for hours +The holy whiteness of thy hills, +Their wreath of pale auroral flowers, +Their peace the silence fills. + +A place of secret peace thou art, +Such peace as in an hour of pain +One moment fills the amazed heart, +And never comes again. + +A. Mary F. Robinson [1857- + + + + +THE TIDE RIVER +From "The Water Babies" + +Clear and cool, clear and cool, +By laughing shallow and dreaming pool; +Cool and clear, cool and clear, +By shining shingle and foaming weir; +Under the crag where the ouzel sings, +And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings, +Undefiled, for the undefiled; +Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. + +Dank and foul, dank and foul, +By the smoky town in its murky cowl; +Foul and dank, foul and dank, +By wharf and sewer and slimy bank; +Darker and darker the farther I go, +Baser and baser the richer I grow; +Who dare sport with the sin-defiled? +Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child. + +Strong and free, strong and free, +The flood-gates are open, away to the sea. +Free and strong, free and strong, +Cleansing my streams as I hurry along, +To the golden sands, and the leaping bar, +And the taintless tide that awaits me afar. +As I lose myself in the infinite main, +Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again, +Undefiled, for the undefiled; +Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. + +Charles Kingsley [1819-1875] + + + + +THE BROOK'S SONG +From "The Brook" + +I come from haunts of coot and hern, +I make a sudden sally, +And sparkle out among the fern, +To bicker down a valley. + +By thirty hills I hurry down, +Or slip between the ridges, +By twenty thorps, a little town, +And half a hundred bridges. + +Till last by Philip's farm I flow +To join the brimming river, +For men may come and men may go, +But I go on for ever. + +I chatter over stony ways, +In little sharps and trebles, +I bubble into eddying bays, +I babble on the pebbles. + +With many a curve my banks I fret +By many a field and fallow, +And many a fairy foreland set +With willow-weed and mallow. + +I chatter, chatter, as I flow +To join the brimming river, +For men may come and men may go, +But I go on for ever. + +I wind about, and in and out, +With here a blossom sailing, +And here and there a lusty trout, +And here and there a grayling, + +And here and there a foamy flake +Upon me, as I travel +With many a silvery water-break +Above the golden gravel, + +And draw them all along, and flow +To join the brimming river, +For men may come and men may go, +But I go on for ever. + +I steal by lawns and grassy plots, +I slide by hazel covers; +I move the sweet forget-me-nots +That grow for happy lovers. + +I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, +Among my skimming swallows; +I make the netted sunbeam dance +Against my sandy shallows. + +I murmur under moon and stars +In brambly wildernesses; +I linger by my shingly bars; +I loiter round my cresses; + +And out again I curve and flow +To join the brimming river, +For men may come and men may go, +But I go on for ever. + +Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892] + + + + +ARETHUSA + +Arethusa arose +From her couch of snows +In the Acroceraunian mountains,-- +From cloud and from crag, +With many a jag, +Shepherding her bright fountains. +She leapt down the rocks +With her rainbow locks +Streaming among the streams; +Her steps paved with green +The downward ravine +Which slopes to the western gleams: +And gliding and springing, +She went, ever singing, +In murmurs as soft as sleep; +The Earth seemed to love her, +And Heaven smiled above her, +As she lingered towards the deep. + +Then Alpheus bold, +On his glacier cold, +With his trident the mountains strook, +And opened a chasm +In the rocks;--with the spasm +All Erymanthus shook. +And the black south wind +It unsealed behind +The urns of the silent snow, +And earthquake and thunder +Did rend in sunder +The bars of the springs below: +And the beard and the hair +Of the River-god were +Seen through the torrent's sweep, +As he followed the light +Of the fleet nymph's flight +To the brink of the Dorian deep. + +"Oh, save me! Oh, guide me! +And bid the deep hide me! +For he grasps me now by the hair!" +The loud Ocean heard, +To its blue depth stirred, +And divided at her prayer; +And under the water +The Earth's white daughter +Fled like a sunny beam; +Behind her descended, +Her billows, unblended +With the brackish Dorian stream. +Like a gloomy stain +On the emerald main, +Alpheus rushed behind,-- +As an eagle pursuing +A dove to its ruin +Down the streams of the cloudy wind. + +Under the bowers +Where the Ocean Powers +Sit on their pearled thrones; +Through the coral woods +Of the weltering floods, +Over heaps of unvalued stones; +Through the dim beams +Which amid the streams +Weave a network of colored light; +And under the caves +Where the shadowy waves +Are as green as the forest's night:-- +Outspeeding the shark, +And the swordfish dark,-- +Under the Ocean's foam, +And up through the rifts +Of the mountain clifts, +They passed to their Dorian home. + +And now from their fountains +In Enna's mountains, +Down one vale where the morning basks, +Like friends once parted +Grown single-hearted, +They ply their watery tasks. +At sunrise they leap +From their cradles steep +In the cave of the shelving hill; +At noontide they flow +Through the woods below +And the meadows of asphodel; +And at night they sleep +In the rocking deep +Beneath the Ortygian shore;-- +Like spirits that lie +In the azure sky. +When they love but live no more. + +Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822] + + + + +THE CATARACT OF LODORE + +"How does the water +Come down at Lodore?" +My little boy asked me +Thus, once on a time; +And moreover he tasked me +To tell him in rhyme. +Anon, at the word, +There first came one daughter, +And then came another, +To second and third +The request of their brother, +And to hear how the water +Comes down at Lodore, +With its rush and its roar, +As many a time +They had seen it before. +So I told them in rhyme, +For of rhymes I had store; +And 'twas in my vocation +For their recreation +That so I should sing; +Because I was Laureate +To them and the King. + +From its sources which well +In the tarn on the fell; +From its fountains +In the mountains, +Its rills and its gills; +Through moss and through brake, +It runs and it creeps +For a while, till it sleeps +In its own little lake. +And thence at departing, +Awakening and starting, +It runs through the reeds, +And away it proceeds, +Through meadow and glade, +In sun and in shade, +And through the wood-shelter, +Among crags in its flurry, +Helter-skelter, +Hurry-skurry. +Here it comes sparkling, +And there it lies darkling; +Now smoking and frothing +Its tumult and wrath in, +Till, in this rapid race +On which it is bent, +It reaches the place +Of its steep descent. + +The cataract strong +Then plunges along, +Striking and raging +As if a war raging +Its caverns and rocks among; +Rising and leaping, +Sinking and creeping, +Swelling and sweeping, +Showering and springing, +Flying and flinging, +Writhing and ringing, +Eddying and whisking, +Spouting and frisking, +Turning and twisting, +Around and around +With endless rebound: +Smiting and fighting, +A sight to delight in; +Confounding, astounding, +Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. + +Collecting, projecting, +Receding and speeding, +And shocking and rocking, +And darting and parting, +And threading and spreading, +And whizzing and hissing, +And dripping and skipping, +And hitting and splitting, +And shining and twining, +And rattling and battling, +And shaking and quaking, +And pouring and roaring, +And waving and raving, +And tossing and crossing, +And flowing and going, +And running and stunning, +And foaming and roaming, +And dinning and spinning, +And dropping and hopping, +And working and jerking, +And guggling and struggling, +And heaving and cleaving, +And moaning and groaning; + +And glittering and frittering, +And gathering and feathering, +And whitening and brightening, +And quivering and shivering, +And hurrying and skurrying, +And thundering and floundering; + +Dividing and gliding and sliding, +And falling and brawling and sprawling, +And driving and riving and striving, +And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, +And sounding and bounding and rounding, +And bubbling and troubling and doubling, +And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, +And clattering and battering and shattering; + +Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, +Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, +Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, +Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, +And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, +And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, +And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, +And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, +And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, +And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; +And so never ending, but always descending, +Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending +All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,-- +And this way the water comes down at Lodore. + +Robert Southey [1774-1843] + + + + +SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE + +Out of the hills of Habersham, +Down the valleys of Hall, +I hurry amain to reach the plain, +Run the rapid and leap the fall, +Split at the rock and together again, +Accept my bed, or narrow or wide, +And flee from folly on every side +With a lover's pain to attain the plain +Far from the hills of Habersham, +Far from the valleys of Hall. + +All down the hills of Habersham, +All through the valleys of Hall, +The rushes cried Abide, abide, +The wilful waterweeds held me thrall, +The laying laurel turned my tide, +The ferns and the fondling grass said Stay, +The dewberry dipped for to work delay, +And the little reeds sighed Abide, abide, +Here in the hills of Hahersham, +Here in the valleys of Hall. + +High o'er the hills of Habersham, +Veiling the valleys of Hall, +The hickory told me manifold +Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall +Wrought me her shadowy self to hold, +The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, +Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign, +Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold +Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, +These glades in the valleys of Hall. + +And oft in the hills of Habersham, +And oft in the valleys of Hall, +The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone +Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, +And many a luminous jewel lone +--Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist, +Ruby, garnet and amethyst-- +Made lures with the lights of streaming stone +In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, +In the beds of the valleys of Hall. + +But oh, not the hills of Habersham, +And oh, not the valleys of Hall +Avail: I am fain for to water the plain. +Downward the voices of Duty call-- +Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main. +The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn, +And a myriad flowers mortally yearn, +And the lordly main from beyond the plain +Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, +Calls through the valleys of Hall. + +Sidney Lanier [1842-1881] + + + + +"FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON" + +Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes; +Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; +My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, +Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. + +Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen, +Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, +Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear; +I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. + +How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, +Far marked with the courses of clear-winding rill; +There daily I wander as noon rises high, +My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. + +How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, +Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; +There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, +The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. + +Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, +And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; +How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, +As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave. + +Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes; +Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; +My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, +Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. + +Robert Burns [1759-1796] + + + + +CANADIAN BOAT-SONG +Written On The River St. Lawrence + +Faintly as tolls the evening chime +Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. +Soon as the woods on shore look dim, +We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. +Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, +The rapids are near and the daylight's past. + +Why should we yet our sail unfurl? +There is not a breath the blue wave to curl, +But, when the wind blows off the shore, +Oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. +Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, +The rapids are near and the daylight's past. + +Utawas' tide! this trembling moon +Shall see us float over thy surges soon. +Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, +Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs. +Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, +The rapids are near and the daylight's past. + +Thomas Moore [1779-1852] + + + + +THE MARSHES OF GLYNN + +Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and woven +With intricate shades of the vines that myriad-cloven +Clamber the forks of the multiform boughs,-- +Emerald twilights,-- +Virginal shy lights, +Wrought of the leaves to allure to the whisper of vows, +When lovers pace timidly down through the green colonnades +Of the dim sweet woods, of the dear dark woods, +Of the heavenly woods and glades, +That run to the radiant marginal sand-beach within +The wide sea-marshes of Glynn;-- +Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noonday fire,-- +Wildwood privacies, closets of lone desire, +Chamber from chamber parted with wavering arras of leaves,-- +Cells for the passionate pleasure of prayer to the soul that grieves, +Pure with a sense of the passing of saints through the wood, +Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with good;-- + +O braided dusks of the oak and woven shades of the vine, +While the riotous noonday sun of the June-day long did shine +Ye held me fast in your heart and I held you fast in mine; +But now when the noon is no more, and riot is rest, +And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of the West, +And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle doth seem +Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream,-- +Ay, now, when my soul all day hath drunken the soul of the oak, +And my heart is at ease from men, and the wearisome sound of the stroke +Of the scythe of time and the trowel of trade is low, +And belief overmasters doubt, and I know that I know, +And my spirit is grown to a lordly great compass within, +That the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn +Will work me no fear like the fear they have wrought me of yore +When length was fatigue, and when breadth was but bitterness sore, +And when terror and shrinking and dreary unnamable pain +Drew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain,-- + +Oh, now, unafraid, I am fain to face +The vast sweet visage of space. +To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I am drawn, +Where the gray beach glimmering runs, as a belt of the dawn, +For a mete and a mark +To the forest-dark:-- + So: +Affable live-oak, leaning low,-- +Thus--with your favor--soft, with a reverent hand, +(Not lightly touching your person, Lord of the land!) +Bending your beauty aside, with a step I stand +On the firm-packed sand, + Free +By a world of marsh that borders a world of sea. +Sinuous southward and sinuous northward the shimmering band +Of the sand-beach fastens the fringe of the marsh to the folds + of the land. +Inward and outward to northward and southward the beach-lines + linger and curl +As a silver wrought garment that clings to and follows the firm sweet + limbs of a girl. +Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into sight, +Softly the sand-beach wavers away to a dim gray looping of light. +And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods stands high? +The world lies east: how ample, the marsh and the sea and the sky! +A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad in the blade, +Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or a shade, +Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain, +To the terminal blue of the main. + +Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea? +Somehow my soul seems suddenly free +From the weighing of fate and the sad discussion of sin, +By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn. + +Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free +Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea! +Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun, +Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won +God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain +And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain. + +As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod, +Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God: +I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies +In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and the skies: +By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod +I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God: +Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within +The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn. + +And the sea lends large, as the marsh: lo, out of his plenty the sea +Pours fast: full soon the time of the flood-tide must be: +Look how the grace of the sea doth go +About and about through the intricate channels that flow +Here and there, +Everywhere, +Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low-lying lanes, +And the marsh is meshed with a million veins, +That like as with rosy and silvery essences flow +In the rose-and-silver evening glow. +Farewell, my lord Sun! +The creeks overflow: a thousand rivulets run +'Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of the marsh-grass stir; +Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr; +Passeth, and all is still; and the currents cease to run; +And the sea and the marsh are one. + +How still the plains of the waters be! +The tide is in his ecstasy; +The tide is at his highest height: +And it is night. + +And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters of sleep +Roll in on the souls of men, +But who will reveal to our waking ken +The forms that swim and the shapes that creep +Under the waters of sleep? +And I would I could know what swimmeth below when the tide comes in +On the length and the breadth of the marvelous marshes of Glynn. + +Sidney Lanier [1842-1881] + + + + +THE TROSACHS + +There's not a nook within this solemn Pass +But were an apt confessional for one +Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, +That Life is but a tale of morning grass +Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase +That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes +Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, +Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass +Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, +If from a golden perch of aspen spray +(October's workmanship to rival May) +The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast +That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, +Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest! + +William Wordsworth [1700-1850] + + + + +HYMN +Before Sunrise, In The Vale Of Chamouni + +Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star +In his steep course? So long he seems to pause +On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc! +The Arve and Arveiron at thy base +Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form, +Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, +How silently! Around thee and above +Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, +An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, +As with a wedge! But when I look again, +It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, +Thy habitation from eternity! +O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, +Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, +Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer +I worshiped the Invisible alone. + +Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, +So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, +Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, +Yea, with my Life and Life's own secret joy: +Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, +Into the mighty vision passing--there, +As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven! + +Awake, my soul! not only passive praise +Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, +Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake, +Voice of sweet song! Awake, my Heart, awake! +Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn. + +Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale! +O, struggling with the darkness all the night, +And visited all night by troops of stars, +Or when they climb the sky or when they sink: +Companion of the morning-star at dawn, +Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn +Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise! +Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth? +Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? +Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? + +And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! +Who called you forth from night and utter death, +From dark and icy caverns called you forth, +Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, +For ever shattered and the same for ever? +Who gave you your invulnerable life, +Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, +Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? +And who commanded (and the silence came), +Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? + +Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow +Adown enormous ravines slope amain-- +Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, +And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! +Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! +Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven +Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun +Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers +Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?-- +God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, +Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! +God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! +Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! +And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, +And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God! + +Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! +Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! +Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm! +Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! +Ye signs and wonders of the elements! +Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! + +Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, +Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, +Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, +Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast-- +Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou +That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low +In adoration, upward from thy base +Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, +Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, +To rise before me--Rise, O ever rise! +Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth! +Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, +Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, +Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, +And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, +Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. + +Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834] + + + + +THE PEAKS + +In the night +Gray, heavy clouds muffled the valleys, +And the peaks looked toward God alone. +"O Master, that movest the wind with a finger, +Humble, idle, futile peaks are we. +Grant that we may run swiftly across the world +To huddle in worship at Thy feet." + +In the morning +A noise of men at work came through the clear blue miles, +And the little black cities were apparent. +"O Master, that knowest the meaning of raindrops, +Humble, idle, futile peaks are we. +Give voice to us, we pray, O Lord, +That we may sing Thy goodness to the sun." + +In the evening +The far valleys were sprinkled with tiny lights. +"O Master, +Thou that knowest the value of kings and birds, +Thou hast made us humble, idle, futile peaks. +Thou only needest eternal patience; +We bow to Thy wisdom, O Lord-- +Humble, idle, futile peaks." + +In the night +Gray, heavy clouds muffled the valleys, +And the peaks looked toward God alone. + +Stephen Crane [1871-1900] + + + + +KINCHINJUNGA +Next To Everest Highest Of Mountains + +O white priest of Eternity, around +Whose lofty summit veiling clouds arise +Of the earth's immemorial sacrifice +To Brahma, in whose breath all lives and dies; +O hierarch enrobed in timeless snows, +First-born of Asia, whose maternal throes +Seem changed now to a million human woes, +Holy thou art and still! Be so, nor sound +One sigh of all the mystery in thee found. + +For in this world too much is overclear, +Immortal ministrant to many lands, +From whose ice altars flow, to fainting sands, +Rivers that each libation poured expands. +Too much is known, O Ganges-giving sire: +Thy people fathom life, and find it dire; +Thy people fathom death, and, in it, fire +To live again, though in Illusion's sphere, +Behold concealed as grief is in a tear. + +Wherefore continue, still enshrined, thy rites, +Though dark Tibet, that dread ascetic, falls, +In strange austerity, whose trance appals,-- +Before thee, and a suppliant on thee calls. +Continue still thy silence high and sure, +That something beyond fleeting may endure-- +Something that shall forevermore allure +Imagination on to mystic flights +Wherein alone no wing of evil lights. + +Yea, wrap thy awful gulfs and acolytes +Of lifted granite round with reachless snows. +Stand for eternity, while pilgrim rows +Of all the nations envy thy repose. +Ensheath thy swart sublimities, unscaled; +Be that alone on earth which has not failed; +Be that which never yet has yearned nor ailed, +But since primeval Power upreared thy heights +Has stood above all deaths and all delights. + +And though thy loftier brother shall be king, +High-priest be thou to Brahma unrevealed, +While thy white sanctity forever sealed +In icy silence leaves desire congealed. +In ghostly ministrations to the sun, +And to the mendicant stars and the moon-nun, +Be holy still, till east to west has run, +And till no sacrificial suffering +On any shrine is left to tell life's sting. + +Cale Young Rice [1872- + + + + +THE HILLS + +Mussoorie and Chakrata Hill +The Jumna flows between +And from Chakrata's hills afar +Mussoorie's vale is seen. +The mountains sing together +In cloud or sunny weather, +The Jumna, through their tether, +Foams white or plunges green. + +The mountains stand and laugh at Time, +They pillar up the Earth, +They watch the ages pass, they bring +New centuries to birth. +They feel the daybreak shiver, +They see Time passing ever, +As flows the Jumna River +As breaks the white sea-surf. + +They drink the sun in a golden cup +And in blue mist the rain; +With a sudden brightening they meet the lightning +Or ere it strikes the plain. +They seize the sullen thunder +And take it up for plunder +And cast it down and under, +And up and back again.... + +... Here, in the hills of ages +I met thee face to face; +O mother Earth, O lover Earth, +Look down on me with grace. +Give me thy passion burning, +And thy strong patience, turning +All wrath to power, all yearning +To truth, thy dwelling-place. + +Julian Grenfell [1888-1915] + + + + +HEMLOCK MOUNTAIN + +By orange grove and palm-tree, we walked the southern shore, +Each day more still and golden than was the day before. +That calm and languid sunshine! How faint it made us grow +To look on Hemlock Mountain when the storm hangs low! + +To see its rocky pastures, its sparse but hardy corn, +The mist roll off its forehead before a harvest morn; +To hear the pine-trees crashing across its gulfs of snow +Upon a roaring midnight when the whirlwinds blow. + +Tell not of lost Atlantis, or fabled Avalon; +The olive, or the vineyard, no winter breathes upon; +Away from Hemlock Mountain we could not well forego, +For all the summer islands where the gulf tides flow. + +Sarah N. Cleghorn [1876- + + + + +SUNRISE ON RYDAL WATER + +Come down at dawn from windless hills +Into the valley of the lake, +Where yet a larger quiet fills +The hour, and mist and water make +With rocks and reeds and island boughs +One silence and one element, +Where wonder goes surely as once +It went +By Galilean prows. + +Moveless the water and the mist, +Moveless the secret air above, +Hushed, as upon some happy tryst +The poised expectancy of love; +What spirit is it that adores +What mighty presence yet unseen? +What consummation works apace +Between +These rapt enchanted shores? + +Never did virgin beauty wake +Devouter to the bridal feast +Than moves this hour upon the lake +In adoration to the east. +Here is the bride a god may know, +The primal will, the young consent, +Till surely upon the appointed mood Intent +The god shall leap--and, lo, + +Over the lake's end strikes the sun-- +White, flameless fire; some purity +Thrilling the mist, a splendor won +Out of the world's heart. Let there be +Thoughts, and atonements, and desires; +Proud limbs, and undeliberate tongue; +Where now we move with mortal care Among +Immortal dews and fires. + +So the old mating goes apace, +Wind with the sea, and blood with thought, +Lover with lover; and the grace +Of understanding comes unsought +When stars into the twilight steer, +Or thrushes build among the may, +Or wonder moves between the hills, +And day +Comes up on Rydal mere. + +John Drinkwater [1882- + + + + +THE DESERTED PASTURE + +I love the stony pasture +That no one else will have. +The old gray rocks so friendly seem, +So durable and brave. + +In tranquil contemplation +It watches through the year, +Seeing the frosty stars arise, +The slender moons appear. + +Its music is the rain-wind, +Its choristers the birds, +And there are secrets in its heart +Too wonderful for words. + +It keeps the bright-eyed creatures +That play about its walls, +Though long ago its milking herds +Were banished from their stalls. + +Only the children come there, +For buttercups in May, +Or nuts in autumn, where it lies +Dreaming the hours away. + +Long since its strength was given +To making good increase, +And now its soul is turned again +To beauty and to peace. + +There in the early springtime +The violets are blue, +And adder-tongues in coats of gold +Are garmented anew. + +There bayberry and aster +Are crowded on its floors, +When marching summer halts to praise +The Lord of Out-of-doors. + +And there October passes +In gorgeous livery,-- +In purple ash, and crimson oak, +And golden tulip tree. + +And when the winds of winter +Their bugle blasts begin, +The snowy hosts of heaven arrive +To pitch their tents therein. + +Bliss Carman [1861-1929] + + + + +TO MEADOWS + +Ye have been fresh and green; +Ye have been filled with flowers; +And ye the walks have been +Where maids have spent their hours. + +Ye have beheld how they +With wicker arks did come +To kiss and bear away +The richer cowslips home. + +Ye've heard them sweetly sing, +And seen them in a round, +Each virgin, like a Spring, +With honeysuckles crowned. + +But now we see none here +Whose silvery feet did tread, +And with dishevelled hair +Adorned this smoother mead. + +Like unthrifts, having spent +Your stock, and needy grown, +Ye're left here to lament +Your poor estates, alone. + +Robert Herrick [1591-1674] + + + + +THE CLOUD + +I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers +From the seas and the streams; +I bear light shade for the leaves when laid +In their noonday dreams. +From my wings are shaken the dews that waken +The sweet buds every one, +When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, +As she dances about the sun. +I wield the flail of the lashing hail, +And whiten the green plains under; +And then again I dissolve it in rain, +And laugh as I pass in thunder. + +I sift the snow on the mountains below, +And their great pines groan aghast; +And all the night 'tis my pillow white, +While I sleep in the arms of the blast. +Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers +Lightning my pilot sits; +In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, +It struggles and howls at fits. + +Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, +This pilot is guiding me, +Lured by the love of the Genii that move +In the depths of the purple sea; +Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, +Over the lakes and the plains, +Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, +The Spirit he loves remains; +And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, +Whilst he is dissolving in rains. + +The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, +And his burning plumes outspread, +Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, +When the morning star shines dead, +As on the jag of a mountain-crag, +Which an earthquake rocks and swings, +An eagle alit one moment may sit +In the light of its golden wings. +And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, +Its ardors of rest and of love, +And the crimson pall of eve may fall +From the depth of heaven above, +With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, +As still as a brooding dove. + +That orbed maiden with white fire laden, +Whom mortals call the Moon, +Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, +By the midnight breezes strewn; +And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, +Which only the angels hear, +May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, +The Stars peep behind her and peer. +And I laugh to see them whirl and flee +Like a swarm of golden bees, +When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, +Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, +Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, +Are each paved with the moon and these. + +I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone, +And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl; +The volcanoes are dim, and the Stars reel and swim, +When the Whirlwinds my banner unfurl. +From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, +Over a torrent sea, +Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof; +The mountains its columns be. +The triumphal arch through which I march, +With hurricane, fire, and snow, +When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair, +Is the million-colored bow; +The Sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, +While the moist Earth was laughing below. + +I am the daughter of Earth and Water, +And the nursling of the Sky: +I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; +I change, but I cannot die. +For after the rain, when with never a stain +The pavilion of heaven is bare, +And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams +Build up the blue dome of air, +I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, +And out of the caverns of rain, +Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb +I arise, and unbuild it again. + +Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822] + + + + +APRIL RAIN + +It is not raining rain for me, +It's raining daffodils; +In every dimpled drop I see +Wild flowers on the hills. + +The clouds of gray engulf the day +And overwhelm the town; +It is not raining rain to me, +It's raining roses down. + +It is not raining rain to me, +But fields of clover bloom, +Where any buccaneering bee +Can find a bed and room. + +A health unto the happy, +A fig for him who frets! +It is not raining rain to me, +It's raining violets. + +Robert Loveman [1864-1923] + + + + +SUMMER INVOCATION + +O gentle, gentle summer rain, +Let not the silver lily pine, +The drooping lily pine in vain +To feel that dewy touch of thine,-- +To drink thy freshness once again, +O gentle, gentle summer rain! + +In heat the landscape quivering lies; +The cattle pant beneath the tree; +Through parching air and purple skies +The earth looks up, in vain, for thee; +For thee--for thee, it looks in vain +O gentle, gentle summer rain. + +Come thou, and brim the meadow streams, +And soften all the hills with mist, +O falling dew! from burning dreams +By thee shall herb and flower be kissed, +And Earth shall bless thee yet again, +O gentle, gentle summer rain. + +William Cox Bennett [1820-1895] + + + + +APRIL RAIN + +The April rain, the April rain, +Comes slanting down in fitful showers, +Then from the furrow shoots the grain, +And banks are edged with nestling flowers; +And in gray shaw and woodland bowers +The cuckoo through the April rain +Calls once again. + +The April sun, the April sun, +Glints through the rain in fitful splendor, +And in gray shaw and woodland dun +The little leaves spring forth and tender +Their infant hands, yet weak and slender, +For warmth towards the April sun, +One after one. + +And between shower and shine hath birth +The rainbow's evanescent glory; +Heaven's light that breaks on mist of earth! +Frail symbol of our human story, +It flowers through showers where, looming hoary, +The rain-clouds flash with April mirth, +Like Life on earth. + +Mathilde Blind [1841-1896] + + + + +TO THE RAINBOW + +Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky +When storms prepare to part, +I ask not proud Philosophy +To teach me what thou art;-- + +Still seem; as to my childhood's sight, +A midway station given +For happy spirits to alight +Betwixt the earth and heaven. + +Can all that Optics teach unfold +Thy form to please me so, +As when I dreamt of gems and gold +Hid in thy radiant bow? + +When Science from Creation's face +Enchantment's veil withdraws, +What lovely visions yield their place +To cold material laws! + +And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, +But words of the Most High, +Have told why first thy robe of beams +Was woven in the sky. + +When o'er the green, undeluged earth +Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, +How came the world's gray fathers forth +To watch thy sacred sign! + +And when its yellow luster smiled +O'er mountains yet untrod, +Each mother held aloft her child +To bless the bow of God. + +Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, +The first-made anthem rang +On earth, delivered from the deep, +And the first poet sang. + +Nor ever shall the Muse's eye +Unraptured greet thy beam; +Theme of primeval prophecy, +Be still the prophet's theme! + +The earth to thee her incense yields, +The lark thy welcome sings, +When, glittering in the freshened fields, +The snowy mushroom springs. + +How glorious is thy girdle, cast +O'er mountain, tower, and town, +Or mirrored in the ocean vast, +A thousand fathoms down! + +As fresh in yon horizon dark, +As young thy beauties seem, +As when the eagle from the ark +First sported in thy beam: + +For, faithful to its sacred page, +Heaven still rebuilds thy span; +Nor lets the type grow pale with age, +That first spoke peace to man. + +Thomas Campbell [1777-1844] + + + + + + + + + + + +GREEN THINGS GROWING + + + + + + + + + + +MY GARDEN + +A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot! +Rose plot, +Fringed pool, +Ferned grot-- +The veriest school +Of peace; and yet the fool +Contends that God is not-- +Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool? +Nay, but I have a sign: +'Tis very sure God walks in mine. + +Thomas Edward Brown [1830-1897] + + + + +THE GARDEN + +How vainly men themselves amaze +To win the palm, the oak, or bays, +And their incessant labors see +Crowned from some single herb or tree, +Whose short and narrow-verged shade +Does prudently their toils upbraid; +While all the flowers and 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 amorous 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! where'er your barks I wound, +No name shall but your own he found. + +When we have run our passions' 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 wondrous life is 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, +Ensnared with flowers, 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 prepared for longer flight, +Waves in its plumes the various light. + +Such was that happy Garden-state +While man there walked 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 skilful gardener drew +Of flowers and herbs this dial new! +Where, from above, the milder sun +Does through a fragrant zodiac run: +And, as it works, the industrious bee +Computes its time as well as we. +How could such sweet and wholesome hours +Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers + +Andrew Marvell [1621-1678] + + + + +A GARDEN +Written After The Civil Wars + +See how the flowers, as at parade, +Under their colors stand displayed: +Each regiment in order grows, +That of the tulip, pink, and rose. +But when the vigilant patrol +Of stars walks round about the pole, +Their leaves, that to the stalks are curled, +Seem to their staves the ensigns furled. +Then in some flower's beloved hut +Each bee, as sentinel, is shut, +And sleeps so too; but if once stirred, +She runs you through, nor asks the word. +O thou, that dear and happy Isle, +The garden of the world erewhile, +Thou Paradise of the four seas +Which Heaven planted us to please, +But, to exclude the world, did guard +With watery if not flaming sword; +What luckless apple did we taste +To make us mortal and thee waste! +Unhappy! shall we never more +That sweet militia restore, +When gardens only had their towers, +And all the garrisons were flowers; +When roses only arms might bear, +And men did rosy garlands wear? + +Andrew Marvell [1621-1678] + + + + +A GARDEN SONG + +Here, in this sequestered close +Bloom the hyacinth and rose; +Here beside the modest stock +Flaunts the flaring hollyhock; +Here, without a pang, one sees +Ranks, conditions, and, degrees. + +All the seasons run their race +In this quiet resting-place; +Peach, and apricot, and fig +Here will ripen, and grow big; +Here is store and overplus,-- +More had not Alcinous! + +Here, in alleys cool and green, +Far ahead the thrush is seen; +Here along the southern wall +Keeps the bee his festival; +All is quiet else--afar +Sounds of toil and turmoil are. + +Here be shadows large and long; +Here be spaces meet for song; +Grant, O garden-god, that I, +Now that none profane is nigh,-- +Now that mood and moment please, +Find the fair Pierides! + +Austin Dobson [1840-1921] + + + + +"IN GREEN OLD GARDENS" + +In green old gardens, hidden away +From sight of revel and sound of strife, +Where the bird may sing out his soul ere he die, +Nor fears for the night, so he lives his day; +Where the high red walls, which are growing gray +With their lichen and moss embroideries, +Seem sadly and sternly to shut out life, +Because it is often as red as they; + +Where even the bee has time to glide +(Gathering gayly his honey's store) +Right to the heart of the old-world flowers-- +China-asters and purple stocks, +Dahlias and tall red hollyhocks, +Laburnums raining their golden showers, +Columbines prim of the folded core, +And lupins, and larkspurs, and "London pride"; + +Where the heron is waiting amongst the reeds, +Grown tame in the silence that reigns around, +Broken only, now and then, +By shy woodpecker or noisy jay, +By the far-off watch-dog's muffled bay; +But where never the purposeless laughter of men, +Or the seething city's murmurous sound +Will float up over the river-weeds. + +Here may I live what life I please, +Married and buried out of sight,-- +Married to pleasure, and buried to pain,-- +Hidden away amongst scenes like these, +Under the fans of the chestnut trees; +Living my child-life over again, +With the further hope of a fallen delight, +Blithe as the birds and wise as the bees. + +In green old gardens, hidden away +From sight of revel and sound of strife,-- +Here have I leisure to breathe and move, +And to do my work in a nobler way; +To sing my songs, and to say my say; +To dream my dreams, and to love my love; +To hold my faith, and to live my life, +Making the most of its shadowy day. + +Violet Fane [1843-1905] + + + + +A BENEDICTINE GARDEN + +Through all the wind-blown aisles of May, +Faint bells of perfume swing and fall. +Within this apple-petalled wall +(A gray east, flecked with rosy day) +The pink laburnum lays her cheek +In married, matchless, lovely bliss, +Against her golden mate, to seek +His airy kiss. + +Tulips, in faded splendor drest, +Brood o'er their beds, a slumbrous gloom. +Dame Peony, red and ripe with bloom, +Swells the silk housing of her breast. +The Lilac, drunk to ecstasy, +Breaks her full flagons on the air, +And drenches home the reeling bee +Who found her fair. + +O cowled Legion of the Cross, +What solemn pleasantry is thine, +Vowing to seek the life divine +Through abnegation and through loss! +Men but make monuments of sin +Who walk the earth's ambitious round; +Thou hast the richer realm within +This garden ground. + +No woman's voice takes sweeter note +Than chanting of this plumed choir. +No jewel ever wore the fire +Hung on a dewdrop's quivering throat. +A ruddier pomp and pageantry +Than world's delight o'erfleets thy sod; +And choosing this, thou hast in fee +The peace of God. + +Alice Brown [1857- + + + + +AN AUTUMN GARDEN + +My tent stands in a garden +Of aster and golden-rod, +Tilled by the rain and the sunshine, +And sown by the hand of God,-- +An old New England pasture +Abandoned to peace and time, +And by the magic of beauty +Reclaimed to the sublime. + +About it are golden woodlands +Of tulip and hickory; +On the open ridge behind it +You may mount to a glimpse of sea,-- +The far-off, blue, Homeric +Rim of the world's great shield, +A border of boundless glamor +For the soul's familiar field. + +In purple and gray-wrought lichen +The boulders lie in the sun; +Along its grassy footpath, +The white-tailed rabbits run. +The crickets work and chirrup +Through the still afternoon; +And the owl calls at twilight +Under the frosty moon. + +The odorous wild grape clambers +Over the tumbling wall, +And through the autumnal quiet +The chestnuts open and fall. +Sharing time's freshness and fragrance, +Part of the earth's great soul, +Here man's spirit may ripen +To wisdom serene and whole. + +Shall we not grow with the asters?