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To Oenone

WHAT conscience, say, is it in thee,
   When I a heart had one,
To take away that heart from me,
   And to retain thy own?

For shame or pity now incline
   To play a loving part;
Either to send me kindly thine,
   Or give me back my heart.

Covet not both; but if thou dost
   Resolve to part with neither,
Why, yet to show that thou art just,
   Take me and mine together!

poem by Robert Herrick
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A Tree Telling of Orpheus

White dawn. Stillness.When the rippling began
      &nbs p;   I took it for sea-wind, coming to our valley with rumors
      &nb sp;   of salt, of treeless horizons. But the white fog
didn't stir; the leaves of my brothers remained outstretched,
unmoving.
   & nbsp;       &n bsp;       &nb sp;Yet the rippling drew nearer – and then
my own outermost branches began to tingle, almost as if
fire had been lit below them, too close, and their twig-tips
were drying and curling.
      & nbsp;       &n bsp;       &nb sp;       Yet I was not afraid, only
      &nbsp ;                 & nbsp;      deeply alert.
I was the first to see him, for I grew
      &nbsp ;              out on the pasture slope, beyond the forest.
He was a man, it seemed: the two
moving stems, the short trunk, the two
arm-branches, flexible, each with five leafless
      & nbsp;       &n bsp;       &nb sp;       &nbs p;       &nbsp ; twigs at their ends,
and the head that's crowned by brown or golden grass,
bearing a face not like the beaked face of a bird,
      &nbs p;       &nbsp ;     more like a flower's.
               & nbsp;       &n bsp;       He carried a burden made of
some cut branch bent while it was green,
strands of a vine tight-stretched across it. From this,
when he touched it, and from his voice
which unlike the wind's voice had no need of our
leaves and branches to complete its sound,
      &nb sp;       &nbs p;       &nbsp ;                 & nbsp;came the ripple.
But it was now no longer a ripple (he had come near and
stopped in my first shadow) it was a wave that bathed me
       & nbsp;       &n bsp;    as if rain
      &nbsp ;                 & nbsp;      rose from below and around me
       & nbsp;       &n bsp;    instead of falling.
And what I felt was no longer a dry tingling:
               & nbsp;     I seemed to be singing as he sang, I seemed to know
      &nbsp ;              what the lark knows; all my sap
                & nbsp;       &n bsp;      was mounting towards the sun that by now
                & nbsp;       &n bsp;      had risen, the mist was rising, the grass
was drying, yet my roots felt music moisten them
deep under earth.

     &nbsp ;               He came still closer, leaned on my trunk:
      &nb sp;       &nbs p;     the bark thrilled like a leaf still-folded.
Music! There was no twig of me not
                & nbsp;       &n bsp;      trembling with joy and fear.

Then as he sang
it was no longer sounds only that made the music:
he spoke, and as no tree listens I listened, and language
      & nbsp;       &n bsp;     came into my roots
      &nbs p;       &nbsp ;                out of the earth,

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poem by Denise Levertov
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The Nut-Brown Maid

He. BE it right or wrong, these men among
   On women do complain;
Affirming this, how that it is
   A labour spent in vain
To love them wele; for never a dele
   They love a man again:
For let a man do what he can
   Their favour to attain,
Yet if a new to them pursue,
   Their first true lover than
Laboureth for naught; for from her thought
   He is a banished man.

She. I say not nay, but that all day
   It is both written and said
That woman's faith is, as who saith,
   All utterly decayd:
But nevertheless, right good witness
   In this case might be laid
That they love true and continue:
   Record the Nut-brown Maid,
Which, when her love came her to prove,
   To her to make his moan,
Would not depart; for in her heart
   She loved but him alone.

He. Then between us let us discuss
   What was all the manere
Between them two: we will also
   Tell all the pain in fere
That she was in. Now I begin,
   So that ye me answere:
Wherefore all ye that present be,
   I pray you, give an ear.
I am the Knight. I come by night,
   As secret as I can,
Saying, Alas! thus standeth the case,
   I am a banished man.

She. And I your will for to fulfil
   In this will not refuse;
Trusting to show, in wordes few,
   That men have an ill use--
To their own shame--women to blame,
   And causeless them accuse.
Therefore to you I answer now,
   All women to excuse--
Mine own heart dear, with you what cheer?
   I pray you, tell anone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind

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poem by Anonymous
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Hertha

I AM that which began;
   Out of me the years roll;
   Out of me God and man;
   I am equal and whole;
God changes, and man, and the form of them bodily; I am the soul.

   Before ever land was,
   Before ever the sea,
   Or soft hair of the grass,
   Or fair limbs of the tree,
Or the flesh-colour'd fruit of my branches, I was, and thy soul was in
me.

   First life on my sources
   First drifted and swam;
   Out of me are the forces
   That save it or damn;
Out of me man and woman, and wild-beast and bird: before God was, I
am.

   Beside or above me
   Naught is there to go;
   Love or unlove me,
   Unknow me or know,
I am that which unloves me and loves; I am stricken, and I am the
blow.

   I the mark that is miss'd
   And the arrows that miss,
   I the mouth that is kiss'd
   And the breath in the kiss,
The search, and the sought, and the seeker, the soul and the body that
is.

   I am that thing which blesses
   My spirit elate;
   That which caresses
   With hands uncreate
My limbs unbegotten that measure the length of the measure of fate.

   But what thing dost thou now,
   Looking Godward, to cry,
   'I am I, thou art thou,
   I am low, thou art high'?
I am thou, whom thou seekest to find him; find thou but thyself, thou
art I.

   I the grain and the furrow,
   The plough-cloven clod
   And the ploughshare drawn thorough,

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poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Ave atque Vale (In memory of Charles Baudelaire)

SHALL I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel,
   Brother, on this that was the veil of thee?
   Or quiet sea-flower moulded by the sea,
Or simplest growth of meadow-sweet or sorrel,
   Such as the summer-sleepy Dryads weave,
   Waked up by snow-soft sudden rains at eve?
Or wilt thou rather, as on earth before,
   Half-faded fiery blossoms, pale with heat
   And full of bitter summer, but more sweet
To thee than gleanings of a northern shore
   Trod by no tropic feet?

For always thee the fervid languid glories
   Allured of heavier suns in mightier skies;
   Thine ears knew all the wandering watery sighs
Where the sea sobs round Lesbian promontories,
   The barren kiss of piteous wave to wave
   That knows not where is that Leucadian grave
Which hides too deep the supreme head of song.
   Ah, salt and sterile as her kisses were,
   The wild sea winds her and the green gulfs bear
Hither and thither, and vex and work her wrong,
   Blind gods that cannot spare.

Thou sawest, in thine old singing season, brother,
   Secrets and sorrows unbeheld of us:
   Fierce loves, and lovely leaf-buds poisonous,
Bare to thy subtler eye, but for none other
   Blowing by night in some unbreathed-in clime;
   The hidden harvest of luxurious time,
Sin without shape, and pleasure without speech;
   And where strange dreams in a tumultuous sleep
   Make the shut eyes of stricken spirits weep;
And with each face thou sawest the shadow on each,
   Seeing as men sow men reap.

O sleepless heart and sombre soul unsleeping,
   That were athirst for sleep and no more life
   And no more love, for peace and no more strife!
Now the dim gods of death have in their keeping
   Spirit and body and all the springs of song,
   Is it well now where love can do no wrong,
Where stingless pleasure has no foam or fang
   Behind the unopening closure of her lips?
   Is it not well where soul from body slips
And flesh from bone divides without a pang
   As dew from flower-bell drips?

It is enough; the end and the beginning
   Are one thing to thee, who art past the end.

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poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Believer's Jointure : Chapter II.

Containing the Marks and Characters of the Believer in Christ; together with some further privileges and grounds of comfort to the Saints.

Sect. I.

Doubting Believers called to examine, by marks drawn from their love to Him and his presence, their view of his glory, and their being emptied of Self-Righteousness, &c.

Good news! but, says the drooping bride,
Ah! what's all this to me?
Thou doubt'st thy right, when shadows hide
Thy Husband's face from thee.

Though sin and guilt thy spirit faints,
And trembling fears thy fate;
But harbour not thy groundless plaints,
Thy Husband's advent wait.

Thou sobb'st, 'O were I sure he's mine,
This would give glad'ning ease;'
And say'st, Though wants and woes combine,
Thy Husband would thee please.

But up and down, and seldom clear,
Inclos'd with hellish routs;
Yet yield thou not, nor foster fear:
Thy Husband hates thy doubts.

Thy cries and tears may slighted seem,
And barr'd from present ease;
Yet blame thyself, but never dream
Thy Husband's ill to please.

Thy jealous unbelieving heart
Still droops, and knows not why;
Then prove thyself to ease thy smart,
Thy Husband bids the try.

The following questions put to the
As scripture-marks, may tell
And shew, what'er thy failings be,
Thy Husband loves thee well.

MARKS.

Art thou content when he's away?
Can earth allay thy pants?
If conscience witness, won't it say,
Thy Husband's all thou wants?

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poem by Ralph Erskine
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The Lass of Lochroyan

'O WHA will shoe my bonny foot?
   And wha will glove my hand?
And wha will bind my middle jimp
   Wi' a lang, lang linen band?

'O wha will kame my yellow hair,
   With a haw bayberry kame?
And wha will be my babe's father
   Till Gregory come hame?'

'They father, he will shoe thy foot,
   Thy brother will glove thy hand,
Thy mither will bind thy middle jimp
   Wi' a lang, lang linen band.

'Thy sister will kame thy yellow hair,
   Wi' a haw bayberry kame;
The Almighty will be thy babe's father
   Till Gregory come hame.'

'And wha will build a bonny ship,
   And set it on the sea?
For I will go to seek my love,
   My ain love Gregory.'

Up then spak her father dear,
   A wafu' man was he;
'And I will build a bonny ship,
   And set her on the sea.

'And I will build a bonny ship,
   And set her on the sea,
And ye sal gae and seek your love,
   Your ain love Gregory.'

Then he 's gart build a bonny ship,
   And set it on the sea,
Wi' four-and-twenty mariners,
   To bear her company.

O he 's gart build a bonny ship,
   To sail on the salt sea;
The mast was o' the beaten gold,
   The sails o' cramoisie.

The sides were o' the gude stout aik,
   The deck o' mountain pine,
The anchor o' the silver shene,
   The ropes o' silken twine.

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poem by Anonymous
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Ode, Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
   The earth, and every common sight,
   To me did seem
   Apparell'd in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;--
   Turn wheresoe'er I may,
   By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

   The rainbow comes and goes,
   And lovely is the rose;
   The moon doth with delight
   Look round her when the heavens are bare;
   Waters on a starry night
   Are beautiful and fair;
   The sunshine is a glorious birth;
   But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
   And while the young lambs bound
   As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
   And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
   And all the earth is gay;
   Land and sea
   Give themselves up to jollity,
   And with the heart of May
   Doth every beast keep holiday;--
   Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
   Shepherd-boy!

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call
   Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
   My heart is at your festival,
   My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all.
   O evil day! if I were sullen
   While Earth herself is adorning,
   This sweet May-morning,
   And the children are culling
   On every side,

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poem by William Wordsworth
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People at Night

A night that cuts between you and you
and you and you and you
and me : jostles us apart, a man elbowing
through a crowd.       & nbsp;  We won't
      &nbs p;       &nbsp ;     look for each other, either-
wander off, each alone, not looking
in the slow crowd. Among sideshows
               & nbsp;     under movie signs,
      &nb sp;       &nbs p;     pictures made of a million lights,
      &n bsp;       &nb sp;     giants that move and again move
      &nbsp ;              again, above a cloud of thick smells,
      &n bsp;       &nb sp;     franks, roasted nutmeats-

Or going up to some apartment, yours
      &nbs p;       &nbsp ;     or yours, finding
someone sitting in the dark:
who is it really? So you switch the
light on to see: you know the name but
who is it ?
       &n bsp;  But you won't see.

The fluorescent light flickers sullenly, a
pause. But you command. It grabs
each face and holds it up
by the hair for you, mask after mask.
      &nbs p;       &nbsp ;     You  &nb sp;and   you and I   repeat
   &n bsp;       &nb sp;       &nbs p;gestures that make do when speech
      &nb sp;       &nbs p;     has failed       & nbsp;  and talk
      &nbsp ;              and talk, laughing, saying
      &nb sp;       &nbs p;     'I', and 'I',
meaning 'Anybody'.
     &nbsp ;                 & nbsp;       No one.

poem by Denise Levertov
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Welsh Incident

'But that was nothing to what things came out
From the sea-caves of Criccieth yonder.'
'What were they? Mermaids? dragons? ghosts?'
'Nothing at all of any things like that.'
'What were they, then?'
      &nb sp;       &nbs p;       &nbsp ;              'All sorts of queer things,
Things never seen or heard or written about,
Very strange, un-Welsh, utterly peculiar
Things. Oh, solid enough they seemed to touch,
Had anyone dared it. Marvellous creation,
All various shapes and sizes, and no sizes,
All new, each perfectly unlike his neighbour,
Though all came moving slowly out together.'
'Describe just one of them.'
      &nb sp;       &nbs p;       &nbsp ;                 & nbsp;'I am unable.'
'What were their colours?'
               & nbsp;       &n bsp;       &nb sp;       &nbs p; 'Mostly nameless colours,
Colours you'd like to see; but one was puce
Or perhaps more like crimson, but not purplish.
Some had no colour.'
      & nbsp;       &n bsp;       &nb sp;       &nbs p; 'Tell me, had they legs?'
'Not a leg or foot among them that I saw.'
'But did these things come out in any order?'
What o'clock was it? What was the day of the week?
Who else was present? How was the weather?'
'I was coming to that. It was half-past three
On Easter Tuesday last. The sun was shining.
The Harlech Silver Band played Marchog Jesu
On thrity-seven shimmering instruments
Collecting for Caernarvon's (Fever) Hospital Fund.
The populations of Pwllheli, Criccieth,
Portmadoc, Borth, Tremadoc, Penrhyndeudraeth,
Were all assembled. Criccieth's mayor addressed them
First in good Welsh and then in fluent English,
Twisting his fingers in his chain of office,
Welcoming the things. They came out on the sand,
Not keeping time to the band, moving seaward
Silently at a snail's pace. But at last
The most odd, indescribable thing of all
Which hardly one man there could see for wonder
Did something recognizably a something.'
'Well, what?'
      &nb sp;       &nbs p;     'It made a noise.'
      &n bsp;       &nb sp;       &nbs p;       &nbsp ;                'A frightening noise?'
'No, no.'
      &nbsp ;       'A musical noise? A noise of scuffling?'
'No, but a very loud, respectable noise ---
Like groaning to oneself on Sunday morning
In Chapel, close before the second psalm.'
'What did the mayor do?'

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poem by Robert Graves
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Sirena

NEAR to the silver Trent
   SIRENA dwelleth;
She to whom Nature lent
   All that excelleth;
By which the Muses late
   And the neat Graces
Have for their greater state
   Taken their places;
Twisting an anadem
   Wherewith to crown her,
As it belong'd to them
   Most to renown her.
   On thy bank,
   In a rank,
   Let thy swans sing her,
   And with their music
   Along let them bring her.

Tagus and Pactolus
   Are to thee debtor,
Nor for their gold to us
   Are they the better:
Henceforth of all the rest
   Be thou the River
Which, as the daintiest,
   Puts them down ever.
For as my precious one
   O'er thee doth travel,
She to pearl paragon
   Turneth thy gravel.
   On thy bank...

Our mournful Philomel,
   That rarest tuner,
Henceforth in Aperil
   Shall wake the sooner,
And to her shall complain
   From the thick cover,
Redoubling every strain
   Over and over:
For when my Love too long
   Her chamber keepeth,
As though it suffer'd wrong,
   The Morning weepeth.
   On thy bank...

Oft have I seen the Sun,
   To do her honour,
Fix himself at his noon
   To look upon her;

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poem by Michael Drayton
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The Souls of the Slain

I

   The thick lids of Night closed upon me
   Alone at the Bill
   Of the Isle by the Race {1} -
   Many-caverned, bald, wrinkled of face -
And with darkness and silence the spirit was on me
   To brood and be still.

II

   No wind fanned the flats of the ocean,
   Or promontory sides,
   Or the ooze by the strand,
   Or the bent-bearded slope of the land,
Whose base took its rest amid everlong motion
   Of criss-crossing tides.

III

   Soon from out of the Southward seemed nearing
   A whirr, as of wings
   Waved by mighty-vanned flies,
   Or by night-moths of measureless size,
And in softness and smoothness well-nigh beyond hearing
   Of corporal things.

IV

   And they bore to the bluff, and alighted -
   A dim-discerned train
   Of sprites without mould,
   Frameless souls none might touch or might hold -
On the ledge by the turreted lantern, farsighted
   By men of the main.

V

   And I heard them say "Home!" and I knew them
   For souls of the felled
   On the earth's nether bord
   Under Capricorn, whither they'd warred,
And I neared in my awe, and gave heedfulness to them
   With breathings inheld.

VI

   Then, it seemed, there approached from the northward
   A senior soul-flame
   Of the like filmy hue:

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poem by Thomas Hardy
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The Believer's Jointure : Chapter I.

Containing the Privileges of the Believer that is espoused to Christ by faith of divine operation.

Sect. I.

The Believer's perfect beauty, free acceptance, and full security, through the imputation of Christ's perfect righteousness, though imparted grace be imperfect.

O Happy soul, Jehovah's bride,
The Lamb's beloved spouse;
Strong consolation's flowing tide,
Thy Husband thee allows.

In thee, though like thy father's race,
By nature black as hell;
Yet now so beautify'd by grace,
Thy Husband loves to dwell.

Fair as the moon thy robes appear,
While graces are in dress:
Clear as the sun, while found to wear
Thy Husband's righteousness.

Thy moon-like graces, changing much,
Have here and there a spot;
Thy sun-like glory is not such,
Thy Husband changes not.

Thy white and ruddy vesture fair
Outvies the rosy leaf;
For 'mong ten thousand beauties rare
Thy Husband is the chief.

Cloth'd with the sun, thy robes of light
The morning rays outshine:
The lamps of heav'n are not so bright,
Thy Husband decks thee fine.

Though hellish smoke thy duties stain,
And sin deforms thee quite;
Thy Surety's merit makes thee clean,
Thy Husband's beauty white.

Thy pray'rs and tears, nor pure, nor good,
But vile and loathsome seem;
Yet, gain by dipping in his blood,
Thy Husband's high esteem.

No fear thou starve, though wants be great,
In him thou art complete;

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poem by Ralph Erskine
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Satan Absolved

(In the antechamber of Heaven. Satan walks alone. Angels in groups conversing.)
Satan. To--day is the Lord's ``day.'' Once more on His good pleasure
I, the Heresiarch, wait and pace these halls at leisure
Among the Orthodox, the unfallen Sons of God.
How sweet in truth Heaven is, its floors of sandal wood,
Its old--world furniture, its linen long in press,
Its incense, mummeries, flowers, its scent of holiness!
Each house has its own smell. The smell of Heaven to me
Intoxicates and haunts,--and hurts. Who would not be
God's liveried servant here, the slave of His behest,
Rather than reign outside? I like good things the best,
Fair things, things innocent; and gladly, if He willed,
Would enter His Saints' kingdom--even as a little child.

[Laughs. I have come to make my peace, to crave a full amaun,
Peace, pardon, reconcilement, truce to our daggers--drawn,
Which have so long distraught the fair wise Universe,
An end to my rebellion and the mortal curse
Of always evil--doing. He will mayhap agree
I was less wholly wrong about Humanity
The day I dared to warn His wisdom of that flaw.
It was at least the truth, the whole truth, I foresaw
When He must needs create that simian ``in His own
Image and likeness.'' Faugh! the unseemly carrion!
I claim a new revision and with proofs in hand,
No Job now in my path to foil me and withstand.
Oh, I will serve Him well!
[Certain Angels approach. But who are these that come
With their grieved faces pale and eyes of martyrdom?
Not our good Sons of God? They stop, gesticulate,
Argue apart, some weep,--weep, here within Heaven's gate!
Sob almost in God's sight! ay, real salt human tears,
Such as no Spirit wept these thrice three thousand years.
The last shed were my own, that night of reprobation
When I unsheathed my sword and headed the lost nation.
Since then not one of them has spoken above his breath
Or whispered in these courts one word of life or death
Displeasing to the Lord. No Seraph of them all,
Save I this day each year, has dared to cross Heaven's hall
And give voice to ill news, an unwelcome truth to Him.
Not Michael's self hath dared, prince of the Seraphim.
Yet all now wail aloud.--What ails ye, brethren? Speak!
Are ye too in rebellion? Angels. Satan, no. But weak
With our long earthly toil, the unthankful care of Man.

Satan. Ye have in truth good cause.

Angels. And we would know God's plan,
His true thought for the world, the wherefore and the why
Of His long patience mocked, His name in jeopardy.

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poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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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,

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poem by Thomas Randolph
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Phoebus with Admetus

WHEN by Zeus relenting the mandate was revoked,
   Sentencing to exile the bright Sun-God,
Mindful were the ploughmen of who the steer had yoked,
   Who: and what a track show'd the upturn'd sod!
Mindful were the shepherds, as now the noon severe
   Bent a burning eyebrow to brown evetide,
How the rustic flute drew the silver to the sphere,
   Sister of his own, till her rays fell wide.
   God! of whom music
   And song and blood are pure,
   The day is never darken'd
   That had thee here obscure.
Chirping none, the scarlet cicalas crouch'd in ranks:
   Slack the thistle-head piled its down-silk gray:
Scarce the stony lizard suck'd hollows in his flanks:
   Thick on spots of umbrage our drowsed flocks lay.
Sudden bow'd the chestnuts beneath a wind unheard,
   Lengthen'd ran the grasses, the sky grew slate:
Then amid a swift flight of wing'd seed white as curd,
   Clear of limb a Youth smote the master's gate.
   God! of whom music
   And song and blood are pure,
   The day is never darken'd
   That had thee here obscure.

Water, first of singers, o'er rocky mount and mead,
   First of earthly singers, the sun-loved rill,
Sang of him, and flooded the ripples on the reed,
   Seeking whom to waken and what ear fill.
Water, sweetest soother to kiss a wound and cool,
   Sweetest and divinest, the sky-born brook,
Chuckled, with a whimper, and made a mirror-pool
   Round the guest we welcomed, the strange hand shook.
   God! of whom music
   And song and blood are pure,
   The day is never darken'd
   That had thee here obscure.

Many swarms of wild bees descended on our fields:
   Stately stood the wheatstalk with head bent high:
Big of heart we labour'd at storing mighty yields,
   Wool and corn, and clusters to make men cry!
Hand-like rush'd the vintage; we strung the bellied skins
   Plump, and at the sealing the Youth's voice rose:
Maidens clung in circle, on little fists their chins;
   Gentle beasties through push'd a cold long nose.
   God! of whom music
   And song and blood are pure,
   The day is never darken'd
   That had thee here obscure.

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poem by George Meredith
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Song of the Indian Maid, from 'Endymion

O SORROW!
   Why dost borrow
   The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?--
   To give maiden blushes
   To the white rose bushes?
   Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips?

   O Sorrow!
   Why dost borrow
   The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?--
   To give the glow-worm light?
   Or, on a moonless night,
   To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry?

   O Sorrow!
   Why dost borrow
   The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?--
   To give at evening pale
   Unto the nightingale,
   That thou mayst listen the cold dews among?

   O Sorrow!
   Why dost borrow
   Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?--
   A lover would not tread
   A cowslip on the head,
   Though he should dance from eve till peep of day--
   Nor any drooping flower
   Held sacred for thy bower,
   Wherever he may sport himself and play.

   To Sorrow
   I bade good morrow,
   And thought to leave her far away behind;
   But cheerly, cheerly,
   She loves me dearly;
   She is so constant to me, and so kind:
   I would deceive her
   And so leave her,
   But ah! she is so constant and so kind.

Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side,
I sat a-weeping: in the whole world wide
There was no one to ask me why I wept,--
   And so I kept
Brimming the water-lily cups with tears
   Cold as my fears.

Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side,
I sat a-weeping: what enamour'd bride,

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poem by John Keats
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Ode to Apollo

"Tandem venias precamur
   Nube candentes humeros amictus
   Augur Apollo."

   Lord of the golden lyre
   Fraught with the Dorian fire,
   Oh! fair-haired child of Leto, come again;
   And if no longer smile
   Delphi or Delos' isle,
   Come from the depth of thine Aetnean glen,
   Where in the black ravine
   Thunders the foaming green
   Of waters writhing far from mortals' ken;
   Come o'er the sparkling brine,
   And bring thy train divine --
The sweet-voiced and immortal violet-crowned Nine.

   For here are richer meads,
   And here are goodlier steeds
   Than ever graced the glorious land of Greece;
   Here waves the yellow corn,
   Here is the olive born --
   The gray-green gracious harbinger of peace;
   Here too hath taken root
   A tree with golden fruit,
   In purple clusters hangs the vine's increase,
   And all the earth doth wear
   The dry clear Attic air
That lifts the soul to liberty, and frees the heart from care.

   Or if thy wilder mood
   Incline to solitude,
   Eternal verdure girds the lonely hills,
   Through the green gloom of ferns
   Softly the sunset burns,
   Cold from the granite flow the mountain rills;
   And there are inner shrines
   Made by the slumberous pines,
   Where the rapt heart with contemplation fills,
   And from wave-stricken shores
   Deep wistful music pours
And floods the tempest-shaken forest corridors.

   Oh, give the gift of gold
   The human heart to hold
   With liquid glamour of the Lesbian line;
   With Pindar's lava glow,
   With Sophocles' calm flow,
   Or Aeschylean rapture airy fine;
   Or with thy music's close

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poem by James Lister Cuthbertson
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From Omar Khayyam

I

A BOOK of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
   Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
O, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
   Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!

Look to the blowing Rose about us--'Lo,
Laughing,' she says, 'into the world I blow,
   At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.'

And those who husbanded the Golden grain
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain
   Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.

II

Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
   How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.

They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
   And Bahrám, that great Hunter--the wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.

I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
   That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.

And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
   Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!

Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
TO-DAY of past Regrets and Future Fears:
   To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.

For some we loved, the loveliest and the best

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poem by Edward Fitzgerald
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Edom o' Gordon

IT fell about the Martinmas,
   When the wind blew shrill and cauld,
Said Edom o' Gordon to his men,
   'We maun draw to a hauld.

'And what a hauld sall we draw to,
   My merry men and me?
We will gae to the house o' the Rodes,
   To see that fair ladye.'

The lady stood on her castle wa',
   Beheld baith dale and down;
There she was ware of a host of men
   Cam riding towards the town.

'O see ye not, my merry men a',
   O see ye not what I see?
Methinks I see a host of men;
   I marvel wha they be.'

She ween'd it had been her lovely lord,
   As he cam riding hame;
It was the traitor, Edom o' Gordon,
   Wha reck'd nae sin nor shame.

She had nae sooner buskit hersell,
   And putten on her gown,
But Edom o' Gordon an' his men
   Were round about the town.

They had nae sooner supper set,
   Nae sooner said the grace,
But Edom o' Gordon an' his men
   Were lighted about the place.

The lady ran up to her tower-head,
   Sae fast as she could hie,
To see if by her fair speeches
   She could wi' him agree.

'Come doun to me, ye lady gay,
   Come doun, come doun to me;
This night sall ye lig within mine arms,
   To-morrow my bride sall be.'

'I winna come down, ye fals Gordon,
   I winna come down to thee;
I winna forsake my ain dear lord,
   That is sae far frae me.'

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poem by Anonymous
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Robin and Makyne

ROBIN sat on gude green hill,
   Kepand a flock of fe:
Mirry Makyne said him till
   'Robin, thou rew on me:
I haif thee luvit, loud and still,
   Thir yeiris twa or thre;
My dule in dern bot gif thou dill,
   Doutless but dreid I de.'

Robin answerit 'By the Rude
   Na thing of luve I knaw,
But keipis my scheip undir yon wud:
   Lo, quhair they raik on raw.
Quhat has marrit thee in thy mude,
   Makyne, to me thou shaw;
Or quhat is luve, or to be lude?
   Fain wad I leir that law.'

'At luvis lair gif thou will leir
   Tak thair ane A B C;
Be heynd, courtass, and fair of feir,
   Wyse, hardy, and free:
So that no danger do thee deir
   Quhat dule in dern thou dre;
Preiss thee with pain at all poweir
   Be patient and previe.'

Robin answerit hir agane,
   'I wat nocht quhat is lufe;
But I haif mervel in certaine
   Quhat makis thee this wanrufe:
The weddir is fair, and I am fain;
   My scheip gois haill aboif;
And we wald prey us in this plane,
   They wald us baith reproif.'

'Robin, tak tent unto my tale,
   And wirk all as I reid,
And thou sall haif my heart all haill,
   Eik and my maiden-heid:
Sen God sendis bute for baill,
   And for murnyng remeid,
In dern with thee bot gif I daill
   Dowtles I am bot deid.'

'Makyne, to-morn this ilka tyde
   And ye will meit me heir,
Peraventure my scheip may gang besyde,
   Quhyle we haif liggit full neir;
But mawgre haif I, and I byde,

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poem by Robert Henryson
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