Courage

See, as the carver carves a rose,
A wing, a toad, a serpent's eye,
In cruel granite, to disclose
The soft things that in hardness lie,
So this one, taking up his heart,
Which time and change had made a stone,
Carved out of it with dolorous art,
Laboring yearlong and alone,
The thing there hidden, rose, toad, wing?
A frog's hand on a lily pad?
Bees in a cobweb? no such thing!
A girl's head was the thing he had,
Small, shapely, richly crowned with hair,
Drowsy, with eyes half closed, as they
Looked through you and beyond you, clear
To something farther than Cathay:
Saw you, yet counted you not worth
The seeing, thinking all the while
How, flower-like, beauty comes to birth;
And thinking this, began to smile.
Medusa! For she could not see

OCCASIONED BY HIS DIALOGUES ON MEDALS.[54]

See the wild waste of all-devouring years!
How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears,
With nodding arches, broken temples spread!
The very tombs now vanish'd, like their dead!
Imperial wonders raised on nations spoil'd
Where mix'd with slaves the groaning martyr toil'd:
Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods,
Now drain'd a distant country of her floods:
Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey,
Statues of men, scarce less alive than they!
Some felt the silent stroke of mouldering age,
Some hostile fury, some religious rage,
Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire,
And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.
Perhaps, by its own ruins saved from flame,
Some buried marble half-preserves a name;
That na...

Sad is the Evening: all the level sand
    Lies left and lonely, while the restless sea,
Tired of the green caresses of the land,
    Withdraws into its own infinity.

But still more sad this white and chilly Dawn
    Filling the vacant spaces of the sky,
While little winds blow here and there forlorn
    And all the stars, weary of shining, die.

And more than desolate, to wake, to rise,
    Leaving the couch, where softly sleeping still,
What through the past night made my heaven, lies;
    And looking out across the window sill

See, from the upper window's vantage ground,
    Mankind slip into harness once again,
And wearily resume his daily round
    Of love and labour, toil and strife and pain.

How the sad thoughts slip back across t...

    I

    I find my mind as it were a deep water.

    Sometimes I play with a thought and hammer and bend it,
    Till tired and displeased with that I toss it away,
    Or absently let it slip to the yawning water:
    And down it sinks, forgotten for many a day.

    But a time comes when tide or tempest washes it
    High on the beach, and I find that shape of mine,
    Or I haul it out from the depths on some casual rope,
    Or, passing over that spot in quiet shine,

    I see, where my boat's shadow makes deep the water,
    A patch of colour, far down, from the bottom apart,
    A wavering sign like the gleam from an ancient anchor,
    Brown fixing and fleeting flakes; and I feel my heart

    Wake to a strange excitement; so that I s...

With an incident in which he was concerned
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An old Man dwells, a little man,
'Tis said he once was tall.
For five-and-thirty years he lived
A running huntsman merry;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is red as a ripe cherry.
No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee
When Echo bandied, round and round
The halloo of Simon Lee.
In those proud days, he little cared
For husbandry or tillage;
To blither tasks did Simon rouse
The sleepers of the village.

He all the country could outrun,
Could leave both man and horse behind;
And often, ere the chase was done,
He reeled, and was stone-blind.
And still there's something in the world
At whic...

Thou hast woven the spell that hath bound me,
    Through all the sad changes of years;
And the smiles that I wore when I found thee,
    Have faded and melted in tears!
Like the poor, wounded fawn from the mountain,
    That seeks out the clear silver tide,
I have lingered in vain at the fountain
    Of hope--with a shaft in my side!

Thou hast taught me that Love's rosy fetters
    A pang from the thorns may impart;
That the coinage of vows and of letters
    Comes not from the mint of the heart.
Like the lone bird that flutters her pinion,
    And warbles in bondage her strain,
I have struggled to fly thy domain,
    But find that the struggle is vain!

1854

Oh for one hour of youthful joy!
Give back my twentieth spring!
I'd rather laugh, a bright-haired boy,
Than reign, a gray-beard king.

Off with the spoils of wrinkled age!
Away with Learning's crown!
Tear out life's Wisdom-written page,
And dash its trophies down!