-- +Never reluctant nor sad, +Not counting the cost of being, +Living to dare and be glad. +Shall we not lift with the crickets +A chorus of ready cheer, +Braving the frost of oblivion, +Quick to be happy here? + +The deep red cones of the sumach +And the woodbine's crimson sprays +Have bannered the common roadside +For the pageant of passing days. +These are the oracles Nature +Fills with her holy breath, +Giving them glory of color, +Transcending the shadow of death. + +Here in the sifted sunlight +A spirit seems to brood +On the beauty and worth of being, +In tranquil, instinctive mood; +And the heart, athrob with gladness +Such as the wise earth knows, +Wells with a full thanksgiving +For the gifts that life bestows: + +For the ancient and virile nurture +Of the teeming primordial ground, +For the splendid gospel of color, +The rapt revelations of sound; +For the morning-blue above us +And the rusted gold of the fern, +For the chickadee's call to valor +Bidding the faint-heart turn; + +For fire and running water, +Snowfall and summer rain; +For sunsets and quiet meadows, +The fruit and the standing grain; +For the solemn hour of moonrise +Over the crest of trees, +When the mellow lights are kindled +In the lamps of the centuries. + +For those who wrought aforetime, +Led by the mystic strain +To strive for the larger freedom, +And live for the greater gain; +For plenty and peace and playtime, +The homely goods of earth, +And for rare immaterial treasures +Accounted of little worth; + +For art and learning and friendship, +Where beneficent truth is supreme, +Those everlasting cities +Built on the hills of dream; +For all things growing and goodly +That foster this life, and breed +The immortal flower of wisdom +Out of the mortal seed. + +But most of all for the spirit +That can not rest nor bide +In stale and sterile convenience, +Nor safety proven and tried, +But still inspired and driven, +Must seek what better may be, +And up from the loveliest garden +Must climb for a glimpse of sea. + +Bliss Carman [1861-1929] + + + + +UNGUARDED + +The Mistress of the Roses +Is haply far away, +And through her garden closes +What strange intruders stray. + +See on its rustic spindles +The sundrop's amber fire! +And the goldenrod enkindles +The embers on its spire. + +The dodder's shining tangle +From the meadow brook steals in, +Where in this shadowed angle +The pale lace-makers spin. + +Here's Black-Eyed Susan weeping +Into exotic air, +And Bouncing Bet comes creeping +Back to her old parterre. + +Now in this pleasant weather-- +So sweetly reconciled-- +They dwell and dream together, +The kin of court and wild. + +Ada Foster-Murray [1857-1936] + + + + +THE DESERTED GARDEN + +I mind me in the days departed, +How often underneath the sun, +With childish bounds I used to run +To a garden long deserted. + +The beds and walks were vanished quite; +And wheresoe'er had struck the spade, +The greenest grasses Nature laid +To sanctify her right. + +I called the place my wilderness; +For no one entered there but I; +The sheep looked in, the grass to espy, +And passed it ne'ertheless. + +The trees were interwoven wild, +And spread their boughs enough about +To keep both sheep and shepherd out, +But not a happy child. + +Adventurous joy it was for me! +I crept beneath the boughs, and found +A circle smooth of mossy ground +Beneath a poplar tree. + +Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, +Bedropt with roses waxen-white, +Well satisfied with dew and light +And careless to be seen. + +Long years ago, it might befall, +When all the garden flowers were trim, +The grave old gardener prided him +On these the most of all. + +Some lady, stately overmuch, +Here moving with a silken noise, +Has blushed beside them at the voice +That likened her to such. + +Or these, to make a diadem, +She often may have plucked and twined, +Half-smiling as it came to mind, +That few would look at them. + +Oh, little thought that lady proud, +A child would watch her fair white rose, +When buried lay her whiter brows, +And silk was changed for shroud! + +Nor thought that gardener, (full of scorns +For men unlearned and simple phrase,) +A child would bring it all its praise +By creeping through the thorns! + +To me upon my low moss seat, +Though never a dream the roses sent, +Of science or love's compliment, +I ween they smelt as sweet. + +It did not move my grief to see +The trace of human step departed: +Because the garden was deserted, +The blither place for me! + +Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken +Hath childhood 'twixt the sun and sward; +We draw the moral afterward, +We feel the gladness then. + +And gladdest hours for me did glide +In silence at the rose-tree wall: +A thrush made gladness musical +Upon the other side. + +Nor he nor I did e'er incline +To peck or pluck the blossoms white; +How should I know but roses might +Lead lives as glad as mine? + +To make my hermit-home complete, +I brought clear water from the spring +Praised in its own low murmuring, +And cresses glossy wet. + +And so, I thought, my likeness grew +(Without the melancholy tale) +To "gentle hermit of the dale," +And Angelina too. + +For oft I read within my nook +Such minstrel stories; till the breeze +Made sounds poetic in the trees, +And then I shut the book. + +If I shut this wherein I write, +I hear no more the wind athwart +Those trees, nor feel that childish heart +Delighting in delight. + +My childhood from my life is parted, +My footstep from the moss which drew +Its fairy circle round: anew +The garden is deserted. + +Another thrush may there rehearse +The madrigals which sweetest are; +No more for me! myself afar +Do sing a sadder verse. + +Ah me, ah me! when erst I lay +In that child's-nest so greenly wrought, +I laughed unto myself and thought +"The time will pass away." + +And still I laughed, and did not fear +But that, whene'er was passed away +The childish time, some happier play +My womanhood would cheer. + +I knew the time would pass away, +And yet, beside the rose-tree wall, +Dear God, how seldom, if at all, +Did I look up to pray! + +The time is past; and now that grows +The cypress high among the trees, +And I behold white sepulchres +As well as the white rose,-- + +When graver, meeker thoughts are given, +And I have learnt to lift my face, +Reminded how earth's greenest place +The color draws from heaven,-- + +It something saith for earthly pain, +But more for Heavenly promise free, +That I who was, would shrink to be +That happy child again. + +Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861] + + + + +A FORSAKEN GARDEN + +In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland, +At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee, +Walled round with rocks as an inland island, +The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. +A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses +The steep square slope of the blossomless bed +Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses +Now lie dead. + +The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken, +To the low last edge of the long lone land. +If a step should sound or a word be spoken, +Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's hand? +So long have the gray, bare walks lain guestless, +Through branches and briers if a man make way, +He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, restless +Night and day. + +The dense, hard passage is blind and stifled +That crawls by a track none turn to climb +To the strait waste place that the years have rifled +Of all but the thorns that are touched not of Time. +The thorns he spares when the rose is taken; +The rocks are left when he wastes the plain. +The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken, +These remain. + +Not a flower to be pressed of the foot that falls not; +As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry; +From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not, +Could she call, there were never a rose to reply. +Over the meadows that blossom and wither +Rings but the note of a sea-bird's song; +Only the sun and the rain come hither +All year long. + +The sun burns sere and the rain dishevels +One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath. +Only the wind here hovers and revels +In a round where life seems barren as death. +Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping, +Haply, of lovers none ever will know, +Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping +Years ago. + +Heart handfast in heart as they stood, "Look thither," +Did he, whisper? "Look forth from the flowers to the sea; +For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither, +And men that love lightly may die--but we?" +And the same wind sang and the same waves whitened, +And or ever the garden's last petals were shed, +In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had lightened, +Love was dead. + +Or they loved their life through, and then went whither? +And were one to the end--but what end who knows? +Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither, +As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose. +Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them? +What love was ever as deep as a grave? +They are loveless now as the grass above them +Or the wave. + +All are at one now, roses and lovers, +Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea. +Not a breath of the time that has been hovers +In the air now soft with a summer to be. +Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafter +Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep, +When, as they that are free now of weeping and laughter, +We shall sleep. + +Here death may deal not again forever; +Here change may come not till all change end. +From the graves they have made they shall rise up never, +Who have left naught living to ravage and rend. +Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing, +While the sun and the rain live, these shall be; +Till a last wind's breath, upon all these blowing, +Roll the sea. + +Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble, +Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink, +Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble +The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink; +Here now in his triumph where all things falter, +Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread, +As a god self-slain on his own strange altar, +Death lies dead. + +Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909] + + + + +GREEN THINGS GROWING + +O the green things growing, the green things growing, +The faint sweet smell of the green things growing! +I should like to live, whether I smile or grieve, +Just to watch the happy life of my green things growing. + +O the fluttering and the pattering of those green things growing! +How they talk each to each, when none of us are knowing; +In the wonderful white of the weird moonlight +Or the dim dreamy dawn when the cocks are crowing. + +I love, I love them so--my green things growing! +And I think that they love me, without false showing; +For by many a tender touch, they comfort me so much, +With the soft mute comfort of green things growing. + +And in the rich store of their blossoms glowing +Ten for one I take they're on me bestowing: +Oh, I should like to see, if God's will it may be, +Many, many a summer of my green things growing! + +But if I must be gathered for the angel's sowing, +Sleep out of sight awhile, like the green things growing, +Though dust to dust return, I think I'll scarcely mourn, +If I may change into green things growing. + +Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887] + + + + +A CHANTED CALENDAR +From "Balder" + +First came the primrose, +On the bank high, +Like a maiden looking forth +From the window of a tower +When the battle rolls below, +So looked she, +And saw the storms go by. + +Then came the wind-flower +In the valley left behind, +As a wounded maiden, pale +With purple streaks of woe, +When the battle has rolled by +Wanders to and fro, +So tottered she, +Dishevelled in the wind. + +Then came the daisies, +On the first of May, +Like a bannered show's advance +While the crowd runs by the way, +With ten thousand flowers about them they came trooping + through the fields. + +As a happy people come, +So came they, +As a happy people come +When the war has rolled away, +With dance and tabor, pipe and drum, +And all make holiday. + +Then came the cowslip, +Like a dancer in the fair, +She spread her little mat of green, +And on it danced she. +With a fillet bound about her brow, +A fillet round her happy brow, +A golden fillet round her brow, +And rubies in her hair. + +Sydney Dobell [1824-1874] + + + + +FLOWERS + +Spare full well, in language quaint and olden +One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, +When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, +Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. + +Stars they are, wherein we read our history, +As astrologers and seers of eld; +Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, +Like the burning stars, which they beheld. + +Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, +God hath written in those stars above; +But not less in the bright flowerets under us +Stands the revelation of his love. + +Bright and glorious is that revelation, +Writ all over this great world of ours; +Making evident our own creation, +In these stars of earth, these golden flowers. + +And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, +See, alike in stars and flowers, a part +Of the self-same, universal being, +Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. + +Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, +Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, +Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, +Buds that open only to decay; + +Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, +Flaunting gayly in the golden light; +Large desires, with most uncertain issues, +Tender wishes, blossoming at night! + +These in flowers and men are more than seeming; +Workings are they of the self-same powers +Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, +Seeth in himself and in the flowers. + +Everywhere about us are they glowing, +Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born; +Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, +Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn; + +Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, +And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, +But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, +In the centre of his brazen shield; + +Not alone in meadows and green alleys, +On the mountain-top, and by the brink +Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, +Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink; + +Not alone in her vast dome of glory, +Not on graves of bird and beast alone, +But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, +On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; + +In the cottage of the rudest peasant; +In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, +Speaking of the Past unto the Present, +Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers; + +In all places, then, and in all seasons, +Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, +Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, +How akin they are to human things. + +And with childlike, credulous affection, +We behold their tender buds expand; +Emblems of our own great resurrection, +Emblems of the bright and better land. + +Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882] + + + + +FLOWERS + +I will not have the mad Clytie, +Whose head is turned by the sun; +The tulip is a courtly quean, +Whom, therefore, I will shun: +The cowslip is a country wench, +The violet is a nun;-- +But I will woo the dainty rose, +The queen of every one. + +The pea is but a wanton witch, +In too much haste to wed, +And clasps her rings on every hand; +The wolfsbane I should dread; +Nor will I dreary rosemarye, +That always mourns the dead; +But I will woo the dainty rose, +With her cheeks of tender red. + +The lily is all in white, like a saint, +And so is no mate for me; +And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush, +She is of such low degree; +Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, +And the broom's betrothed to the bee;-- +But I will plight with the dainty rose, +For fairest of all is she. + +Thomas Hood [1799-1845] + + + + +A CONTEMPLATION UPON FLOWERS + +Brave flowers--that I could gallant it like you, +And be as little vain! +You come abroad, and make a harmless show, +And to your beds of earth again. +You are not proud: you know your birth: +For your embroidered garments are from earth. + +You do obey your months and times, but I +Would have it ever Spring: +My fate would know no Winter, never die, +Nor think of such a thing. +O that I could my bed of earth but view +And smile, and look as cheerfully as you! + +O teach me to see Death and not to fear, +But rather to take truce! +How often have I seen you at a bier, +And there look fresh and spruce! +You fragrant flowers! then teach me, that my breath +Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death. + +(?) Henry King [1592-1669] + + + + +ALMOND BLOSSOM + +Blossom of the almond trees, +April's gift to April's bees, +Birthday ornament of Spring, +Flora's fairest daughterling; +Coming when no flowerets dare +Trust the cruel outer air; +When the royal kingcup bold +Dares not don his coat of gold; +And the sturdy black-thorn spray +Keeps his silver for the May;-- +Coming when no flowerets would, +Save thy lowly sisterhood, +Early violets; blue and white, +Dying for their love of light;-- +Almond blossom, sent to teach us +That the spring days soon will reach us, +Lest, with longing over-tried, +We die, as the violets died;-- +Blossom, clouding all the tree +With thy crimson broidery, +Long before a leaf of green +On the bravest bough is seen;-- +Ah! when winter winds are swinging +All thy red bells into ringing, +With a bee in every bell, +Almond bloom, we greet thee well. + +Edwin Arnold [1832-1904] + + + + +WHITE AZALEAS + +Azaleas--whitest of white! +White as the drifted snow +Fresh-fallen out of the night, +Before the coming glow. +Tinges the morning light; +When the light is like the snow, +White, +And the silence is like the light: +Light, and silence, and snow,-- +All--white! + +White! not a hint +Of the creamy tint +A rose will hold, +The whitest rose, in its inmost fold; +Not a possible blush; +White as an embodied hush; +A very rapture of white; +A wedlock Of silence and light: +White, white as the wonder undefiled +Of Eve just wakened in Paradise; +Nay, white as the angel of a child +That looks into God's own eyes! + +Harriet McEwen Kimball [1834-1917] + + + + +BUTTERCUPS + +There must be fairy miners +Just underneath the mould, +Such wondrous quaint designers +Who live in caves of gold. + +They take the shining metals, +And beat them into shreds, +And mould them into petals +To make the flowers' heads. + +Sometimes they melt the flowers +To tiny seeds like pearls, +And store them up in bowers +For little boys and girls. + +And still a tiny fan turns +Above a forge of gold, +To keep, with fairy lanterns, +The world from growing old. + +Wilfrid Thorley [1878- + + + + +THE BROOM FLOWER + +Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom, +The ancient poet sung it, +And dear it is on summer days +To lie at rest among it. + +I know the realms where people say +The flowers have not their fellow; +I know where they shine out like suns, +The crimson and the yellow. + +I know where ladies live enchained +In luxury's silken fetters, +And flowers as bright as glittering gems +Are used for written letters. + +But ne'er was flower so fair as this, +In modern days or olden; +It groweth on its nodding stem +Like to a garland golden. + +And all about my mother's door +Shine out its glittering bushes, +And down the glen, where clear as light +The mountain-water gushes. + +Take all the rest; but give me this, +And the bird that nestles in it; +I love it, for it loves the Broom-- +The green and yellow linnet. + +Well call the rose the queen of flowers, +And boast of that of Sharon, +Of lilies like to marble cups, +And the golden rod of Aaron: + +I care not how these flowers may be +Beloved of man and woman; +The Broom it is the flower for me, +That groweth on the common. + +Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom, +The ancient poet sung it, +And dear it is on summer days +To lie at rest among it. + +Mary Howitt [1799-1888] + + + + +THE SMALL CELANDINE + +There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine, +That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain; +And, the first moment that the sun may shine, +Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again! + +When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, +Or blasts the green field and the trees distressed, +Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm, +In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest. + +But lately, one rough day, this Flower I passed +And recognized it, though an altered form, +Now standing forth an offering to the blast, +And buffeted at will by rain and storm. + +I stopped, and said with inly-muttered voice, +"It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold: +This neither is its courage, nor its choice, +But its necessity in being old. + +"The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; +It cannot help itself in its decay; +Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue." +And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray. + +To be a Prodigal's Favorite--then, worse truth, +A Miser's Pensioner--behold our lot! +O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth +Age might but take the things Youth needed not! + +William Wordsworth [1770-1850] + + + + +TO THE SMALL CELANDINE + +Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, +Let them live upon their praises; +Long as there's a sun that sets, +Primroses will have their glory; +Long as there are violets, +They will have a place in story: +There's a flower that shall be mine, +'Tis the little Celandine. + +Eyes of some men travel far +For the finding of a star; +Up and down the heavens they go, +Men that keep a mighty rout! +I'm as great as them, I trow, +Since the day I found thee out. +Little Flower!--I'll make a stir, +Like a sage astronomer. + +Modest, yet withal an Elf +Bold, and lavish of thyself; +Since we needs must first have met, +I have seen thee, high and low, +Thirty years or more, and yet +'Twas a face I did not know; +Thou hast now, go where I may, +Fifty greetings in a day. + +Ere a leaf is on a bush, +In the time before the thrush +Has a thought about her nest, +Thou wilt come with half a call, +Spreading out thy glossy breast +Like a careless Prodigal; +Telling tales about the sun, +When we've little warmth, or none. + +Poets, vain men in their mood! +Travel with the multitude: +Never heed them; I aver +That they all are wanton wooers; +But the thrifty cottager, +Who stirs little out of doors, +Joys to spy thee near her home; +Spring is coming, Thou art come! + +Comfort have thou of thy merit, +Kindly, unassuming Spirit! +Careless of thy neighborhood, +Thou dost show thy pleasant face +On the moor, and in the wood, +In the lane;--there's not a place, +Howsoever mean it be, +But 'tis good enough for thee. + +Ill befall the yellow flowers, +Children of the flaring hours! +Buttercups, that will be seen, +Whether we will see or no; +Others, too, of lofty mien; +They have done as worldings do, +Taken praise that should be thine, +Little, humble Celandine! + +Prophet of delight and mirth, +Ill-requited upon earth; +Herald of a mighty band, +Of a joyous train ensuing, +Serving at my heart's command, +Tasks that are no tasks renewing, +I will sing, as dost behove, +Hymns in praise of what I love! + +William Wordsworth [1770-1850] + + + + +FOUR-LEAF CLOVER + +I know a place where the sun is like gold, +And the cherry blossoms burst with snow, +And down underneath is the loveliest nook, +Where the four-leaf clovers grow. + +One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith, +And one is for love, you know, +And God put another in for luck,-- +If you search, you will find where they grow. + +But you must have hope, and you must have faith, +You must love and be strong--and so, +If you work, if you wait, you will find the place +Where the four-leaf clovers grow. + +Ella Higginson [1862- + + + + +SWEET CLOVER + +Within what weeks the melilot +Gave forth its fragrance, I, a lad, +Or never knew or quite forgot, +Save that 'twas while the year is glad. + +Now know I that in bright July +It blossoms; and the perfume fine +Brings back my boyhood, until I +Am steeped in memory as with wine. + +Now know I that the whole year long, +Though Winter chills or Summer cheers, +It writes along the weeks its song, +Even as my youth sings through my years. + +Wallace Rice [1859- + + + + +"I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD" + +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 in the milky way, +They stretched in never-ending line +Along the margin of a bay: +Ten thousand saw I at a glance, +Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. + +The waves beside them danced; but they +Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: +A poet could not but be gay, +In such a jocund company: +I gazed--and gazed--but little thought +What wealth the show to me had brought: + +For oft, when on my couch I lie +In vacant or in pensive mood, +They flash upon that inward eye +Which is the bliss of solitude; +And then my heart with pleasure fills, +And dances with the daffodils. + +William Wordsworth [1770-1850] + + + + +TO DAFFODILS + +Fair Daffodils, 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. + +Robert Herrick [1591-1674] + + + + +TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY +On Turing One Down With The Plough, In April 1786 + +Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, +Thou's met me in an evil hour; +For I maun crush amang the stoure +Thy slender stem: +To spare thee now is past my power, +Thou bonny gem. + +Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet, +The bonny lark, companion meet, +Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, +Wi' speckled breast, +When upward-springing, blithe, to greet +The purpling east! + +Cauld blew the bitter-biting north +Upon thy early, humble birth; +Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth +Amid the storm, +Scarce reared above the parent earth +Thy tender form. + +The flaunting flowers our gardens yield +High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield; +But thou, beneath the random bield +O' clod, or stane, +Adorns the histie stibble-fleld, +Unseen, alane. + +There, in thy scanty mantle clad, +Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, +Thou lifts thy unassuming head +In humble guise; +But now the share uptears thy bed, +And low thou lies! + +Such is the fate of artless maid, +Sweet floweret of the rural shade! +By love's simplicity betrayed, +And guileless trust, +Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid +Low i' the dust. + +Such is the fate of simple bard, +On life's rough ocean luckless starred! +Unskillful he to note the card +Of prudent lore, +Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, +And whelm him o'er! + +Such fate to suffering worth is given, +Who long with wants and woes has striven, +By human pride or cunning driven +To misery's brink, +Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, +He, ruined, sink! + +Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, +That fate is thine--no distant date; +Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, +Full on thy bloom, +Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight +Shall be thy doom. + +Robert Burns [1759-1796] + + + + +A FIELD FLOWER + +There is a flower, a little flower +With silver crest and golden eye, +That welcomes every changing hour, +And weathers every sky. + +The prouder beauties of the field +In gay but quick succession shine; +Race after race their honors yield, +They flourish and decline. + +But this small flower, to Nature dear, +While moons and stars their courses run, +Wreathes the whole circle of the year, +Companion of the Sun. + +It smiles upon the lap of May, +To sultry August spreads its charms, +Lights pale October on his way, +And twines December's arms. + +The purple heath and golden broom +On moory mountains catch the gale; +O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, +The violet in the vale. + +But this bold floweret climbs the hill, +Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, +Plays on the margin of the rill, +Peeps round the fox's den. + +Within the garden's cultured round +It shares the sweet carnation's bed; +And blooms on consecrated ground +In honor of the dead. + +The lambkin crops its crimson gem; +The wild bee murmurs on its breast; +The blue-fly bends its pensile stem +Light o'er the skylark's nest. + +'Tis Flora's page,--in every place, +In every season, fresh and fair; +It opens with perennial grace, +And blossoms everywhere. + +On waste and woodland, rock and plain, +Its humble buds unheeded rise; +The Rose has but a summer reign; +The Daisy never dies! + +James Montgomery [1771-1854] + + + + +TO DAISIES, NOT TO SHUT SO SOON + +Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed night +Has not as yet begun +To make a seizure on the light, +Or to seal up the sun. + +No marigolds yet closed are, +No shadows great appear; +Nor doth the early shepherd's star +Shine like a spangle here. + +Stay but till my Julia close +Her life-begetting eye, +And let the whole world then dispose +Itself to live or die. + +Robert Herrick [1591-1674] + + + + +DAISIES + +Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune +I saw the white daisies go down to the sea, +A host in the sunshine, an army in June, +The people God sends us to set our heart free. + +The bobolinks rallied them up from the dell, +The orioles whistled them out of the wood; +And all of their saying was, "Earth, it is well!" +And all of their dancing was, "Life, thou art good!" + +Bliss Carman [1861-1929] + + + + +TO THE DAISY + +With little here to do or see +Of things that in the great world be, +Daisy! again I talk to thee, +For thou art worthy: +Thou unassuming common-place +Of Nature, with that homely face, +And yet with something of a grace, +Which love makes for thee! + +Oft on the dappled turf at ease, +I sit, and play with similes, +Loose types of things through all degrees, +Thoughts of thy raising: +And many a fond and idle name +I give to thee, for praise or blame, +As is the humor of the game, +While I am gazing. + +A nun demure, of lowly port; +Or sprightly maiden of love's court, +In thy simplicity the sport +Of all temptations; +A queen in crown of rubies dressed +A starveling in a scanty vest; +Are all, as seem to suit thee best, +Thy appellations. + +A little Cyclops, with one eye +Staring to threaten and defy-- +That thought comes next--and instantly +The freak is over. +The shape will vanish,--and behold! +A silver shield with boss of gold, +That spreads itself, some fairy bold +In fight to cover. + +I see thee glittering from afar;-- +And then thou art a pretty star; +Not quite so fair as many are +In heaven above thee! +Yet like a star, with glittering crest, +Self-poised in air, thou seem'st to rest;-- +May peace come never to his nest +Who shall reprove thee! + +Bright Flower! for by that name at last, +When all my reveries are past, +I call thee, and to that cleave fast, +Sweet silent creature! +That breath'st with me in sun and air, +Do thou, as thou art wont, repair +My heart with gladness, and a share +Of thy meek nature! + +William Wordsworth [1770-1850] + + + + +TO DAISIES + +Ah, drops of gold in whitening flame +Burning, we know your lovely name-- +Daisies, that little children pull! +Like all weak things, over the strong +Ye do not know your power for wrong, +And much abuse your feebleness. +Daisies, that little children pull, +As ye are weak, be merciful! +O hide your eyes! they are to me +Beautiful insupportably. +Or be but conscious ye are fair, +And I your loveliness could bear, +But, being fair so without art, +Ye vex the silted memories of my heart! + +As a pale ghost yearning strays +With sundered gaze, +'Mid corporal presences that are +To it impalpable--such a bar +Sets you more distant than the morning-star. +Such wonder is on you, and amaze, +I look and marvel if I be +Indeed the phantom, or are ye? +The light is on your innocence +Which fell from me. +The fields ye still inhabit whence +My world-acquainted treading strays, +The country where I did commence; +And though ye shine to me so near, +So close to gross and visible sense,-- +Between us lies impassable year on year. + +To other time and far-off place +Belongs your beauty: silent thus, +Though to other naught you tell, +To me your ranks are rumorous +Of an ancient miracle. +Vain does my touch your petals graze, +I touch you not; and though ye blossom here, +Your roots are fast in alienated days. +Ye there are anchored, while Time's stream +Has swept me past them: your white ways +And infantile delights do seem +To look in on me like a face, +Dead and sweet, come back through dream, +With tears, because for old embrace +It has no arms. + +These hands did toy, +Children, with you, when I was child, +And in each other's eyes we smiled: +Not yours, not yours the grievous-fair +Apparelling +With which you wet mine eyes; you wear, +Ah me, the garment of the grace +I wove you when I was a boy; +O mine, and not the year's your stolen Spring! +And since ye wear it, +Hide your sweet selves! I cannot bear it. +For when ye break the cloven earth +With your young laughter and endearment, +No blossomy carillon 'tis of mirth +To me; I see my slaughtered joy +Bursting its cerement. + +Francis Thompson [1859?-1907] + + + + +TO THE DANDELION + +Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way, +Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, +First pledge of blithesome May, +Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold, +High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they +An Eldorado in the grass have found, +Which not the rich earth's ample round +May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me +Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. + +Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow +Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, +Nor wrinkled the lean brow +Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease; +'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now +To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, +Though most hearts never understand +To take it at God's value, but pass by +The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. + +Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; +To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; +The eyes thou givest me +Are in the heart, and heed not space or time: +Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee +Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment +In the white lily's breezy tent, +His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first +From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. + +Then think I of deep shadows on the grass, +Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, +Where, as the breezes pass, +The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, +Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, +Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue +That from the distance sparkle through +Some woodland gap, and of a sky above, +Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. + +My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee; +The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, +Who, from the dark old tree +Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, +And I, secure in childish piety, +Listened as if I heard an angel sing +With news from heaven, which he could bring +Fresh every day to my untainted ears +When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. + +How like a prodigal doth nature seem, +When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! +Thou teachest me to deem +More sacredly of every human heart, +Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam +Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, +Did we but pay the love we owe, +And with a child's undoubting wisdom look +On all these living pages of God's book. + +James Russell Lowell [1819-1891] + + + + +DANDELION + +At dawn, when England's childish tongue +Lisped happy truths, and men were young, +Her Chaucer, with a gay content +Hummed through the shining fields, scarce bent +By poet's foot, and, plucking, set, +All lusty, sunny, dewy-wet, +A dandelion in his verse, +Like the first gold in childhood's purse. + +At noon, when harvest colors die +On the pale azure of the sky, +And dreams through dozing grasses creep +Of winds that are themselves asleep, +Rapt Shelley found the airy ghost +Of that bright flower the spring loves most, +And ere one silvery ray was blown +From its full disk made it his own. + +Now from the stubble poets glean +Scant flowers of thought; the Muse would wean +Her myriad nurslings, feeding them +On petals plucked from a dry stem. +For one small plumule still adrift, +The wind-blown dandelion's gift, +The fields once blossomy we scour +Where the old poets plucked the flower. + +Annie Rankin Annan [1848-1925] + + + + +THE DANDELIONS + +Upon a showery night and still, +Without a sound of warning, +A trooper band surprised the hill, +And held it in the morning. + +We were not waked by bugle-notes, +No cheer our dreams invaded, +And yet, at dawn, their yellow coats +On the green slopes paraded. + +We careless folk the deed forgot; +Till one day, idly walking, +We marked upon the self-same spot +A crowd of veterans talking. + +They shook their trembling heads and gray +With pride and noiseless laughter; +When, well-a-day! they blew away, +And ne'er were heard of after! + +Helen Gray Cone [1859-1934] + + + + +TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN + +Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, +And colored with the heaven's own blue, +That openest when the quiet light +Succeeds the keen and frosty night, + +Thou comest not when violets lean +O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, +Or columbines, in purple dressed, +Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. + +Thou waitest late and com'st alone, +When woods are bare and birds are flown, +And frost and shortening days portend +The aged year is near his end. + +Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye +Look through its fringes to the sky, +Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall +A flower from its cerulean wall. + +I would that thus, when I shall see +The hour of death draw near to me, +Hope, blossoming within my heart, +May look to heaven as I depart. + +William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878] + + + + +GOLDENROD + +When the wayside tangles blaze +In the low September sun, +When the flowers of Summer days +Droop and wither, one by one, +Reaching up through bush and brier, +Sumptuous brow and heart of fire, +Flaunting high its wind-rocked plume, +Brave with wealth of native bloom,-- +Goldenrod! + +When the meadow, lately shorn, +Parched and languid, swoons with pain, +When her life-blood, night and morn, +Shrinks in every throbbing vein, +Round her fallen, tarnished urn +Leaping watch-fires brighter burn; +Royal arch o'er Autumn's gate, +Bending low with lustrous weight,-- +Goldenrod! + +In the pasture's rude embrace, +All o'errun with tangled vines, +Where the thistle claims its place, +And the straggling hedge confines, +Bearing still the sweet impress +Of unfettered loveliness, +In the field and by the wall, +Binding, clasping, crowning all,-- +Goldenrod! + +Nature lies disheveled pale, +With her feverish lips apart,-- +Day by day the pulses fail, +Nearer to her bounding heart; +Yet that slackened grasp doth hold +Store of pure and genuine gold; +Quick thou comest, strong and free, +Type of all the wealth to be,-- +Goldenrod! + +Elaine Goodale Eastman [1863- + + + + +LESSONS FROM THE GORSE + +Mountain gorses, ever-golden, +Cankered not the whole year long! +Do ye teach us to be strong, +Howsoever pricked and holden, +Like your thorny blooms, and so +Trodden on by rain and snow, +Up the hill-side of this life, as bleak as where ye grow? + +Mountain blossoms, shining blossoms, +Do ye teach us to be glad +When no summer can be had, +Blooming in our inward bosoms? +Ye whom God preserveth still, +Set as lights upon a hill, +Tokens to the wintry earth that Beauty liveth still! + +Mountain gorses, do ye teach us +From that academic chair +Canopied with azure air, +That the wisest word man reaches +Is the humblest he can speak? +Ye, who live on mountain peak, +Yet live low along the ground, beside the grasses meek! + +Mountain gorses, since Linnaeus +Knelt beside you on the sod, +For your beauty thanking God,-- +For your teaching, ye should see us +Bowing in prostration new! +Whence arisen,--if one or two +Drops be on our cheeks--O world, they are not tears but dew. + +Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861] + + + + +THE VOICE OF THE GRASS + +Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; +By the dusty roadside, +On the sunny hillside, +Close by the noisy brook, +In every shady nook, +I come creeping, creeping everywhere. + +Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere; +All round the open door, +Where here sit the aged poor; +Here where the children play, +In the bright and merry May, +I come creeping, creeping everywhere. + +Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; +In the noisy city street +My pleasant face you'll meet, +Cheering the sick at heart +Toiling his busy part,-- +Silently creeping, creeping everywhere. + +Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; +You cannot see me coming, +Nor hear my low sweet humming; +For in the starry night, +And the glad morning light, +I come quietly creeping everywhere. + +Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; +More welcome than the flowers +In summer's pleasant hours; +The gentle cow is glad, +And the merry bird not sad, +To see me creeping, creeping everywhere. + +Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; +When you're numbered with the dead +In your still and narrow bed, +In the happy spring I'll come +And deck your silent home,-- +Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. + +Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; +My humble song of praise +Most joyfully I raise +To Him at whose command +I beautify the land, +Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. + +Sarah Roberts Boyle [1812-1869] + + + + +A SONG THE GRASS SINGS + +The violet is much too shy, +The rose too little so; +I think I'll ask the buttercup +If I may be her beau. + +When winds go by, I'll nod to her +And she will nod to me, +And I will kiss her on the cheek +As gently as may be. + +And when the mower cuts us down, +Together we will pass, +I smiling at the buttercup, +She smiling at the grass. + +Charles G. Blanden [1857- + + + + +THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE + +Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, +Hid in this silent, dull retreat, +Untouched thy honied blossoms blow, +Unseen thy little branches greet: +No roving foot shall crush thee here, +No busy hand provoke a tear. + +By Nature's self in white arrayed, +She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, +And planted here the guardian shade, +And sent soft waters murmuring by; +Thus quietly thy summer goes, +Thy days declining to repose. + +Smit with those charms, that must decay, +I grieve to see your future doom; +They died--nor were those flowers more gay, +The flowers that did in Eden bloom; +Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power +Shall leave no vestige of this flower. + +From morning suns and evening dews +At first thy little being came; +If nothing once, you nothing lose, +For when you die you are the same; +The space between is but an hour, +The frail duration of a flower. + +Philip Freneau [1752-1832] + + + + +THE IVY GREEN + +Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green, +That creepeth o'er ruins old! +Of right choice food are his meals I ween, +In his cell so lone and cold. +The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, +To pleasure his dainty whim; +And the mouldering dust that years have made +Is a merry meal for him. +Creeping where no life is seen, +A rare old plant is the Ivy green. + +Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, +And a staunch old heart has he. +How closely he twineth, how tight he clings +To his friend the huge Oak Tree! +And slily he traileth along the ground, +And his leaves he gently waves, +As he joyously hugs and crawleth round +The rich mould of dead men's graves. +Creeping where grim death has been, +A rare old plant is the Ivy green. + +Whole ages have fled and their works decayed, +And nations have scattered been; +But the stout old Ivy shall never fade, +From its hale and hearty green. +The brave old plant, in its lonely days, +Shall fatten upon the past: +For the stateliest building man can raise +Is the Ivy's food at last. +Creeping on, where time has been, +A rare old plant is the Ivy green. + +Charles Dickens [1812-1870] + + + + +YELLOW JESSAMINE + +In tangled wreaths, in clustered gleaming stars, +In floating, curling sprays, +The golden flower comes shining through the woods +These February days; +Forth go all hearts, all hands, from out the town, +To bring her gayly in, +This wild, sweet Princess of far Florida-- +The yellow jessamine. + +The live-oaks smile to see her lovely face +Peep from the thickets; shy, +She hides behind the leaves her golden buds +Till, bolder grown, on high +She curls a tendril, throws a spray, then flings +Herself aloft in glee, +And, bursting into thousand blossoms, swings +In wreaths from tree to tree. + +The dwarf-palmetto on his knees adores +This Princess of the air; +The lone pine-barren broods afar and sighs, +"Ah! come, lest I despair;" +The myrtle-thickets and ill-tempered thorns +Quiver and thrill within, +As through their leaves they feel the dainty touch +Of yellow jessamine. + +The garden-roses wonder as they see +The wreaths of golden bloom, +Brought in from the far woods with eager haste +To deck the poorest room, +The rich man's house, alike; the loaded hands +Give sprays to all they meet, +Till, gay with flowers, the people come and go, +And all the air is sweet. + +The Southern land, well weary of its green +Which may not fall nor fade, +Bestirs itself to greet the lovely flower +With leaves of fresher shade; +The pine has tassels, and the orange-trees +Their fragrant work begin: +The spring has come--has come to Florida, +With yellow jessamine. + +Constance Fenimore Woolson [1840-1894] + + + + +KNAP WEED + +By copse and hedgerow, waste and wall, +He thrusts his cushions red; +O'er burdock rank, o'er thistles tall, +He rears his hardy head: +Within, without, the strong leaves press, +He screens the mossy stone, +Lord of a narrow wilderness, +Self-centred and alone. + +He numbers no observant friends, +He soothes no childish woes, +Yet nature nurtures him, and tends +As duly as the rose; +He drinks the blessed dew of heaven, +The wind is in his ears, +To guard his growth the planets seven +Swing in their airy spheres. + +The spirits of the fields and woods +Throb in his sturdy veins: +He drinks the secret, stealing floods, +And swills the volleying rains: +And when the bird's note showers and breaks +The wood's green heart within, +He stirs his plumy brow and wakes +To draw the sunlight in. + +Mute sheep that pull the grasses soft +Crop close and pass him by, +Until he stands alone, aloft, +In surly majesty. +No fly so keen, no bee so bold, +To pierce that knotted zone; +He frowns as though he guarded gold, +And yet he garners none. + +And so when autumn winds blow late, +And whirl the chilly wave, +He bows before the common fate, +And drops beside his grave. +None ever owed him thanks or said +"A gift of gracious heaven." +Down in the mire he droops his head; +Forgotten, not forgiven. + +Smile on, brave weed! let none inquire +What made or bade thee rise: +Toss thy tough fingers high and higher +To flout the drenching skies. +Let others toil for others' good, +And miss or mar their own; +Thou hast brave health and fortitude +To live and die alone! + +Arthur Christopher Benson [1862-1925] + + + + +MOLY + +The root is hard to loose +From hold of earth by mortals; but God's power +Can all things do. 