Death

Methinks I see some crooked mimic jeer,
And tax my Muse with this fantastic grace;
Turning my papers asks, "What have we here?"
Making withal some filthy antic face.
    I fear no censure nor what thou canst say,
Nor shall my spirit one jot of vigour lose.
Think'st thou, my wit shall keep the packhorse way,
That every dudgeon low invention goes?
    Since sonnets thus in bundles are imprest,
And every drudge doth dull our satiate ear,
Think'st thou my love shall in those rags be drest
That every dowdy, every trull doth wear?
    Up to my pitch no common judgment flies;
    I scorn all earthly dung-bred scarabies.

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautif...

April 21st, 1785.


    While new-ca'd ky, rowte at the stake,
    An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik,
    This hour on e'enin's edge I take
        To own I'm debtor,
    To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,
        For his kind letter.

    Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs,
    Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs,
    Or dealing thro' amang the naigs
        Their ten hours' bite,
    My awkart muse sair pleads and begs,
        I would na write.

    The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie,
    She's saft at best, and something lazy,
    Quo' she, "Ye ken, we've been sae busy,
        This month' an' mair,
    That trouth, my head is grown right dizzie,
        An' something sair."

    Her dowff excuses pat me mad:
  ...

I.

    Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
    Ca' them whare the heather growes,
    Ca' them whare the burnie rowes -
        My bonnie dearie!
    Hark the mavis' evening sang
    Sounding Cluden's woods amang!
    Then a faulding let us gang,
        My bonnie dearie.

II.

    We'll gae down by Cluden side,
    Thro' the hazels spreading wide,
    O'er the waves that sweetly glide
        To the moon sae clearly.

III.

    Yonder Cluden's silent towers,
    Where at moonshine midnight hours,
    O'er the dewy bending flowers,
        Fairies dance so cheery.

IV.

    Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear;
    Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear,
    Nocht of ill may come thee near,
        My bo...

Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale!
Say that we come, and come by this day's light;
Fly upon swiftest wing round field and height,
But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale;
There let a mystery of joy prevail,
The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite,
And Rover whine, as at a second sight
Of near-approaching good that shall not fail:
And from that Infant's face let joy appear;
Yea, let our Mary's one companion child
That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled
With intimations manifold and dear,
While we have wandered over wood and wild
Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer.

The little white clouds are racing over the sky,
And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,
The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch
Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.

A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze,
The odour of deep wet grass, and of brown new-furrowed earth,
The birds are singing for joy of the Spring's glad birth,
Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.

And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring,
And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar,
And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire
Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.

And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love
Till it rustles with laughter and ...

    I've tinkered at my bits of rhymes
    In weary, woeful, waiting times;
    In doleful hours of battle-din,
    Ere yet they brought the wounded in;
    Through vigils of the fateful night,
    In lousy barns by candle-light;
    In dug-outs, sagging and aflood,
    On stretchers stiff and bleared with blood;
    By ragged grove, by ruined road,
    By hearths accurst where Love abode;
    By broken altars, blackened shrines
    I've tinkered at my bits of rhymes.

    I've solaced me with scraps of song
    The desolated ways along:
    Through sickly fields all shrapnel-sown,
    And meadows reaped by death alone;
    By blazing cross and splintered spire,
    By headless Virgin in the mire;
    By gardens gashed amid their bloom,
   ...

    There are two images,
    a moon within reach
    yet trapped under snow -
    an old woman's threadbare shawl
    with peasants furiously working brooms
    scraping ice shavings
    into howls and husks of frenzy.

    Ii
    Then the same pond,
    this time summer
    with fishing nets,
    and briefer shawls
    pirating light's wanton swoon,
    a spyglass hour moon
    all bathed in yellow
    colour of kerosene
    - a rich creamy butter -
    goldilocks let out on weekends
    her spun, golden tresses
    lowered onto the water
    like so many little boats
    nimbly hopping aboard.

    lii
    A kerchief folded on a fence
    a man wearing an overcoat living there
    in white satin swoonin...

Tho' I am very old and wise,
And you are neither wise nor old,
When I look far into your eyes,
I know things I was never told:
I know how flame must strain and fret
Prisoned in a mortal net;
How joy with over-eager wings,
Bruises the small heart where he sings;
How too much life, like too much gold,
Is sometimes very hard to hold....
All that is talking—I know
This much is true, six years ago
An angel living near the moon
Walked thru the sky and sang a tune
Plucking stars to make his crown
And suddenly two stars fell down,
Two falling arrows made of light.
Six years ago this very night
I saw them fall and wondered why
The angel dropped them from the sky
But when I saw your eyes I knew
The angel sent the stars to you.