One moment let my life-blood stream
From boyhood's fount of flame!
Give me one giddy, reeling dream
Of life all love and fame.

My listening angel heard the prayer,
And, calmly smiling, said,
"If I but touch thy silvered hair
Thy hasty wish hath sped.

"But is there nothing in thy track,
To bid thee fondly stay,
While the swift seasons hurry back
To find the wished-for day?"

"Ah, truest soul of womankind!
Without thee what were life?...

1852

Where, oh where are the visions of morning,
Fresh as the dews of our prime?
Gone, like tenants that quit without warning,
Down the back entry of time.

Where, oh where are life's lilies and roses,
Nursed in the golden dawn's smile?
Dead as the bulrushes round little Moses,
On the old banks of the Nile.

Where are the Marys, and Anns, and Elizas,
Loving and lovely of yore?
Look in the columns of old Advertisers, -
Married and dead by the score.

Where the gray colts and the ten-year-old fillies,
Saturday's triumph and joy?
Gone, like our friend ( - Greek - ) Achilles,
Homer's ferocious old boy.

Die-away dreams of ecstatic emotion,
Hopes like young eagles at play,
Vows of unheard-of and endless devotion,
How ye...

On a hill there grows a flower,
    Fair befall the dainty sweet!
By that flower there is a bower,
    Where the heavenly Muses meet.

In that bower there is a chair,
    Fringèd all about with gold,
Where doth sit the fairest fair
    That did ever eye behold.

It is Phyllis, fair and bright,
    She that is the shepherds' joy,
She that Venus did despite,
    And did blind her little boy.

This is she, the wise, the rich,
    That the world desires to see:
This is ipsa quæ, the which
    There is none but only she.

Who would not this face admire?
    Who would not this saint adore?
Who would not this sight desire,
    Though he thought to see no more?

O, fair eyes, yet let me see,
    One good look, a...

Beside me, in the car, she sat,
She spake not, no, nor looked to me
From her to me, from me to her,
What passed so subtly, stealthily?
As rose to rose that by it blows
Its interchanged aroma flings;
Or wake to sound of one sweet note
The virtues of disparted strings.

Beside me, nought but this! but this,
That influent as within me dwelt
Her life, mine too within her breast,
Her brain, her every limb she felt
We sat; while o’er and in us, more
And more, a power unknown prevailed,
Inhaling, and inhaled, and still
’Twas one, inhaling or inhaled.

Beside me, nought but this; and passed;
I passed; and know not to this day
If gold or jet her girlish hair,
If black, or brown, or lucid-grey
Her eye’s young glance: the fickle chance
...

Italic sentences below are Samuel Taylor Coleridge's.


William, my teacher, my friend! dear William and dear Dorothea!
Smooth out the folds of my letter, and place it on desk or on table;
Place it on table or desk; and your right hands loosely half-closing,
Gently sustain them in air, and extending the digit didactic,
Rest it a moment on each of the forks of the five-forkéd left hand,
Twice on the breadth of the thumb, and once on the tip of each finger;
Read with a nod of the head in a humouring recitativo;
And, as I live, you will see my hexameters hopping before you.
This is a galloping measure; a hop, and a trot, and a gallop!

        All my hexameters fly, like stags pursued by the staghounds,
        Breathless and panting, and ready to drop, yet flying still on...

Who could describe you, child of mystery
And silence, born among these solitudes?
Within whose look there is a secrecy,
Old as these wanderingwoods,
And knowledge, cousin to the morning-star,
Beyond the things that mar,
And earth itself that on the soul intrudes.

How many eons what antiquity
Went to your making? When the world was young
You yet were old. What mighty company
Of cosmic forces swung
About you! On what wonders have you gazed
Since first your head was raised
To greet the Power that here your seed-spore flung!

The butterfly that woos you, and the bee
That quits the mandrakes' cups to whisper you,
Are in your confidence and sympathy,
As sunlight is and dew,
And the soft music of this woodland stream,
Telling the trees its d...

