Inspirational

There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave - under the deep deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
No voice is hush'd - no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free.
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox, or wild hyæna, calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan, -
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.

Follow a shaddow, it still flies you,
Seeme to flye it, it will pursue:
So court a mistris, she denies you;
Let her alone, she will court you.
Say, are not women truly, then,
Stil'd but the shaddows of us men?
At morne, and even, shades are longest;
At noone, they are short, or none:
So men at weakest, they are strongest,
But grant us perfect, they're not knowne.
Say, are not women truly, then,
Stil'd but the shaddows of us men?

Who, Being Crossed By Their Friends, Fell Mad For One Another; And Now First Meet In Bedlam.


[Music within.]

The Lovers enter at opposite doors, each held by a keeper.


    Phillis. Look, look I see--I see my love appear!
    'Tis he--'Tis he alone;
    For, like him, there is none:
    'Tis the dear, dear man, 'tis thee, dear.

    Amyntas. Hark! the winds war;
    The foamy waves roar;
    I see a ship afar:
    Tossing and tossing, and making to the shore:
            But what's that I view,
            So radiant of hue,
    St Hermo, St Hermo, that sits upon the sails?
            Ah! No, no, no.
    St Hermo never, never shone so bright;
    'Tis Phillis, only Phillis, can shoot so fair a light;

Ah - it's the skeleton of a lady's sunshade,
Here at my feet in the hard rock's chink,
Merely a naked sheaf of wires! -
Twenty years have gone with their livers and diers
Since it was silked in its white or pink.

Noonshine riddles the ribs of the sunshade,
No more a screen from the weakest ray;
Nothing to tell us the hue of its dyes,
Nothing but rusty bones as it lies
In its coffin of stone, unseen till to-day.

Where is the woman who carried that sun-shade
Up and down this seaside place? -
Little thumb standing against its stem,
Thoughts perhaps bent on a love-stratagem,
Softening yet more the already soft face!

Is the fair woman who carried that sunshade
A skeleton just as her property is,
Laid in the chink that none may scan?
And ...

I

No more for him, where hills look down,
Shall Morning crown
Her rainy brow with blossom bands! -
The Morning Hours, whose rosy hands
Drop wildflowers of the breaking skies
Upon the sod 'neath which he lies. -
No more for him! No more! No more!

II

No more for him, where waters sleep,
Shall Evening heap
The long gold of the perfect days!
The Eventide, whose warm hand lays
Great poppies of the afterglow
Upon the turf he rests below. -
No more for him! No more! no more!

Ill

No more for him, where woodlands loom,
Shall Midnight bloom
The star-flowered acres of the blue!
The Midnight Hours, whose dim hands strew
Dead leaves of darkness, hushed and deep,
Upon the grave where he doth sleep. -
No more f...

    She was fading -
    into the stone
    into rifled shadows heavy
    with fallen light,
    rippled boughs
    of splitting fruit &
    droopy leaves
    to a sallow body under clumsy years
    that ripped the tunic of her coat
    while bleating the dismal age
    with each petal fall
    of a stockinged foot.

Put in the sickles and reap;
For the morning of harvest is red,
And the long large ranks of the corn
Coloured and clothed as the morn
Stand thick in the fields and deep
For them that faint to be fed.
Let all that hunger and weep
Come hither, and who would have bread
Put in the sickles and reap.

Coloured and clothed as the morn,
The grain grows ruddier than gold,
And the good strong sun is alight
In the mists of the day-dawn white,
And the crescent, a faint sharp horn,
In the fear of his face turns cold
As the snakes of the night-time that creep
From the flag of our faith unrolled.
Put in the sickles and reap.

In the mists of the day-dawn white
That roll round the morning star,
The large flame lightens and grows
Till the red...

        A man to Jupiter preferred
        Prayers for a wife: his prayer was heard.
        Jove smiled to see the man caressing
        The granted prayer and doubtful blessing.

        Again he troubled Jove with prayers:
        Fraught with a wife, he wanted heirs:
        They came, to be annoys or joys -
        One girl and two big bouncing boys.
        And, a third time, he prayed his prayer
        For grace unto his son and heir -
        That he, who should his name inherit,
        Might be replete with worth and merit.
        Then begged his second might aspire,
        With strong ambition, martial fire;
        That Fortune he might break or bend,
        And on her neck to heights ascend.
        Last, for the daughter, prayed that gra...

    It is time for bed, so the nurse declares,
    But I slip off to the nook,
    The cozy nook at the head of the stairs,
    Where daddy's reading his book.

    "I want to sit here awhile on your knee,"
    I say, as I toast my feet,
    "And I want you to pop some corn for me,
    And give me an apple sweet."

    I tickle him under the chin - just so -
    And I say, "Please can't I, dad?"
    Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no
    To his own little black-eyed lad.

    "You can't have a pony this year at all,"
    Says my stingy Uncle Joe,
    After promising it - and there's the stall
    Fixed ready for it, you know.