Somewhere, somewhere in this heart
There lies a jewel from the sea,
Or from a rock, or from the sand,
Or dropped from heaven wondrously.

Oh, burn, my jewel, in my glance!
Oh, shimmer on my lips in prayer!
Light my love's eyes to read my soul,
Which, wrapt in ashes, yet is fair!

When dead I lie, forgotten, deep
Within the earth and sunken past,
Still shall my jewel light my dust, -
The worth God gives us, first and last!

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,
Which to this day stands single, in the midst
Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore:
Not loathe to furnish weapons for the Bands
Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched
To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea
And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,
Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.
Of vast circumference and gloom profound
This solitary Tree! a living thing
Produced too slowly ever to decay;
Of form and aspect too magnificent
To be destroyed. But worthier still of note
Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,
Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;
Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine
Up-coiling, and inveteratley convolved,
Nor uninformed wi...

Staying home,
I caught naughty elves
watering my piano,
growling inside my head.

Faucet drops
beating out in harmony a drum tatoo
to the tune of a plugged drain,
the careless postures of indifference
retold lives lived on spindle shanks
caught on the obligatory
insipid train
of obliging a pantry full
of ones you love.

Far in a western brookland
That bred me long ago
The poplars stand and tremble
By pools I used to know.

There, in the windless night-time,
The wanderer, marvelling why,
Halts on the bridge to hearken
How soft the poplars sigh.

He hears: long since forgotten
In fields where I was known,
Here I lie down in London
And turn to rest alone.

There, by the starlit fences,
The wanderer halts and hears
My soul that lingers sighing
About the glimmering weirs.

I

That was a great night we spied upon
See-sawing home,
Singing a hot sweet song to the super-stars
Shuffling off behind the smoke-haze...
Fog-horns sentimentalizing on the river...
Lights dwindling to shining slits
In the wet asphalt...
Purring lights... red and green and golden-whiskered...
Digging daintily pointed claws in the soft mud...
... But you did not know...
As the trains made golden augers
Boring in the darkness...
How my heart kept racing out along the rails,
As a spider runs along a thread
And hauls him in again
To some drawing point...
You did not know
How wild ducks' wings
Itch at dawn...
How at dawn the necks of wild ducks
Arch to the sun
And new-mown air
Trickles sweet in their gullets.

II

I.

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!!

II.

And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat 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,...

    Among the heathy hills and ragged woods
    The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods;
    Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,
    Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream resounds,
    As high in air the bursting torrents flow,
    As deep-recoiling surges foam below,
    Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends,
    And viewless Echo's ear, astonish'd, rends.
    Dim seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show'rs,
    The hoary cavern, wide surrounding, low'rs.
    Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils,
    And still below, the horrid cauldron boils.

Gruffly growled the wind on Toller downland broad and bare,
And lonesome was the house, and dark; and few came there.

"Now don't ye rub your eyes so red; we're home and have no cares;
Here's a skimmer-cake for supper, peckled onions, and some pears;
I've got a little keg o' summat strong, too, under stairs:
- What, slight your husband's victuals? Other brides can tackle theirs!"

The wind of winter mooed and mouthed their chimney like a horn,
And round the house and past the house 'twas leafless and lorn.

"But my dear and tender poppet, then, how came ye to agree
In Ivel church this morning? Sure, there-right you married me!"
- "Hoo-hoo! - I don't know - I forgot how strange and far 'twould be,
An' I wish I was at home again with dear daddee!"

Gruffly growl...

    In its color, shade and shine,
    'T was a summer warm as wine,
    With an effervescent flavoring of flowered bough and vine,
    And a fragrance and a taste
    Of ripe roses gone to waste,
    And a dreamy sense of sun- and moon- and star-light interlaced.

    'Twas a summer such as broods
    O'er enchanted solitudes,
    Where the hand of Fancy leads us through voluptuary moods,
    And with lavish love out-pours
    All the wealth of out-of-doors,
    And woos our feet o'er velvet paths and honeysuckle floors.

    'Twas a summertime long dead, -
    And its roses, white and red,
    And its reeds and water-lilies down along the river-bed, -
    O they all are ghostly things -
    For the ripple never sings,
    And the rocking lily ...