1.
She was an aged woman; and the years
Which she had numbered on her toilsome way
Had bowed her natural powers to decay.
She was an aged woman; yet the ray
Which faintly glimmered through her starting tears,
Pressed into light by silent misery,
Hath soul's imperishable energy.
She was a cripple, and incapable
To add one mite to gold-fed luxury:
And therefore did her spirit dimly feel
That poverty, the crime of tainting stain,
Would merge her in its depths, never to rise again.

2.
One only son's love had supported her.
She long had struggled with infirmity,
Lingering to human life-scenes; for to die,
When fate has spared to rend some mental tie,
Would many wish, and surely fewer dare.
But, when the tyrant's bloodhounds forced the child

A void is in the sky!
A light has ceased the seaman's path to cheer,
A star has left its ruby throne on high,
A world forsook its sphere.
Thy sisters bright pursue their circling way,
But thou, lone wanderer! thou hast left our vault for aye.

Did Sin invade thy bowers,
And Death with sable pinion sweep thine air,
Blasting the beauty of thy fairest flowers,
And God admit no prayer?
Didst thou, as fable saith, wax faint and dim
With the first mortal breath between thy zone and Him?

Did human love, with all
Its passionate might and meek endurance strong,--
The love that mocks at Time and scorns the pall,
Through conflict fierce and long,--
Live in thy soul, yet know no future's ray?
Then, mystic world! 't was well that thou shouldst pass away.

Waiting in the woodland, watching for my sweet,
Thinking every leaf that stirs the coming of her feet,
Thinking every whisper the rustle of her gown,
How my heart goes up and up, and then goes down and down.

First it is a squirrel, then it is a dove,
Then a red fox feather-soft and footed like a dream;
All the woodland fools me, promising my love;
I think I hear her talking - 'tis but the running stream.

Vowelled talking water, mimicking her voice -
O how she promised she'd surely come to-day!
There she comes! she comes at last!    O heart of mine rejoice -
Nothing but a flight of birds winging on their way.

Lonely grows the afternoon, empty grows the world;
Day's bright banners in the west one by one are furled,
Sadly sinks the lingering sun that like...

Back to where the roses rest
Round a shrine of holy name,
(Yes -- they knew me when I came)
More of peace and less of fame
Suit my restless heart the best.

Back to where long quiets brood,
Where the calm is never stirred
By the harshness of a word,
But instead the singing bird
Sweetens all my solitude.

With the birds and with the flowers
Songs and silences unite,
From the morning unto night;
And somehow a clearer light
Shines along the quiet hours.

God comes closer to me here --
Back of ev'ry rose leaf there
He is hiding -- and the air
Thrills with calls to holy prayer;
Earth grows far, and heaven near.

Every single flower is fraught
With the very sweetest dreams,
Under clouds or under gleams
Changeful...

Vice is grown aweary of her gawds, and donneth russet garments.
Loving for change to walk as a nun, beneath a modest veil:
For Pride hath noted how all admire the fairness of Humility,
And to clutch the praise he coveteth, is content to be drest in hair-cloth;
And wily Lust tempteth the young heart, that is proof against the bravery of harlots.
With timid tears and retiring looks of an artful seeming maid;
And indolent Apathy, sleepily ashamed of his dull lack- lustre face.
Is glad of the livery of meekness, that charitable cloak and cowl;
And Hatred hideth his demon frown beneath a gentle mask;
And Slander, snake like, creepeth in the dust, thinking to escape recrimination.
But the world hath gained somewhat from its years, and is quick to penetrate disguises.
Neither in all these is...

    The blast of common censure could I fear,
    Before your play my name should not appear;
    For 'twill be thought, and with some colour too,
    I pay the bribe I first received from you;
    That mutual vouchers for our fame we stand,
    And play the game into each other's hand;
    And as cheap pen'orths to ourselves afford,
    As Bessus[1] and the brothers of the sword.
    Such libels private men may well endure,
    When states and kings themselves are not secure:
    For ill men, conscious of their inward guilt,
    Think the best actions on by-ends are built.
    And yet my silence had not 'scaped their spite;
    Then, envy had not suffer'd me to write;
    For, since I could not ignorance pretend,
    Such merit I must envy or commend.