    One can't depend on his uncle, I see,
    It's daddies that are the best,
    And I find mine a...

There was a road ran past our house
Too lovely to explore.
I asked my mother once--she said
That if you followed where it led
It brought you to the milk-man's door.
(That's why I have not traveled more.)

There are certain things, a spider, a ghost,
The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three,
That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most
Is a thing they call the Sea.

Pour some salt water over the floor,
Ugly I'm sure you'll allow it to be:
Suppose it extended a mile or more,
That's very like the Sea.

Beat a dog till it howls outright,
Cruel, but all very well for a spree;
Suppose that one did so day and night,
That would be like the Sea.

I had a vision of nursery-maids;
Tens of thousands passed by me,
All leading children with wooden spades,
And this was by the Sea.

Who invented those spades of wood?
Who was it cut them out of the tree?
None, I think, but an idiot could,
Or one that loved the Sea.

It is pleas...

To be intoned, all but the two italicized lines, which are to be spoken in a snappy, matter-of-fact way.


    Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.
    Here lies a kitten good, who kept
    A kitten's proper place.
    He stole no pantry eatables,
    Nor scratched the baby's face.
    He let the alley-cats alone.
    He had no yowling vice.
    His shirt was always laundried well,
    He freed the house of mice.
    Until his death he had not caused
    His little mistress tears,
    He wore his ribbon prettily,
    He washed behind his ears.
    Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.

Widow of the late ANSON G. PHELPS, Esq., died at New York, April 24th, 1859, aged 74.


When the good mother dieth, and the home
So long made happy by her boundless love
Is desolate and empty, there are tears
Of filial anguish, not to be represt;
And when the many friends who at her side
Sought social sympathy and counsel sweet,
Or the sad poor, who, for their Saviour's sake,
Found bountiful relief, and kind regard,
Stand at that altered threshold, and perceive
Faces of strangers from her casement look,
There is a pang not to be told in words.

Yet, when the christian, having well discharged
A life-long duty, riseth where no sin
Or possibility of pain or death
May follow, should there not be praise to Him
Who gives such victory?
    ...

To come back from the sweet South, to the North
Where I was born, bred, look to die;
Come back to do my day's work in its day,
Play out my play -
Amen, amen, say I.

To see no more the country half my own,
Nor hear the half familiar speech,
Amen, I say; I turn to that bleak North
Whence I came forth -
The South lies out of reach.

But when our swallows fly back to the South,
To the sweet South, to the sweet South,
The tears may come again into my eyes
On the old wise,
And the sweet name to my mouth.

Come, my little one, with me!
There are wondrous sights to see
As the evening shadows fall;
In your pretty cap and gown,
Don't detain
The Shut-Eye train -
"Ting-a-ling!" the bell it goeth,
"Toot-toot!" the whistle bloweth,
And we hear the warning call:
"All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!"

Over hill and over plain
Soon will speed the Shut-Eye train!
Through the blue where bloom the stars
And the Mother Moon looks down
We'll away
To land of Fay -
Oh, the sights that we shall see there!
Come, my little one, with me there -
'T is a goodly train of cars -
All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!

Swifter than a wild bird's flight,
Through the realms of fleecy light
We shall speed and speed away!
Let the Night in envy frown -
What ...

By Leonardo Da Vinci, In The Refectory Of The Convent Of Maria Della Grazia - Milan.

Tho' searching damps and many an envious flaw
Have marred this Work; the calm ethereal grace,
The love deep-seated in the Saviour's face,
The mercy, goodness, have not failed to awe
The Elements; as they do melt and thaw
The heart of the Beholder and erase
(At least for one rapt moment) every trace
Of disobedience to the primal law.
The annunciation of the dreadful truth
Made to the Twelve, survives: lip, forehead, cheek,
And hand reposing on the board in ruth
Of what it utters, while the unguilty seek
Unquestionable meanings still bespeak
A labour worthy of eternal youth!

The night was dark and dreary,
    And the autumn-wind went by
With a sound like Sorrow's wailing
    In its sadly mournful cry; -
The yew trees, old and drooping,
    Shook in the angry blast,
And the moon looked, pale and tearful,
    Through the clouds that hurried past.

In a dreary room and fireless,
    With mouldy walls and damp,
A grey, old man was seated
    Beside a flickering lamp; -
An old man, worn and wasted,
    With bent and shivering form,
And haggard looks, sat trembling
    At the moaning of the storm.

The casements, old and creaking,
    Shook in the angry blast;
And the pale, thin face grew paler,
    As the shrieking winds went past;
For hovering fiends seemed clutching
    His treasures from his grasp,...

To outer senses there is peace,
A dreamy peace on either hand
Deep silence in the shadowy land,
Deep silence where the shadows cease.

Save for a cry that echoes shrill
From some lone bird disconsolate;
A corncrake calling to its mate;
The answer from the misty hill.

And suddenly the moon withdraws
Her sickle from the lightening skies,
And to her sombre cavern flies,
Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze.