Within the hollowed hand of God,
Blood-red they lie, the dice of fate,
That have no time nor period,
And know no early and no late.

Postpone you can not, nor advance
Success or failure that's to be;
All fortune, being born of chance,
Is bastard-child to destiny.

Bow down your head, or hold it high,
Consent, defy--no smallest part
Of this you change, although the die
Was fashioned from your living heart.

Where is your dwelling, ye Sainted?
    Thro' what Elysium more bright
Than fancy or hope ever painted,
    Walk ye in glory and light?
Who the same kingdom inherits?
    Breathes there a soul that may dare
Look to that world of Spirits,
    Or hope to dwell with you there?

Sages! who even in exploring
    Nature thro' all her bright ways,
Went like the Seraphs adoring,
    And veiled your eyes in the blaze--
Martyrs! who left for our reaping
    Truths you had sown in your blood--
Sinners! whom, long years of weeping
    Chastened from evil to good--

Maidens! who like the young Crescent,
    Turning away your pale brows
From earth and the light of the Present,
    Looked to your Heavenly Spouse--
Say, thro' what region enchante...

I.

What be those crown’d forms high over the sacred fountain?
Bards, that the mighty Muses have raised to the heights of the mountain,
And over the flight of the Ages! O Goddesses, help me up thither!
Lightning may shrivel the laurel of Cæsar, but mine would not wither.
Steep is the mountain, but you, you will help me to overcome it,
And stand with my head in the zenith, and roll my voice from the summit,
Sounding for ever and ever thro’ Earth and her listening nations,
And mixt with the great sphere-music of stars and of constellations.


II.

What be those two shapes high over the sacred fountain,
Taller than all the Muses, and huger than all the mountain?
On those two known peaks they stand ever spreading and heightening;
Poet, that evergreen laurel i...

I seem to see a Shining One,
With eyes that gleam, now fierce, now tender,
Through Goggles that reflect the Sun
"With more than Oriental Splendor";
I see him sitting on a chest
Heavy with padlocks, bolts, and cording,
Where Untold Treasures hidden rest,
Treasures of Untold Yarns he's hoarding.
Oh, Rudyard, please unlock that chest!
With hope deferred we're growing hoary;
Or was it all an empty jest
Your saying, "That's another story"?

Nay, lady, one frown is enough
In a life as soon over as this,
And though minutes seem long in a huff,
They’re minutes ’tis pity to miss!
The smiles you imprison so lightly
Are reckon’d, like days in eclipse;
And though you may smile again brightly,
You’ve lost so much light from your lips!
Pray, lady, smile!

The cup that is longest untasted
May be with our bliss running o’er,
And, love when we will, we have wasted
An age in not loving before!
Perchance Cupid’s forging a fetter
To tie us together some day,
And, just for the chance, we had better
Be laying up love, I should say!
Nay, lady, smile!

A sick man's chamber, though it often boast
The grateful presence of a literal toast,
Can hardly claim, amidst its various wealth,
The right unchallenged to propose a health;
Yet though its tenant is denied the feast,
Friendship must launch his sentiment at least,
As prisoned damsels, locked from lovers' lips,
Toss them a kiss from off their fingers' tips.

The morning visit, - not till sickness falls
In the charmed circles of your own safe walls;
Till fever's throb and pain's relentless rack
Stretch you all helpless on your aching back;
Not till you play the patient in your turn,
The morning visit's mystery shall you learn.

'T is a small matter in your neighbor's case,
To charge your fee for showing him your face;
You skip up-stairs, inquire, inspe...

But as Thou earnest forth to bring the Poor,
Whose hearts were nearer faith and verity,
Spiritual childhood, thy philosophy,--
So taught'st the A, B, C of heavenly lore;
Because Thou sat'st not, lonely evermore,
With mighty thoughts informing language high;
But, walking in thy poem continually,
Didst utter acts, of all true forms the core;
Instead of parchment, writing on the soul
High thoughts and aspirations, being so
Thine own ideal; Poet and Poem, lo!
One indivisible; Thou didst reach thy goal
Triumphant, but with little of acclaim,
Even from thine own, escaping not their blame.

WILLIAM.
When I meet Peggy in my morning walk,
She first salutes the morn, then stays to talk:
The biggest secret she will not refuse,
But freely tells me all the village-news;
And pleas'd am I, can I but haply force
Some new-made tale to lengthen the discourse,
For--O so pleasing is her company,
That hours, like minutes, in her presence fly!
I'm happy then, nor can her absence e'er
Raise in my heart the least distrust or fear.

ROBIN.
When Mary meets me I find nought to say,
She hangs her head, I turn another way;
Sometimes (but never till the maid's gone by)
"Good morning!" faulters, weaken'd by a sigh;
Confounded I remain, but yet delight
To look back on her till she's out of sight.
Then, then's the time that absence does torment:
I jeer...

Friar Anselmo (God's grace may he win!)
Committed one sad day a deadly sin;

Which being done he drew back, self-abhorred,
From the rebuking presence of the Lord,

And, kneeling down, besought, with bitter cry,
Since life was worthless grown, that he might die.

All night he knelt, and, when the morning broke,
In patience still he waits death's fatal stroke.

When all at once a cry of sharp distress
Aroused Anselmo from his wretchedness;

And, looking from the convent window high,
He saw a wounded traveller gasping lie

Just underneath, who, bruised and stricken sore,
Had crawled for aid unto the convent door.

The friar's heart with deep compassion stirred,
When the poor wretch's groans for help were heard

With gentle ...

