Identity

There's nothing grieues me, but that Age should haste,
That in my dayes I may not see thee old,
That where those two deare sparkling Eyes are plac'd,
Onely two Loope-holes, then I might behold.
That louely, arched, yuorie, pollish'd Brow,
Defac'd with Wrinkles, that I might but see;
Thy daintie Hayre, so curl'd, and crisped now,
Like grizzled Mosse vpon some aged Tree;
Thy Cheeke, now flush with Roses, sunke, and leane,
Thy Lips, with age, as any Wafer thinne,
Thy Pearly teeth out of thy head so cleane,
That when thou feed'st, thy Nose shall touch thy Chinne:
    These Lines that now thou scorn'st, which should delight thee,
    Then would I make thee read, but to despight thee.

I
After long wars when comes release
Not olive wands proclaiming peace
Can import dearer share
Than stems of Herba Santa hazed
In autumn's Indian air.
Of moods they breathe that care disarm,
They pledge us lenitive and calm.

II
Shall code or creed a lure afford
To win all selves to Love's accord?
When Love ordained a supper divine
For the wide world of man,
What bickerings o'er his gracious wine!
Then strange new feuds began.

Effectual more in lowlier way,
Pacific Herb, thy sensuous plea
The bristling clans of Adam sway
At least to fellowship in thee!
Before thine altar tribal flags are furled,
Fain wouldst thou make one hearthstone of the world.

III
To scythe, to sceptre, pen and hod--
Yea, sodden laborers ...

    Are these your presences, my clan from Heaven?
    Are these your hands upon my wounded soul?
    Mine own, mine own, blood of my blood be with me,
    Fly by my path till you have made me whole!

    Awake again in Asia, Lord of Peace,
    Awake and preach, for her far swordsmen rise.
    And would they sheathe the sword before you, friend,
    Or scorn your way, while looking in your eyes?

    Good comrade and philosopher and prince,
    Thoughtful and thoroughbred and strong and kind,
    Dare they to move against your pride benign,
    Lord of the Law, high chieftain of the mind?

                *****

    But what can Europe say, when in your name
    The throats are cut, the lotus-ponds turn red?
    And what can Europe say, when with a laugh
    Old Asia heaps her hecatombs of dead?

Is it so small a thing
To have enjoy'd the sun,
To have lived light in the spring,
To have loved, to have thought, to have done;
To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes;

That we must feign a bliss
Of doubtful future date,
And while we dream on this
Lose all our present state,
And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose?

Not much, I know, you prize
What pleasures may be had,
Who look on life with eyes
Estranged, like mine, and sad:
And yet the village churl feels the truth more than you;

Who 's loth to leave this life
Which to him little yields:
His hard-task'd sunburnt wife,
His often-labour'd fields;
The boors with whom he talk'd, the country spots he knew.

But thou, because thou hear'st
Me...

One who was suffering tumult in his soul,
Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer,
Went forth, his course surrendering to the care
Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl
Insidiously, untimely thunders growl;
While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers, tear
The lingering remnant of their yellow hair,
And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl
As if the sun were not. He raised his eye
Soul-smitten; for, that instant, did appear
Large space ('mid dreadful clouds) of purest sky,
An azure disc, shield of Tranquillity;
Invisible, unlooked-for, minister
Of providential goodness ever nigh!

How sweetly on the wood-girt town
The mellow light of sunset shone!
Each small, bright lake, whose waters still
Mirror the forest and the hill,
Reflected from its waveless breast
The beauty of a cloudless west,
Glorious as if a glimpse were given
Within the western gates of heaven,
Left, by the spirit of the star
Of sunset's holy hour, ajar!

Beside the river's tranquil flood
The dark and low-walled dwellings stood,
Where many a rood of open land
Stretched up and down on either hand,
With corn-leaves waving freshly green
The thick and blackened stumps between.
Behind, unbroken, deep and dread,
The wild, untravelled forest spread,
Back to those mountains, white and cold,
Of which the Indian trapper told,
Upon whose summits never yet

"It is the future generation that presses into being by means of
these exuberant feelings and supersensible soap bubbles of ours."
Schopenhauer

"The hot night makes us keep our bedroom windows open.
Our magnolia blossoms. Life begins to happen.
My hopped up husband drops his home disputes,
and hits the streets to cruise for prostitutes,
free-lancing out along the razor's edge.
This screwball might kill his wife, then take the pledge.
Oh the monotonous meanness of his lust...
It's the injustice... he is so unjust
whiskey-blind, swaggering home at five.
My only thought is how to keep alive.
What makes him tick? Each night now I tie
ten dollars and his car key to my thigh....
Gored by the climacteric of his want,
he stalls above me like an elephant."

Whatever I do, and whatever I say,
Aunt Tabitha tells me that is n't the way;
When she was a girl (forty summers ago)
Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so.

Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice!
But I like my own way, and I find it so nice
And besides, I forget half the things I am told;
But they all will come back to me - when I am old.

If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt,
He may chance to look in as I chance to look out;
She would never endure an impertinent stare, -
It is horrid, she says, and I must n't sit there.

A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own,
But it is n't quite safe to be walking alone;
So I take a lad's arm, - just for safety, you know, -
But Aunt Tabitha tells me they did n't do so.

How wicked w...

You must not call me Maggie, you must not call me Dear,
    For I'm Lady of the Manor now stately to see;
And if there comes a babe, as there may some happy year,
    'Twill be little lord or lady at my knee.

Oh, but what ails you, my sailor cousin Phil,
    That you shake and turn white like a cockcrow ghost?
You're as white as I turned once down by the mill,
    When one told me you and ship and crew were lost:

Philip my playfellow, when we were boy and girl
    (It was the Miller's Nancy told it to me),
Philip with the merry life in lip and curl,
    Philip my playfellow drowned in the sea!

I thought I should have fainted, but I did not faint;
    I stood stunned at the moment, scarcely sad,
Till I raised my wail of desolate complaint
    For y...

Dante.


    He liv'd and lov'd; he suffer'd; he was poor;
    But he was gifted with the gifts of Heaven,
    And those of all the week-days that are seven,
    And those of all the centuries that endure.
    He bow'd to none; he kept his honour sure.
    He follow'd in the wake of those Eleven
    Who walk'd with Christ, and lifted up his steven[A]
    To keep the bulwarks of his faith secure.
    He knew the secrets of the singing-time;
    He track'd the sun; he ate the luscious fruit
    Of grief and joy; and with his wonder-lute
    He made himself a name in every clime.
    The minds of men were madly stricken mute
    And all the world lay subject to his rhyme!

[A] Steven, a voice; old word revived.

1.
It lieth, gazing on the midnight sky,
Upon the cloudy mountain-peak supine;
Below, far lands are seen tremblingly;
Its horror and its beauty are divine.
Upon its lips and eyelids seems to lie
Loveliness like a shadow, from which shine,
Fiery and lurid, struggling underneath,
The agonies of anguish and of death.

2.
Yet it is less the horror than the grace
Which turns the gazer's spirit into stone,
Whereon the lineaments of that dead face
Are graven, till the characters be grown
Into itself, and thought no more can trace;
'Tis the melodious hue of beauty thrown
Athwart the darkness and the glare of pain,
Which humanize and harmonize the strain.

3.
And from its head as from one body grow,
As ... grass out of a watery rock,
...

In the deep blue of eve,
Ere the twinkling of stars had begun,
Or the lark took his leave
Of the skies and the sweet setting sun,

I climbed to yon heights,
Where the Norman encamped him of old,
With his bowmen and knights,
And his banner all burnished with gold.

At the Conqueror's side
There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand,
In pavilion wide;
And they chaunted the deeds of Roland.

Still the ramparted ground
With a vision my fancy inspires,
And I hear the trump sound,
As it marshalled our Chivalry's sires.

On each turf of that mead
Stood the captors of England's domains,
That ennobled her breed
And high-mettled the blood of her veins.

Over hauberk and helm
As the sun's setting splendour was thrown,
Then...

Since Fancy taught me in her school of spells
I know her tricks--These are not moths at all,
Nor fireflies; but masking Elfland belles
Whose link-boys torch them to Titania's ball.

"Ingenuous trust, and confidence of Love."


The Bat began with giddy wing
His circuit round the Shed, the Tree;
And clouds of dancing Gnats to sing
A summer-night's serenity.

Darkness crept slowly o'er the East!
Upon the Barn-roof watch'd the Cat;
Sweet breath'd the ruminating Beast
At rest where DOLLY musing sat.

A simple Maid, who could employ
The silent lapse of Evening mild,
And lov'd its solitary joy;
For Dolly was Reflection's child.

He who had pledg'd his word to be
Her life's dear guardian, far away,
The flow'r of Yeoman Cavalry,
Bestrode a Steed with trappings gay.

And thus from memory's treasur'd sweets,
And thus from Love's pure fount she drew
That peace, which busy care defeats,
And bids ...