'Tis black, but bears a flower +As white as milk. +--Chapman's Homer + +Traveler, pluck a stem of moly, +If thou touch at Circe's isle,-- +Hermes' moly, growing solely +To undo enchanter's wile! +When she proffers thee her chalice,-- +Wine and spices mixed with malice,-- +When she smites thee with her staff, +To transform thee, do thou laugh! +Safe thou art if thou but bear +The least leaf of moly rare. +Close it grows beside her portal, +Springing from a stock immortal,-- +Yes! and often has the Witch +Sought to tear it from its niche; +But to thwart her cruel will +The wise God renews it still. +Though it grows in soil perverse, +Heaven hath been its jealous nurse, +And a flower of snowy mark +Springs from root and sheathing dark; +Kingly safeguard, only herb +That can brutish passion curb! +Some do think its name should be +Shield-Heart, White Integrity. +Traveler, pluck a stem of moly, +If thou touch at Circe's isle,-- +Hermes' moly, growing solely +To undo enchanter's wile! + +Edith M. Thomas [1854-1925] + + + + +THE MORNING-GLORY + +Was it worth while to paint so fair +Thy every leaf--to vein with faultless art +Each petal, taking the boon light and air +Of summer so to heart? + +To bring thy beauty unto perfect flower, +Then, like a passing fragrance or a smile, +Vanish away, beyond recovery's power-- +Was it, frail bloom, worth while? + +Thy silence answers: "Life was mine! +And I, who pass without regret or grief, +Have cared the more to make my moment fine, +Because it was so brief. + +"In its first radiance I have seen +The sun!--why tarry then till comes the night? +I go my way, content that I have been +Part of the morning light!" + +Florence Earle Coates [1850-1927] + + + + +THE MOUNTAIN HEART'S-EASE + +By scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting, +By furrowed glade and dell, +To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting, +Thou stayest them to tell + +The delicate thought that cannot find expression, +For ruder speech too fair, +That, like thy petals, trembles in possession, +And scatters on the air. + +The miner pauses in his rugged labor, +And, leaning on his spade, +Laughingly calls unto his comrade-neighbor +To see thy charms displayed. + +But in his eyes a mist unwonted rises, +And for a moment clear +Some sweet home face his foolish thought surprises +And passes in a tear,-- + +Some boyish vision of his Eastern village, +Of uneventful toil, +Where golden harvests followed quiet tillage +Above a peaceful soil. + +One moment only, for the pick, uplifting, +Through root and fibre cleaves, +And on the muddy current slowly drifting +Are swept thy bruised leaves. + +And yet, O poet, in thy homely fashion, +Thy work thou dost fulfil, +For on the turbid current of his passion +Thy face is shining still! + +Bret Harte [1839-1902] + + + + +THE PRIMROSE + +Ask me why I send you here +This sweet Infanta of the year? +Ask me why I send to you +This Primrose, thus bepearled with dew? +I will whisper to your ears:-- +The sweets of love are mixed with tears. + +Ask me why this flower does show +So yellow-green, and sickly too? +Ask me why the stalk is weak +And bending, yet it doth not break? +I will answer:--These discover +What fainting hopes are in a lover. + +Robert Herrick [1591-1674] + + + + +TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW + +Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears +Speak grief in you, +Who were but born +Just as the modest morn +Teemed her refreshing dew? +Alas, you have not known that shower +That mars a flower, +Nor felt the unkind +Breath of a blasting wind, +Nor are ye worn with years, +Or warped, as we, +Who think it strange to see +Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, +To speak by tears, before ye have a tongue. + +Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known +The reason why +Ye droop and weep; +Is it for want of sleep, +Or childish lullaby? +Or that ye have not seen as yet +The violet? +Or brought a kiss +From that Sweet-heart, to this? +--No, no, this sorrow shown +By your tears shed, +Would have this lecture read, +That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, +Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth. + +Robert Herrick [1591-1674] + + + + +TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE + +Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! +Whose modest form, so delicately fine, +Was nursed in whirling storms +And cradled in the winds; + +Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway, +And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, +Thee on this bank he threw +To mark his victory. + +In this low vale, the promise of the year, +Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, +Unnoticed and alone, +Thy tender elegance. + +So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms +Of chill adversity; in some lone walk +Of life she rears her head, +Obscure and unobserved; + +While every bleaching breeze that on her blows +Chastens her spotless purity of breast, +And hardens her to bear +Serene the ills of life. + +Henry Kirke White [1785-1806] + + + + +THE RHODORA +On Being Asked Whence Is The Flower + +In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, +I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, +Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, +To please the desert and the sluggish brook. +The purple petals, fallen in the pool, +Made the black water with their beauty gay; +Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, +And court the flower that cheapens his array. +Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why +This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, +Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, +Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: +Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! +I never thought to ask, I never knew: +But, in my simple ignorance, suppose +The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. + +Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882] + + + + +THE ROSE + +A rose, as fair as ever saw the North, +Grew in a little garden all alone; +A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth, +Nor fairer garden yet was never known: +The maidens danced about it morn and noon, +And learned bards of it their ditties made; +The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon +Watered the root and kissed her pretty shade. +But well-a-day!--the gardener careless grew; +The maids and fairies both were kept away, +And in a drought the caterpillars threw +Themselves upon the bud and every spray. +God shield the stock! If heaven send no supplies, +The fairest blossom of the garden dies. + +William Browne [1591-1643] + + + + +WILD ROSES + +On long, serene midsummer days +Of ripening fruit and yellow grain, +How sweetly, by dim woodland ways, +In tangled hedge or leafy lane, +Fair wild-rose thickets, you unfold +Those pale pink stars with hearts of gold! + +Your sleek patrician sisters dwell +On lawns where gleams the shrub's trim bosk, +In terraced gardens, tended well, +Near pebbled walk and quaint kiosk. +In costliest urns their colors rest; +They beam on beauty's fragrant breast! + +But you in lowly calm abide, +Scarce heeded save by breeze or bee; +You know what splendor, pomp and pride +Full oft your brilliant sisters see; +What sorrow too, and bitter fears; +What mad farewells and hopeless tears. + +How some are kept in old, dear books, +That once in bridal wreaths were worn; +How some are kissed, with tender looks, +And later tossed aside with scorn; +How some their taintless petals lay +On icy foreheads, pale as they! + +So, while these truths you vaguely guess, +A-bloom in many a lonesome spot, +Shy roadside roses, may you bless +The fate that rules your modest lot, +Like rustic maids that meekly stand +Below the ladies of their land! + +Edgar Fawcett [1847-1904] + + + + +THE ROSE OF MAY + +Ah! there's the lily, marble pale, +The bonny broom, the cistus frail; +The rich sweet pea, the iris blue, +The larkspur with its peacock hue; +All these are fair, yet hold I will +That the Rose of May is fairer still. + +'Tis grand 'neath palace walls to grow, +To blaze where lords and ladies go; +To hang o'er marble founts, and shine +In modern gardens, trim and fine; +But the Rose of May is only seen +Where the great of other days have been. + +The house is mouldering stone by stone, +The garden-walks are overgrown; +The flowers are low, the weeds are high, +The fountain-stream is choked and dry, +The dial-stone with moss is green, +Where'er the Rose of May is seen. + +The Rose of May its pride displayed +Along the old stone balustrade; +And ancient ladies, quaintly dight, +In its pink blossoms took delight; +And on the steps would make a stand +To scent its fragrance--fan in hand. + +Long have been dead those ladies gay; +Their very heirs have passed away; +And their old portraits, prim and tall, +Are mouldering in the mouldering hall; +The terrace and the balustrade +Lie broken, weedy and decayed. + +But blithe and tall the Rose of May +Shoots upward through the ruin gray; +With scented flower, and leaf pale green, +Such rose as it hath never been, +Left, like a noble deed, to grace +The memory of an ancient race. + +Mary Howitt [1799-1888] + + + + +A ROSE + +Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon. +What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? +Thou'rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon, +And passing proud a little color makes thee. +If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives, +Know then the thing that swells thee is thy bane; +For the same beauty cloth, in bloody leaves, +The sentence of thy early death contain. +Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower, +If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn; +And many Herods lie in wait each hour +To murder thee as soon as thou art born-- +Nay, force thy bud to blow--their tyrant breath +Anticipating life, to hasten death! + +Richard Fanshawe [1608-1666] + + + + +THE SHAMROCK + +When April rains make flowers bloom +And Johnny-jump-ups come to light, +And clouds of color and perfume +Float from the orchards pink and white, +I see my shamrock in the rain, +An emerald spray with raindrops set, +Like jewels on Spring's coronet, +So fair, and yet it breathes of pain. + +The shamrock on an older shore +Sprang from a rich and sacred soil +Where saint and hero lived of yore, +And where their sons in sorrow toil; +And here, transplanted, it to me +Seems weeping for the soil it left: +The diamonds that all others see +Are tears drawn from its heart bereft. + +When April rain makes flowers grow, +And sparkles on their tiny buds +That in June nights will over-blow +And fill the world with scented floods, +The lonely shamrock in our land-- +So fine among the clover leaves-- +For the old springtime often grieves,-- +I feel its tears upon my hand. + +Maurice Francis Egan [1852-1924] + + + + +TO VIOLETS + +Welcome, maids of honor, +You do bring +In the Spring, +And wait upon her. + +She has virgins many, +Fresh and fair; +Yet you are +More sweet than any. + +You're the maiden posies, +And, so graced, +To be placed +'Fore damask roses. + +Yet, though thus respected, +By and by +Ye do lie, +Poor girls, neglected. + +Robert Herrick [1591-1674] + + + + +THE VIOLET + +O faint, delicious, spring-time violet! +Thine odor, like a key, +Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let +A thought of sorrow free. + +The breath of distant fields upon my brow +Blows through that open door +The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low, +And sadder than of yore. + +It comes afar, from that beloved place, +And that beloved hour, +When life hung ripening in love's golden grace, +Like grapes above a bower. + +A spring goes singing through its reedy grass; +The lark sings o'er my head, +Drowned in the sky--O, pass, ye visions, pass! +I would that I were dead!-- + +Why hast thou opened that forbidden door, +From which I ever flee? +O vanished Joy! O Love, that art no more, +Let my vexed spirit be! + +O violet! thy odor through my brain +Hath searched, and stung to grief +This sunny day, as if a curse did stain +Thy velvet leaf. + +William Wetmore Story [1819-1895] + + + + +TO A WOOD-VIOLET + +In this secluded shrine, +O miracle of grace, +No mortal eye but mine +Hath looked upon thy face. + +No shadow but mine own +Hath screened thee from the sight +Of Heaven, whose love alone +Hath led me to thy light. + +Whereof--as shade to shade +Is wedded in the sun-- +A moment's glance hath made +Our souls forever one. + +John Banister Tabb [1845-1909] + + + + +THE VIOLET AND THE ROSE + +The violet in the wood, that's sweet to-day, +Is longer sweet than roses of red June; +Set me sweet violets along my way, +And bid the red rose flower, but not too soon. +Ah violet, ah rose, why not the two? +Why bloom not all fair flowers the whole year through? +Why not the two, young violet, ripe rose? +Why dies one sweetness when another blows? + +Augusta Webster [1837-1894] + + + + +TO A WIND-FLOWER + +Teach me the secret of thy loveliness, +That, being made wise, I may aspire to be +As beautiful in thought, and so express +Immortal truths to earth's mortality; +Though to my soul ability be less +Than 'tis to thee, O sweet anemone. + +Teach me the secret of thy innocence, +That in simplicity I may grow wise, +Asking from Art no other recompense +Than the approval of her own just eyes; +So may I rise to some fair eminence, +Though less than thine, O cousin of the skies. + +Teach me these things, through whose high knowledge, I,-- +When Death hath poured oblivion through my veins, +And brought me home, as all are brought, to lie +In that vast house, common to serfs and thanes,-- +I shall not die, I shall not utterly die, +For beauty born of beauty--that remains. + +Madison Cawein [1865-1914] + + + + +TO BLOSSOMS + +Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, +Why do ye fall so fast? +Your date is not so past +But you may stay yet here awhile +To blush and gently smile, +And go at last. + +What! were ye born to be +An hour or half's delight, +And so to bid good-night? +'Twas pity Nature brought you forth +Merely to show your worth +And lose you quite. + +But you are lovely leaves, where we +May read how soon things have +Their end, though ne'er so brave: +And after they have shown their pride +Like you awhile, they glide +Into the grave. + +Robert Herrick [1591-1674] + + + + +"TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER" + +'Tis the last rose of summer, +Left blooming alone; +All her lovely companions +Are faded and gone; +No flower of her kindred, +No rose-bud is nigh, +To reflect back her blushes, +Or give sigh for sigh. + +I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! +To pine on the stem; +Since the lovely are sleeping, +Go, sleep thou with them. +Thus kindly I scatter +Thy leaves o'er the bed +Where thy mates of the garden +Lie scentless and dead. + +So soon may I follow, +When friendships decay, +And from Love's shining circle +The gems drop away. +When true hearts lie withered, +And fond ones are flown, +O who would inhabit +This bleak world alone? + +Thomas Moore [1779-1852] + + + + +THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS + +The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, +Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. +Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; +They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread; +The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, +And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. + +Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood +In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? +Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers +Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. +The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain +Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. + +The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, +And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; +But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, +And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, +Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, +And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. + +And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, +To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; +When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, +And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, +The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, +And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. + +And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, +The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. +In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf, +And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: +Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours, +So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. + +William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878] + + + + + + + + + + + +GOD'S CREATURES + + + + + + + + + + +ONCE ON A TIME + +Once on a time I used to dream +Strange spirits moved about my way, +And I might catch a vagrant gleam, +A glint of pixy or of fay; +Their lives were mingled with my own, +So far they roamed, so near they drew; +And when I from a child had grown, +I woke--and found my dream was true. + +For one is clad in coat of fur, +And one is decked with feathers gay; +Another, wiser, will prefer +A sober suit of Quaker gray: +This one's your servant from his birth, +And that a Princess you must please, +And this one loves to wake your mirth, +And that one likes to share your ease. + +O gracious creatures, tiny souls! +You seem so near, so far away, +Yet while the cloudland round us rolls, +We love you better every day. + +Margaret Benson [18-- + + + + +TO A MOUSE +On Turning Up Her Nest With The Plow, November, 1785 + +Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, +O, what a panic's in thy breastie! +Thou need na start awa' sae hasty, +Wi' bickering brattle! +I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, +Wi' murd'ring pattle! + +I'm truly sorry man's dominion +Has broken Nature's social union, +An' justifies that ill opinion, +Which makes thee startle +At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, +An' fellow-mortal! + +I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; +What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! +A daimen icker in a thrave +'S a sma' request; +I'll get a blessin' wi' the laive, +And never miss't! + +Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! +Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'! +An' naething, now, to big a new ane, +O' faggage green! +An' bleak December's winds ensuin', +Baith snell an' keen! + +Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, +An' weary winter comin' fast, +An' cozie here, beneath the blast, +Thou thought to dwell,-- +Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed +Out through thy cell. + +That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble +Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! +Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble, +But house or hald, +To thole the winter's sleety dribble, +An' cranreuch cauld! + +But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, +In proving foresight may be vain:-- +The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men, +Gang aft a-gley, +An' lea'e us naught but grief an' pain, +For promised joy! + +Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! +The present only toucheth thee: +But, och! I backward cast my e'e +On prospects drear! +An' forward, though I canna see, +I guess an' fear! + +Robert Burns [1759-1796] + + + + +THE GRASSHOPPER + +Happy insect, what can be +In happiness compared to thee? +Fed with nourishment divine, +The dewy morning's gentle wine! +Nature waits upon thee still, +And thy verdant cup does fill; +'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread, +Nature's self's thy Ganymede. +Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, +Happier than the happiest king! +All the fields which thou dost see, +All the plants belong to thee; +All the summer hours produce, +Fertile made with early juice. +Man for thee does sow and plow, +Farmer he, and landlord thou! +Thou dost innocently enjoy; +Nor does thy luxury destroy. +The shepherd gladly heareth thee, +More harmonious than he. +Thee country hinds with gladness hear, +Prophet of the ripened year! +Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire +Phoebus is himself thy sire. +To thee, of all things upon earth, +Life is no longer than thy mirth. +Happy insect! happy thou, +Dost neither age nor winter know; +But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung +Thy fill, the flowery leaves among, +(Voluptuous and wise withal, +Epicurean animal!) +Sated with thy summer feast, +Thou retir'st to endless rest. + +After Anacreon, by Abraham Cowley [1618-1667] + + + + +ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET + +The poetry of earth is never dead: +When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, +And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run +From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead: +That is the Grasshopper's--he takes the lead +In summer luxury,--he has never done +With his delights, for when tired out with fun, +He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. +The poetry of earth is ceasing never: +On a lone winter evening, when the frost +Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills +The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, +And seems to one in drowsiness half-lost, +The Grasshopper's among the grassy hills. + +John Keats [1795-1821] + + + + +TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET + +Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, +Catching your heart up at the feel of June; +Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, +When even the bees lag at the summoning brass; +And you, warm little housekeeper, who class +With those who think the candles come too soon, +Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune +Nick the glad silent moments as they pass; +O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong +One to the fields, the other to the hearth, +Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong +At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth +To sing in thoughtful ears their natural song-- +In-doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth. + +Leigh Hunt [1784-1859] + + + + +THE CRICKET + +Little inmate, full of mirth, +Chirping on my kitchen hearth, +Wheresoe'er be thine abode +Always harbinger of good, +Pay me for thy warm retreat +With a song more soft and sweet; +In return thou shalt receive +Such a strain as I can give. + +Thus thy praise shall be expressed, +Inoffensive, welcome guest! +While the rat is on the scout, +And the mouse with curious snout, +With what vermin else infest +Every dish, and spoil the best; +Frisking thus before the fire, +Thou hast all thy heart's desire. + +Though in voice and shape they be +Formed as if akin to thee, +Thou surpassest, happier far, +Happiest grasshoppers that are; +Theirs is but a summer's song, +Thine endures the winter long, +Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear, +Melody throughout the year. + +Neither night nor dawn of day +Puts a period to thy play: +Sing then--and extend thy span +Far beyond the date of man; +Wretched man, whose years are spent +In repining discontent, +Lives not, aged though he be, +Half a span, compared with thee. + +From the Latin of Vincent Bourne, +by William Cowper [1731-1800] + + + + +TO A CRICKET + +Voice of summer, keen and shrill, +Chirping round my winter fire, +Of thy song I never tire, +Weary others as they will, +For thy song with summer's filled-- +Filled with sunshine, filled with June; +Firelight echo of that noon +Heard in fields when all is stilled +In the golden light of May, +Bringing scents of new-mown hay, +Bees, and birds, and flowers away, +Prithee, haunt my fireside still, +Voice of summer, keen and shrill. + +William Cox Bennett [1820-1895] + + + + +TO AN INSECT + +I love to hear thine earnest voice, +Wherever thou art hid, +Thou testy little dogmatist, +Thou pretty Katydid! +Thou mindest me of gentlefolks,-- +Old gentlefolks are they,-- +Thou say'st an undisputed thing +In such a solemn way. + +Thou art a female, Katydid! +I know it by the trill +That quivers through thy piercing notes, +So petulant and shrill; +I think there is a knot of you +Beneath the hollow tree,-- +A knot of spinster Katydids,-- +Do Katydids drink tea? + +Oh, tell me where did Katy live, +And what did Katy do? +And was she very fair and young, +And yet so wicked, too? +Did Katy love a naughty man, +Or kiss more cheeks than one? +I warrant Katy did no more +Than many a Kate has done. + +Dear me! I'll tell you all about +My fuss with little Jane, +And Ann, with whom I used to walk +So often down the lane, +And all that tore their locks of black, +Or wet their eyes of blue,-- +Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid, +What did poor Katy do? + +Ah no! the living oak shall crash, +That stood for ages still, +The rock shall rend its mossy base +And thunder down the hill, +Before the little Katydid +Shall add one word, to tell +The mystic story of the maid +Whose name she knows so well. + +Peace to the ever-murmuring race! +And when the latest one +Shall fold in death her feeble wings +Beneath the autumn sun, +Then shall she raise her fainting voice, +And lift her drooping lid, +And then the child of future years +Shall hear what Katy did. + +Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894] + + + + +THE SNAIL + +To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, +The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall, +As if he grew there, house and all +Together. + +Within that house secure he hides, +When danger imminent betides, +Of storm, or other harm besides +Of weather. + +Give but his horns the slightest touch, +His self-collecting power is such, +He shrinks into his house with much +Displeasure. + +Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone, +Except himself, has chattels none, +Well satisfied to be his own +Whole treasure. + +Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads, +Nor partner of his banquet needs, +And if he meets one, only feeds +The faster. + +Who seeks him must be worse than blind +(He and his house are so combined), +If, finding it, he fails to find +Its master. + +From the Latin of Vincent Bourne, +by William Cowper [1731-1800] + + + + +THE HOUSEKEEPER + +The frugal snail, with forecast of repose, +Carries his house with him where'er he goes; +Peeps out,--and if there comes a shower of rain, +Retreats to his small domicile amain. +Touch but a tip of him, a horn,--'tis well,-- +He curls up in his sanctuary shell. +He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay +Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day. +Himself he boards and lodges; both invites +And feasts himself; sleeps with himself o' nights. +He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure +Chattels; himself is his own furniture, +And his sole riches. Whereso'er he roam,-- +Knock when you will,--he's sure to be at home. + +From the Latin of Vincent Bourne, +by Charles Lamb [1775-1834] + + + + +THE HUMBLE-BEE + +Burly, dozing humble-bee, +Where thou art is clime for me. +Let them sail for Porto Rique, +Far-off heats through seas to seek; +I will follow thee alone, +Thou animated torrid-zone! +Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, +Let me chase thy waving lines; +Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, +Singing over shrubs and vines. + +Insect lover of the sun, +Joy of thy dominion! +Sailor of the atmosphere; +Swimmer through the waves of air; +Voyager of light and noon; +Epicurean of June; +Wait, I prithee, till I come +Within earshot of thy hum,-- +All without is martyrdom. + +When the south wind, in May days, +With a net of shining haze +Silvers the horizon wall, +And with softness touching all, +Tints the human countenance +With a color of romance, +And infusing subtle heats, +Turns the sod to violets, +Thou, in sunny solitudes, +Rover of the underwoods, +The green silence dost displace +With thy mellow, breezy bass. + +Hot midsummer's petted crone, +Sweet to me thy drowsy tone +Tells of countless sunny hours, +Long days, and solid banks of flowers; +Of gulfs of sweetness without bound +In Indian wildernesses found; +Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, +Firmest cheer, and birdlike pleasure. + +Aught unsavory or unclean +Hath my insect never seen; +But violets and bilberry bells, +Maple-sap and daffodels, +Grass with green flag half-mast high, +Succory to match the sky, +Columbine with horn of honey, +Scented fern, and agrimony, +Clover, catchfly, adder's tongue +And brier-roses, dwelt among; +All beside was unknown waste, +All was picture as he passed. + +Wiser far than human seer, +Yellow-breeched philosopher! +Seeing only what is fair, +Sipping only what is sweet, +Thou dost mock at fate and care, +Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. +When the fierce northwestern blast +Cools sea and land so far and fast, +Thou already slumberest deep; +Woe and want thou canst outsleep; +Want and woe, which torture us, +Thy sleep makes ridiculous. + +Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882] + + + + +TO A BUTTERFLY + +I've watched you now a full half-hour, +Self-poised upon that yellow flower; +And, little Butterfly! indeed +I know not if you sleep or feed. +How motionless! not frozen seas +More motionless! and then +What joy awaits you, when the breeze +Has found you out among the trees, +And calls you forth again! + +This plot of orchard-ground is ours; +My trees they are, my Sister's flowers; +Here rest your wings when they are weary; +Here lodge as in a sanctuary! +Come often to us, fear no wrong; +Sit near us on the bough! +We'll talk of sunshine and of song, +And summer days, when we are young; +Sweet childish days, that were as long +As twenty days are now. + +William Wordsworth [1770-1850] + + + + +ODE TO A BUTTERFLY + +Thou spark of life that wavest wings of gold, +Thou songless wanderer mid the songful birds, +With Nature's secrets in thy tints unrolled +Through gorgeous cipher, past the reach of words, +Yet dear to every child +In glad pursuit beguiled, +Living his unspoiled days mid flowers and flocks and herds! + +Thou winged blossom, liberated thing, +What secret tie binds thee to other flowers, +Still held within the garden's fostering? +Will they too soar with the completed hours, +Take flight, and be like thee +Irrevocably free, +Hovering at will o'er their parental bowers? + +Or is thy luster drawn from heavenly hues,-- +A sumptuous drifting fragment of the sky, +Caught when the sunset its last glance imbues +With sudden splendor, and the tree-tops high +Grasp that swift blazonry, +Then lend those tints to thee, +On thee to float a few short hours, and die? + +Birds have their nests; they rear their eager young, +And flit on errands all the livelong day; +Each fieldmouse keeps the homestead whence it sprung; +But thou art Nature's freeman,--free to stray +Unfettered through the wood, +Seeking thine airy food, +The sweetness spiced on every blossomed spray. + +The garden one wide banquet spreads for thee, +O daintiest reveller of the joyous earth! +One drop of honey gives satiety; +A second draught would drug thee past all mirth. +Thy feast no orgy shows; +Thy calm eyes never close, +Thou soberest sprite to which the sun gives birth. + +And yet the soul of man upon thy wings +Forever soars in aspiration; thou +His emblem of the new career that springs +When death's arrest bids all his spirit bow. +He seeks his hope in thee +Of immortality. +Symbol of life, me with such faith endow! + +Thomas Wentworth Higginson [1823-1911] + + + + +THE BUTTERFLY + +I hold you at last in my hand, +Exquisite child of the air. +Can I ever understand +How you grew to be so fair? + +You came to my linden tree +To taste its delicious sweet, +I sitting here in the shadow and shine +Playing around its feet. + +Now I hold you fast in my hand, +You marvelous butterfly, +Till you help me to understand +The eternal mystery. + +From that creeping thing in the dust +To this shining bliss in the blue! +God give me courage to trust +I can break my chrysalis too! + +Alice Freeman Palmer [1855-1902] + + + + +FIREFLIES + +I saw, one sultry night above a swamp, +The darkness throbbing with their golden pomp! +And long my dazzled sight did they entrance +With the weird chaos of their dizzy dance! +Quicker than yellow leaves, when gales despoil, +Quivered the brilliance of their mute turmoil, +Within whose light was intricately blent +Perpetual rise, perpetual descent. +As though their scintillant flickerings had met +In the vague meshes of some airy net! +And now mysteriously I seemed to guess, +While watching their tumultuous loveliness, +What fervor of deep passion strangely thrives +In the warm richness of these tropic lives, +Whose wings can never tremble but they show +These hearts of living fire that beat below! + +Edgar Fawcett [1847-1904] + + + + +THE BLOOD HORSE + +Gamarra is a dainty steed, +Strong, black, and of a noble breed, +Full of fire, and full of bone, +With all his line of fathers known; +Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, +But blown abroad by the pride within! +His mane is like a river flowing, +And his eyes like embers glowing +In the darkness of the night, +And his pace as swift as light. + +Look,--how 'round his straining throat +Grace and shifting beauty float! +Sinewy strength is in his reins, +And the red blood gallops through his veins; +Richer, redder, never ran +Through the boasting heart of man. +He can trace his lineage higher +Than the Bourbon dare aspire,-- +Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, +Or O'Brien's blood itself! + +He, who hath no peer, was born, +Here, upon a red March morn; +But his famous fathers dead +Were Arabs all, and Arab bred, +And the last of that great line +Trod like one of a race divine! +And yet,--he was but friend to one +Who fed him at the set of sun, +By some lone fountain fringed with green: +With him, a roving Bedouin, +He lived, (none else would he obey +Through all the hot Arabian day), +And died untamed upon the sands +Where Balkh amidst the desert stands. + +Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874] + + + + +BIRDS + +Sure maybe ye've heard the storm-thrush +Whistlin' bould in March, +Before there's a primrose peepin' out, +Or a wee red cone on the larch; +Whistlin' the sun to come out o' the cloud, +An' the wind to come over the sea, +But for all he can whistle so clear an' loud, +He's never the bird for me. + +Sure maybe ye've seen the song-thrush +After an April rain +Slip from in-undher the drippin' leaves, +Wishful to sing again; +An' low wi' love when he's near the nest, +An' loud from the top o' the tree, +But for all he can flutter the heart in your breast, +He's never the bird for me. + +Sure maybe ye've heard the cushadoo +Callin' his mate in May, +When one sweet thought is the whole of his life, +An' he tells it the one sweet way. +But my heart is sore at the cushadoo +Filled wid his own soft glee, +Over an' over his "me an' you!" +He's never the bird for me. + +Sure maybe ye've heard the red-breast +Singin' his lone on a thorn, +Mindin' himself o' the dear days lost, +Brave wid his heart forlorn. +The time is in dark November, +An' no spring hopes has he: +"Remember," he sings, "remember!" +Ay, thon's the wee bird for me. + +Moira O'Neill [18-- + + + + +BIRDS + +Birds are singing round my window, +Tunes the sweetest ever heard, +And I hang my cage there daily, +But I never catch a bird. + +So with thoughts my brain is peopled, +And they sing there all day long: +But they will not fold their pinions +In the little cage of Song! + +Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903] + + + + +SEA-BIRDS + +O lonesome sea-gull, floating far +Over the ocean's icy waste, +Aimless and wide thy wanderings are, +Forever vainly seeking rest:-- +Where is thy mate, and where thy nest? + +'Twixt wintry sea and wintry sky, +Cleaving the keen air with thy breast, +Thou sailest slowly, solemnly; +No fetter on thy wing is pressed:-- +Where is thy mate, and where thy nest? + +O restless, homeless human soul, +Following for aye thy nameless quest, +The gulls float, and the billows roll; +Thou watchest still, and questionest:-- +Where is thy mate, and where thy nest? + +Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911] + + + + +THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD + +Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, +Why takest thou its melancholy voice, +And with that boding cry +Why o'er the waves dost fly? +O, rather, bird, with me +Through the fair land rejoice! + +Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, +As driven by a beating storm at sea; +Thy cry is weak and scared, +As if thy mates had shared +The doom of us. Thy wail,-- +What doth it bring to me? + +Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge, +Restless, and sad; as if, in strange accord +With the motion and the roar +Of waves that drive to shore, +One spirit did ye urge-- +The Mystery--the Word. + +Of thousands, thou, both sepulchre and pall, +Old Ocean! A requiem o'er the dead, +From out thy gloomy cells, +A tale of mourning tells,-- +Tells of man's woe and fall, +His sinless glory fled. + +Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight +Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring +Thy spirit nevermore. +Come, quit with me the shore, +For gladness and the light, +Where birds of summer sing. + +Richard Henry Dana [1787-1879] + + + + +THE BLACKBIRD + +How sweet the harmonies of afternoon: +The Blackbird sings along the sunny breeze +His ancient song of leaves, and summer boon; +Rich breath of hayfields streams through whispering trees; +And birds of morning trim their bustling wings, +And listen fondly--while the Blackbird sings. + +How soft the lovelight of the West reposes +On this green valley's cheery solitude, +On the trim cottage with its screen of roses, +On the gray belfry with its ivy hood, +And murmuring mill-race, and the wheel that flings +Its bubbling freshness--while the Blackbird sings. + +The very dial on the village church +Seems as 'twere dreaming in a dozy rest; +The scribbled benches underneath the porch +Bask in the kindly welcome of the West; +But the broad casements of the old Three Kings +Blaze like a furnace--while the Blackbird sings. + +And there beneath the immemorial elm +Three rosy revellers round a table sit, +And through gray clouds give laws unto the realm, +Curse good and great, but worship their own wit. +And roar of fights, and fairs, and junketings, +Corn, colts, and curs--the while the Blackbird sings. + +Before her home, in her accustomed seat, +The tidy Grandam spins beneath the shade +Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet +The dreaming pug, and purring tabby laid; +To her low chair a little maiden clings, +And spells in silence--while the Blackbird sings. + +Sometimes the shadow of a lazy cloud +Breathes o'er the hamlet with its gardens green. +While the far fields with sunlight overflowed +Like golden shores of Fairyland are seen; +Again, the sunshine on the shadow springs, +And fires the thicket where the Blackbird sings. + +The woods, the lawn, the peaked Manorhouse, +With its peach-covered walls, and rookery loud, +The trim, quaint garden alleys, screened with boughs. +The lion-headed gates, so grim and proud, +The mossy fountain with its murmurings, +Lie in warm sunshine--while the Blackbird sings. + +The ring of silver voices, and the sheen +Of festal garments--and my Lady streams +With her gay court across the garden green; +Some laugh, and dance, some whisper their love-dreams; +And one calls for a little page; he strings +Her lute beside her--while the Blackbird sings. + +A little while--and lo! the charm is heard, +A youth, whose life has been all Summer, steals +Forth from the noisy guests around the board, +Creeps by her softly; at her footstool kneels; +And, when she pauses, murmurs tender things +Into her fond ear--while the Blackbird sings. + +The smoke-wreaths from the chimneys curl up higher, +And dizzy things of eve begin to float +Upon the light; the breeze begins to tire; +Half way to sunset with a drowsy note +The ancient clock from out the valley swings; +The Grandam nods--and still the Blackbird sings. + +Far shouts and laughter from the farmstead peal, +Where the great stack is piling in the sun; +Through narrow gates o'erladen wagons reel, +And barking curs into the tumult run; +While the inconstant wind bears off, and brings +The merry tempest--and the Blackbird sings. + +On the high wold the last look of the sun +Burns, like a beacon, over dale and stream; +The shouts have ceased, the laughter and the fun; +The Grandam sleeps, and peaceful be her dream; +Only a hammer on an anvil rings; +The day is dying--still the Blackbird sings. + +Now the good Vicar passes from his gate +Serene, with long white hair; and in his eye +Burns the clear spirit that hath conquered Fate, +And felt the wings of immortality; +His heart is thronged with great imaginings, +And tender mercies--while the Blackbird sings. + +Down by the brook he bends his steps, and through +A lowly wicket; and at last he stands +Awful beside the bed of one who grew +From boyhood with him--who, with lifted hands +And eyes, seems listening to far welcomings, +And sweeter music than the Blackbird sings. + +Two golden stars, like tokens from the Blest, +Strike on his dim orbs from the setting sun; +His sinking hands seem pointing to the West; +He smiles as though he said--"Thy will be done": +His eyes, they see not those illuminings; +His ears, they hear not what the Blackbird sings. + +Frederick Tennyson [1807-1898] + + + + +THE BLACKBIRD + +When smoke stood up from Ludlow +And mist blew off from Teme, +And blithe afield to ploughing +Against the morning beam +I strode beside my team, + +The blackbird in the coppice +Looked out to see me stride, +And hearkened as I whistled +The trampling team beside, +And fluted and replied: + +"Lie down, lie down, young yeoman; +What use to rise and rise? +Rise man a thousand mornings +Yet down at last he lies, +And then the man is wise." + +I heard the tune he sang me, +And spied his yellow bill; +I picked a stone and aimed it +And threw it with a will: +Then the bird was still. + +Then my soul within me +Took up the blackbird's strain, +And still beside the horses +Along the dewy lane +It sang the song again: + +"Lie down, lie down, young yeoman; +The sun moves always west; +The road one treads to labor +Will lead one home to rest, +And that will be the best." + +Alfred Edward Housman [1859-1936] + + + + +THE BLACKBIRD + +The nightingale has a lyre of gold; +The lark's is a clarion call, +And the blackbird plays but a box-wood flute, +But I love him best of all. + +For his song is all of the joy of life, +And we in the mad, spring weather, +We too have listened till he sang +Our hearts and lips together. + +William Ernest Henley [1849-1903] + + + + +THE BLACKBIRD + +Ov all the birds upon the wing +Between the zunny showers o' spring,- +Vor all the lark, a-swingen high, +Mid zing below a cloudless sky, +An' sparrows, clust'ren roun' the bough, +Mid chatter to the men at plough,-- +The blackbird, whisslen in among +The boughs, do zing the gayest zong. + +Vor we do hear the blackbird zing +His sweetest ditties in the spring, +When nippen win's noo mwore do blow +Vrom northern skies, wi' sleet or snow, +But dreve light doust along between +The leane-zide hedges, thick an' green; +An' zoo the blackbird in among +The boughs do zing the gayest zong. + +'Tis blithe, wi' newly-opened eyes, +To zee the mornen's ruddy skies; +Or, out a-haulen frith or lops +Vrom new-pleshed hedge or new-velled copse, +To rest at noon in primrwose beds +Below the white-barked woak-trees' heads; +But there's noo time, the whole day long, +Lik' evenen wi' the blackbird's zong. + +Vor when my work is all a-done +Avore the zetten o' the zun, +Then blushen Jeane do walk along +The hedge to meet me in the drong, +An' stay till all is dim an' dark +Bezides the ashen tree's white bark; +An' all bezides the blackbird's shrill +An' runnen evenen-whissle's still. + +An' there in bwoyhood I did rove +Wi' pryen eyes along the drove +To vind the nest the blackbird meade +O' grass-stalks in the high bough's sheade; +Or climb aloft, wi' clingen knees, +Vor crows' aggs up in swayen trees, +While frightened blackbirds down below +Did chatter o' their little foe. +An' zoo there's noo pleace lik' the drong, +Where I do hear the blackbird's zong. + +William Barnes [1801-1886] + + + + +ROBERT OF LINCOLN + +Merrily swinging on brier and weed +Near to the nest of his little dame, +Over the mountain-side or mead, +Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: +Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, +Spink, spank, spink; +Snug and safe is that nest of ours, +Hidden among the summer flowers. +Chee, chee, chee. + +Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, +Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; +White are his shoulders and white his crest. +Hear him call in his merry note: +Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, +Spink, spank, spink; +Look, what a nice new coat is mine, +Sure there was never a bird so fine. +Chee, chee, chee. + +Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, +Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, +Passing at home a patient life, +Broods in the grass while her husband sings: +Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, +Spink, spank, spink; +Brood, kind creature; you need not fear +Thieves and robbers while I am here. +Chee, chee, chee. + +Modest and shy as a nun is she; +One weak chirp is her only note. +Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, +Pouring boasts from his little throat: +Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, +Spink, spank, spink; +Never was I afraid of man; +Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can! +Chee, chee, chee. + +Six white eggs on a bed of hay, +Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! +There as the mother sits all day, +Robert is singing with all his might: +Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, +Spink, spank, spink; +Nice good wife, that never goes out, +Keeping house while I frolic about. +Chee, chee, chee. + +Soon as the little ones chip the shell, +Six wide mouths are open for food; +Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, +Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. +Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, +Spink, spank, spink; +This new life is likely to be +Hard for a gay young fellow like me. +Chee, chee, chee. + +Robert of Lincoln at length is made +Sober with work, and silent with care; +Off is his holiday garment laid. +Half forgotten that merry air: +Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, +Spink, spank, spink; +Nobody knows but my mate and I +Where our nest and our nestlings lie. +Chee, chee, chee. + +Summer wanes; the children are grown; +Fun and frolic no more he knows; +Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; +Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: +Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, +Spink, spank, spink; +When you can pipe that merry old strain, +Robert of Lincoln, come back again. +Chee, chee, chee. + +William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878] + + + + +THE O'LINCON FAMILY + +A flock of merry singing-birds were sporting in the grove; +Some were warbling cheerily, and some were making love: +There were Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, Conquedle,-- +A livelier set was never led by tabor, pipe, or fiddle,-- +Crying, "Phew, shew, Waldolincon, see, see, Bobolincon, +Down among the tickletops, hiding in the buttercups! +I know a saucy chap, I see his shining cap +Bobbing in the clover there--see, see, see!" + +Up flies Bobolincon, perching on an apple-tree, +Startled by his rival's song, quickened by his raillery, +Soon he spies the rogue afloat, curveting in the air, +And merrily he turns about, and warns him to beware! +"'Tis you that would a-wooing go, down among the rushes O! +But wait a week, till flowers are cheery,--wait a week, and, + ere you marry, +Be sure of a house wherein to tarry! +Wadolink, Whiskodink, Tom Denny, wait, wait, wait!" + +Every one's a funny fellow; every one's a little mellow; +Follow, follow, follow, follow, o'er the hill and in the hollow! +Merrily, merrily, there they hie; now they rise and now they fly; +They cross and turn, and in and out, and down in the middle + and wheel about,-- +With a "Phew, shew, Wadolincon! listen to me, Bobolincon!-- +Happy's the wooing that's speedily doing, that's speedily doing, +That's merry and over with the bloom of the clover! +Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, follow, follow, follow me!" + +Wilson Flagg [1805-1884] + + + + +THE BOBOLINK + +Bobolink! that in the meadow, +Or beneath the orchard's shadow, +Keepest up a constant rattle +Joyous as my children's prattle, +Welcome to the north again! +Welcome to mine ear thy strain, +Welcome to mine eye the sight +Of thy buff, thy black and white. + +Brighter plumes may greet the sun +By the banks of Amazon; +Sweeter tones may weave the spell +Of enchanting Philomel; +But the tropic bird would fail, +And the English nightingale, +If we should compare their worth +With thine endless, gushing mirth. + +When the ides of May are past, +June and Summer nearing fast, +While from depths of blue above +Comes the mighty breath of love. +Calling out each bud and flower +With resistless, secret power, +Waking hope and fond desire, +Kindling the erotic fire, +Filling youths' and maidens' dreams +With mysterious, pleasing themes; +Then, amid the sunlight clear +Floating in the fragrant air, +Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure +By thy glad ecstatic measure. + +A single note, so sweet and low, +Like a full heart's overflow, +Forms the prelude; but the strain +Gives no such tone again, +For the wild and saucy song +Leaps and skips the notes among, +With such quick and sportive play, +Ne'er was madder, merrier lay. + +Gayest songster of the Spring! +Thy melodies before me bring +Visions of some dream-built land, +Where, by constant zephyrs fanned, +I might walk the livelong day, +Embosomed in perpetual May. +Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows; +For thee a tempest never blows; +But when our northern Summer's o'er, +By Delaware's or Schuylkil's shore +The wild rice lifts its airy head, +And royal feasts for thee are spread. +And when the Winter threatens there, +Thy tireless wings yet own no fear. +But bear thee to more southern coasts, +Far beyond the reach of frosts. + +Bobolink! still may thy gladness +Take from me all taint of sadness; +Fill my soul with trust unshaken +In that Being who has taken +Care for every living thing, +In Summer, Winter, Fall, and Spring. + +Thomas Hill [1818-1891] + + + + +MY CATBIRD +A Capriccio + +Nightingale I never heard, +Nor skylark, poet's bird; +But there is an aether-winger +So surpasses every singer, +(Though unknown to lyric fame,) +That at morning, or at nooning, +When I hear his pipe a-tuning, +Down I fling Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth,-- +What are all their songs of birds worth? +All their soaring +Souls' outpouring? +When my Mimus Carolinensis, +(That's his Latin name,) +When my warbler wild commences +Song's hilarious rhapsody, +Just to please himself and me! +Primo Cantante! +Scherzo! Andante! +Piano, pianissimo! +Presto, prestissimo! +Hark! are there nine birds or ninety and nine? +And now a miraculous gurgling gushes +Like nectar from Hebe's Olympian bottle, +The laughter of tune from a rapturous throttle! +Such melody must be a hermit-thrush's! +But that other caroler, nearer, +Outrivaling rivalry with clearer +Sweetness incredibly fine! +Is it oriole, redbird, or bluebird, +Or some strange, un-Auduboned new bird? +All one, sir, both this bird and that bird, +The whole flight are all the same catbird! +The whole visible and invisible choir you see +On one lithe twig of yon green tree. +Flitting, feathery Blondel! +Listen to his rondel! +To his lay romantical! +To his sacred canticle! +Hear him lilting, +See him tilting +His saucy head and tail, and fluttering +While uttering +All the difficult operas under the sun +Just for fun; +Or in tipsy revelry, +Or at love devilry, +Or, disdaining his divine gift and art, +Like an inimitable poet +Who captivates the world's heart +And don't know it. +Hear him lilt! +See him tilt! +Then suddenly he stops, +Peers about, flirts, hops, +As if looking where he might gather up +The wasted ecstasy just spilt +From the quivering cup +Of his bliss overrun. +Then, as in mockery of all +The tuneful spells that e'er did fall +From vocal pipe, or evermore shall rise, +He snarls, and mews, and flies. + +William Henry Venable [1836-1920] + + + + +THE HERALD CRANE + +Oh! say you so, bold sailor +In the sun-lit deeps of sky! +Dost thou so soon the seed-time tell +In thy imperial cry, +As circling in yon shoreless sea +Thine unseen form goes drifting by? + +I cannot trace in the noon-day glare +Thy regal flight, O crane! +From the leaping might of the fiery light +Mine eyes recoil in pain, +But on mine ear, thine echoing cry +Falls like a bugle strain. + +The mellow soil glows beneath my feet, +Where lies the buried grain; +The warm light floods the length and breadth +Of the vast, dim, shimmering plain, +Throbbing with heat and the nameless thrill +Of the birth-time's restless pain. + +On weary wing, plebeian geese +Push on their arrowy line +Straight into the north, or snowy brant +In dazzling sunshine, gloom and shine; +But thou, O crane, save for thy sovereign cry, +At thy majestic height +On proud, extended wings sweep'st on +In lonely, easeful flight. + +Then cry, thou martial-throated herald! +Cry to the sun, and sweep +And swing along thy mateless, tireless course +Above the clouds that sleep +Afloat on lazy air--cry on! Send down +Thy trumpet note--it seems +The voice of hope and dauntless will, +And breaks the spell of dreams. + +Hamlin Garland [1860- + + + + +THE CROW + +With rakish eye and plenished crop, +Oblivious of the farmer's gun, +Upon the naked ash-tree top +The Crow sits basking in the sun. + +An old ungodly rogue, I wot! +For, perched in black against the blue, +His feathers, torn with beak and shot, +Let woeful glints of April through. + +The year's new grass, and, golden-eyed, +The daisies sparkle underneath, +And chestnut-trees on either side +Have opened every ruddy sheath. + +But doubtful still of frost and snow, +The ash alone stands stark and bare, +And on its topmost twig the Crow +Takes the glad morning's sun and air. + +William Canton [1845- + + + + +TO THE CUCKOO + +Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! +Thou messenger of Spring! +Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, +And woods thy welcome ring. + +What time the daisy decks the green, +Thy certain voice we hear: +Hast thou a star to guide thy path, +Or mark the rolling year? + +Delightful visitant! with thee +I hail the time of flowers, +And hear the sound of music sweet +From birds among the bowers. + +The school-boy, wandering through the wood +To pull the primrose gay, +Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, +And imitates thy lay. + +What time the pea puts on the bloom, +Thou fli'st thy vocal vale, +An annual guest in other lands, +Another Spring to hail. + +Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, +Thy sky is ever clear; +Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, +No Winter in thy year! + +O could I fly, I'd fly with thee! +We'd make, with joyful wing, +Our annual visit o'er the globe, +Companions of the Spring. + +John Logan [1748-1788] + + + + +THE CUCKOO + +We heard it calling, clear and low, +That tender April morn; we stood +And listened in the quiet wood, +We heard it, ay, long years ago. + +It came, and with a strange, sweet cry, +A friend, but from a far-off land; +We stood and listened, hand in hand, +And heart to heart, my Love and I. + +In dreamland then we found our joy, +And so it seemed as 'twere the Bird +That Helen in old times had heard +At noon beneath the oaks of Troy. + +O time far off, and yet so near! +It came to her in that hushed grove, +It warbled while the wooing throve, +It sang the song she loved to hear. + +And now I hear its voice again, +And still its message is of peace, +It sings of love that will not cease-- +For me it never sings in vain. + +Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895] + + + + +TO THE CUCKOO + +O blithe New-comer! I have heard, +I hear thee and rejoice. +O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, +Or but a wandering Voice? + +While I am lying on the grass +Thy twofold shout I hear; +From hill to hill it seems to pass, +At once far off, and near. + +Though babbling only to the Vale +Of sunshine and of flowers, +Thou bringest unto me a tale +Of visionary hours. + +Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! +Even yet thou art to me +No bird, but an invisible thing, +A voice, a mystery; + +The same whom in my school-boy days +I listened to; that Cry +Which made me look a thousand ways, +In bush, and tree, and sky. + +To seek thee did I often rove +Through woods and on the green; +And thou wert still a hope, a love; +Still longed for, never seen. + +And I can listen to thee yet; +Can lie upon the plain +And listen, till I do beget +That golden time again. + +O blessed Bird! the earth we pace +Again appears to be +An unsubstantial, faery place; +That is fit home for Thee! + +William Wordsworth [1770-1850] + + + + +THE EAGLE +A Fragment + +He clasps the crag with crooked hands; +Close to the sun in lonely lands, +Ringed with the azure world, he stands. + +The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; +He watches from his mountain walls, +And like a thunderbolt he falls. + +Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892] + + + + +THE HAWKBIT + +How sweetly on the autumn scene, +When haws are red amid the green, +The hawkbit shines with face of cheer, +The favorite of the faltering year! + +When days grow short and nights grow cold, +How fairly gleams its eye of gold +On pastured field and grassy hill, +Along the roadside and the rill! + +It seems the spirit of a flower, +This offspring of the autumn hour, +Wandering back to earth to bring +Some kindly afterthought of spring. + +A dandelion's ghost might so +Amid Elysian meadows blow, +Become more fragile and more fine +Breathing the atmosphere divine. + +Charles G. D. Roberts [1860- + + + + +THE HERON + +O melancholy bird, a winter's day +Thou standest by the margin of the pool, +And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school +To Patience, which all evil can allay. +God has appointed thee the Fish thy prey; +And given thyself a lesson to the Fool +Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule, +And his unthinking course by thee to weigh. +There need not schools, nor the Professor's chair, +Though these be good, true wisdom to impart; +He, who has not enough for these to spare +Of time, or gold, may yet amend his heart, +And teach his soul, by brooks and rivers fair: +Nature is always wise in every part. + +Edward Hovell-Thurlow [1781-1829] + + + + +THE JACKDAW + +There is a bird, who by his coat, +And by the hoarseness of his note, +Might be supposed a crow; +A great frequenter of the church, +Where bishop-like he finds a perch, +And dormitory too. + +Above the steeple shines a plate, +That turns and turns, to indicate +From what point blows the weather; +Look up--your brains begin to swim, +'Tis in the clouds--that pleases him, +He chooses it the rather. + +Fond of the speculative height, +Thither he wings his airy flight, +And thence securely sees +The bustle and the raree-show, +That occupy mankind below, +Secure and at his ease. + +You think, no doubt, he sits and muses +On future broken bones and bruises, +If he should chance to fall. +No: not a single thought like that +Employs his philosophic pate, +Or troubles it at all. + +He sees that this great roundabout, +The world, with all its medley rout, +Church, army, physic, law, +Its customs, and its businesses +Is no concern at all of his, +And says--what says he?--"Caw." + +Thrice happy bird! I too have seen +Much of the vanities of men; +And, sick of having seen 'em, +Would cheerfully these limbs resign +For such a pair of wings as thine, +And such a head between 'em. + +From the Latin of Vincent Bourne, +by William Cowper [1731-1800] + + + + +THE GREEN LINNET + +Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed +Their snow-white blossoms on my head, +With brightest sunshine round me spread +Of Spring's unclouded weather, +In this sequestered nook how sweet +To sit upon my orchard-seat! +And flowers and birds once more to greet, +My last year's friends together. + +One have I marked, the happiest guest +In all this covert of the blest: +Hail to Thee, far above the rest +In joy of voice and pinion! +Thou, Linnet! in thy green array +Presiding Spirit here to-day +Dost lead the revels of the May, +And this is thy dominion. + +While birds, and butterflies, and flowers +Make all one band of paramours, +Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, +Art sole in thy employment; +A Life, a Presence like the air, +Scattering thy gladness without care, +Too blest with any one to pair, +Thyself thy own enjoyment. + +Amid yon tuft of hazel trees, +That twinkle to the gusty breeze, +Behold him perched in ecstasies, +Yet seeming still to hover; +There! where the flutter of his wings +Upon his back and body flings +Shadows and sunny glimmerings, +That cover him all over. + +My dazzled sight he oft deceives-- +A Brother of the dancing leaves; +Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves +Pours forth his song in gushes, +As if by that exulting strain +He mocked and treated with disdain +The voiceless Form he chose to feign +While fluttering in the bushes. + +William Wordsworth [1770-1850] + + + + +TO THE MAN-OF-WAR-BIRD + +Thou who hast slept all night upon the storm, +Waking renewed on thy prodigious pinions, +(Burst the wild storm? above it thou ascended'st, +And rested on the sky, thy slave that cradled thee,) +Now a blue point, far, far in heaven floating, +As to the light emerging here on deck I watch thee, +(Myself a speck, a point on the world's floating vast.) + +Far, far at sea, +After the night's fierce drifts have strewn the shore with wrecks, +With re-appearing day as now so happy and serene, +The rosy and elastic dawn, the flashing sun, +The limpid spread of air cerulean, +Thou also re-appearest. + +Thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings,) +To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane, +Thou ship of air that never furl'st thy sails, +Days, even weeks untired and onward, through spaces, realms gyrating, +At dusk that look'st on Senegal, at morn America, +That sport'st amid the lightning-flash and thunder-cloud, +In them, in thy experiences, hadst thou my soul, +What joys! what joys were thine! + +Walt Whitman [1819-1892] + + + + +THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT + +When May bedecks the naked trees +With tassels and embroideries, +And many blue-eyed violets beam +Along the edges of the stream, +I hear a voice that seems to say, +Now near at hand, now far away, +"Witchery--witchery--witchery." + +An incantation so serene, +So innocent, befits the scene: +There's magic in that small bird's note-- +See, there he flits--the Yellow-throat; +A living sunbeam, tipped with wings, +A spark of light that shines and sings +"Witchery--witchery--witchery." + +You prophet with a pleasant name, +If out of Mary-land you came, +You know the way that thither goes +Where Mary's lovely garden grows: +Fly swiftly back to her, I pray, +And try, to call her down this way, +"Witchery--witchery--witchery!" + +Tell her to leave her cockle-shells, +And all her little silver bells +That blossom into melody, +And all her maids less fair than she. +She does not need these pretty things, +For everywhere she comes, she brings +"Witchery--witchery--witchery!" + +The woods are greening overhead, +And flowers adorn each mossy bed; +The waters babble as they run-- +One thing is lacking, only one: +If Mary were but here to-day, +I would believe your charming lay, +"Witchery--witchery--witchery!" + +Along the shady road I look-- +Who's coming now across the brook? +A woodland maid, all robed in white-- +The leaves dance round her with delight, +The stream laughs out beneath her feet-- +Sing, merry bird, the charm's complete, +"Witchery--witchery--witchery!" + +Henry Van Dyke [1852-1933] + + + + +LAMENT OF A MOCKING-BIRD + +Silence instead of thy sweet song, my bird, +Which through the darkness of my winter days +Warbling of summer sunshine still was heard; +Mute is thy song, and vacant is thy place. + +The spring comes back again, the fields rejoice, +Carols of gladness ring from every tree; +But I shall hear thy wild triumphant voice +No more: my summer song has died with thee. + +What didst thou sing of, O my summer bird? +The broad, bright, brimming river, whose swift sweep +And whirling eddies by the home are heard, +Rushing, resistless, to the calling deep. + +What didst thou sing of, thou melodious sprite? +Pine forests, with smooth russet carpets spread, +Where e'en at noonday dimly falls the light, +Through gloomy blue-green branches overhead. + +What didst thou sing of, O thou jubilant soul? +Ever-fresh flowers and never-leafless trees, +Bending great ivory cups to the control +Of the soft swaying, orange scented breeze. + +What didst thou sing of, thou embodied glee? +The wide wild marshes with their clashing reeds +And topaz-tinted channels, where the sea +Daily its tides of briny freshness leads. + +What didst thou sing of, O thou winged voice? +Dark, bronze-leaved oaks, with silver mosses crowned, +Where thy free kindred live, love, and rejoice, +With wreaths of golden jasmine curtained round. + +These didst thou sing of, spirit of delight! +From thy own radiant sky, thou quivering spark! +These thy sweet southern dreams of warmth and light, +Through the grim northern winter drear and dark. + +Frances Anne Kemble [1809-1893] + + + + +"O NIGHTINGALE! THOU SURELY ART" + +O nightingale! thou surely art +A creature of a "fiery heart":-- +These notes of thine--they pierce and pierce; +Tumultuous harmony and fierce! +Thou sing'st as if the God of wine +Had helped thee to a Valentine; +A song in mockery and despite +Of shades, and dews, and silent night; +And steady bliss, and all the loves +Now sleeping in these peaceful groves. + +I heard a Stock-dove sing or say +His homely tale, this very day; +His voice was buried among trees, +Yet to be come at by the breeze: +He did not cease, but cooed--and cooed; +And somewhat pensively he wooed: +He sang of love, with quiet blending, +Slow to begin, and never ending; +Of serious faith, and inward glee; +That was the Song--the Song for me! + +William Wordsworth [1770-1850] + + + + +PHILOMEL + +As it fell upon a day +In the merry month of May, +Sitting in a pleasant shade +Which a grove of myrtles made, +Beasts did leap and birds did sing, +Trees did grow and plants did spring; +Everything did banish moan +Save the Nightingale alone: +She, poor bird, as all forlorn +Leaned her breast up-till a thorn, +And there sung the doleful'st ditty, +That to hear it was great pity. +Fie, fie, fie! now would she cry; +Tereu, Tereu! by and by; +That to hear her so complain +Scarce I could from tears refrain; +For her griefs so lively shown +Made me think upon mine own. +Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain, +None takes pity on thy pain: +Senseless trees they cannot hear thee, +Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee: +King Pandion he is dead, +All thy friends are lapped in lead; +All thy fellow birds do sing +Careless of thy sorrowing: +Even so, poor bird, like thee, +None alive will pity me. + +Richard Barnfield [1574-1627] + + + + +PHILOMELA + +Hark! ah, the nightingale-- +The tawny-throated! +Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst! +What triumph! hark!--what pain! + +O wanderer from a Grecian shore, +Still, after many years, in distant lands, +Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain +That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world pain-- +Say, will it never heal? +And can this fragrant lawn +With its cool trees, and night, +And the sweet, tranquil Thames, +And moonshine, and the dew, +To thy racked heart and brain +Afford no balm? + +Dost thou to-night behold, +Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, +The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild? +Dost thou again peruse +With hot cheeks and seared eyes +The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame? +Dost thou once more assay +Thy flight, and feel come over thee, +Poor fugitive, the feathery change +Once more, and once more seem to make resound +With love and hate, triumph and agony, +Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale? +Listen, Eugenia-- +How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves! +Again--thou hearest? +Eternal passion! +Eternal pain! + +Matthew Arnold [1822-1888] + + + + +ON A NIGHTINGALE IN APRIL + +The yellow moon is a dancing phantom +Down secret ways of the flowing shade; +And the waveless stream has a murmuring whisper +Where the alders wave. + +Not a breath, not a sigh, save the slow stream's whisper: +Only the moon is a dancing blade +That leads a host of the Crescent warriors +To a phantom raid. + +Out of the Lands of Faerie a summons, +A long, strange cry that thrills through the glade:-- +The gray-green glooms of the elm are stirring, +Newly afraid. + +Last heard, white music, under the olives +Where once Theocritus sang and played-- +Thy Thracian song is the old new wonder, +O moon-white maid! + +William Sharp [1855-1905] + + + + +TO THE NIGHTINGALE + +Dear chorister, who from those shadows sends, +Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light, +Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends, +Become all ear, stars stay to hear thy plight: +If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends, +Who ne'er, not in a dream, did taste delight, +May thee importune who like care pretends, +And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite; +Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try, +And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains, +Since, winter gone, the sun in dappled sky +Now smiles on meadows, mountains, woods, and plains? +The bird, as if my questions did her move, +With trembling wings sobbed forth, I love! I love!" + +William Drummond [1585-1649] + + + + +THE NIGHTINGALE + +To-night retired, the queen of heaven +With young Endymion stays; +And now to Hesper it is given +Awhile to rule the vacant sky, +Till she shall to her lamp supply +A stream of brighter rays.... + +Propitious send thy golden ray, +Thou purest light above: +Let no false flame seduce to stray +Where gulf or steep lie hid for harm; +But lead where music's healing charm +May soothe afflicted love. + +To them, by many a grateful song +In happier seasons vowed, +These lawns, Olympia's haunt, belong: +Oft by yon silver stream we walked, +Or fixed, while Philomela talked, +Beneath yon copses stood. + +Nor seldom, where the beechen boughs +That roofless tower invade, +We came, while her enchanting Muse +The radiant moon above us held: +Till, by a clamorous owl compelled, +She fled the solemn shade. + +But hark! I hear her liquid tone! +Now, Hesper, guide my feet +Down the red marl with moss o'ergrown, +Through yon wild thicket next the plain, +Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane +Which leads to her retreat. + +See the green space: on either hand +Enlarged it spreads around: +See, in the midst she takes her stand, +Where one old oak his awful shade +Extends o'er half the level mead, +Enclosed in woods profound. + +Hark! how through many a melting note +She now prolongs her lays: +How sweetly down the void they float! +The breeze their magic path attends; +The stars shine out; the forest bends; +The wakeful heifers gaze. + +Whoe'er thou art whom chance may bring +To this sequestered spot, +If then the plaintive Siren sing, +O softly tread beneath her bower +And think of Heaven's disposing power, +Of man's uncertain lot. + +O think, o'er all this mortal stage +What mournful scenes arise: +What ruin waits on kingly rage; +How often virtue dwells with woe; +How many griefs from knowledge flow; +How swiftly pleasure flies! + +O sacred bird! let me at eve, +Thus wandering all alone, +Thy tender counsel oft receive, +Bear witness to thy pensive airs, +And pity Nature's common cares, +Till I forget my own. + +Mark Akenside [1721-1770] + + + + +TO THE NIGHTINGALE + +O nightingale that on yon bloomy spray +Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, +Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, +While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. +Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, +First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, +Portend success in love. O, if Jove's will +Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, +Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate +Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh; +As thou from year to year hast sung too late +For my relief, yet hadst no reason why. +Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, +Both them I serve, and of their train am I. + +John Milton [1608-1674] + + + + +PHILOMELA + +The Nightingale, as soon as April bringeth +Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, +While late-bare Earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, +Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making; +And mournfully bewailing, +Her throat in tunes expresseth +What grief her breast oppresseth, +For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing. + +O Philomela fair, O take some gladness +That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness! +Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; +Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth. + +Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish +But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken; +Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish, +Full womanlike, complains her will was broken, +But I, who, daily craving, +Cannot have to content me, +Have more cause to lament me, +Since wanting is more woe than too much having. + +O Philomela fair, O take some gladness +That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness! +Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; +Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth. + +Philip Sidney [1554-1586] + + + + +ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE + +My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains +My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, +Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains +One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: +'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, +But being too happy in thy happiness,-- +That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, +In some melodious plot +Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, +Singest of summer in full-throated ease. + +O for a draught of vintage, that hath been +Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, +Tasting of Flora and the country green, +Dance, and 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 specter-thin, and dies; +Where but to think is to be full of sorrow +And leaden-eyed despairs; +Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, +Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. + +Away! away! for I will fly to thee, +Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, +But on the viewless wings of Poesy, +Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: +Already with thee! tender is the night, +And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, +Clustered around by all her starry Fays; +But here there is no light, +Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown +Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways + +I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, +Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, +But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet +Wherewith the seasonable month endows +The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; +White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; +Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves; +And mid-May's eldest child, +The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, +The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. + +Darkling I listen; and, for many a time +I have been half in love with easeful Death, +Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, +To take into the air my quiet breath; +Now more than ever seems it rich to die, +To cease upon the midnight with no pain, +While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad +In such an 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 +Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam +Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. + +Forlorn! the very word is like a bell +To toll me back from thee to my sole self! +Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well +As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. +Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades +Past the near meadows, over the still stream, +Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep +In the next valley-glades: +Was it a vision, or a waking dream? +Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep? + +John Keats [1795-1821] + + + + +SONG + +'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark, +That bids a blithe good-morrow; +But sweeter to hark, in the twinkling dark, +To the soothing song of sorrow. +Oh nightingale! What doth she ail? +And is she sad or jolly? +For ne'er on earth was sound of mirth +So like to melancholy. + +The merry lark, he soars on high, +No worldly thought o'ertakes him; +He sings aloud to the clear blue sky, +And the daylight that awakes him. +As sweet a lay, as loud, as gay, +The nightingale is trilling; +With feeling bliss, no less than his, +Her little heart is thrilling. + +Yet ever and anon, a sigh +Peers through her lavish mirth; +For the lark's bold song is of the sky, +And hers is of the earth. +By night and day, she tunes her lay, +To drive away all sorrow; +For bliss, alas! to-night must pass, +And woe may come to-morrow. + +Hartley Coleridge [1796-1840] + + + + +BIRD SONG + +The robin sings of willow-buds, +Of snowflakes on the green; +The bluebird sings of Mayflowers, +The crackling leaves between; +The veery has a thousand tales +To tell to girl and boy; +But the oriole, the oriole, +Sings, "Joy! joy! joy!" + +The pewee calls his little mate, +Sweet Phoebe, gone astray, +The warbler sings, +"What fun, what fun, +To tilt upon the spray!" +The cuckoo has no song, but clucks, +Like any wooden toy; +But the oriole, the oriole, +Sings, "Joy! joy! joy!" + +The grosbeak sings the rose's birth, +And paints her on his breast; +The sparrow sings of speckled eggs, +Soft brooded in the nest. +The wood-thrush sings of peace, "Sweet peace, +Sweet peace," without alloy; +But the oriole, the oriole, +Sings "Joy! joy! joy!" + +Laura E. Richards [1850- + + + + +THE SONG THE ORIOLE SINGS + +There is a bird that comes and sings +In a professor's garden-trees; +Upon the English oak he swings, +And tilts and tosses in the breeze. + +I know his name, I know his note, +That so with rapture takes my soul; +Like flame the gold beneath his throat, +His glossy cope is black as coal. + +O oriole, it is the song +You sang me from the cottonwood, +Too young to feel that I was young, +Too glad to guess if life were good. + +And while I hark, before my door, +Adown the dusty Concord Road, +The blue Miami flows once more +As by the cottonwood it flowed. + +And on the bank that rises steep, +And pours a thousand tiny rills, +From death and absence laugh and leap +My school-mates to their flutter-mills. + +The blackbirds jangle in the tops +Of hoary-antlered sycamores; +The timorous killdee starts and stops +Among the drift-wood on the shores. + +Below, the bridge--a noonday fear +Of dust and shadow shot with sun-- +Stretches its gloom from pier to pier, +Far unto alien coasts unknown. + +And on these alien coasts, above, +Where silver ripples break the stream's +Long blue, from some roof-sheltering grove +A hidden parrot scolds and screams. + +Ah, nothing, nothing! Commonest things: +A touch, a glimpse, a sound, a breath-- +It is a song the oriole sings-- +And all the rest belongs to death. + +But oriole, my oriole, +Were some bright seraph sent from bliss +With songs of heaven to win my soul +From simple memories such as this, + +What could he tell to tempt my ear +From you? What high thing could there be, +So tenderly and sweetly dear +As my lost boyhood is to me? + +William Dean Howells [1837-1920] + + + + +TO AN ORIOLE + +How falls it, oriole, thou hast come to fly +In tropic splendor through our Northern sky? + +At some glad moment was it nature's choice +To dower a scrap of sunset with a voice? + +Or did some orange tulip, flaked with black, +In some forgotten garden, ages back, + +Yearning toward Heaven until its wish was heard, +Desire unspeakably to be a bird? + +Edgar Fawcett [1847-1904] + + + + +SONG: THE OWL + +When cats run home and light is come, +And dew is cold upon the ground, +And the far-off stream is dumb, +And the whirring sail goes round, +And the whirring sail goes round; +Alone and warming his five wits, +The white owl in the belfry sits. + +When merry milkmaids click the latch, +And rarely smells the new-mown hay, +And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch +Twice or thrice his roundelay, +Twice or thrice his roundelay; +Alone and warming his five wits, +The white owl in the belfry sits. + +Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892] + + + + +SWEET SUFFOLK OWL + +Sweet Suffolk owl, so trimly dight +With feathers, like a lady bright; +Thou sing'st alone, sitting by night, +"Te whit! Te whoo!" + +Thy note that forth so freely rolls +With shrill command the mouse controls; +And sings a dirge for dying souls. +"Te whit! Te whoo!" + +Thomas Vautor [fl. 1616] + + + + +THE PEWEE + +The listening Dryads hushed the woods; +The boughs were thick, and thin and few +The golden ribbons fluttering through; +Their sun-embroidered, leafy hoods +The lindens lifted to the blue: +Only a little forest-brook +The farthest hem of silence shook: +When in the hollow shades I heard,-- +Was it a spirit, or a bird? +Or, strayed from Eden, desolate, +Some Peri calling to her mate, +Whom nevermore her mate would cheer? +Pe-ri! pe-ri! peer!" + +Through rocky clefts the brooklet fell +With plashy pour, that scarce was sound, +But only quiet less profound, +A stillness fresh and audible: +A yellow leaflet to the ground +Whirled noiselessly: with wing of gloss +A hovering sunbeam brushed the moss, +And, wavering brightly over it, +Sat like a butterfly alit: +The owlet in his open door +Stared roundly: while the breezes bore +The plaint to far-off places drear,-- +"Pe-ree! pe-ree! peer!" + +To trace it in its green retreat +I sought among the boughs in vain; +And followed still the wandering strain, +So melancholy and so sweet +The dim-eyed violets yearned with pain. +'Twas now a sorrow in the air, +Some nymph's immortalized despair +Haunting the woods and waterfalls; +And now, at long, sad intervals, +Sitting unseen in dusky shade, +His plaintive pipe some fairy played, +With long-drawn cadence thin and clear,-- +"Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!" + +Long-drawn and clear its closes were,-- +As if the hand of Music through +The somber robe of Silence drew +A thread of golden gossamer: +So pure a flute the fairy blew. +Like beggared princes of the wood, +In silver rags the birches stood; +The hemlocks, lordly counselors, +Were dumb; the sturdy servitors, +In beechen jackets patched and gray, +Seemed waiting spellbound all the day +That low, entrancing note to hear,-- +"Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!" + +I quit the search, and sat me down +Beside the brook, irresolute, +And watched a little bird in suit +Of sober olive, soft and brown, +Perched in the maple-branches, mute: +With greenish gold its vest was fringed, +Its tiny cap was ebon-tinged, +With ivory pale its wings were barred, +And its dark eyes were tender-starred. +"Dear bird," I said, "what is thy name?" +And thrice the mournful answer came, +So faint and far, and yet so near,-- +"Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!" + +For so I found my forest bird,-- +The pewee of the loneliest woods, +Sole singer in these solitudes, +Which never robin's whistle stirred, +Where never bluebird's plume intrudes. +Quick darting through the dewy morn, +The redstart trilled his twittering horn, +And vanished in thick boughs: at even, +Like liquid pearls fresh showered from heaven, +The high notes of the lone wood-thrush +Fall on the forest's holy hush: +But thou all day complainest here,-- +"Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!" + +Hast thou, too, in thy little breast, +Strange longings for a happier lot,-- +For love, for life, thou know'st not what,-- +A yearning, and a vague unrest, +For something still which thou hast not?-- +Thou soul of some benighted child +That perished, crying in the wild! +Or lost, forlorn, and wandering maid, +By love allured, by love betrayed, +Whose spirit with her latest sigh +Arose, a little winged cry, +Above her chill and mossy bier! +"Dear me! dear me! dear!" + +Ah, no such piercing sorrow mars +The pewee's life of cheerful ease! +He sings, or leaves his song to seize +An insect sporting in the bars +Of mild bright light that gild the trees. +A very poet he! For him +All pleasant places still and dim: +His heart, a spark of heavenly fire, +Burns with undying, sweet desire: +And so he sings; and so his song, +Though heard not by the hurrying throng, +Is solace to the pensive ear: +Pewee! pewee! peer! + +John Townsend Trowbridge [1827-1916] + + + + +ROBIN REDBREAST + +Sweet Robin, I have heard them say +That thou wert there upon the day +The Christ was crowned in cruel scorn +And bore away one bleeding thorn,-- +That so the blush upon thy breast, +In shameful sorrow, was impressed; +And thence thy genial sympathy +With our redeemed humanity. + +Sweet Robin, would that I might be +Bathed in my Saviour's blood, like thee; +Bear in my breast, whate'er the loss, +The bleeding blazon of the cross; +Live ever, with thy loving mind, +In fellowship with human-kind; +And take my pattern still from thee, +In gentleness and constancy. + +George Washington Doane [1799-1859] + + + + +ROBIN REDBREAST + +Good-by, good-by to Summer! +For Summer's nearly done;-- +The garden smiling faintly, +Cool breezes in the sun; +Our thrushes now are silent, +Our swallows flown away,-- +But Robin's here in coat of brown, +And scarlet breast-knot gay. +Robin, Robin Redbreast, +O Robin dear! +Robin sings so sweetly +In the falling of the year. + +Bright yellow, red, and orange, +The leaves come down in hosts; +The trees are Indian princes, +But soon they'll turn to ghosts; +The scanty pears and apples +Hang russet on the bough; +It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, +'Twill soon be Winter now. +Robin, Robin Redbreast, +O Robin dear! +And what will this poor Robin do? +For pinching days are near. + +The fireside for the cricket, +The wheat-stack for the mouse, +When trembling night-winds whistle +And moan all round the house. +The frosty ways like iron, +The branches plumed with snow,-- +Alas! in Winter dead and dark, +Where can poor Robin go? +Robin, Robin Redbreast, +O Robin dear! +And a crumb of bread for Robin, +His little heart to cheer! + +William Allingham [1824-1889] + + + + +THE SANDPIPER + +Across the narrow beach we flit, +One little sandpiper and I, +And fast I gather, bit by bit, +The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. +The wild waves reach their hands for it, +The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, +As up and down the beach we flit,-- +One little sandpiper and I. + +Above our heads the sullen clouds +Scud black and swift across the sky; +Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds +Stand out the white lighthouses high. +Almost as far as eye can reach +I see the close-reefed vessels fly, +As fast we flit along the beach,-- +One little sandpiper and I. + +I watch him as he skims along, +Uttering his sweet and mournful cry. +He starts not at my fitful song, +Or flash of fluttering drapery. +He has no thought of any wrong; +He scans me with a fearless eye: +Staunch friends are we, well tried and strong, +The little sandpiper and I. + +Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night +When the loosed storm breaks furiously? +My driftwood fire will burn so bright! +To what warm shelter canst thou fly? +I do not fear for thee, though wroth +The tempest rushes through the sky: +For are we not God's children both, +Thou, little sandpiper, and I? + +Celia Thaxter [1835-1894] + + + + +THE SEA-MEW + +How joyously the young sea-mew +Lay dreaming on the waters blue, +Whereon our little bark had thrown +A little shade, the only one,-- +But shadows ever man pursue. + +Familiar with the waves and free +As if their own white foam were he, +His heart upon the heart of ocean +Lay learning all its mystic motion, +And throbbing to the throbbing sea. + +And such a brightness in his eye, +As if the ocean and the sky +Within him had lit up and nursed +A soul God gave him not at first +To comprehend their majesty. + +We were not cruel, yet did sunder +His white wing from the blue waves under, +And bound it, while his fearless eyes +Shone up to ours in calm surprise, +As deeming us some ocean wonder! + +We bore our ocean bird unto +A grassy place, where he might view +The flowers that curtsey to the bees, +The waving of the tall green trees, +The falling of the silver dew. + +But flowers of earth were pale to him +Who had seen the rainbow fishes swim; +And when earth's dew around him lay +He thought of ocean's winged spray, +And his eye waxed sad and dim. + +The green trees round him only made +A prison with their darksome shade; +And dropped his wing, and mourned he +For his own boundless glittering sea-- +Albeit he knew not they could fade. + +Then One her gladsome face did bring, +Her gentle voice's murmuring, +In ocean's stead his heart to move +And teach him what was human love: +He thought it a strange, mournful thing. + +He lay down in his grief to die +(First looking to the sea-like sky +That hath no waves!), because, alas! +Our human touch did on him pass, +And, with our touch, our agony. + +Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861] + + + + +TO A SKYLARK + +Up with me! up with me into the clouds! +For thy song, Lark, is strong; +Up with me, up with me into the clouds! +Singing, singing, +With clouds and sky about thee ringing, +Lift me, guide me till I find +That spot which seems so to thy mind! + +I have walked through wildernesses dreary +And to-day my heart is weary; +Had I now the wings of a Fairy, +Up to thee would I fly. +There is madness about thee, and joy divine +In that song of thine; +Lift me, guide me high and high +To thy banqueting-Place in the sky. + +Joyous as morning +Thou art laughing and scorning; +Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest. +And, though little troubled with sloth, +Drunken Lark! thou would'st be loth +To be such a traveler as I. +Happy, happy Liver, +With a soul as strong as a mountain river +Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, +Joy and jollity be with us both! + +Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven, +Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind; +But hearing thee, or others of thy kind, +As full of gladness and as free of heaven, +I, with my fate contented, will plod on, +And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done. + +William Wordsworth [1770-1850] + + + + +TO A SKYLARK + +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! + +To the last point of vision, and beyond, +Mount, daring warbler!--that love-prompted strain +--'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond-- +Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: +Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing +All independent of the leafy spring. + +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! + +William Wordsworth [1770-1850] + + + + +THE SKYLARK + +Bird of the wilderness, +Blithesome and cumberless, +Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! +Emblem of happiness, +Blest is thy dwelling-place-- +O to abide in the desert with thee! + +Wild is thy lay and loud, +Far in the downy cloud, +Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. +Where, on thy dewy wing, +Where art thou journeying? +Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. + +O'er fell and fountain sheen, +O'er moor and mountain green, +O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, +Over the cloudlet dim, +Over the rainbow's rim, +Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! + +Then, when the gloaming comes, +Low in the heather blooms +Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! +Emblem of happiness, +Blest is thy dwelling-place-- +O to abide in the desert with thee! + +James Hogg [1770-1835] + + + + +THE SKYLARK + +How the blithe Lark runs up the golden stair +That leans through cloudy gates from Heaven to Earth, +And all alone in the empyreal air +Fills it with jubilant sweet songs of mirth; +How far he seems, how far +With the light upon his wings, +Is it a bird, or star +That shines, and sings? + +What matter if the days be dark and frore, +That sunbeam tells of other days to be, +And singing in the light that floods him o'er +In joy he overtakes Futurity; +Under cloud-arches vast +He peeps, and sees behind +Great Summer coming fast +Adown the wind! + +And now he dives into a rainbow's rivers, +In streams of gold and purple he is drowned, +Shrilly the arrows of his song he shivers, +As though the stormy drops were turned to sound; +And now he issues through, +He scales a cloudy tower, +Faintly, like falling dew, +His fast notes shower. + +Let every wind be hushed, that I may hear +The wondrous things he tells the World below, +Things that we dream of he is watching near, +Hopes that we never dreamed he would bestow; +Alas! the storm hath rolled +Back the gold gates again, +Or surely he had told +All Heaven to men! + +So the victorious Poet sings alone, +And fills with light his solitary home, +And through that glory sees new worlds foreshown, +And hears high songs, and triumphs yet to come; +He waves the air of Time +With thrills of golden chords, +And makes the world to climb +On linked words. + +What if his hair be gray, his eyes be dim, +If wealth forsake him, and if friends be cold, +Wonder unbars her thousand gates to him, +Truth never fails, nor Beauty waxes old; +More than he tells his eyes +Behold, his spirit hears, +Of grief, and joy, and sighs +'Twixt joy and tears. + +Blest is the man who with the sound of song +Can charm away the heartache, and forget +The frost of Penury, and the stings of Wrong, +And drown the fatal whisper of Regret! +Darker are the abodes +Of Kings, though his be poor, +While Fancies, like the Gods, +Pass through his door. + +Singing thou scalest Heaven upon thy wings, +Thou liftest a glad heart into the skies; +He maketh his own sunrise, while he sings, +And turns the dusty Earth to Paradise; +I see thee sail along +Far up the sunny streams, +Unseen, I hear his song, +I see his dreams. + +Frederick Tennyson [1807-1898] + + + + +TO A SKYLARK + +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 daylight +Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. + +Keen as are the arrows +Of that silver sphere, +Whose intense lamp narrows +In the white dawn clear, +Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. + +All the earth and air +With thy voice is loud, +As, when night is bare, +From one lonely cloud +The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. + +What thou art we know not; +What is most like thee? +From rainbow clouds there flow not +Drops so bright to see +As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. + +Like a poet hidden +In the light of thought, +Singing hymns unbidden +Till the world is wrought +To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: + +Like a high-born maiden +In a palace tower, +Soothing her love-laden +Soul in secret hour +With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: + +Like a glow-worm golden +In a dell of dew, +Scattering unbeholden +Its aerial hue +Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: + +Like a rose embowered +In its own green leaves, +By warm winds deflowered, +Till the scent it gives +Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves: + +Sound of vernal showers +On the twinkling grass, +Rain-awakened flowers, +All that ever was +Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. + +Teach us, sprite or bird, +What sweet thoughts are thine: +I have never heard +Praise of love or wine +That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. + +Chorus hymeneal, +Or triumphal chaunt, +Matched with thine would be all +But an empty vaunt-- +A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. + +What objects are the fountains +Of thy happy strain? +What fields, or waves, or mountains? +What shapes of sky or plain? +What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? + +With thy clear keen joyance +Languor cannot be: +Shadow of annoyance +Never came near thee: +Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. + +Waking or asleep, +Thou of death must deem +Things more true and deep +Than we mortals dream, +Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? + +We look before and after, +And pine for what is not: +Our sincerest laughter +With some pain is fraught; +Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. + +Yet if we could scorn +Hate, and pride, and fear; +If we were things born +Not to shed a tear, +I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. + +Better than all measures +Of delightful sound, +Better than all treasures +That in books are found, +Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! + +Teach me half the gladness +That thy brain must know, +Such harmonious madness +From my lips would flow, +The world should listen then, as I am listening now. + +Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822] + + + + +THE STORMY PETREL + +A thousand miles from land are we, +Tossing about on the roaring sea,-- +From billow to bounding billow cast, +Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast. +The sails are scattered abroad like weeds; +The strong masts shake like quivering reeds; +The mighty cables and iron chains, +The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,-- +They strain and they crack; and hearts like stone +Their natural, hard, proud strength disown. + +Up and down!--up and down! +From the base of the wave to the billow's crown, +And amidst the flashing and feathery foam +The stormy petrel finds a home,-- +A home, if such a place may be +For her who lives on the wide, wide sea, +On the craggy ice, in the frozen air, +And only seeketh her rocky lair +To warm her young, and to teach them to spring +At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing! + +O'er the deep!--o'er the deep! +Where the whale and the shark and the swordfish sleep,-- +Outflying the blast and the driving rain, +The petrel telleth her tale--in vain; +For the mariner curseth the warning bird +Which bringeth him news of the storm unheard! +Ah! thus does the prophet, of good or ill, +Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still; +Yet he ne'er falter,--so, petrel, spring +Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing! + +Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874] + + + + +THE FIRST SWALLOW + +The gorse is yellow on the heath, +The banks with speedwell flowers are gay, +The oaks are budding, and, beneath, +The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, +The silver wreath, of May. + +The welcome guest of settled Spring, +The swallow, too, has come at last; +Just at sunset, when thrushes sing, +I saw her dash with rapid wing, +And hailed her as she passed. + +Come, summer visitant, attach +To my reed roof your nest of clay, +And let my ear your music catch, +Low twittering underneath the thatch +At the gray dawn of day. + +Charlotte Smith [1749-1806] + + + + +TO A SWALLOW BUILDING UNDER OUR EAVES + +Thou too hast traveled, little fluttering thing,-- +Hast seen the world, and now thy weary wing +Thou too must rest. +But much, my little bird, could'st thou but tell, +I'd give to know why here thou lik'st so well +To build thy nest. + +For thou hast passed fair places in thy flight; +A world lay all beneath thee where to light; +And, strange thy taste, +Of all the varied scenes that met thine eye, +Of all the spots for building 'neath the sky, +To choose this waste! + +Did fortune try thee?--was thy little purse +Perchance run low, and thou, afraid of worse, +Felt here secure? +Ah, no! thou need'st not gold, thou happy one! +Thou know'st it not. Of all God's creatures, man +Alone is poor. + +What was it, then?--some mystic turn of thought, +Caught under German eaves, and hither brought, +Marring thine eye +For the world's loveliness, till thou art grown +A sober thing that dost but mope and moan, +Not knowing why? + +Nay, if thy mind be sound, I need not ask, +Since here I see thee working at thy task +With wing and beak. +A well-laid scheme doth that small head contain, +At which thou work'st, brave bird, with might and main, +Nor more need'st seek. + +In truth, I rather take it thou hast got +By instinct wise much sense about thy lot, +And hast small care +Whether an Eden or a desert be +Thy home, so thou remain'st alive, and free +To skim the air. + +God speed thee, pretty bird! May thy small nest +With little ones all in good time be blest. +I love thee much; +For well thou managest that life of thine, +While I--oh, ask not what I do with mine! +Would I were such! + +Jane Welsh Carlyle [1801-1866] + + + + +CHIMNEY SWALLOWS + +I slept in an old homestead by the sea: +And in their chimney nest, +At night the swallows told home-lore to me, +As to a friendly guest. + +A liquid twitter, low, confiding, glad, +From many glossy throats, +Was all the voice; and yet its accents had +A poem's golden notes. + +Quaint legends of the fireside and the shore, +And sounds of festal cheer, +And tones of those whose tasks of love are o'er, +Were breathed into mine ear; + +And wondrous lyrics, felt but never sung, +The heart's melodious bloom; +And histories, whose perfumes long have clung +About each hallowed room. + +I heard the dream of lovers, as they found +At last their hour of bliss, +And fear and pain and long suspense were drowned +In one heart-healing kiss. + +I heard the lullaby of babes, that grew +To sons and daughters fair; +And childhood's angels, singing as they flew, +And sobs of secret prayer. + +I heard the voyagers who seemed to sail +Into the sapphire sky, +And sad, weird voices in the autumn gale, +As the swift ships went by; + +And sighs suppressed and converse soft and low +About the sufferer's bed, +And what is uttered when the stricken know +That the dear one is dead; + +And steps of those who, in the Sabbath light, +Muse with transfigured face; +And hot lips pressing, through the long, dark night, +The pillow's empty place; + +And fervent greetings of old friends, whose path +In youth had gone apart, +But to each other brought life's aftermath, +With uncorroded heart. + +The music of the seasons touched the strain, +Bird-joy and laugh of flowers, +The orchard's bounty and the yellow grain, +Snow storm and sunny showers; + +And secrets of the soul that doubts and yearns +And gropes in regions dim, +Till, meeting Christ with raptured eye, discerns +Its perfect life in Him. + +So, thinking of the Master and his tears, +And how the birds are kept, +I sank in arms that folded me from fears, +And like an infant, slept. + +Horatio Nelson Powers [1826-1890] + + + + +ITYLUS + +Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow, +How can thine heart be full of the spring? +A thousand summers are over and dead. +What hast thou found in the spring to follow? +What hast thou found in thine heart to sing? +What wilt thou do when the summer is shed? + +O swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow, +Why wilt thou fly after spring to the south, +The soft south whither thine heart is set? +Shall not the grief of the old time follow? +Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy mouth? +Hast thou forgotten ere I forget? + +Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow, +Thy way is long to the sun and the south; +But I, fulfilled of my heart's desire, +Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow, +From tawny body and sweet small mouth +Feed the heart of the night with fire. + +I the nightingale all spring through, +O swallow, sister, O changing swallow, +All spring through till the spring be done, +Clothed with the light of the night on the dew, +Sing, while the hours and the wild birds follow, +Take flight and follow and find the sun. + +Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow, +Though all things feast in the spring's guest-chamber, +How hast thou heart to be glad thereof yet? +For where thou fliest I shall not follow, +Till life forget and death remember, +Till thou remember and I forget. + +Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow, +I know not how thou hast heart to sing. +Hast thou the heart? is it all passed over? +Thy lord the summer is good to follow, +And fair the feet of thy lover the spring: +But what wilt thou say to the spring thy lover? + +O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow, +My heart in me is a molten ember +And over my head the waves have met. +But thou wouldst tarry or I would follow +Could I forget or thou remember, +Couldst thou remember and I forget. + +O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow, +The heart's division divideth us. +Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree; +But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollow +To the place of the slaying of Itylus, +The feast of Daulis, the Thracian sea. + +O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow, +I pray thee sing not a little space. +Are not the roofs and the lintels wet? +The woven web that was plain to follow, +The small slain body, the flower-like face, +Can I remember if thou forget? + +O sister, sister, thy first-begotten! +The hands that cling and the feet that follow, +The voice of the child's blood crying yet, +Who hath remembered me? who hath forgotten? +Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow, +But the world shall end when I forget. + +Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909] + + + + +THE THROSTLE + +"Summer is coming, summer is coming, +I know it, I know it, I know it. +Light again, leaf again, life again, love again," +Yes, my wild little Poet. + +Sing the new year in under the blue. +Last year you sang it as gladly. +"New, new, new, new!" Is it then so new +That you should carol so madly? + +"Love again, song again, nest again, young again," +Never a prophet so crazy! +And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend, +See, there is hardly a daisy. + +"Here again, here, here, here, happy year!" +O warble unchidden, unbidden! +Summer is coming, is coming, my dear, +And all the winters are hidden. + +Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892] + + + + +OVERFLOW + +Hush! +With sudden gush +As from a fountain, sings in yonder bush +The Hermit Thrush. + +Hark! +Did ever Lark +With swifter scintillations fling the spark +That fires the dark? + +Again, +Like April rain +Of mist and sunshine mingled, moves the strain +O'er hill and plain. + +Strong +As love, O Song, +In flame or torrent sweep through Life along, +O'er grief and wrong. + +John Banister Tabb [1845-1909] + + + + +JOY-MONTH + +Oh, hark to the brown thrush! hear how he sings! +How he pours the dear pain of his gladness! +What a gush! and from out what golden springs! +What a rage of how sweet madness! + +And golden the buttercup blooms by the way, +A song of the joyous ground; +While the melody rained from yonder spray +Is a blossom in fields of sound. + +How glisten the eyes of the happy leaves! +How whispers each blade, "I am blest!" +Rosy Heaven his lips to flowered earth gives, +With the costliest bliss of his breast. + +Pour, pour of the wine of thy heart, O Nature! +By cups of field and of sky, +By the brimming soul of every creature!-- +Joy-mad, dear Mother, am I. + +Tongues, tongues for my joy, for my joy! more tongues!-- +Oh, thanks to the thrush on the tree, +To the sky, and to all earth's blooms and songs! +They utter the heart in me. + +David Atwood Wasson [1823-1887] + + + + +MY THRUSH + +All through the sultry hours of June, +From morning blithe to golden noon, +And till the star of evening climbs +The gray-blue East, a world too soon, +There sings a Thrush amid the limes. + +God's poet, hid in foliage green, +Sings endless songs, himself unseen; +Right seldom come his silent times. +Linger, ye summer hours serene! +Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes! + +Nor from these confines wander out, +Where the old gun, bucolic lout, +Commits all day his murderous crimes: +Though cherries ripe are sweet, no doubt, +Sweeter thy song amid the limes. + +May I not dream God sends thee there, +Thou mellow angel of the air, +Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes +With music's soul, all praise and prayer? +Is that thy lesson in the limes? + +Closer to God art thou than I: +His minstrel thou, whose brown wings fly +Through silent ether's summer climes. +Ah, never may thy music die! +Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes! + +Mortimer Collins [1827-1876] + + + + +"BLOW SOFTLY, THRUSH" + +Blow softly, thrush, upon the hush +That makes the least leaf loud, +Blow, wild of heart, remote, apart +From all the vocal crowd, +Apart, remote, a spirit note +That dances meltingly afloat, +Blow faintly, thrush! +And build the green-hid waterfall +I hated for its beauty, and all +The unloved vernal rapture and flush, +The old forgotten lonely time, +Delicate thrush! +Spring's at the prime, the world's in chime, +And my love is listening nearly; +O lightly blow the ancient woe, +Flute of the wood, blow clearly! +Blow, she is here, and the world all dear, +Melting flute of the hush, +Old sorrow estranged, enriched, sea-changed, +Breathe it, veery thrush! + +Joseph Russell Taylor [1868-1933] + + + + +THE BLACK VULTURE + +Aloof within the day's enormous dome, +He holds unshared the silence of the sky. +Far down his bleak, relentless eyes descry +The eagle's empire and the falcon's home-- +Far down, the galleons of sunset roam; +His hazards on the sea of morning lie; +Serene, he hears the broken tempest sigh +Where cold sierras gleam like scattered foam. +And least of all he holds the human swarm-- +Unwitting now that envious men prepare +To make their dream and its fulfillment one +When, poised above the caldrons of the storm, +Their hearts, contemptuous of death, shall dare +His roads between the thunder and the sun. + +George Sterling [1869-1926] + + + + +WILD GEESE + +How oft against the sunset sky or moon +I watched that moving zigzag of spread wings +In unforgotten Autumns gone too soon, +In unforgotten Springs! +Creatures of desolation, far they fly +Above all lands bound by the curling foam; +In misty lens, wild moors and trackless sky +These wild things have their home. +They know the tundra of Siberian coasts. +And tropic marshes by the Indian seas; +They know the clouds and night and starry hosts +From Crux to Pleiades. +Dark flying rune against the western glow-- +It tells the sweep and loneliness of things, +Symbol of Autumns vanished long ago. +Symbol of coming Springs! + +Frederick Peterson [1859- + + + + +TO A WATERFOWL + +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 painted on 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 sink +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 hath 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. + +William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878] + + + + +THE WOOD-DOVE'S NOTE + +Meadows with yellow cowslips all aglow, +Glory of sunshine on the uplands bare, +And faint and far, with sweet elusive flow, +The Wood-dove's plaintive call, +"O where! where! where!" + +Straight with old Omar in the almond grove +From whitening boughs I breathe the odors rare +And hear the princess mourning for her love +With sad unwearied plaint, +"O where! where! where!" + +New madrigals in each soft pulsing throat-- +New life upleaping to the brooding air-- +Still the heart answers to that questing note, +"Soul of the vanished years, +O where! where! where!" + +Emily Huntington Miller [1833-1913] + + + + + + + + + + + +THE SEA + + + + + + + + + + +SONG FOR ALL SEAS, ALL SHIPS + +I +To-day a rude brief recitative, +Of ships sailing the seas, each with its special flag or ship-signal, +Of unnamed heroes in the ships--of waves spreading and spreading + far as the eye can reach, +Of dashing spray, and the winds piping and blowing, +And out of these a chant for the sailors of all nations, Fitful, + like a surge. + +Of sea-captains young or old, and the mates, and of all intrepid sailors, +Of the few, very choice, taciturn, whom fate can never surprise nor + death dismay, +Picked sparingly without noise by thee, old ocean, chosen by thee, +Thou sea that pickest and cullest the race in time, and unitest nations, +Suckled by thee, old husky nurse, embodying thee, +Indomitable, untamed as thee. + +(Ever the heroes on water or on land, by ones or twos appearing, +Ever the stock preserved and never lost, though rare, enough for + seed preserved.) + +II +Flaunt out, O sea, your separate flags of nations! +Flaunt out visible as ever the various ship-signals! +But do you reserve especially for yourself and for the soul of man one + flag above all the rest, +A spiritual woven signal for all nations, emblem of man elate above death, +Token of all brave captains and all intrepid sailors and mates, +And all that went down doing their duty, +Reminiscent of them, twined from all intrepid captains young or old, +A pennant universal, subtly waving all time, o'er all brave sailors, +All seas, all ships. + +Walt Whitman [1819-1892] + + + + +STANZAS +From "The Triumph of Time" + +I will go back to the great sweet mother,-- +Mother and lover of men, the Sea. +I will go down to her, I and none other, +Close with her, kiss her, and mix her with me; +Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast; +O fair white mother, in days long past +Born without sister, born without brother, +Set free my soul as thy soul is free. + +O fair green-girdled mother of mine, +Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain, +Thy sweet hard kisses are strong like wine, +Thy large embraces are keen like pain. +Save me and hide me with all thy waves, +Find me one grave of thy thousand graves, +Those pure cold populous graves of thine, +Wrought without hand in a world without stain. + +I shall sleep, and move with the moving ships, +Change as the winds change, veer in the tide; +My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips, +I shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside; +Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were, +Filled full with life to the eyes and hair. +As a rose is fulfilled to the rose-leaf tips +With splendid summer and perfume and pride. + +This woven raiment of nights and days, +Were it once cast off and unwound from me, +Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways, +Alive and aware of thy waves and thee; +Clear of the whole world, hidden at home, +Clothed with the green, and crowned with the foam, +A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays, +A vein in the heart of the streams of the Sea. + +Fair mother, fed with the lives of men, +Thou art subtle and cruel of heart, men say; +Thou hast taken, and shalt not render again; +Thou art full of thy dead, and cold as they. +But death is the worst that comes of thee; +Thou art fed with our dead, O Mother, O Sea, +But when hast thou fed on our hearts? or when +Having given us love, hast thou taken away? + +O tender-hearted, O perfect lover, +Thy lips are bitter, and sweet thine heart. +The hopes that hurt and the dreams that hover, +Shall they not vanish away and apart? +But thou, thou art sure, thou art older than earth; +Thou art strong for death and fruitful of birth; +Thy depths conceal and thy gulfs discover; +From the first thou wert; in the end thou art. + +Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909] + + + + +THE SEA +From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" + +There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, +There is a rapture on the lonely shore, +There is society where none intrudes +By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: +I love not Man the less, but Nature more, +From these our interviews, in which I steal +From all I may be, or have been before, +To mingle with the Universe, and feel +What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal. + +Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean, roll! +Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; +Man marks the earth with ruin, his control +Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain +The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain +A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, +When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, +He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, +Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. + +His steps are not upon thy paths, thy fields +Are not a spoil for him,--thou dost arise +And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields +For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, +Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, +And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray +And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies +His petty hope in some near port or bay, +And dashest him again to earth:--there let him lay. + +The armaments which thunderstrike the walls +Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake +And monarchs tremble in their capitals, +The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make +Their clay creator the vain title take +Of lord of thee and arbiter of war,-- +These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, +They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar +Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar. + +Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee;-- +Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? +Thy waters washed them power while they were free, +And many a tyrant since; their shores obey +The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay +Has dried up realms to deserts:--not so thou; +Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play, +Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow; +Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. + +Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form +Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, +Calm or convulsed,--in breeze, or gale, or storm, +Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime +Dark-heaving;--boundless, endless, and sublime,-- +The image of Eternity,--the throne +Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime +The monsters of the deep are made; each zone +Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. + +And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy +Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be +Borne, like thy bubbles, onward. From a boy +I wantoned with thy breakers,--they to me +Were a delight; and if the freshening sea +Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear; +For I was as it were a child of thee, +And trusted to thy billows far and near, +And laid my hand upon thy mane,--as I do here. + +George Gordon Byron [1788-1824] + + + + +ON THE SEA + +It keeps eternal whisperings around +Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell +Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell +Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. +Often 'tis in such gentle temper found, +That scarcely will the very smallest shell +Be moved for days from whence it sometime fell, +When last the winds of heaven were unbound. +Oh ye! who have your eye-balls vexed and tired, +Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea; +Oh ye! whose ears are dinned with uproar rude, +Or fed too much with cloying melody,-- +Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood +Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired! + +John Keats [1795-1821] + + + + +"WITH SHIPS THE SEA WAS SPRINKLED" + +With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, +Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed; +Some lying fast at anchor in the road, +Some veering up and down, one knew not why. +A goodly vessel did I then espy +Come like a giant from a haven broad; +And lustily along the bay she strode, +Her tackling rich, and of apparel high. +This ship was naught to me, nor I to her, +Yet I pursued her with a lover's look; +This ship to all the rest did I prefer: +When will she turn, and whither? She will brook +No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir: +On went she,--and due north her journey took. + +William Wordsworth [1770-1850] + + + + +A SONG OF DESIRE + +Thou dreamer with the million moods, +Of restless heart like me, +Lay thy white hands against my breast +And cool its pain, O Sea! + +O wanderer of the unseen paths, +Restless of heart as I, +Blow hither, from thy caves of blue, +Wind of the healing sky! + +O treader of the fiery way, +With passionate heart like mine, +Hold to my lips thy healthful cup +Brimmed with its blood-red wine! + +O countless watchers of the night, +Of sleepless heart like me, +Pour your white beauty in my soul, +Till I grow calm as ye! + +O sea, O sun, O wind and stars, +(O hungry heart that longs!) +Feed my starved lips with life, with love, +And touch my tongue with songs! + +Frederic Lawrence Knowles [1869-1905] + + + + +THE PINES AND THE SEA + +Beyond the low marsh-meadows and the beach, +Seen through the hoary trunks of windy pines, +The long blue level of the ocean shines. +The distant surf, with hoarse, complaining speech, +Out from its sandy barrier seems to reach; +And while the sun behind the woods declines, +The moaning sea with sighing boughs combines, +And waves and pines make answer, each to each. +O melancholy soul, whom far and near, +In life, faith, hope, the same sad undertone +Pursues from thought to thought! thou needs must hear +An old refrain, too much, too long thine own: +'Tis thy mortality infects thine ear; +The mournful strain was in thyself alone. + +Christopher Pearse Cranch [1813-1892] + + + + +SEA FEVER + +I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, +And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; +And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, +And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking. + +I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide +Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; +And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, +And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the seagulls crying. + +I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gipsy life, +To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a + whetted knife; +And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, +And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. + +John Masefield [1878- + + + + +HASTINGS MILL + +As I went down by Hastings Mill I lingered in my going +To smell the smell of piled-up deals and feel the salt wind blowing, +To hear the cables fret and creak and the ropes stir and sigh +(Shipmate, my shipmate!) as in days gone by. + +As I went down by Hastings Mill I saw a ship there lying, +About her tawny yards the little clouds of sunset flying; +And half I took her for the ghost of one I used to know +(Shipmate, my shipmate!) many years ago. + +As I went down by Hastings Mill I saw while I stood dreaming +The flicker of her riding light along the ripples streaming, +The bollards where we made her fast and the berth where she did lie +(Shipmate, my shipmate!) in the days gone by. + +As I went down by Hastings Mill I heard a fellow singing, +Chipping off the deep sea rust above the tide a-swinging, +And well I knew the queer old tune and well the song he sung +(Shipmate, my shipmate!) when the world was young. + +And past the rowdy Union Wharf, and by the still tide sleeping, +To a randy dandy deep sea tune my heart in time was keeping, +To the thin far sound of a shadowy watch a-hauling, +And the voice of one I knew across the high tide calling +(Shipmate, my shipmate!) and the late dusk falling! + +Cecily Fox-Smith [1882- + + + + +"A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA" + +A wet sheet and a flowing sea, +A wind that follows fast, +And fills the white and rustling sail, +And bends the gallant mast; +And bends the gallant mast, my boys, +While, like the eagle free, +Away the good ship flies, and leaves +Old England on the lee. + +O for a soft and gentle wind! +I heard a fair one cry; +But give to me the snoring breeze +And white waves heaving high; +And white waves heaving high, my boys, +The good ship tight and free-- +The world of waters is our home, +And merry men are we. + +There's tempest in yon horned moon, +And lightning in yon cloud; +And hark the music, mariners! +The wind is piping loud; +The wind is piping loud, my boys, +The lightning flashes free-- +While the hollow oak our palace is, +Our heritage the sea. + +Allan Cunningham [1784-1842] + + + + +THE SEA + +The sea! the sea! the open sea! +The blue, the fresh, the ever free! +Without a mark, without a bound, +It runneth the earth's wide regions round; +It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; +Or like a cradled creature lies. + +I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! +I am where I would ever be; +With the blue above, and the blue below, +And silence wheresoe'er I go; +If a storm should come and awake the deep, +What matter? I shall ride and sleep. + +I love, O, how I love to ride +On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, +When every mad wave drowns the moon +Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, +And tells how goeth the world below, +And why the sou'west blasts do blow. + +I never was on the dull, tame shore, +But I loved the great sea more and more. +And backwards flew to her billowy breast, +Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; +And a mother she was, and is, to me; +For I was born on the open sea! + +The waves were white, and red the morn, +In the noisy hour when I was born; +And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, +And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; +And never was heard such an outcry wild +As welcomed to life the ocean-child! + +I've lived since then, in calm and strife, +Full fifty summers, a sailor's life, +With wealth to spend and a power to range, +But never have sought nor sighed for change; +And Death, whenever he comes to me, +Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea! + +Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874] + + + + +SAILOR'S SONG +From "Death's Jest-Book" + +To sea, to sea! The calm is o'er; +The wanton water leaps in sport, +And rattles down the pebbly shore; +The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort, +And unseen mermaids' pearly song +Comes bubbling up, the weeds among. +Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar; +To sea, to sea! the calm is o'er. + +To sea, to sea! our wide-winged bark +Shall billowy cleave its sunny way, +And with its shadow, fleet and dark, +Break the caved Tritons' azure day, +Like mighty eagle soaring light +O'er antelopes on Alpine height. +The anchor heaves, the ship swings free, +The sails swell full. To sea, to sea! + +Thomas Lovell Beddoes [1803-1849] + + + + +"A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE" + +A life on the ocean wave, +A home on the rolling deep, +Where the scattered waters rave, +And the winds their revels keep! +Like an eagle caged, I pine +On this dull, unchanging shore: +Oh! give me the flashing brine, +The spray and the tempest's roar! + +Once more on the deck I stand +Of my own swift-gliding craft: +Set sail! farewell to the land! +The gale follows fair abaft. +We shoot through the sparkling foam +Like an ocean-bird set free;-- +Like the ocean-bird, our home +We'll find far out on the sea. + +The land is no longer in view, +The clouds have begun to frown; +But with a stout vessel and crew, +We'll say, Let the storm come down! +And the song of our hearts shall be, +While the winds and the waters rave, +A home on the rolling sea! +A life on the ocean wave! + +Epes Sargent [1813-1880] + + + + +TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE + +The weather-leech of the topsail shivers, +The bowlines strain, and the lee-shrouds slacken, +The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, +And the waves with the coming squall-cloud blacken. + +Open one point on the weather-bow, +Is the lighthouse tall on Fire Island Head. +There's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow, +And the pilot watches the heaving lead. + +I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye +To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze, +Till the muttered order of "Full and by!" +Is suddenly changed for "Full for stays!" + +The ship bends lower before the breeze, +As her broadside fair to the blast she lays; +And she swifter springs to the rising seas, +As the pilot calls, "Stand by for stays!" + +It is silence all, as each in his place, +With the gathered coil in his hardened hands, +By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace, +Waiting the watchword impatient stands. + +And the light on Fire Island Head draws near, +As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout +From his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear, +With the welcome call of "Ready! About!" + +No time to spare! It is touch and go; +And the captain growls, "Down helm! hard down!" +As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw, +While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's frown. + +High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray, +As we meet the shock of the plunging sea; +And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay, +As I answer, "Ay, ay, sir! Ha-a-rd a-lee!" + +With the swerving leap of a startled steed +The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind, +The dangerous shoals on the lee recede, +And the headland white we have left behind. + +The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse, +And belly and tug at the groaning cleats; +The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps; +And thunders the order, "Tacks and sheets!" + +Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew, +Hisses the rain of the rushing squall: +The sails are aback from clew to clew, +And now is the moment for "Mainsail, haul!" + +And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy, +By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung: +She holds her way, and I look with joy +For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung. + +"Let go, and haul!" 'Tis the last command, +And the head-sails fill to the blast once more: +Astern and to leeward lies the land, +With its breakers white on the shingly shore. + +What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall? +I steady the helm for the open sea; +The first mate clamors, "Belay, there, all!" +And the captain's breath once more comes free. + +And so off shore let the good ship fly; +Little care I how the gusts may blow, +In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry. +Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below. + +Walter Mitchell [1826-1908] + + + + +IN OUR BOAT + +Stars trembling o'er us and sunset before us, +Mountains in shadow and forests asleep; +Down the dim river we float on forever, +Speak not, ah, breathe not--there's peace on the deep. + +Come not, pale sorrow, flee till to-morrow; +Rest softly falling o'er eyelids that weep; +While down the river we float on forever, +Speak not, ah, breathe not--there's peace on the deep. + +As the waves cover the depths we glide over, +So let the past in forgetfulness sleep, +While down the river we float on forever, +Speak not, ah, breathe not--there's peace on the deep. + +Heaven shine above us, bless all that love us; +All whom we love in thy tenderness keep! +While down the river we float on forever, +Speak not, ah, breathe not--there's peace on the deep. + +Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887] + + + + +POOR JACK + +Go, patter to lubbers and swabs, do ye see, +'Bout danger, and fear, and the like; +A water-tight boat and good sea-room for me, +And it ain't to a little I'll strike. +Though the tempest topgallant-masts smack smooth should smite, +And shiver each splinter of wood,-- +Clear the deck, stow the yards, and house everything tight, +And under reefed foresail we'll scud: +Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so soft +To be taken for trifles aback; +For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft, +To keep watch for the life of poor Jack! + +I heard our good chaplain palaver one day +About souls, heaven, mercy, and such; +And, my timbers! what lingo he'd coil and belay; +Why, 'twas just all as one as High Dutch; +For he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see, +Without orders that come down below; +And a many fine things that proved clearly to me +That Providence takes us in tow: +"For," says he, "do you mind me, let storms e'er so oft +Take the topsails of sailors aback, +There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, +To keep watch for the life of poor Jack!" + +I said to our Poll,--for, d'ye see, she would cry, +When last we weighed anchor for sea,-- +"What argufies sniveling and piping your eye? +Why, what a blamed fool you must be! +Can't you see, the world's wide, and there's room for us all, +Both for seamen and lubbers ashore? +And if to old Davy I should go, friend Poll, +You never will hear of me more. +What then? All's a hazard: come, don't be so soft: +Perhaps I may laughing come back; +For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft, +To keep watch for the life of poor Jack!" + +D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch +All as one as a piece of the ship, +And with her brave the world, without offering to flinch +From the moment the anchor's a-trip. +As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends, +Naught's a trouble from duty that springs, +For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friend's, +And as for my will, 'tis the king's. +Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft +As for grief to be taken aback; +For the same little cherub that sits up aloft +Will look out a good berth for poor Jack! + +Charles Dibdin [1745-1814] + + + + +"ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP" + +Rocked in the cradle of the deep +I lay me down in peace to sleep; +Secure I rest upon the wave, +For Thou, O Lord! hast power to save. +I know Thou wilt not slight my call, +For Thou dost mark the sparrow's fall; +And calm and peaceful shall I sleep, +Rocked in the cradle of the deep. + +When in the dead of night I lie +And gaze upon the trackless sky, +The star-bespangled heavenly scroll, +The boundless waters as they roll,-- +I feel Thy wondrous power to save +From perils of the stormy wave: +Rocked in the cradle of the deep, +I calmly rest and soundly sleep. + +And such the trust that still were mine, +Though stormy winds swept o'er the brine, +Or though the tempest's fiery breath +Roused me from sleep to wreck and death. +In ocean cave, still safe with Thee +The germ of immortality! +And calm and peaceful shall I sleep, +Rocked in the cradle of the deep. + +Emma Hart Willard [1787-1870] + + + + +OUTWARD + +Wither away, O Sailor! say? +Under the night, under the day, +Yearning sail and flying spray +Out of the black into the blue, +Where are the great Winds bearing you? + +Never port shall lift for me +Into the sky, out of the sea! +Into the blue or into the black, +Onward, outward, never back! +Something mighty and weird and dim +Calls me under the ocean rim! + +Sailor under sun and moon, +'Tis the ocean's fatal rune. +Under yon far rim of sky +Twice ten thousand others lie. +Love is sweet and home is fair, +And your mother calls you there. + +Onward, outward I must go +Where the mighty currents flow. +Home is anywhere for me +On this purple-tented sea. +Star and Wind and Sun my brothers, +Ocean one of many mothers. +Onward under sun and star +Where the weird adventures are! +Never port shall lift for me-- +I am Wind and Sky and Sea! + +John G. Neihardt [1881- + + + + +A PASSER-BY + +Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, +Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West, +That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding, +Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest? +Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales oppressed, +When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling, +Wilt thou glide on the blue Pacific, or rest +In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling. + +I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest, +Already arrived, am inhaling the odorous air: +I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest, +And anchor queen of the strange shipping there, +Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare: +Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capped grandest +Peak, that is over the feathery palms, more fair +Than thou, so upright, so stately and still thou standest. + +And yet, O splendid ship, unhailed and nameless, +I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine +That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless, +Thy port assured in a happier land than mine. +But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine, +As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding, +From the proud nostril curve of a prow's line +In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding. + +Robert Bridges [1844-1930] + + + + +OFF RIVIERE DU LOUP + +O ship incoming from the sea +With all your cloudy tower of sail, +Dashing the water to the lee, +And leaning grandly to the gale, + +The sunset pageant in the west +Has filled your canvas curves with rose, +And jeweled every toppling crest +That crashes into silver snows! + +You know the joy of coming home, +After long leagues to France or Spain +You feel the clear Canadian foam +And the gulf water heave again. + +Between these somber purple hills +That cool the sunset's molten bars, +You will go on as the wind wills, +Beneath the river's roof of stars. + +You will toss onward toward the lights +That spangle over the lonely pier, +By hamlets glimmering on the heights, +By level islands black and clear. + +You will go on beyond the tide, +Through brimming plains of olive sedge, +Through paler shadows light and wide, +The rapids piled along the ledge. + +At evening off some reedy bay +You will swing slowly on your chain, +And catch the scent of dewy hay, +Soft blowing from the pleasant plain. + +Duncan Campbell Scott [1862- + + + + +CHRISTMAS AT SEA + +The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand; +The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand; +The wind was a nor'-wester, blowing squally off the sea; +And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee. + +They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day; +But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay. +We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout, +And we gave her the maintops'l, and stood by to go about. + +All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North; +All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth; +All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread, +For very life and nature we tacked from head to head. + +We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared; +But every tack we made brought the North Head close aboard; +So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high, +And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye. + +The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam; +The good red fires were burning bright in every 'longshore home; +The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out; +And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about. + +The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer; +For it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year) +This day of our adversity was blessed Christmas morn, +And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born. + +O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there, +My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair; +And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves, +Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves. + +And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me, +Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea; +And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way, +To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas Day. + +They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall. +"All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard the captain call. +"By the Lord, she'll never stand it," our first mate, Jackson, cried. +"It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson," he replied. + +She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good, +And the ship smelt up to windward, just as though she understood. +As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night, +We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light. + +And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me, +As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea; +But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold, +Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old. + +Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894] + + + + +THE PORT O' HEART'S DESIRE + +Down around the quay they lie, the ships that sail to sea, +On shore the brown-cheeked sailormen they pass the jest with me, +But soon their ships will sail away with winds that never tire, +And there's one that will be sailing to the Port o' Heart's Desire. + +The Port o' Heart's Desire, and it's, oh, that port for me, +And that's the ship that I love best of all that sail the sea; +Its hold is filled with memories, its prow it points away +To the Port o' Heart's Desire, where I roamed a boy at play. + +Ships that sail for gold there be, and ships that sail for fame, +And some were filled with jewels bright when from Cathay they came, +But give me still yon white sail in the sunset's mystic fire, +That the running tides will carry to the Port o' Heart's Desire. + +It's you may have the gold and fame, and all the jewels, too, +And all the ships, if they were mine, I'd gladly give to you, +I'd give them all right gladly, with their gold and fame entire, +If you would set me down within the Port o' Heart's Desire. + +Oh, speed you, white-winged ship of mine, oh, speed you to the sea, +Some other day, some other tide, come back again for me; +Come back with all the memories, the joys and e'en the pain, +And take me to the golden hills of boyhood once again. + +John S. McGroarty [1862- + + + + +ON THE QUAY + +I've never traveled for more'n a day, +I never was one to roam, +But I likes to sit on the busy quay, +Watchin' the ships that says to me-- +"Always somebody goin' away, +Somebody gettin' home." + +I likes to think that the world's so wide-- +'Tis grand to be livin' there, +Takin' a part in its goin's on.... +Ah, now ye're laughin' at poor old John, +Talkin' o' works o' the world wi' pride +As if he was doin' his share! + +But laugh if ye will! When ye're old as me +Ye'll find 'tis a rare good plan +To look at the world--an' love it too!-- +Though never a job are ye fit to do.... +Oh! 'tisn't all sorrow an' pain to see +The work o' another man. + +'Tis good when the heart grows big at last, +Too big for trouble to fill-- +Wi' room for the things that was only stuff +When workin' an' winnin' seemed more'n enough-- +Room for the world, the world so vast, +Wi' its peoples an' all their skill. + +That's what I'm thinkin' on all the days +I'm loafin' an' smokin' here, +An' the ships do make me think the most +(Of readin' in books 'tis little I'd boast),-- +But the ships, they carries me long, long ways, +An' draws far places near. + +I sees the things that a sailor brings, +I hears the stories he tells.... +'Tis surely a wonderful world, indeed! +'Tis more'n the peoples can ever need! +An' I praises the Lord--to myself I sings-- +For the world in which I dwells. + +An' I loves the ships more every day +Though I never was one to roam. +Oh! the ships is comfortin' sights to see, +An' they means a lot when they says to me-- +"Always somebody goin' away, +Somebody gettin' home." + +John Joy Bell [1871-1934] + + + + +THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR + +Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged! 'tis at a white heat now-- +The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though, on the forge's brow, +The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound, +And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round; +All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare, +Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. + +The windlass strains the tackle-chains--the black mold heaves below; +And red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe. +It rises, roars, rends all outright--O Vulcan, what a glow! +'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright--the high sun shines not so! +The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show! +The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row + +Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe! +As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow +Sinks on the anvil--all about, the faces fiery grow: +"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out, leap out!" bang, bang! the sledges go; +Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low; +A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow; +The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders strow +The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow; +And, thick and loud, the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "ho!" + +Leap out, leap out, my masters! leap out, and lay on load! +Let's forge a goodly anchor--a bower thick and broad; +For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode; +And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road,-- +The low reef roaring on her lee; the roll of ocean poured +From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board; +The bulwarks down; the rudder gone; the boats stove at the chains; +But courage still, brave mariners--the bower yet remains! +And not an inch to flinch he deigns--save when ye pitch sky high; +Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing--here am I!" + +Swing in your strokes in order; let foot and hand keep time; +Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime. +But while ye swing your sledges, sing, and let the burthen be-- +The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we! +Strike in, strike in!--the sparks begin to dull their rustling red; +Our hammers ring with sharper din--our work will soon be sped; +Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array +For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; +Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here +For the yeo-heave-o, and the heave-away, and the sighing seamen's cheer-- +When, weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and home; +And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean--foam. + +In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last; +A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. +O trusted and trustworthy guard! if thou hadst life like me, +What pleasure would thy toils reward beneath the deep-green sea! +O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou?-- +The hoary monster's palaces!--Methinks what joy 'twere now +To go plumb-plunging down, amid the assembly of the whales, +And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails! +Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn, +And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn; +To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn; +And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to scorn: +To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles +He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed miles-- +Till, snorting like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls; +Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished shoals +Of his back-browsing ocean-calves; or, haply, in a cove +Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love, +To find the long-haired mermaidens; or, hard by icy lands, +To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. + +O broad-armed fisher of the deep! whose sports can equal thine? +The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable--line; +And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day, +Through sable sea and breaker white the giant game to play. +But, shamer of our little sports! forgive the name I gave: +A fisher's joy is to destroy--thine office is to save. +O lodger in the sea-kings' halls! couldst thou but understand +Whose be the white bones by thy side--or who that dripping band, +Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend, +With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient friend-- +Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee, +Thine iron side would swell with pride---thou'dst leap within the sea! + +Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand +To shed their blood so freely for the love of fatherland-- +Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard grave +So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave! +Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, +Honor him for their memory whose bones he goes among! + +Samuel Ferguson [1810-1886] + + + + +DRIFTING + +My soul to-day +Is far away, +Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; +My winged boat, +A bird afloat, +Swings round the purple peaks remote:-- + +Round purple peaks +It sails, and seeks +Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, +Where high rocks throw, +Through deeps below, +A duplicated golden glow. + +Far, vague, and dim, +The mountains swim; +While on Vesuvius' misty brim, +With outstretched hands, +The gray smoke stands +O'erlooking the volcanic lands. + +Here Ischia smiles +O'er liquid miles; +And yonder, bluest of the isles, +Calm Capri waits, +Her sapphire gates +Beguiling to her bright estates. + +I heed not, if +My rippling skiff +Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; +With dreamful eyes +My spirit lies +Under the walls of Paradise. + +Under the walls +Where swells and falls +The Bay's deep breast at intervals, +At peace I lie, +Blown softly by, +A cloud upon this liquid sky. + +The day, so mild, +Is Heaven's own child, +With Earth and Ocean reconciled; +The airs I feel +Around me steal +Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. + +Over the rail +My hand I trail +Within the shadow of the sail, +A joy intense, +The cooling sense +Glides down my drowsy indolence. + +With dreamful eyes +My spirit lies +Where Summer sings and never dies,-- +O'erveiled with vines +She glows and shines +Among her future oil and wines. + +Her children, hid +The cliffs amid, +Are gamboling with the gamboling kid; +Or down the walls, +With tipsy calls, +Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. + +The fisher's child, +With tresses wild, +Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, +With glowing lips +Sings as she skips, +Or gazes at the far-off ships. + +Yon deep bark goes +Where traffic blows, +From lands of sun to lands of snows;-- +This happier one, +Its course is run +From lands of snow to lands of sun. + +O happy ship, +To rise and dip, +With the blue crystal at your lip! +O happy crew, +My heart with you +Sails, and sails, and sings anew! + +No more, no more +The worldly shore +Upbraids me with its loud uproar! +With dreamful eyes +My spirit lies +Under the walls of Paradise! + +Thomas Buchanan Read [1822-1872] + + + + +"HOW'S MY BOY?" + +"Ho, sailor of the sea! +How's my boy--my boy?" +"What's your boy's name, good wife, +And in what good ship sailed he?" + +"My boy John-- +He that went to sea-- +What care I for the ship, sailor? +My boy's my boy to me. + +"You come back from sea +And not know my John? +I might as well have asked some landsman +Yonder down in the town. +There's not an ass in all the parish +But he knows my John. + +"How's my boy--my boy? +And unless you let me know, +I'll swear you are no sailor, +Blue jacket or no, +Brass button or no, sailor, +Anchor and crown or no! +Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton."-- +"Speak low, woman, speak low!" + +"And why should I speak low, sailor, +About my own boy John? +If I was loud as I am proud +I'd sing him o'er the town! +Why should I speak low, sailor?" +"That good ship went down." + +"How's my boy--my boy? +What care I for the ship, sailor, +I never was aboard her. +Be she afloat, or be she aground, +Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound, +Her owners can afford her! +I say, how's my John?" +"Every man on board went down, +Every man aboard her." + +"How's my boy--my boy? +What care I for the men, sailor? +I'm not their mother-- +How's my boy--my boy? +Tell me of him and no other! +How's my boy--my boy?" + +Sydney Dobell [1824-1874] + + + + +THE LONG WRITE SEAM + +As I came round the harbor buoy, +The lights began to gleam, +No wave the land-locked water stirred, +The crags were white as cream; +And I marked my love by candlelight +Sewing her long white seam. +It's aye sewing ashore, my dear, +Watch and steer at sea, +It's reef and furl, and haul the line, +Set sail and think of thee. + +I climbed to reach her cottage door; +O sweetly my love sings! +Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth, +My soul to meet it springs +As the shining water leaped of old, +When stirred by angel wings. +Aye longing to list anew, +Awake and in my dream, +But never a song she sang like this, +Sewing her long white seam. + +Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights, +That brought me in to thee, +And peace drop down on that low roof +For the sight that I did see, +And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear +All for the love of me. +For O, for O, with brows bent low +By the candle's flickering gleam, +Her wedding-gown it was she wrought. +Sewing the long white seam. + +Jean Ingelow [1820-1897] + + + + +STORM SONG + +The clouds are scudding across the moon; +A misty light is on the sea; +The wind in the shrouds has a wintry tune, +And the foam is flying free. + +Brothers, a night of terror and gloom +Speaks in the cloud and gathering roar; +Thank God, He has given us broad sea-room, +A thousand miles from shore. + +Down with the hatches on those who sleep! +The wild and whistling deck have we; +Good watch, my brothers, to-night we'll keep, +While the tempest is on the sea! + +Though the rigging shriek in his terrible grip, +And the naked spars be snapped away, +Lashed to the helm, we'll drive our ship +In the teeth of the whelming spray! + +Hark! how the surges o'erleap the deck! +Hark! how the pitiless tempest raves! +Ah, daylight will look upon many a wreck +Drifting over the desert waves. + +Yet, courage, brothers! we trust the wave, +With God above us, our guiding chart. +So, whether to harbor or ocean-grave, +Be it still with a cheery heart! + +Bayard Taylor [1825-1878] + + + + +THE MARINER'S DREAM + +In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay; +His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; +But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, +And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. + +He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers, +And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn; +While Memory stood sideways, half covered with flowers, +And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. + +Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide, +And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise; +Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, +And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. + +The jessamine clambers in flowers o'er the thatch, +And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall; +All trembling with transport he raises the latch, +And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. + +A father bends o'er him with looks of delight; +His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear; +And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite +With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. + +The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast; +Joy quickens his pulses, his hardships seem o'er; +And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest,-- +"O God! thou hast blessed me,--I ask for no more." + +Ah! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye? +Ah! what is that sound which now larums his ear? +'Tis the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky! +'Tis the crash of the thunder, the groan of the sphere! + +He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck; +Amazement confronts him with images dire; +Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck; +The masts fly in splinters; the shrouds are on fire. + +Like mountains the billows tremendously swell; +In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save; +Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, +And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave! + +O sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight! +In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss. +Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright,-- +Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss? + +O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again +Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay; +Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main, +Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay. + +No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, +Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge; +But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, +And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge! + +On a bed of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall be laid,-- +Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow; +Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made, +And every part suit to thy mansion below. + +Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, +And still the vast waters above thee shall roll; +Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye,-- +O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul! + +William Dimond [1780?-1837?] + + + + +THE INCHCAPE ROCK + +No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, +The ship was still as she could be; +Her sails from Heaven received no motion, +Her keel was steady in the ocean. + +Without either sign or sound of their shock, +The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock; +So little they rose, so little they fell, +They did not move the Inchcape Bell. + +The holy Abbot of Aberbrothok +Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock; +On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, +And over the waves its warning rung. + +When the rock was hid by the surges' swell, +The mariners heard the warning bell; +And then they knew the perilous Rock, +And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothok. + +The Sun in heaven was shining gay, +All things were joyful on that day; +The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled around, +And there was joyance in their sound. + +The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen, +A darker speck on the ocean green; +Sir Ralph, the Rover, walked his deck, +And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. + +He felt the cheering power of spring, +It made him whistle, it made him sing; +His heart was mirthful to excess; +But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. + +His eye was on the Inchcape float; +Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat; +And row me to the Inchcape Rock, +And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok." + +The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, +And to the Inchcape Rock they go; +Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, +And cut the Bell from the Inchcape float. + +Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound; +The bubbles rose, and burst around. +Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock +Will not bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." + +Sir Ralph, the Rover, sailed away, +He scoured the seas for many a day; +And now, grown rich with plundered store, +He steers his course for Scotland's shore. + +So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky +They cannot see the Sun on high; +The wind hath blown a gale all day; +At evening it hath died away. + +On the deck the Rover takes his stand; +So dark it is they see no land. +Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon, +For there is the dawn of the rising Moon." + +"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar? +For yonder, methinks, should be the shore." +"Now where we are I cannot tell, +But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell." + +They hear no sound; the swell is strong; +Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, +Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,-- +"O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock." + +Sir Ralph, the Rover, tore his hair; +He cursed himself in his despair. +The waves rush in on every side; +The ship is sinking beneath the tide. + +But, even in his dying fear, +One dreadful sound he seemed to hear,-- +A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell, +The Devil below was ringing his knell. + +Robert Southey [1774-1843] + + + + +THE SEA + +Through the night, through the night, +In the saddest unrest, +Wrapped in white, all in white, +With her babe on her breast, +Walks the mother so pale, +Staring out on the gale, +Through the night! + +Through the night, through the night, +Where the sea lifts the wreck, +Land in sight, close in sight, +On the surf-flooded deck, +Stands the father so brave, +Driving on to his grave +Through the night! + +Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903] + + + + +THE SANDS OF DEE + +"O Mary, go and call the cattle home, +And call the cattle home, +And call the cattle home +Across the sands of Dee!" +The western wind was wild and dank with foam, +And all alone went she. + +The western tide crept up along the sand, +And o'er and o'er the sand, +And round and round the sand, +As far as eye could see. +The rolling mist came down and hid the land: +And never home came she. + +"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- +A tress of golden hair, +A drowned maiden's hair +Above the nets at sea? +Was never salmon yet that shone so fair +Among the stakes on Dee." + +They rowed her in across the rolling foam, +The cruel crawling foam, +The cruel hungry foam, +To her grave beside the sea: +But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home +Across the sands of Dee! + +Charles Kingsley [1819-1875] + + + + +THE THREE FISHERS + +Three fishers went sailing away to the West, +Away to the West as the sun went down; +Each thought on the woman who loved him the best, +And the children stood watching them out of the town; +For men must work, and women must weep, +And there's little to earn, and many to keep, +Though the harbor bar be moaning. + +Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower +And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; +They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, +And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. +But men must work, and women must weep, +Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, +And the harbor bar be moaning. + +Three corpses lay out on the shining sands +In the morning gleam as the tide went down, +And the women are weeping and wringing their hands +For those who will never come home to the town; +For men must work, and women must weep, +And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep; +And good-by to the bar and its moaning. + +Charles Kingsley [1819-1875] + + + + +BALLAD + +In the summer even, +While yet the dew was hoar, +I went plucking purple pansies, +Till my love should come to shore. +The fishing-lights their dances +Were keeping out at sea, +And come, I sung, my true love! +Come hasten home to me! + +But the sea, it fell a-moaning, +And the white gulls rocked thereon; +And the young moon dropped from heaven, +And the lights hid one by one. +All silently their glances +Slipped down the cruel sea, +And wait! cried the night and wind and storm,-- +Wait, till I come to thee! + +Harriet Prescott Spofford [1835-1921] + + + + +THE NORTHERN STAR +A Tynemouth Ship + +The Northern Star +Sailed over the bar +Bound to the Baltic Sea; +In the morning gray +She stretched away:-- +'Twas a weary day to me! + +For many an hour +In sleet and shower +By the lighthouse rock I stray; +And watch till dark +For the winged bark +Of him that is far away. + +The castle's bound +I wander round, +Amidst the grassy graves: +But all I hear +Is the north wind drear, +And all I see are the waves. + +The Northern Star +Is set afar! +Set in the Baltic Sea: +And the waves have spread +The sandy bed +That holds my Love from me. + +Unknown + + + + +THE FISHER'S WIDOW + +The boats go out and the boats come in +Under the wintry sky; +And the rain and foam are white in the wind, +And the white gulls cry. + +She sees the sea when the wind is wild +Swept by a windy rain; +And her heart's a-weary of sea and land +As the long days wane. + +She sees the torn sails fly in the foam, +Broad on the sky-line gray; +And the boats go out and the boats come in, +But there's one away. + +Arthur Symons [1865- + + + + +CALLER HERRIN' + +Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? +They're bonny fish and halesome farin'; +Wha'll buy my caller herrin', +New drawn frae the Forth? + +When ye were sleepin' on your pillows, +Dreamed ye aught o' our puir fellows, +Darkling as they faced the billows, +A' to fill the woven willows? +Buy my caller herrin', +New drawn frae the Forth! + +Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? +They're no brought here without brave darin'; +Buy my caller herrin', +Hauled through wind and rain. +Wha'll buy my caller herrin', +New drawn frae the Forth? + +Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? +Oh, ye may ca' them vulgar farin'; +Wives and mithers, maist despairin', +Ca' them lives o' men. +Wha'll buy my caller herrin', +New drawn frae the Forth? + +When the creel o' herrin' passes, +Ladies, clad in silks and laces, +Gather in their braw pelisses, +Cast their heads, and screw their faces. +Wha'll buy my caller herrin', +New drawn frae the Forth? + +Caller herrin's no got lightly:-- +Ye can trip the spring fu' tightlie; +Spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin', +Gow has set you a' a-singin' +Wha'll buy my caller herrin', +New drawn frae the Forth?" + +Neebor wives! now tent my tellin': +When the bonny fish ye're sellin', +At ae word be, in ye're dealin'! +Truth will stand, when a' thing's failin', +Wha'll buy my caller herrin', +New drawn frae the Forth? + +Carolina Nairne [1766-1845] + + + + +HANNAH BINDING SHOES + +Poor lone Hannah, +Sitting at the window, binding shoes: +Faded, wrinkled, +Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse. +Bright-eyed beauty once was she, +When the bloom was on the tree;-- +Spring and winter, +Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. + +Not a neighbor +Passing, nod or answer will refuse +To her whisper, +"Is there from the fishers any news?" +Oh, her heart's adrift with one +On an endless voyage gone;-- +Night and morning, +Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. + +Fair young Hannah, +Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gaily wooes; +Hale and clever, +For a willing heart and hand he sues. +May-day skies are all aglow, +And the waves are laughing so! +For her wedding +Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. + +May is passing; +'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon cooes: +Hannah shudders, +For the mild south-wester mischief brews. +Round the rocks of Marblehead, +Outward bound, a schooner sped; +Silent, lonesome, +Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. + +'Tis November: +Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews, +From Newfoundland +Not a sail returning will she lose, +Whispering hoarsely: "Fishermen, +Have you, have you heard of Ben?" +Old with watching, +Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. + +Twenty winters +Bleak and drear the ragged shore she views. +Twenty seasons:-- +Never one has brought her any news. +Still her dim eyes silently +Chase the white sails o'er the sea;-- +Hopeless, faithful, +Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. + +Lucy Larcom [1824-1893] + + + + +THE SAILOR +A Romaic Ballad + +Thou that hast a daughter +For one to woo and wed, +Give her to a husband +With snow upon his head; +Oh, give her to an old man, +Though little joy it be, +Before the best young sailor +That sails upon the sea! + +How luckless is the sailor +When sick and like to die; +He sees no tender mother, +No sweetheart standing by. +Only the captain speaks to him,-- +Stand up, stand up, young man, +And steer the ship to haven, +As none beside thee can. + +Thou says't to me, "Stand, stand up"; +I say to thee, take hold, +Lift me a little from the deck, +My hands and feet are cold. +And let my head, I pray thee, +With handkerchiefs be bound; +There, take my love's gold handkerchief, +And tie it tightly round. + +Now bring the chart, the doleful chart; +See, where these mountains meet-- +The clouds are thick around their head, +The mists around their feet: +Cast anchor here; 'tis deep and safe +Within the rocky cleft; +The little anchor on the right, +The great one on the left. + +And now to thee, O captain, +Most earnestly I pray, +That they may never bury me +In church or cloister gray;-- +But on the windy sea-beach, +At the ending of the land, +All on the surly sea-beach, +Deep down into the sand. + +For there will come the sailors, +Their voices I shall hear, +And at casting of the anchor +The yo-ho loud and clear; +And at hauling of the anchor +The yo-ho and the cheer,-- +Farewell, my love, for to thy bay +I never more may steer! + +William Allingham [1824-1889] + + + + +THE BURIAL OF THE DANE + +Blue gulf all around us, +Blue sky overhead-- +Muster all on the quarter, +We must bury the dead! + +It is but a Danish sailor, +Rugged of front and form; +A common son of the forecastle, +Grizzled with sun and storm. + +His name, and the strand he hailed from +We know, and there's nothing more! +But perhaps his mother is waiting +In the lonely Island of Fohr. + +Still, as he lay there dying, +Reason drifting awreck, +"'Tis my watch." he would mutter, +"I must go upon deck!" + +Aye, on deck, by the foremast! +But watch and lookout are done; +The Union Jack laid o'er him, +How quiet he lies in the sun! + +Slow the ponderous engine, +Stay the hurrying shaft; +Let the roll of the ocean +Cradle our giant craft; +Gather around the grating, +Carry your messmate aft! + +Stand in order, and listen +To the holiest page of prayer! +Let every foot be quiet, +Every head be bare-- +The soft trade-wind is lifting +A hundred locks of hair. + +Our captain reads the service, +(A little spray on his cheeks) +The grand old words of burial, +And the trust a true heart seeks:-- +"We therefore commit his body +To the deep"--and, as he speaks, + +Launched from the weather railing, +Swift as the eye can mark, +The ghastly, shotted hammock +Plunges, away from the shark, +Down, a thousand fathoms, +Down into the dark! + +A thousand summers and winters +The stormy Gulf shall roll +High o'er his canvas coffin; +But, silence to doubt and dole:-- +There's a quiet harbor somewhere +For the poor aweary soul. + +Free the fettered engine, +Speed the tireless shaft, +Loose to'gallant and topsail, +The breeze is fair abaft! + +Blue sea all around us, +Blue sky bright o'erhead-- +Every man to his duty, +We have buried our dead! + +Henry Howard Brownell [1820-1872] + + + + +TOM BOWLING + +Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, +The darling of our crew; +No more he'll hear the tempest howling, +For death has broached him to. +His form was of the manliest beauty, +His heart was kind and soft; +Faithful, below, he did his duty; +But now he's gone aloft. + +Tom never from his word departed, +His virtues were so rare; +His friends were many and true-hearted, +His Poll was kind and fair: +And then he'd sing, so blithe and jolly, +Ah, many's the time and oft! +But mirth is turned to melancholy, +For Tom is gone aloft. + +Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, +When He, who all commands, +Shall give, to call Life's crew together, +The word to "pipe all hands." +Thus Death, who Kings and Tars despatches, +In vain Tom's life has doffed; +For, though his body's under hatches, +His soul is gone aloft. + +Charles Dibdin [1745-1814] + + + + +MESSMATES + +Ha gave us all a good-by cheerily +At the first dawn of day; +We dropped him down the side full drearily +When the light died away. +It's a dead dark watch that he's a-keeping there, +And a long, long night that lags a-creeping there, +Where the Trades and the tides roll over him +And the great ships go by. + +He's there alone with green seas rocking him +For a thousand miles around; +He's there alone with dumb things mocking him, +And we're homeward bound. +It's a long, lone watch that he's a-keeping there, +And a dead cold night that lags a-creeping there, +While the months and the years roll over him +And the great ships go by. + +I wonder if the tramps come near enough, +As they thrash to and fro, +And the battleships' bells ring clear enough +To be heard down below; +If through all the lone watch that he's a-keeping there, +And the long, cold night that lags a-creeping there, +The voices of the sailor-men shall comfort him +When the great ships go by. + +Henry Newbolt [1862- + + + + +THE LAST BUCCANEER + +Oh, England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high, +But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I; +And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again +As the pleasant Isle of Aves, beside the Spanish main. + +There were forty craft in Aves that were both swift and stout, +All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about; +And a thousand men in Aves made laws so fair and free +To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally. + +Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold, +Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old; +Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone, +Who flog men and keelhaul them, and starve them to the bone. + +Oh, the palms grew high in Aves, and fruits that shone like gold, +And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold; +And the negro maids to Aves from bondage fast did flee, +To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea. + +Oh, sweet it was in Aves to hear the landward breeze, +A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees, +With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roar +Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the shore. + +But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be; +So the King's ships sailed on Aves, and quite put down were we. +All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night; +And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight. + +Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside, +Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died; +But as I lay a-gasping, a Bristol sail came by, +And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die. + +And now I'm old and going--I'm sure I can't tell where; +One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse off there: +If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main, +To the pleasant Isle of Aves, to look at it once again. + +Charles Kingsley [1819-1875] + + + + +THE LAST BUCCANEER + +The winds were yelling, the waves were swelling, +The sky was black and drear, +When the crew with eyes of flame brought the ship without a name +Alongside the last Buccaneer. + +"Whence flies your sloop full sail before so fierce a gale, +When all others drive bare on the seas? +Say, come ye from the shore of the holy Salvador, +Or the gulf of the rich Caribbees?" + +"From a shore no search hath found, from a gull no line can sound, +Without rudder or needle we steer; +Above, below our bark dies the sea-fowl and the shark, +As we fly by the last Buccaneer. + +"To-night there shall be heard on the rocks of Cape de Verde +A loud crash and a louder roar; +And to-morrow shall the deep with a heavy moaning sweep +The corpses and wreck to the shore." + +The stately ship of Clyde securely now may ride +In the breath of the citron shades; +And Severn's towering mast securely now hies fast, +Through the seas of the balmy Trades. + +From St. Jago's wealthy port, from Havannah's royal fort, +The seaman goes forth without fear; +For since that stormy night not a mortal hath had sight +Of the flag of the last Buccaneer. + +Thomas Babington Macaulay [1800-1859] + + + + +THE LEADSMAN'S SONG + +For England, when with favoring gale, +Our gallant ship up Channel steered, +And scudding, under easy sail, +The high blue western lands appeared, +To heave the lead the seaman sprang, +And to the pilot cheerly sang, +"By the deep--Nine." + +And bearing up to gain the port, +Some well-known object kept in view, +An abbey tower, a ruined fort, +A beacon to the vessel true; +While oft the lead the seaman flung, +And to the pilot cheerly sung, +"By the mark--Seven." + +And as the much-loved shore we near, +With transport we behold the roof +Where dwelt a friend or partner dear, +Of faith and love and matchless proof. +The lead once more the seaman flung, +And to the watchful pilot sung, +"Quarter less--Five." + +Now to her berth the ship draws nigh, +With slackened sail she feels the tide, +Stand clear the cable is the cry, +The anchor's gone, we safely ride. +The watch is set, and through the night, +We hear the seaman with delight +Proclaim--"All's well." + +Charles Dibdin [1745-1814] + + + + +HOMEWARD BOUND + +Head the ship for England! +Shake out every sail! +Blithe leap the billows, +Merry sings the gale. +Captain, work the reckoning; +How many knots a day?-- +Round the world and home again, +That's the sailor's way! + +We've traded with the Yankees, +Brazilians and Chinese; +We've laughed with dusky beauties +In shade of tall palm-trees; +Across the line and Gulf-Stream-- +Round by Table Bay-- +Everywhere and home again, +That's the sailor's way! + +Nightly stands the North Star +Higher on our bow; +Straight we run for England; +Our thoughts are in it now. +Jolly times with friends ashore, +When we've drawn our pay!-- +All about and home again, +That's the sailor's way! + +Tom will to his parents, +Jack will to his dear, +Joe to wife and children, +Bob to pipes and beer; +Dicky to the dancing-room, +To hear the fiddles play;-- +Round the world and home again, +That's the sailor's way! + +William Allingham [1824-1889] + + + + + + + + + + + +THE SIMPLE LIFE + + + + + + + + + + +THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE + +I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, +And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; +Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, +And live alone in the bee-loud glade. + +And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, +Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; +There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, +And evening full of the linnet's wings. + +I will arise and go now, for always, night and day, +I hear lake-water lapping with low sounds by the shore; +While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, +I hear it in the deep heart's core. + +William Butler Yeats [1865- + + + + +A WISH + +Mine be a cot beside the hill; +A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; +A willowy brook, that turns a mill, +With many a fall shall linger near. + +The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch +Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; +Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, +And share my meal, a welcome guest. + +Around my ivied porch shall spring +Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; +And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing +In russet-gown and apron blue. + +The village-church among the trees, +Where first our marriage-vows were given, +With merry peals shall swell the breeze +And point with taper spire to Heaven. + +Samuel Rogers [1763-1855] + + + + +ODE ON SOLITUDE + +Happy the man, whose wish and care +A few paternal acres bound, +Content to breathe his native air +In his own ground. + +Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, +Whose flocks supply him with attire, +Whose trees in summer yield him shade, +In winter, fire. + +Blest, who can unconcernedly find +Hours, days, and years, slide soft away +In health of body, peace of mind, +Quiet by day; + +Sound sleep by night; study and ease +Together mixed, sweet recreation, +And innocence, which most does please, +With meditation. + +Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; +Thus unlamented let me die; +Steal from the world, and not a stone +Tell where I lie. + +Alexander Pope [1688-1744] + + + + +"THRICE HAPPY HE" + +Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove, +Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own; +Though solitary, who is not alone, +But doth converse with that eternal love. +O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan, +Or the soft sobbings of the widowed dove, +Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, +Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve! +Or how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath, +And sighs perfumed which do the flowers unfold, +Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath! +How sweet are streams to poison drunk in gold! +The world is full of horrors, falsehoods, slights; +Woods' silent shades have only true delights. + +William Drummond [1585-1649] + + + + +"UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE" +From "As You Like It" + +Under the greenwood tree, +Who loves to lie with me, +And turn his merry note +Unto the sweet bird's throat, +Come hither, come hither, come hither: +Here shall he see +No enemy +But winter and rough weather. + +Who doth ambition shun, +And loves to live i' the sun, +Seeking the food he eats, +And pleased with what he gets, +Come hither, come hither, come hither: +Here shall he see +No enemy +But winter and rough weather. + +William Shakespeare [1564-1616] + + + + +CORIDON'S SONG +In "The Complete Angler" + +Oh, the sweet contentment +The countryman doth find. +High trolollie lollie loe, +High trolollie lee, +That quiet contemplation +Possesseth all my mind: +Then care away, +And wend along with me. + +For courts are full of flattery, +As hath too oft been tried; +High trolollie lollie loe, +High trolollie lee, +The city full of wantonness, +And both are full of pride: + +But oh, the honest countryman +Speaks truly from his heart, +High trolollie lollie loe, +High trolollie lee, +His pride is in his tillage, +His horses and his cart: + +Our clothing is good sheepskins, +Gray russet for our wives, +High trolollie lollie loe, +High trolollie lee, +Tis warmth and not gay clothing +That doth prolong our lives: + +The plowman, though he labor hard, +Yet on the holiday, +High trolollie lollie loe, +High trolollie lee, +No emperor so merrily +Does pass his time away: + +To recompense our tillage +The heavens afford us showers; +High trolollie lollie loe, +High trolollie lee, +And for our sweet refreshments +The earth affords us bowers: + +The cuckoo and the nightingale +Full merrily do sing, +High trolollie lollie loe, +High trolollie lee, +And with their pleasant roundelays +Bid welcome to the spring: + +This is not half the happiness +The countryman enjoys; +High trolollie lollie loe, +High trolollie lee, +Though others think they have as much +Yet he that says so lies: +Then come away, turn +Countryman with me. + +John Chalkhill [fl. 1648] + + + + +THE OLD SQUIRE + +I like the hunting of the hare +Better than that of the fox; +I like the joyous morning air, +And the crowing of the cocks. + +I like the calm of the early fields, +The ducks asleep by the lake, +The quiet hour which nature yields +Before mankind is awake. + +I like the pheasants and feeding things +Of the unsuspicious morn; +I like the flap of the wood-pigeon's wings +As she rises from the corn. + +I like the blackbird's shriek, and his rush +From the turnips as I pass by, +And the partridge hiding her head in a bush, +For her young ones cannot fly. + +I like these things, and I like to ride, +When all the world is in bed, +To the top of the hill where the sky grows wide, +And where the sun grows red. + +The beagles at my horse-heels trot +In silence after me; +There's Ruby, Roger, Diamond, Dot, +Old Slut and Margery,-- + +A score of names well used, and dear, +The names my childhood knew; +The horn with which I rouse their cheer, +Is the horn my father blew. + +I like the hunting of the hare +Better than that of the fox; +The new world still is all less fair +Than the old world it mocks. + +I covet not a wider range +Than these dear manors give; +I take my pleasures without change, +And as I lived I live. + +I leave my neighbors to their thought; +My choice it is, and pride, +On my own lands to find my sport, +In my own fields to ride. + +The hare herself no better loves +The field where she was bred, +Than I the habit of these groves, +My own inherited. + +I know my quarries every one, +The meuse where she sits low; +The road she chose to-day was run +A hundred years ago. + +The lags, the gills, the forest ways, +The hedgerows one and all, +These are the kingdoms of my chase, +And bounded by my wall; + +Nor has the world a better thing, +Though one should search it round, +Than thus to live one's own sole king, +Upon one's own sole ground. + +I like the hunting of the hare; +It brings me, day by day, +The memory of old days as fair, +With dead men passed away. + +To these, as homeward still I ply +And pass the churchyard gate, +Where all are laid as I must lie +I stop and raise my hat. + +I like the hunting of the hare; +New sports I hold in scorn. +I like to be as my fathers were, +In the days ere I was born. + +Wilfrid Scawen Blunt [1840-1922] + + + + +INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE + +Beneath this stony roof reclined, +I soothe to peace my pensive mind; +And while, to shade my lowly cave, +Embowering elms their umbrage wave; +And while the maple dish is mine-- +The beechen cup, unstained with wine-- +I scorn the gay licentious crowd, +Nor heed the toys that deck the proud. + +Within my limits, lone and still, +The blackbird pipes in artless trill; +Fast by my couch, congenial guest, +The wren has wove her mossy nest; +From busy scenes and brighter skies, +To lurk with innocence, she flies, +Here hopes in safe repose to dwell, +Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell. + +At morn I take my customed round, +To mark how buds yon shrubby mound, +And every opening primrose count, +That trimly paints my blooming mount; +Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude, +That grace my gloomy solitude, +I teach in winding wreaths to stray +Fantastic ivy's gadding spray. + +At eve, within yon studious nook, +I ope my brass-embossed book, +Portrayed with many a holy deed +Of martyrs, crowned with heavenly meed; +Then, as my taper waxes dim, +Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn, +And at the close, the gleams behold +Of parting wings, be-dropt with gold. + +While such pure joys my bliss create, +Who but would smile at guilty state? +Who but would wish his holy lot +In calm oblivion's humble grot? +Who but would cast his pomp away, +To take my staff, and amice gray; +And to the world's tumultuous stage +Prefer the blameless hermitage? + +Thomas Warton [1728-1790] + + + + +THE RETIREMENT + +Farewell, thou busy world, and may +We never meet again; +Here I can eat and sleep and pray, +And do more good in one short day +Than he who his whole age outwears +Upon the most conspicuous theaters, +Where naught but vanity and vice appears. + +Good God! how sweet are all things here! +How beautiful the fields appear! +How cleanly do we feed and lie! +Lord! what good hours do we keep! +How quietly we sleep! +What peace, what unanimity! +How innocent from the lewd fashion +Is all our business, all our recreation! + +O, how happy here's our leisure! +O, how innocent our pleasure! +O ye valleys! O ye mountains! +O ye groves, and crystal fountains! +How I love, at liberty, +By turns to come and visit ye! +Dear solitude, the soul's best friend, +That man acquainted with himself dost make, +And all his Maker's wonders to attend, +With thee I here converse at will, +And would be glad to do so still, +For it is thou alone that keep'st the soul awake. + +How calm and quiet a delight +Is it, alone, +To read and meditate and write, +By none offended, and offending none! +To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease; +And, pleasing a man's self, none other to displease. + +O my beloved nymph, fair Dove, +Princess of rivers, how I love +Upon thy flowery banks to lie, +And view thy silver stream, +When gilded by a Summer's beam! +And in it all thy wanton fry +Playing at liberty, +And, with my angle, upon them +The all of treachery +I ever learned industriously to try! + +Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show, +The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po; +The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine, +Are puddle-water, all, compared with thine; +And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are +With thine, much purer, to compare; +The rapid Garonne and the winding Seine +Are both too mean, +Beloved Dove, with thee +To vie priority; +Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoined, submit, +And lay their trophies at thy silver feet. + +O my beloved rocks, that rise +To awe the earth and brave the skies! +From some aspiring mountain's crown +How dearly do I love, +Giddy with pleasure to look down; +And from the vales to view the noble heights above; +O my beloved caves! from dog-star's heat, +And all anxieties, my safe retreat; +What safety, privacy, what true delight, +In the artificial light +Your gloomy entrails make, +Have I taken, do I take! +How oft, when grief has made me fly, +To hide me from society +E'en of my dearest friends, have I, +In your recesses' friendly shade, +All my sorrows open laid, +And my most secret woes intrusted to your privacy! + +Lord! would men let me alone, +What an over-happy one +Should I think myself to be-- +Might I in this desert place, +(Which most men in discourse disgrace) +Live but undisturbed and free! +Here, in this despised recess, +Would I, maugre Winter's cold, +And the Summer's worst excess, +Try to live out to sixty full years old, +And, all the while, +Without an envious eye +On any thriving under Fortune's smile, +Contented live, and then contented die. + +Charles Cotton [1630-1687] + + + + +THE COUNTRY FAITH + +Here in the country's heart, +Where the grass is green, +Life is the same sweet life +As it e'er hath been. + +Trust in a God still lives, +And the bell at morn +Floats with a thought of God +O'er the rising corn. + +God comes down in the rain, +And the crop grows tall-- +This is the country faith +And best of all! + +Norman Gale [1862- + + + + +TRULY GREAT + +My walls outside must have some flowers, +My walls within must have some books; +A house that's small; a garden large, +And in it leafy nooks: + +A little gold that's sure each week; +That comes not from my living kind, +But from a dead man in his grave, +Who cannot change his mind: + +A lovely wife, and gentle too; +Contented that no eyes but mine +Can see her many charms, nor voice +To call her beauty fine: + +Where she would in that stone cage live, +A self made prisoner, with me; +While many a wild bird sang around, +On gate, on bush, on tree. + +And she sometimes to answer them, +In her far sweeter voice than all; +Till birds, that loved to look on leaves, +Will doat on a stone wall. + +With this small house, this garden large, +This little gold, this lovely mate, +With health in body, peace at heart-- +Show me a man more great. + +William H. Davies [1870- + + + + +EARLY MORNING AT BARGIS + +Clear air and grassy lea, +Stream-song and cattle-bell-- +Dear man, what fools are we +In prison-walls to dwell! + +To live our days apart +From green things and wide skies, +And let the wistful heart +Be cut and crushed with lies! + +Bright peaks!--And suddenly +Light floods the placid dell, +The grass-tops brush my knee: +A good crop it will be, +So all is well! +O man, what fools are we +In prison-walls to dwell! + +Hermann Hagedorn [1882- + + + + +THE CUP + +The cup I sing is a cup of gold +Many and many a century old, +Sculptured fair, and over-filled +With wine of a generous vintage, spilled +In crystal currents and foaming tides +All round its luminous, pictured sides. +Old Time enameled and embossed +This ancient cup at an infinite cost. +Its frame he wrought of metal that run +Red from the furnace of the sun. +Ages on ages slowly rolled +Before the glowing mass was cold, +And still he toiled at the antique mold,-- +Turning it fast in his fashioning hand, +Tracing circle, layer, and band, +Carving figures quaint and strange, +Pursuing, through many a wondrous change, +The symmetry of a plan divine. +At last he poured the lustrous wine, +Crowned high the radiant wave with light, +And held aloft the goblet bright, +Half in shadow, and wreathed in mist +Of purple, amber, and amethyst. + +This is the goblet from whose brink +All creatures that have life must drink: +Foemen and lovers, haughty lord, +And sallow beggar with lips abhorred. +The new-born infant, ere it gain +The mother's breast, this wine must drain. +The oak with its subtle juice is fed, +The rose drinks till her cheeks are red, +And the dimpled, dainty violet sips +The limpid stream with loving lips. +It holds the blood of sun and star, +And all pure essences that are: +No fruit so high on the heavenly vine, +Whose golden hanging clusters shine +On the far-off shadowy midnight hills, +But some sweet influence it distils +That slideth down the silvery rills. +Here Wisdom drowned her dangerous thought, +The early gods their secrets brought; +Beauty, in quivering lines of light, +Ripples before the ravished sight: +And the unseen mystic spheres combine +To charm the cup and drug the wine. + +All day I drink of the wine, and deep +In its stainless waves my senses steep; +All night my peaceful soul lies drowned +In hollows of the cup profound; +Again each morn I clamber up +The emerald crater of the cup, +On massive knobs of jasper stand +And view the azure ring expand: +I watch the foam-wreaths toss and swim +In the wine that o'erruns the jeweled rim:-- +Edges of chrysolite emerge, +Dawn-tinted, from the misty surge: +My thrilled, uncovered front I lave, +My eager senses kiss the wave, +And drain, with its viewless draught, the lore +That kindles the bosom's secret core, +And the fire that maddens the poet's brain +With wild sweet ardor and heavenly pain. + +John Townsend Trowbridge [1827-1916] + + + + +A STRIP OF BLUE + +I do not own an inch of land, +But all I see is mine,-- +The orchards and the mowing-fields, +The lawns and gardens fine. +The winds my tax-collectors are, +They bring me tithes divine,-- +Wild scents and subtle essences, +A tribute rare and free; +And, more magnificent than all, +My window keeps for me +A glimpse of blue immensity,-- +A little strip of sea. + +Richer am I than he who owns +Great fleets and argosies; +I have a share in every ship +Won by the inland breeze +To loiter on yon airy road +Above the apple-trees. +I freight them with my untold dreams; +Each bears my own picked crew; +And nobler cargoes wait for them +Than ever India knew,-- +My ships that sail into the East +Across that outlet blue. + +Sometimes they seem like living shapes, +The people of the sky,-- +Guests in white raiment coming down +From Heaven, which is close by; +I call them by familiar names, +As one by one draws nigh, +So white, so light, so spirit-like, +From violet mists they bloom! +The aching wastes of the unknown +Are half reclaimed from gloom, +Since on life's hospitable sea +All souls find sailing-room. + +The ocean grows a weariness +With nothing else in sight; +Its east and west, its north and south, +Spread out from morn to night; +We miss the warm, caressing shore, +Its brooding shade and light. +A part is greater than the whole; +By hints are mysteries told. +The fringes of eternity,-- +God's sweeping garment-fold, +In that bright shred of glittering sea, +I reach out for, and hold. + +The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl, +Float in upon the mist; +The waves are broken precious stones,-- +Sapphire and amethyst, +Washed from celestial basement walls +By suns unsetting kissed. +Out through the utmost gates of space, +Past where the gray stars drift, +To the widening Infinite, my soul +Glides on, a vessel swift; +Yet loses not her anchorage +In yonder azure rift. + +Here sit I, as a little child: +The threshold of God's door +Is that clear band of chrysoprase; +Now the vast temple floor, +The blinding glory of the dome +I bow my head before: +Thy universe, O God, is home, +In height or depth, to me; +Yet here upon thy footstool green +Content am I to be; +Glad, when is opened unto my need +Some sea-like glimpse of thee. + +Lucy Larcom [1824-1893] + + + + +AN ODE TO MASTER ANTHONY STAFFORD +To Hasten Him Into The Country + +Come, spur away! +I have no patience for a longer stay, +But must go down +And leave the chargeable noise of this great town: +I will the country see, +Where old simplicity, +Though hid in gray, +Doth look more gay +Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad. +Farewell, you city wits, that are +Almost at civil war-- +'Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad. + +More of my days +I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise; +Or to make sport +For some slight Puisne of the Inns of Court. +Then, worthy Stafford, say, +How shall we spend the day? +With what delights +Shorten the nights? +When from this tumult we are got secure, +Where mirth with all her freedom goes, +Yet shall no finger lose; +Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure? + +There from the tree +We'll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry; +And every day +Go see the wholesome country girls make hay, +Whose brown hath lovelier grace +Than any painted face +That I do know +Hyde Park can show: +Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet +(Though some of them in greater state +Might court my love with plate) +The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street. + +But think upon +Some other pleasures: these to me are none. +Why do I prate +Of women, that are things against my fate! +I never mean to wed +That torture to my bed: +My Muse is she +My love shall be. +Let clowns get wealth and heirs: when I am gone +And that great bugbear, grisly Death, +Shall take this idle breath, +If I a poem leave, that poem is my son. + +Of this no more! +We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store. +No fruit shall 'scape +Our palates, from the damson to the grape. +Then, full, we'll seek a shade, +And hear what music's made; +How Philomel +Her tale doth tell, +And how the other birds do fill the choir; +The thrush and blackbird lend their throats, +Warbling melodious notes; +We will all sports enjoy which others but desire. + +Ours is the sky, +Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly: +Nor will we spare +To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare; +But let our hounds run loose +In any ground they'll choose; +The buck shall fall, +The stag, and all. +Our pleasures must from their own warrants be, +For to my Muse, if not to me, +I'm sure all game is free: +Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty. + +And when we mean +To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then, +And drink by stealth +A cup or two to noble Barkley's health, +I'll take my pipe and try +The Phrygian melody; +Which he that hears, +Lets through his ears +A madness to distemper all the brain: +Then I another pipe will take +And Done music make, +To civilize with graver notes our wits again. + +Thomas Randolph [1605-1635] + + + + +"THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN" + +The midges dance aboon the burn; +The dews begin to fa'; +The paitricks doun the rushy holm +Set up their e'ening ca'. +Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang +Rings through the briery shaw, +While, flitting gay, the swallows play +Around the castle wa'. + +Beneath the golden gloamin' sky +The mavis mends her lay; +The redbreast pours his sweetest strains +To charm the lingering day; +While weary yeldrins seem to wail +Their little nestlings torn, +The merry wren, frae den to den, +Gaes jinking through the thorn. + +The roses fauld their silken leaves, +The foxglove shuts its bell; +The honeysuckle and the birk +Spread fragrance through the dell.-- +Let others crowd the giddy court +Of mirth and revelry, +The simple joys that Nature yields +Are dearer far to me. + +Robert Tannahill [1774-1810] + + + + +THE PLOW + +Above yon somber swell of land +Thou seest the dawn's grave orange hue, +With one pale streak like yellow sand, +And over that a vein of blue. + +The air is cold above the woods; +All silent is the earth and sky, +Except with his own lonely moods +The blackbird holds a colloquy. + +Over the broad hill creeps a beam, +Like hope that gilds a good man's brow; +And now ascends the nostril-steam +Of stalwart horses come to plow. + +Ye rigid plowmen, bear in mind +Your labor is for future hours! +Advance--spare not--nor look behind-- +Plow deep and straight with all your powers. + +Richard Hengist Horne [1803-1884] + + + + +THE USEFUL PLOW + +A country life is sweet! +In moderate cold and heat, +To walk in the air how pleasant and fair! +In every field of wheat, +The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers, +And every meadow's brow; +So that I say, no courtier may +Compare with them who clothe in gray, +And follow the useful plow. + +They rise with the morning lark, +And labor till almost dark, +Then, folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep +While every pleasant park +Next morning is ringing with birds that are singing +On each green, tender bough. +With what content and merriment +Their days are spent, whose minds are bent +To follow the, useful plow. + +Unknown + + + + +"TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN CITY PENT" + +To one who has been long in city pent, +'Tis very sweet to look into the fair +And open face of heaven,--to breathe a prayer +Full in the smile of the blue firmament. +Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, +Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair +Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair +And gentle tale of love and languishment? +Returning home at evening, with an ear +Catching the notes of Philomel,--and eye +Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, +He mourns that day so soon has glided by, +E'en like the passage of an angel's tear +That falls through the clear ether silently. + +John Keats [1795-1821] + + + + +THE QUIET LIFE + +What pleasure have great princes +More dainty to their choice +Than herdsmen wild, who careless +In quiet life rejoice, +And fortune's fate not fearing +Sing sweet in summer morning? + +Their dealings plain and rightful, +Are void of all deceit; +They never know how spiteful +It is to kneel and wait +On favorite, presumptuous, +Whose pride is vain and sumptuous. + +All day their flocks each tendeth; +At night, they take their rest; +More quiet than who sendeth +His ship unto the East, +Where gold and pearl are plenty; +But getting, very dainty. + +For lawyers and their pleading, +They 'steem it not a straw; +They think that honest meaning +Is of itself a law: +Whence conscience judgeth plainly, +They spend no money vainly. + +O happy who thus liveth! +Not caring much for gold; +With clothing which sufficeth +To keep him from the cold. +Though poor and plain his diet +Yet merry it is, and quiet. + +William Byrd [1538?-1623] + + + + +THE WISH + +Well then, I now do plainly see +This busy world and I shall ne'er agree; +The very honey of all earthly joy +Does, of all meats, the soonest cloy; +And they, methinks, deserve my pity +Who for it can endure the stings, +The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings +Of this great hive, the city! + +Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave, +May I a small house and large garden have; +And a few friends, and many books, both true, +Both wise, and both delightful too! +And since Love ne'er will from me flee,-- +A mistress moderately fair, +And good as guardian-angels are, +Only beloved, and loving me! + +O fountains! when in you shall I +Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy? +O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made +The happy tenant of your shade? +Here's the spring-head of pleasure's flood! +Here's wealthy Nature's treasury, +Where all the riches lie, that she +Has coined and stamped for good. + +Pride and ambition here +Only in far-fetched metaphors appear; +Here naught but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, +And naught but echo flatter. +The gods, when they descended, hither +From heaven did always choose their way; +And therefore we may boldly say +That 'tis the way too thither. + +How happy here should I +And one dear She live, and embracing die! +She who is all the world, and can exclude +In deserts solitude. +I should have then this only fear: +Lest men, when they my pleasures see, +Should hither throng to live like me, +And so make a city here. + +Abraham Cowley [1618-1667] + + + + +EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY + +"Why, William, on that old gray stone, +Thus for the length of half a day, +Why, William, sit you thus alone, +And dream your time away? + +"Where are your books?--that light bequeathed +To beings else forlorn and blind! +Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed +From dead men to their kind. + +"You look round on your Mother Earth, +As if she for no purpose bore you; +As if you were her first-born birth, +And none had lived before you!" + +One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, +When life was sweet, I knew not why, +To me my good friend Matthew spake +And thus I made reply: + +"The eye--it cannot choose but see; +We cannot bid the ear be still; +Our bodies feel, where'er they be, +Against or with our will. + +"Nor less I dream that there are Powers +Which of themselves our minds impress; +That we can feed this mind of ours +In a wise passiveness. + +"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum +Of things forever speaking, +That nothing of itself will come, +But we must still be seeking? + +"--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, +Conversing as I may, +I sit upon this old gray stone, +And dream my time away." + +William Wordsworth [1770-1850] + + + + +THE TABLES TURNED +An Evening Scene On The Same Subject + +Up! up! my friend, and quit your books; +Or surely you'll grow double: +Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks; +Why all this toil and trouble? + +The sun, above the mountain's head, +A freshening luster mellow +Through all the long green fields has spread, +His first sweet evening yellow. + +Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: +Come, hear the woodland linnet, +How sweet his music! on my life +There's more of wisdom in it. + +And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! +He, too, is no mean preacher: +Come forth into the light of things, +Let Nature be your teacher. + +She has a world of ready wealth, +Our minds and hearts to bless-- +Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, +Truth breathed by cheerfulness. + +One impulse from a vernal wood +May teach you more of man, +Of moral evil and of good, +Than all the sages can. + +Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; +Our meddling intellect +Misshapes the beauteous forms of things:-- +We murder to dissect. + +Enough of Science and of Art; +Close up those barren leaves; +Come forth, and bring with you a heart +That watches and receives. + +William Wordsworth [1770-1850] + + + + +SIMPLE NATURE + +Be it not mine to steal the cultured flower +From any garden of the rich and great, +Nor seek with care, through many a weary hour, +Some novel form of wonder to create. +Enough for me the leafy woods to rove, +And gather simple cups of morning dew, +Or, in the fields and meadows that I love, +Find beauty in their bells of every hue. +Thus round my cottage floats a fragrant air, +And though the rustic plot be humbly laid, +Yet, like the lilies gladly growing there, +I have not toiled, but take what God has made. +My Lord Ambition passed, and smiled in scorn; +I plucked a rose, and, lo! it had no thorn. + +George John Romanes [1848-1894] + + + + +"I FEAR NO POWER A WOMAN WIELDS" + +I fear no power a woman wields +While I can have the woods and fields, +With comradeship alone of gun, +Gray marsh-wastes and the burning sun. + +For aye the heart's most poignant pain +Will wear away 'neath hail and rain, +And rush of winds through branches bare +With something still to do and dare,-- + +The lonely watch beside the shore, +The wild-fowl's cry, the sweep of oar, +The paths of virgin sky to scan +Untrod, and so uncursed by man. + +Gramercy, for thy haunting face, +Thy charm of voice and lissome grace, +I fear no power a woman wields +While I can have the woods and fields. + +Ernest McGaffey [1861- + + + + +A RUNNABLE STAG + +When the pods went pop on the broom, green broom +And apples began to be golden-skinned, +We harbored a stag in the Priory coomb, +And we feathered his trail up-wind, up-wind, +We feathered his trail up-wind-- +A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag, +A runnable stag, a kingly crop, +Brow, bay and tray and three on top, +A stag, a runnable stag. + +Then the huntsman's horn rang yap, yap, yap, +And "Forwards" we heard the harborer shout; +But 'twas only a brocket that broke a gap +In the beechen underwood, driven out, +From the underwood antlered out +By warrant and might of the stag, the stag, +The runnable stag, whose lordly mind +Was bent on sleep, though beamed and tined +He stood, a runnable stag. + +So we tufted the covert till afternoon +With Tinkerman's Pup and Bell-of-the-North; +And hunters were sulky and hounds out of tune +Before we tufted the right stag forth, +Before we tufted him forth, +The stag of warrant, the wily stag, +The runnable stag with his kingly crop, +Brow, bay and tray and three on top, +The royal and runnable stag. + +It was Bell-of-the-North and Tinkerman's Pup +That stuck to the scent till the copse was drawn. +"Tally ho! tally ho!" and the hunt was up, +The tufters whipped and the pack laid on, +The resolute pack laid on, +And the stag of warrant away at last, +The runnable stag, the same, the same, +His hoofs on fire, his horns like flame, +A stag, a runnable stag. + +"Let your gelding be: if you check or chide +He stumbles at once and you're out of the hunt; +For three hundred gentlemen, able to ride, +On hunters accustomed to bear the brunt, +Accustomed to bear the brunt, +Are after the runnable stag, the stag, +The runnable stag with his kingly crop +Brow, bay and tray and three on top, +The right, the runnable stag." + +By perilous paths in coomb and dell, +The heather, the rocks, and the river-bed, +The pace grew hot, for the scent lay well, +And a runnable stag goes right ahead, +The quarry went right ahead-- +Ahead, ahead, and fast and far; +His antlered crest, his cloven hoof, +Brow, bay and tray and three aloof, +The stag, the runnable stag. + +For a matter of twenty miles and more, +By the densest hedge and the highest wall, +Through herds of bullocks he baffled the lore +Of harborer, huntsman, hounds and all, +Of harborer, hounds and all-- +The stag of warrant, the wily stag, +For twenty miles, and five and five, +He ran, and he never was caught alive, +This stag, this runnable stag. + +When he turned at bay in the leafy gloom, +In the emerald gloom where the brook ran deep, +He heard in the distance the rollers boom, +And he saw in a vision of peaceful sleep, +In a wonderful vision of sleep, +A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag, +A runnable stag in a jewelled bed, +Under the sheltering ocean dead, +A stag, a runnable stag. + +So a fateful hope lit up his eye, +And he opened his nostrils wide again, +And he tossed his branching antlers high +As he headed the hunt down the Charloch glen, +As he raced down the echoing glen-- +For five miles more, the stag, the stag, +For twenty miles, and five and five, +Not to be caught now, dead or alive, +The stag, the runnable stag. + +Three hundred gentlemen, able to ride, +Three hundred horses as gallant and free, +Beheld him escape on the evening tide, +Far out till he sank in the Severn Sea, +Till he sank in the depths of the sea-- +The stag, the buoyant stag, the stag +That slept at last in a jewelled bed +Under the sheltering ocean spread, +The stag, the runnable stag. + +John Davidson [1857-1909] + + + + +HUNTING-SONG +From "King Arthur" + +Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor, +When the horn is on the hill? (Bugle: Tarantara! +With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing, +And a ten-tined buck to kill! + +Before the sun goes down, goes down, +We shall slay the buck of ten; (Bugle: Tarantara! +And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha'e venison, +When we come home again. + +Let him that loves his ease, his ease, +Keep close and house him fair; (Bugle: Tarantara! +He'll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger +And the joy of the open air. + +But he that loves the hills, the hills, +Let him come out to-day! (Bugle: Tarantara! +For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying, +And the hunt's up, and away! + +Richard Hovey [1864-1900] + + + + +"A-HUNTING WE WILL GO" +From "Don Quixote in England" + +The dusky night rides down the sky, +And ushers in the morn; +The hounds all join in glorious cry, +The huntsman winds his horn. +And a-hunting we will go. + +The wife around her husband throws +Her arms to make him stay; +"My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows; +You cannot hunt to-day." +Yet a-hunting we will go. + +Away they fly to 'scape the rout, +Their steeds they soundly switch; +Some are thrown in, and some thrown out, +And some thrown in the ditch. +Yet a-hunting we will go. + +Sly Reynard now like lightning flies, +And sweeps across the vale; +And when the hounds too near he spies, +He drops his bushy tail. +Then a-hunting we will go. + +Fond Echo seems to like the sport, +And join the jovial cry; +The woods, the hills, the sound retort, +And music fills the sky, +When a-hunting we do go. + +At last his strength to faintness worn, +Poor Reynard ceases flight; +Then hungry, homeward we return, +To feast away the night. +And a-drinking we do go. + +Ye jovial hunters, in the morn +Prepare then for the chase; +Rise at the sounding of the horn +And health with sport embrace, +When a-hunting we do go. + +Henry Fielding [1707-1754] + + + + +THE ANGLER'S INVITATION + +Come when the leaf comes, angle with me, +Come when the bee hums over the lea, +Come with the wild flowers-- +Come with the wild showers-- +Come when the singing bird calleth for thee! + +Then to the stream side, gladly we'll hie, +Where the gray trout glide silently by, +Or in some still place +Over the hill face +Hurrying onward, drop the light fly. + +Then, when the dew falls, homeward we'll speed +To our own loved walls down on the mead, +There, by the bright hearth, +Holding our night mirth, +We'll drink to sweet friendship in need and in deed. + +Thomas Tod Stoddart [1810-1880] + + + + +THE ANGLER'S WISH +From "The Complete Angler" + +I in these flowery mends would be, +These crystal streams should solace me; +To whose harmonious bubbling noise +I, with my angle, would rejoice, +Sit here, and see the turtle-dove +Court his chaste mate to acts of love; + +Or, on that bank, feel the west-wind +Breathe health and plenty; please my mind, +To see sweet dewdrops kiss these flowers, +And then washed off by April showers; +Here, hear my Kenna sing a song: +There, see a blackbird feed her young, + +Or a laverock build her nest; +Here, give my weary spirits rest, +And raise my low-pitched thoughts above +Earth, or what poor mortals love: +Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise +Of princes' courts, I would rejoice; + +Or, with my Bryan and a book, +Loiter long days near Shawford brook; +There sit by him, and eat my meat; +There see the sun both rise and set; +There bid good morning to next day; +There meditate my time away; +And angle on; and beg to have +A quiet passage to a welcome grave. + +Izaak Walton [1593-1683] + + + + +THE ANGLER +In "The Complete Angler" + +O the gallant fisher's life, +It is the best of any! +'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife, +And 'tis beloved by many; +Other joys +Are but toys; +Only this +Lawful is; +For our skill +Breeds no ill, +But content and pleasure. + +In a morning, up we rise, +Ere Aurora's peeping; +Drink a cup to wash our eyes, +Leave the sluggard sleeping; +Then we go +To and fro, +With our knacks +At our backs, +To such streams +As the Thames, +If we have the leisure. + +When we please to walk abroad +For our recreation, +In the fields is our abode, +Full of delectation, +Where, in a brook, +With a hook,-- +Or a lake,-- +Fish we take; +There we sit, +For a bit, +Till we fish entangle. + +We have gentles in a horn, +We have paste and worms too; +We can watch both night and morn, +Suffer rain and storms too; +None do here +Use to swear: +Oaths do fray +Fish away; +We sit still, +Watch our quill: +Fishers must not wrangle. + +If the sun's excessive heat +Make our bodies swelter, +To an osier hedge we get, +For a friendly shelter; +Where, in a dike, +Perch or pike, +Roach or dace, +We do chase, +Bleak or gudgeon, +Without grudging; +We are still contented. + +Or we sometimes pass an hour +Under a green willow, +That defends us from a shower, +Making earth our pillow; +Where we may +Think and pray, +Before death +Stops our breath; +Other joys +Are but toys, +And to be lamented. + +John Chalkhill [fl. 1648] + + + + + + + + + + + +WANDERLUST + + + + + + + + + + +TO JANE: THE INVITATION + +Best and Brightest, come away! +Fairer far than this fair day, +Which, like thee, to those in sorrow, +Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow +To the rough year just awake +In its cradle on the brake. +The brightest hour of unborn Spring +Through the winter wandering, +Found, it seems, the halcyon morn +To hoar February born; +Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, +It kissed the forehead of the earth, +And smiled upon the silent sea, +And bade the frozen streams be free, +And waked to music all their fountains, +And breathed upon the frozen mountains, +And like a prophetess of May +Strewed flowers upon the barren way, +Making the wintry world appear +Like one on whom thou smilest, Dear. + +Away, away, from men and towns, +To the wild wood and the downs-- +To the silent wilderness +Where the soul need not repress +Its music, lest it should not find +An echo in another's mind, +While the touch of Nature's art +Harmonizes heart to heart. + +I leave this notice on my door +For each accustomed visitor:-- +"I am gone into the fields +To take what this sweet hour yields;-- +Reflection, you may come to-morrow, +Sit by the fireside with Sorrow.-- +You with the unpaid bill, Despair,-- +You tiresome verse-reciter, Care,-- +I will pay you in the grave,-- +Death will listen to your stave. +Expectation too, be off! +To-day is for itself enough; +Hope, in pity mock not Woe +With smiles, nor follow where I go; +Long having lived on thy sweet food, +At length I find one moment's good +Alter long pain--with all your love, +This you never told me of." + +Radiant Sister of the Day +Awake! arise! and come away! +To the wild woods and the plains, +To the pools where winter rains +Image all their roof of leaves, +Where the pine its garland weaves +Of sapless green, and ivy dun, +Round sterns that never kiss the sun. +Where the lawns and pastures be, +And the sandhills of the sea;-- +Where the melting hoar-frost wets +The daisy-star that never sets, +And wind-flowers, and violets, +Which yet join not scent to hue, +Crown the pale year weak and new; +When the night is left behind +In the deep east, dun and blind, +And the blue noon is over us, +And the multitudinous +Billows murmur at our feet, +Where the earth and ocean meet, +And all things seem only one +In the universal sun. + +Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822] + + + + +"MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS" + +My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; +My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; +A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,-- +My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. + +Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, +The birthplace of valor, the country of worth; +Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, +The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. + +Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow; +Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; +Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; +Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. + +My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; +My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, +A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,-- +My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. + +Robert Burns [1759-1796] + + + + +"AFAR IN THE DESERT" + +Afar in the desert I love to ride, +With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. +When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, +And, sick of the present, I cling to the past; +When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, +From the fond recollections of former years; +And shadows of things that have long since fled +Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead: +Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon; +Day-dreams that departed ere manhood's noon; +Attachments by fate or falsehood reft; +Companions of early days lost or left-- +And my native land--whose magical name +Thrills to the heart like electric flame; +The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime; +All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time +When the feelings were young, and the world was new, +Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view; +All--all now forsaken--forgotten--foregone! +And I--a lone exile remembered of none-- +My high aims abandoned,--my good acts undone-- +Aweary of all that is under the sun-- +With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, +I fly to the desert afar from man. + +Afar in the desert I love to ride, +With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, +When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, +With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife-- +The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear-- +The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear-- +And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly, +Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy; +When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high, +And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh-- +Oh! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, +Afar in the desert alone to ride! +There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, +And to bound away with the eagle's speed, +With the death-fraught firelock in my hand-- +The only law of the Desert Land! + +Afar in the desert I love to ride, +With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. +Away--away from the dwellings of men, +By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen; +By valleys remote where the oribi plays, +Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze, +And the kudu and eland unhunted recline +By the skirts of gray forest o'erhung with wild vine: +Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood, +And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood, +And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will +In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill. + +Afar in the desert I love to ride, +With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. +O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating cry +Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively: +And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh +Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray; +Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane, +With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain; +And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste +Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, +Hieing away to the home of her rest, +Where she and her mate have scooped their nest, +Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view +In the pathless depths of the parched karroo. + +Afar in the desert I love to ride, +With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. +Away--away--in the wilderness vast +Where the white man's foot hath never passed, +And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan +Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan: +A region of emptiness, howling and drear, +Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear; +Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, +With the twilight bat from the yawning stone; +Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, +Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot; +And the bitter melon, for food and drink, +Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt-lake's brink; +A region of drought, where no river glides, +Nor rippling brook with osiered sides; +Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, +Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, +Appears, to refresh the aching eye; +But the barren earth and the burning sky, +And the blank horizon, round and round, +Spread--void of living sight or sound. +And here, while the night-winds round me sigh, +And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky, +As I sit apart by the desert stone, +Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone, +"A still small voice" comes through the wild, +Like a father consoling his fretful child, +Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, +Saying--Man is distant, but God is near! + +Thomas Pringle [1789-1834] + + + + +SPRING SONG IN THE CITY + +Who remains in London, +In the streets with me, +Now that Spring is blowing +Warm winds from the sea; +Now that trees grow green and tall, +Now the sun shines mellow, +And with moist primroses all +English lanes are yellow? + +Little barefoot maiden, +Selling violets blue, +Hast thou ever pictured +Where the sweetlings grew? +Oh, the warm wild woodland ways, +Deep in dewy grasses, +Where the wind-blown shadow strays, +Scented as it passes! + +Peddler breathing deeply, +Toiling into town, +With the dusty highway +You are dusky brown; +Hast thou seen by daisied leas, +And by rivers flowing, +Lilac-ringlets which the breeze +Loosens lightly blowing? + +Out of yonder wagon +Pleasant hay-scents float, +He who drives it carries +A daisy in his coat: +Oh, the English meadows, fair +Far beyond all praises! +Freckled orchids everywhere +Mid the snow of daisies! + +Now in busy silence +Broods the nightingale, +Choosing his love's dwelling +In a dimpled dale; +Round the leafy bower they raise +Rose-trees wild are springing; +Underneath, through the green haze, +Bounds the brooklet singing. + +And his love is silent +As a bird can be, +For the red buds only +Fill the red rose-tree; +Just as buds and blossoms blow +He'll begin his tune, +When all is green and roses glow +Underneath the moon. + +Nowhere in the valleys +Will the wind be still, +Everything is waving, +Wagging at his will: +Blows the milkmaid's kirtle clean +With her hand pressed on it; +Lightly o'er the hedge so green +Blows the plowboy's bonnet. + +Oh, to be a-roaming +In an English dell! +Every nook is wealthy, +All the world looks well, +Tinted soft the Heavens glow, +Over Earth and Ocean, +Waters flow, breezes blow, +All is light and motion! + +Robert Buchanan [1841-1901] + + + + +IN CITY STREETS + +Yonder in the heather there's a bed for sleeping, +Drink for one athirst, ripe blackberries to eat; +Yonder in the sun the merry hares go leaping, +And the pool is clear for travel-wearied feet. + +Sorely throb my feet, a-tramping London highways, +(Ah! the springy moss upon a northern moor!) +Through the endless streets, the gloomy squares and byways, +Homeless in the City, poor among the poor! + +London streets are gold--ah, give me leaves a-glinting +'Midst gray dykes and hedges in the autumn sun! +London water's wine, poured out for all unstinting-- +God! For the little brooks that tumble as they run! + +Oh, my heart is fain to hear the soft wind blowing, +Soughing through the fir-tops up on northern fells! +Oh, my eye's an ache to see the brown burns flowing +Through the peaty soil and tinkling heather-bells. + +Ada Smith [18-- + + + + +THE VAGABOND +(To an Air of Schubert) + +Give to me the life I love, +Let the lave go by me, +Give the jolly heaven above +And the byway nigh me. +Bed in the bush with stars to see, +Bread I dip in the river-- +There's the life for a man like me, +There's the life for ever. + +Let the blow fall soon or late, +Let what will be o'er me; +Give the face of earth around +And the road before me. +Wealth I seek not, hope nor love, +Nor a friend to know me; +All I seek, the heaven above +And the road below me. + +Or let autumn fall on me +Where afield I linger, +Silencing the bird on tree, +Biting the blue finger. +White as meal the frosty field-- +Warm the fireside haven-- +Not to autumn will I yield, +Not to winter even! + +Let the blow fall soon or late, +Let what will be o'er me; +Give the face of earth around, +And the road before me. +Wealth I ask not, hope nor love, +Nor a friend to know me; +All I ask, the heaven above +And the road below me. + +Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894] + + + + +IN THE HIGHLANDS + +In the highlands, in the country places, +Where the old plain men have rosy faces, +And the young fair maidens +Quiet eyes; +Where essential silence cheers and blesses +And for ever in the hill-recesses +Her more lovely music +Broods and dies.-- + +O to mount again where erst I haunted; +Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted, +And the low green meadows +Bright with sward; +And when even dies, the million-tinted, +And the night has come, and planets glinted, +Lo, the valley hollow +Lamp-bestarred! + +O to dream, O to awake and wander +There, and with delight to take and render, +Through the trance of silence, +Quiet breath! +Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses, +Only the mightier movement sounds and passes; +Only winds and rivers, +Life and Death. + +Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894] + + + + +THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS + +West wind, blow from your prairie nest, +Blow from the mountains, blow from the west. +The sail is idle, the sailor too; +O wind of the west, we wait for you! +Blow, blow! +I have wooed you so, +But never a favor you bestow. +You rock your cradle the hills between, +But scorn to notice my white lateen. + +I stow the sail and unship the mast: +I wooed you long, but my wooing's past; +My paddle will lull you into rest: +O drowsy wind of the drowsy west, +Sleep, sleep! +By your mountains steep, +Or down where the prairie grasses sweep, +Now fold in slumber your laggard wings, +For soft is the song my paddle sings. + +Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe! +The reckless waves you must plunge into. +Reel, reel, +On your trembling keel, +But never a fear my craft will feel. + +We've raced the rapids; we're far ahead: +The river slips through its silent bed. +Sway, sway, +As the bubbles spray +And fall in tinkling tunes away. + +And up on the hills against the sky, +A fir tree rocking its lullaby +Swings, swings, +Its emerald wings, +Swelling the song that my paddle sings. + +E. Pauline Johnson [1862-1913] + + + + +THE GIPSY TRAIL + +The white moth to the closing vine, +The bee to the opened clover, +And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood +Ever the wide world over. + +Ever the wide world over, lass, +Ever the trail held true, +Over the world and under the world, +And back at the last to you. + +Out of the dark of the gorgio camp, +Out of the grime and the gray +(Morning waits at the end of the world), +Gipsy, come away! + +The wild boar to the sun-dried swamp, +The red crane to her reed, +And the Romany lass to the Romany lad +By the tie of a roving breed. + +Morning waits at the end of the world +Where winds unhaltered play, +Nipping the flanks of their plunging ranks, +Till the white sea-horses neigh. + +The pied snake to the rifted rock, +The buck to the stony plain, +And the Romany lass to the Romany lad, +And both to the road again. + +Both to the road again, again! +Out on a clean sea-track-- +Follow the cross of the gipsy trail +Over the world and back! + +Follow the Romany patteran +North where the blue bergs sail, +And the bows are gray with the frozen spray, +And the masts are shod with mail. + +Follow the Romany patteran +Sheer to the Austral Light, +Where the besom of God is the wild south wind, +Sweeping the sea-floors white. + +Follow the Romany patteran +West to the sinking sun, +Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift, +And the east and the west are one. + +Follow the Romany patteran +East where the silence broods +By a purple wave on an opal beach +In the hush of the Mahirn woods. + +The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky, +The deer to the wholesome wold, +And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid, +As it was in the days of old. + +The heart of a man to the heart of a maid-- +Light of my tents, be fleet! +Morning waits at the end of the world, +And the world is all at our feet! + +Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936] + + + + +WANDERLUST + +Beyond the East the sunrise, beyond the West the sea, +And East and West the wanderlust that will not let me be; +It works in me like madness, dear, to bid me say good-by! +For the seas call and the stars call, and oh, the call of the sky! + +I know not where the white road runs, nor what the blue hills are, +But man can have the sun for friend, and for his guide a star; +And there's no end of voyaging when once the voice is heard, +For the river calls and the road calls, and oh, the call of a bird! + +Yonder the long horizon lies, and there by night and day +The old ships draw to home again, the young ships sail away; +And come I may, but go I must, and if men ask you why, +You may put the blame on the stars and the sun and the white road + and the sky! + +Gerald Gould [1885-1936] + + + + +THE FOOTPATH WAY + +The winding road lies white and bare, +Heavy in dust that takes the glare; +The thirsty hedgerows and parched grass +Dream of a time when no road was. + +Beyond, the fields are full in view, +Heavy in herbage and in dew; +The great-eyed kine browse thankfully; +Come, take the footpath way with me! + +This stile, where country lovers tryst, +Where many a man and maid have kissed, +Invites us sweetly, and the wood +Beckons us to her solitude. + +Leave men and lumbering wains behind, +And dusty roads, all blank and blind; +Come tread on velvet and on silk, +Damasked with daisies, white as milk. + +Those dryads of the wood, that some +Call the wild hyacinths, now are come, +And hold their revels in a night +Of emerald flecked with candle-light. + +The fountains of the meadows play, +This is the wild bee's holiday; +When summer-snows have sweetly dressed +The pasture like a wedding-guest, + +By fields of beans that shall eclipse +The honey on the rose's lips, +With woodruff and the new hay's breath, +And wild thyme sweetest in her death, + +Skirting the rich man's lawn and hall, +The footpath way is free to all; +For us his pinks and roses blow: +Fling him thanksgiving ere we go! + +By orchards yet in rosy veils, +By hidden nests of nightingales, +Through lonesome valleys where all day +The rabbit people scurry and play, + +The footpath sets her tender lure. +This is the country for the poor; +The high-road seeks the crowded sea; +Come, take the footpath way with me! + +Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931] + + + + +A MAINE TRAIL + +Come follow, heart upon your sleeve, +The trail, a-teasing by, +Past tasseled corn and fresh-mown hay, +Trim barns and farm-house shy, +Past hollyhocks and white well-sweep, +Through pastures bare and wild, +Oh come, let's fare to the heart-o'-the-wood +With the faith of a little child. + +Strike in by the gnarled way through the swamp +Where late the laurel shone, +An intimate close where you meet yourself +And come unto your own, +By bouldered brook to the hidden spring +Where breath of ferns blows sweet +And swift birds break the silence as +Their shadows cross your feet. + +Stout-hearted thrust through gold-green copse +To garner the woodland glee; +To weave a garment of warm delight, +Of sunspun ecstasy; +'Twill shield you all winter from frosty eyes, +'Twill shield your heart from cold; +Such greens!--how the Lord Himself loves green! +Such sun!--how He loves the gold! + +Then on till flaming fireweed +Is quenched in forest deep; +Tread soft! The sumptuous paven moss +Is spread for Dryads sleep; +And list ten thousand thousand spruce +Lift up their voice to God-- +We can a little understand, +Born of the self-same sod. + +Oh come, the welcoming trees lead on, +Their guests are we to-day; +Shy violets smile, proud branches bow, +Gay mushrooms mark the way; +The silence is a courtesy, +The well-bred calm of kings; +Come haste! the hour sets its face +Unto great Happenings. + +Gertrude Huntington McGiffert [18- + + + + +AFOOT + +Comes the lure of green things growing, +Comes the call of waters flowing-- +And the wayfarer desire +Moves and wakes and would be going. + +Hark the migrant hosts of June +Marching nearer noon by noon! +Hark the gossip of the grasses +Bivouacked beneath the moon! + +Long the quest and far the ending +When my wayfarer is wending-- +When desire is once afoot, +Doom behind and dream attending! + +In his ears the phantom chime +Of incommunicable rhyme, +He shall chase the fleeting camp-fires +Of the Bedouins of Time. + +Farer by uncharted ways, +Dumb as death to plaint or praise, +Unreturning he shall journey, +Fellow to the nights and days; + +Till upon the outer bar +Stilled the moaning currents are, +Till the flame achieves the zenith, +Till the moth attains the star, + +Till through laughter and through tears +Fair the final peace appears, +And about the watered pastures +Sink to sleep the nomad years! + +Charles G. D. Roberts [1860- + + + + +FROM ROMANY TO ROME + +Upon the road to Romany +It's stay, friend, stay! +There's lots o' love and lots o' time +To linger on the way; +Poppies for the twilight, +Roses for the noon, +It's happy goes as lucky goes +To Romany in June. + +But on the road to Rome--oh, +It's march, man, march! +The dust is on the chariot wheels, +The sere is on the larch, +Helmets and javelins +And bridles flecked with foam-- +The flowers are dead, the world's ahead +Upon the road to Rome. + +But on the road to Rome--ah, +It's fight, man, fight! +Footman and horseman +Treading left and right, +Camp-fires and watch-fires +Ruddying the gloam-- +The fields are gray and worn away +Along the road to Rome. + +Upon the road to Romany +It's sing, boys, sing! +Though rag and pack be on our back +We'll whistle to the King. +Wine is in the sunshine, +Madness in the moon, +And de'il may care the road we fare +To Romany in June. + +Along the road to Rome, alas! +The glorious dust is whirled, +Strong hearts are fierce to see +The City of the World; +Yet footfall or bugle-call +Or thunder as ye will, +Upon the road to Romany +The birds are calling still! + +Wallace Irwin [1875- + + + + +THE TOIL OF THE TRAIL + +What have I gained by the toil of the trail? +I know and know well. +I have found once again the lore I had lost +In the loud city's hell. + +I have broadened my hand to the cinch and the axe, +I have laid my flesh to the rain; +I was hunter and trailer and guide; +I have touched the most primitive wildness again. + +I have threaded the wild with the stealth of the deer, +No eagle is freer than I; +No mountain can thwart me, no torrent appall, +I defy the stern sky. +So long as I live these joys will remain, +I have touched the most primitive wildness again. + +Hamlin Garland [1860- + + + + +DO YOU FEAR THE WIND? + +Do you fear the force of the wind, +The slash of the rain? +Go face them and fight them, +Be savage again. +Go hungry and cold like the wolf, +Go wade like the crane: +The palms of your hands will thicken, +The skin of your cheek will tan, +You'll grow ragged and weary and swarthy, +But you'll walk like a man! + +Hamlin Garland [1860- + + + + +THE KING'S HIGHWAY +"El Camino Real" + +All in the golden weather, forth let us ride to-day, +You and I together, on the King's Highway, +The blue skies above us, and below the shining sea; +There's many a road to travel, but it's this road for me. + +It's a long road and sunny, and the fairest in the world-- +There are peaks that rise above it in their snowy mantles curled, +And it leads from the mountains through a hedge of chaparral, +Down to the waters where the sea gulls call. + +It's a long road and sunny, it's a long road and old, +And the brown padres made it for the flocks of the fold; +They made it for the sandals of the sinner-folk that trod +From the fields in the open to the shelter-house of God. + +They made it for the sandals of the sinner-folk of old; +Now the flocks they are scattered and death keeps the fold; +But you and I together we will take the road to-day, +With the breath in our nostrils, on the King's Highway. + +We will take the road together through the morning's golden glow, +And we'll dream of those who trod it in the mellowed long ago; +We will stop at the Missions where the sleeping padres lay, +And we'll bend a knee above them for their souls' sake to pray. + +We'll ride through the valleys where the blossom's on the tree, +Through the orchards and the meadows with the bird and the bee, +And we'll take the rising hills where the manzanitas grow, +Past the gray tails of waterfalls where blue violets blow. + +Old Conquistadores, O brown priests and all, +Give us your ghosts for company when night begins to fall; +There's many a road to travel, but it's this road to-day, +With the breath of God about us on the King's Highway. + +John S. McGroarty [1862- + + + + +THE FORBIDDEN LURE + +"Leave all and follow--follow!" +Lure of the sun at dawn, +Lure of a wind-paced hollow, +Lure of the stars withdrawn; +Lure of the brave old singing +Brave perished minstrels knew; +Of dreams like sea-fog clinging +To boughs the night sifts through: + +"Leave all and follow--follow!" +The sun goes up the day; +Flickering wing of swallow, +Blossoms that blow away,-- +What would you, luring, luring, +When I must bide at home? +My heart will break her mooring +And die in reef-flung foam! + +Oh, I must never listen, +Call not outside my door. +Green leaves, you must not glisten +Like water, any more. +Oh, Beauty, wandering Beauty, +Pass by; speak not. For see, +By bed and board stands Duty +To snatch my dreams from me! + +Fannie Stearns Davis [1884- + + + + +THE WANDER-LOVERS + +Down the world with Marna! +That's the life for me! +Wandering with the wandering wind, +Vagabond and unconfined! +Roving with the roving rain +Its unboundaried domain! +Kith and kin of wander-kind, +Children of the sea! + +Petrels of the sea-drift! +Swallows of the lea! +Arabs of the whole wide girth +Of the wind-encircled earth! +In all climes we pitch our tents, +Cronies of the elements, +With the secret lords of birth +Intimate and free. + +All the seaboard knows us +From Fundy to the Keys; +Every bend and every creek +Of abundant Chesapeake; +Ardise hills and Newport coves +And the far-off orange groves, +Where Floridian oceans break, +Tropic tiger seas. + +Down the world with Marna, +Tarrying there and here! +Just as much at home in Spain +As in Tangier or Touraine! +Shakespeare's Avon knows us well, +And the crags of Neufchatel; +And the ancient Nile is fain +Of our coming near. + +Down the world with Marna, +Daughter of the air! +Marna of the subtle grace, +And the vision in her face! +Moving in the measures trod +By the angels before God! +With her sky-blue eyes amaze +And her sea-blue hair! + +Marna with the trees' life +In her veins a-stir! +Marna of the aspen heart +Where the sudden quivers start! +Quick-responsive, subtle, wild! +Artless as an artless child, +Spite of all her reach of art! +Oh, to roam with her! + +Marna with the wind's will, +Daughter of the sea! +Marna of the quick disdain, +Starting at the dream of stain! +At a smile with love aglow, +At a frown a statued woe, +Standing pinnacled in pain +Till a kiss sets free! + +Down the world with Marna, +Daughter of the fire! +Marna of the deathless hope, +Still alert to win new scope +Where the wings of life may spread +For a flight unhazarded! +Dreaming of the speech to cope +With the heart's desire! + +Marna of the far quest +After the divine! +Striving ever for some goal +Past the blunder-god's control! +Dreaming of potential years +When no day shall dawn in fears! +That's the Marna of my soul, +Wander-bride of mine! + +Richard Hovey [1864-1900] + + + + +THE SEA GIPSY + +I am fevered with the sunset, +I am fretful with the bay, +For the wander-thirst is on me +And my soul is in Cathay. + +There's a schooner in the offing, +With her topsails shot with fire, +And my heart has gone aboard her +For the Islands of Desire. + +I must forth again to-morrow! +With the sunset I must be +Hull down on the trail of rapture +In the wonder of the Sea. + +Richard Hovey [1864-1900] + + + + +A VAGABOND SONG + +There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood-- +Touch of manner, hint of mood; +And my heart is like a rhyme, +With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. + +The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry +Of bugles going by. +And my lonely spirit thrills +To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. + +There is something in October sets the gipsy blood astir; +We must rise and-follow her, +When from every hill of flame +She calls and calls each vagabond by name. + +Bliss Carman [1861-1929] + + + + +SPRING SONG + +Make me over, Mother April, +When the sap beings to stir! +When thy flowery hand delivers +All the mountain-prisoned rivers, +And thy great heart beats and quivers +To revive the days that were, +Make me over, Mother April, +When the sap begins to stir! + +Take my dust and all my dreaming, +Count my heart-beats one by one, +Send them where the winters perish; +Then some golden noon recherish +And restore them in the sun, +Flower and scent and dust and dreaming, +With their heart-beats every one! + +Set me in the urge and tide-drift +Of the streaming hosts a-wing! +Breast of scarlet, throat of yellow, +Raucous challenge, wooings mellow-- +Every migrant is my fellow, +Making northward with the spring. +Loose me in the urge and tide-drift +Of the streaming hosts a-wing! + +Shrilling pipe or fluting whistle, +In the valleys come again; +Fife of frog and call of tree-toad, +All my brothers, five or three-toed, +With their revel no more vetoed, +Making music in the rain; +Shrilling pipe or fluting whistle, +In the valleys come again. + +Make me of thy seed to-morrow, +When the sap begins to stir! +Tawny light-foot, sleepy bruin, +Bright-eyes in the orchard ruin, +Gnarl the good life goes askew in, +Whiskey-jack, or tanager,-- +Make me anything to-morrow, +When the sap begins to stir! + +Make me even (How do I know?) +Like my friend the gargoyle there; +It may be the heart within him +Swells that doltish hands should pin him +Fixed forever in mid-air. +Make me even sport for swallows, +Like the soaring gargoyle there! + +Give me the old clue to follow, +Through the labyrinth of night! +Clod of clay with heart of fire, +Things that burrow and aspire, +With the vanishing desire, +For the perishing delight,-- +Only the old clue to follow, +Through the labyrinth of night! + +Make me over, Mother April, +When the sap begins to stir! +Fashion me from swamp or meadow, +Garden plot or ferny shadow, +Hyacinth or humble burr! +Make me over, Mother April, +When the sap begins to stir! + +Let me hear the far, low summons, +When the silver winds return; +Rills that run and streams that stammer, +Goldenwing with his loud hammer, +Icy brooks that brawl and clamor, +Where the Indian willows burn; +Let me hearken to the calling, +When the silver winds return, + +Till recurring and recurring, +Long since wandered and come back, +Like a whim of Grieg's or Gounod's, +This same self, bird, bud, or Bluenose, +Some day I may capture (Who knows?) +Just the one last joy I lack, +Waking to the far new summons, +When the old spring winds come back. + +For I have no choice of being, +When the sap begins to climb,-- +Strong insistence, sweet intrusion, +Vasts and verges of illusion,-- +So I win, to time's confusion, +The one perfect pearl of time, +Joy and joy and joy forever, +Till the sap forgets to climb! + +Make me over in the morning +From the rag-bag of the world! +Scraps of dream and duds of daring, +Home-brought stuff from far sea-faring, +Faded colors once so flaring, +Shreds of banners long since furled! +Hues of ash and glints of glory, +In the rag-bag of the world! + +Let me taste the old immortal +Indolence of life once more; +Not recalling nor foreseeing, +Let the great slow joys of being +Well my heart through as of yore! +Let me taste the old immortal +Indolence of life once more! + +Give me the old drink for rapture, +The delirium to drain, +All my fellows drank in plenty +At the Three Score Inns and Twenty +From the mountains to the main! +Give me the old drink for rapture, +The delirium to drain! + +Only make me over, April, +When the sap begins to stir! +Make me man or make me woman, +Make me oaf or ape or human, +Cup of flower or cone of fir; +Make me anything but neuter +When the sap begins to stir! + +Bliss Carman [1861-1929] + + + + +THE MENDICANTS + +We are as mendicants who wait +Along the roadside in the sun. +Tatters of yesterday and shreds +Of morrow clothe us every one. + +And some are dotards, who believe +And glory in the days of old; +While some are dreamers, harping still +Upon an unknown age of gold. + +Hopeless or witless! Not one heeds, +As lavish Time comes down the way +And tosses in the suppliant hat +One great new-minted gold To-day. + +Ungrateful heart and grudging thanks, +His beggar's wisdom only sees +Housing and bread and beer enough; +He knows no other things than these. + +O foolish ones, put by your care! +Where wants are many, joys are few; +And at the wilding springs of peace, +God keeps an open house for you. + +But that some Fortunatus' gift +Is lying there within his hand, +More costly than a pot of pearls, +His dullness does not understand. + +And so his creature heart is filled; +His shrunken self goes starved away. +Let him wear brand-new garments still, +Who has a threadbare soul, I say. + +But there be others, happier few, +The vagabondish sons of God, +Who know the by-ways and the flowers, +And care not how the world may plod. + +They idle down the traffic lands, +And loiter through the woods with spring; +To them the glory of the earth +Is but to hear a bluebird sing. + +They too receive each one his Day; +But their wise heart knows many things +Beyond the sating of desire, +Above the dignity of kings. + +One I remember kept his coin, +And laughing flipped it in the air; +But when two strolling pipe-players +Came by, he tossed it to the pair. + +Spendthrift of joy, his childish heart +Danced to their wild outlandish bars; +Then supperless he laid him down +That night, and slept beneath the stars. + +Bliss Carman [1861-1929] + + + + +THE JOYS OF THE ROAD + +Now the joys of the road are chiefly these: +A crimson touch on the hard-wood trees; + +A vagrant's morning wide and blue, +In early fall, when the wind walks, too; + +A shadowy highway cool and brown +Alluring up and enticing down + +From rippled water to dappled swamp, +From purple glory to scarlet pomp; + +The outward eye, the quiet will, +And the striding heart from hill to hill; + +The tempter apple over the fence; +The cobweb bloom on the yellow quince; + +The palish asters along the wood,-- +A lyric touch of the solitude; + +An open hand, an easy shoe, +And a hope to make the day go through,-- + +Another to sleep with, and a third +To wake me up at the voice of a bird; + +The resonant far-listening morn, +And the hoarse whisper of the corn; + +The crickets mourning their comrades lost, +In the night's retreat from the gathering frost; + +(Or is it their slogan, plaintive and shrill, +As they beat on their corselets, valiant still?) + +A hunger fit for the kings of the sea, +And a loaf of bread for Dickon and me; + +A thirst like that of the Thirsty Sword, +And a jug of cider on the board; + +An idle noon, a bubbling spring, +The sea in the pine-tops murmuring; + +A scrap of gossip at the ferry; +A comrade neither glum nor merry, + +Asking nothing, revealing naught, +But minting his words from a fund of thought. + +A keeper of silence eloquent, +Needy, yet royally well content, + +Of the mettled breed, yet abhorring strife, +And full of the mellow juice of life, + +A taster of wine, with an eye for a maid +Never too bold, and never afraid, + +Never heart-whole, never heart-sick, +(These are the things I worship in Dick) + +No fidget and no reformer, just +A calm observer of ought and must, + +A lover of books, but a reader of man, +No cynic and no charlatan, + +Who never defers and never demands, +But, smiling, takes the world in his hands,-- + +Seeing it good as when God first saw +And gave it the weight of his will for law. + +And O the joy that is never won, +But follows and follows the journeying sun, + +By marsh and tide, by meadow and stream, +A will-o'-the-wind, a light-o'-dream, + +Delusion afar, delight anear, +From morrow to morrow, from year to year, + +A jack-o'-lantern, a fairy fire, +A dare, a bliss, and a desire! + +The racy smell of the forest loam, +When the stealthy, sad-heart leaves go home; + +(O leaves, O leaves, I am one with you, +Of the mould and the sun and the wind and the dew!) + +The broad gold wake of the afternoon; +The silent fleck of the cold new moon; + +The sound of the hollow sea's release +From stormy tumult to starry peace; + +With only another league to wend; +And two brown arms at the journey's end! + +These are the joys of the open road-- +For him who travels without a load. + +Bliss Carman [1861-1929] + + + + +THE SONG OF THE FOREST RANGER + +Oh, to feel the fresh breeze blowing +From lone ridges yet untrod! +Oh, to see the far peak growing +Whiter as it climbs to God! + +Where the silver streamlet rushes +I would follow--follow on +Till I heard the happy thrushes +Piping lyrics to the dawn. + +I would hear the wild rejoicing +Of the wind-blown cedar tree, +Hear the sturdy hemlock voicing +Ancient epics of the sea. + +Forest aisles would I be winding, +Out beyond the gates of Care; +And, in dim cathedrals, finding +Silence at the shrine of Prayer. + +When the mystic night comes stealing +Through my vast, green room afar, +Never king had richer ceiling-- +Beaded bough and yellow star! + +Ah, to list the sacred preaching +Of the forest's faithful fir, +With his strong arms upward reaching-- +Mighty, trustful worshipper! + +Come and learn the joy of living! +Come and you will understand +How the sun his gold is giving +With a great, impartial hand! + +How the patient pine is climbing, +Year by year to gain the sky; +How the rill makes sweetest rhyming, +Where the deepest shadows lie. + +I am nearer the great Giver, +Where His handiwork is crude; +Friend am I of peak and river, +Comrade of old Solitude. + +Not for me the city's riot! +Not for me the towers of Trade! +I would seek the house of Quiet, +That the Master Workman made! + +Herbert Bashford [1871-1928] + + + + +A DROVER + +To Meath of the pastures, +From wet hills by the sea, +Through Leitrim and Longford, +Go my cattle and me. + +I hear in the darkness +Their slipping and breathing-- +I name them the bye-ways +They're to pass without heeding; + +Then, the wet, winding roads, +Brown bogs with black water; +And my thoughts on white ships +And the King o' Spain's daughter. + +O! farmer, strong farmer! +You can spend at the fair; +But your face you must turn +To your crops and your care. + +And soldiers--red soldiers! +You've seen many lands; +But you walk two by two, +And by captain's commands. + +O! the smell of the beasts, +The wet wind in the morn; +And the proud and hard earth +Never broken for corn; + +And the crowds at the fair, +The herds loosened and blind, +Loud words and dark faces +And the wild blood behind. + +(O! strong men; with your best +I would strive breast to breast, +I could quiet your herds +With my words, with my words.) + +I will bring you, my kine, +Where there's grass to the knee; +But you'll think of scant croppings +Harsh with salt of the sea. + +Padraic Colum [1881- + + + + +BALLAD OF LOW-LIE-DOWN + +John-a-Dreams and Harum-Scarum +Came a-riding into town: +At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum +There they met with Low-lie-down. + +Brave in shoes of Romany leather, +Bodice blue and gypsy gown, +And a cap of fur and feather, +In the inn sat Low-lie-down. + +Harum-Scarum kissed her lightly; +Smiled into her eyes of brown: +Clasped her waist and held her tightly, +Laughing, "Love me, Low-lie-down!" + +Then with many an oath and swagger, +As a man of great renown, +On the board he clapped his dagger, +Called for sack and sat him down. + +So a while they laughed together; +Then he rose and with a frown +Sighed, "While still 'tis pheasant weather, +I must leave thee, Low-lie-down." + +So away rode Harum-Scarum; +With a song rode out of town; +At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum +Weeping tarried Low-lie-down. + +Then this John-a-dreams, in tatters, +In his pocket ne'er a crown, +Touched her, saying, "Wench, what matters! +Dry your eyes and, come, sit down. + +"Here's my hand: we'll roam together, +Far away from thorp and town. +Here's my heart,--for any weather,-- +And my dreams, too, Low-lie-down. + +"Some men call me dreamer, poet: +Some men call me fool and clown-- +What I am but you shall know it, +Only you, sweet Low-lie-down." + +For a little while she pondered: +Smiled: then said, "Let care go drown!" +Up and kissed him.... Forth they wandered, +John-a-dreams and Low-lie-down. + +Madison Cawein [1865-1914] + + + + +THE GOOD INN +From "The Inn of the Silver Moon." + +What care if the day +Be turned to gray, +What care if the night come soon! +We may choose the pace +Who bow for grace +At the Inn of the Silver Moon. + +Ah, hurrying Sirs, +Drive deep your spurs, +For it's far to the steepled town-- +Where the wallet's weight +Shall fix your state +And buy for ye smile or frown. +Through our tiles of green +Do the stars between +Laugh down from the skies of June, +And there's naught to pay +For a couch of hay +At the Inn of the Silver Moon. + +You laboring lout, +Pull out, pull out, +With a hand to the creaking tire, +For it's many a mile +By path and stile +To the old wife crouched by the fire. +But the door is wide +In the hedgerow side, +And we ask not bowl nor spoon +Whose draught of must +Makes soft the crust +At the Inn of the Silver Moon. + +Then, here's to the Inn +Of the empty bin, +To the Host of the trackless dune! +And here's to the friend +Of the journey's end +At the Inn of the Silver Moon. + +Herman Knickerbocker Viele [1856-1908] + + + + +NIGHT FOR ADVENTURES + +Sometimes when fragrant summer dusk comes in with scent of rose and musk +And scatters from their sable husk the stars like yellow grain, +Oh, then the ancient longing comes that lures me like a roll of drums +To follow where the cricket strums his banjo in the lane. + +And when the August moon comes up and like a shallow, silver cup +Pours out upon the fields and roads her amber-colored beams, +A leafy whisper mounts and calls from out the forest's moss grown halls +To leave the city's somber walls and take the road of dreams. + +A call that bids me rise and strip, and, naked all from toe to lip, +To wander where the dewdrops drip from off the silent trees, +And where the hairy spiders spin their nets of silver, fragile-thin, +And out to where the fields begin, like down upon the breeze. + +Into a silver pool to plunge, and like a great trout wheel and lunge +Among the lily-bonnets and the stars reflected there; +With face upturned to lie afloat, with moonbeams rippling round my throat, +And from the slimy grasses plait a chaplet for my hair. + +Then, leaping from my rustic bath, to take some winding meadow-path: +Across the fields of aftermath to run with flying feet, +And feel the dewdrop-weighted grass that bends beneath me as I pass, +Where solemn trees in shadowy mass beyond the highway meet. + +And, plunging deep within the woods, among the leaf-hung solitudes +Where scarce one timid star intrudes into the breathless gloom, +Go leaping down some fern-hid way to scare the rabbits in their play, +And see the owl, a fantom gray, drift by on silent plume. + +To fling me down at length and rest upon some damp and mossy nest, +And hear the choir of surpliced frogs strike up a bubbling tune; +And watch, above the dreaming trees, Orion and the Hyades +And all the stars, like golden bees, around the lily-moon. + +Then who can say if I have gone a-gipsying from dusk till dawn +In company with fay and faun, where firefly-lanterns gleam? +And have I danced on cobwebs thin to Master Locust's mandolin-- +Or I have spent the night in bed, and was it all a dream? + +Victor Starbuck [1887- + + + + +SONG +From "The Way Of Perfect Love" + +Something calls and whispers, along the city street, +Through shrill cries of children and soft stir of feet, +And makes my blood to quicken and makes my flesh to pine. +The mountains are calling; the winds wake the pine. + +Past the quivering poplars that tell of water near +The long road is sleeping, the white road is clear. +Yet scent and touch can summon, afar from brook and tree, +The deep boom of surges, the gray waste of sea. + +Sweet to dream and linger, in windless orchard close, +On bright brows of ladies to garland the rose, +But all the time are glowing, beyond this little world, +The still light of planets and the star-swarms whirled. + +Georgiana Goddard King [1871- + + + + +THE VOORTREKKER + +The gull shall whistle in his wake, the blind wave break in fire, +He shall fulfill God's utmost will unknowing His desire; +And he shall see old planets pass and alien stars arise, +And give the gale his seaworn sail in shadow of new skies. +Strong lust of gear shall drive him forth and hunger arm his hand +To win his food from the desert rude, his foothold from the sand. +His neighbors' smoke shall vex his eyes, their voices break his rest, +He shall go forth till South is North, sullen and dispossessed. +He shall desire loneliness, and his desire shall bring +Hard on his heels a thousand wheels, a People, and a King; +He shall come back in his own track, and by his scarce cooled camp; +There shall he meet the roaring street, the derrick, and the stamp; +There he shall blaze a nation's ways with hatchet and with brand, +Till on his last-won wilderness an Empire's outposts stand! + +Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936] + + + + +THE LONG TRAIL + +There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield, +And the ricks stand gray to the sun, +Singing: "Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover, +And your English summer's done." +You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind, +And the thresh of the deep-sea rain; +You have heard the song--how long? how long? +Pull out on the trail again! + +Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass, +We've seen the seasons through, +And it's time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, +Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new! + +It's North you may run to the rime-ringed sun, +Or South to the blind Horn's hate; +Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay, +Or West to the Golden Gate; +Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass, +And the wildest tales are true, +And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, +And life runs large on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new. + +The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old, +And the twice-breathed airs blow damp; +And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll +Of a black Bilbao tramp; +With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass, +And a drunken Dago crew, +And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, +the out trail, +From Cadiz south on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new. + +There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake, +Or the way of a man with a maid; +But the sweetest way to me is a ship's upon the sea +In the heel of the North-East Trade. +Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass, +And the drum of the racing screw, +As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, +As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new? + +See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, +And the fenders grind and heave, +And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate, +And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; +It's "Gang-plank up and in," dear lass, +It's "Hawsers warp her through!" +And it's "All clear aft" on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, +We're backing down on tile Long Trail--the trail that is always new. + +O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied, +And the sirens hoot their dread! +When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless viewless deep +To the sob of the questing lead! +It's down by the Lower Hope, dear lass, +With the Gunfleet Sands in view, +Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, +And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new. + +O the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light +That holds the hot sky tame, +And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors +Where the scared whale flukes in flame! +Her plates are flaked by the sun, dear lass, +And her ropes are taut with the dew, +For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, +We're sagging south on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new. + +Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb, +And the shouting seas drive by, +And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing, +And the Southern Cross rides high! +Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass, +That blaze in the velvet blue. +They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, +They're God's own guides on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new. + +Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start-- +We're steaming all too slow, +And it's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle +Where the trumpet-orchids blow! +You have heard the call of the off-shore wind +And the voice of the deep-sea rain; +You have heard the song--how long--how long? +Pull out on the trail again! + +The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass, +And the Deuce knows what we may do-- +But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, +We're down, hull down, on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new! + +Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936] + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 2621 *** |