Maria! I have every good
For thee wish’d many a time,
Both sad, and in a cheerful mood,
But never yet in rhyme.


To wish thee fairer is no need,
More prudent, or more sprightly,
Or more ingenious, or more freed
From temper flaws unsightly.


What favour then not yet possess’d
Can I for thee require,
In wedded love already blest,
To thy whole heart’s desire?


None here is happy but in part;
Full bliss is bliss divine;
There dwells some wish in every heart,
And doubtless one in thine.


That wish on some fair future day,
Which fate shall brightly gild
(‘Tis blameless, be it what it may),
I wish it all fulfill’d.

Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft,
Not for the people's praise;
Only because our goddess made us her own and laughed,
Claiming us all our days,

Claiming our best endeavour, body and heart and brain
Given with no reserve,
Niggard is she towards us, granting us little gain:
Still, we are proud to serve.

Not unto us is given choice of the tasks we try,
Gathering grain or chaff;
One of her favoured servants toils at an epic high,
One, that a child may laugh.

Yet if we serve her truly in our appointed place,
Freely she doth accord
Unto her faithful servants always this saving grace,
Work is its own reward!

(Oscar Wilde.)


I gazed upon thee desolate and heard
    Thine anguished cry when fell the iron gin
That all but broke thy soul, yet gave thy word
    The strength to ask forgiveness of thy sin.

I saw thee fleeing from the cruel light
    Of thine own fame; I saw thee hide thy face
In alien dust to cover up the blight
    Upon thy brow that time may yet erase.

I knew thy creed, although thy lips were mute;
    I knew the gods thou didst not dare to own;
I knew the Upas poison at the root
    Of thy last flower of song, in prison blown.

And out of all thy woe there came to me
    This miracle of dogma, like a cry:
"No law but freedom for the vagrant bee--
    No love but summer for the butterfly."

Manasseh, lord of Judah, and the son
Of him who, favoured of Jehovah, saw
At midnight, when the skies were flushed with fire,
The splendid mystery of the shining air,
That flamed above the black Assyrian camps,
And breathed upon the evil hosts at rest,
And shed swift violent sleep into their eyes;
Manasseh, lord of Judah, when he came
To fortify himself upon his throne,
And saw great strength was gathered unto him,
Let slip satanic passions he had nursed
For years and years; and lo! the land that He
Who thundered on the Oriental Mount
Girt round with awful light, had set apart
For Jacob’s seed the land that Moses strained
On Nebo’s topmost cone to see, grew black
Beneath the shadow of despotic Sin
That stalked on foot-ways dashed with human blood,
An...

Why do they prate of the blessings of peace? we have made them a curse,
Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own;
And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse
Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own heath-stone?

But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of mind,
When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman’s ware or his word?
Is it peace or war? Civil war, as I think, and that of a kind
The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword.

Sooner or later I too may passively take the print
Of the golden age, why not? I have neither hope nor thurst;
May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint,
Cheat and be cheated, and die, who knows? We are ashes and dust.

Peace singing under ...

    [NOTE. - The following lines were written by request, to be read at a Meeting of the "Girls' Friendly Society."]


    What should a maiden be?    Pure as the rill,
    Ere it has left its first home in the hill;
    Thinking no evil, suspecting no guile,
    Cherishing nought that can harm or defile.

    What should a maiden be?    Honest and true,
    Giving to God and to neighbour their due;
    Modest and merciful, simple and neat,
    Clad in the white robe of innocence sweet.

    What should a maiden be?    She should be loath
    Lightly to give or receive loving troth;
    But when her faith is once plighted, till breath
    Leave her, her love should be stronger than death.

    What should a maiden be?    Merry, whene'er
    Merr...

[1]

How danger would the gods enrich,
If we the vows remember'd which
It drives us to! But, danger past,
Kind Providence is paid the last.
No earthly debt is treated so.
'Now, Jove,' the wretch exclaims, 'will wait;
He sends no sheriff to one's gate,
Like creditors below;'
But, let me ask the dolt,
What means the thunderbolt?

A passenger, endanger'd by the sea,
Had vow'd a hundred oxen good
To him who quell'd old Terra's brood.
He had not one: as well might he
Have vow'd a hundred elephants.
Arrived on shore, his good intents
Were dwindled to the smoke which rose
An offering merely for the nose,
From half a dozen beefless bones.
'Great Jove,' said he, 'behold my vow!
The fumes of beef thou breathest now
Are ...

Le stelle e 'l cielo e gli elementi a prova.

LAURA'S UNPARALLELED BEAUTY AND VIRTUE.


    The stars, the elements, and Heaven have made
With blended powers a work beyond compare;
All their consenting influence, all their care,
To frame one perfect creature lent their aid.
Whence Nature views her loveliness display'd
With sun-like radiance sublimely fair:
Nor mortal eye can the pure splendour bear:
Love, sweetness, in unmeasured grace array'd.
The very air illumed by her sweet beams
Breathes purest excellence; and such delight
That all expression far beneath it gleams.
No base desire lives in that heavenly light,
Honour alone and virtue!--fancy's dreams
Never saw passion rise refined by rays so bright.

CAPEL LOFFT.

What do I find right at the center of my interpersonal
relationships: a slightly dispersed but indisputably
tinctured core of brutality: go to the hospital


the question is not whether your life is at stake
but whether you can pay the bill, guaranteeing it on
admission (or no admission) and proving it (or not getting


out) on release (if any): this bit of realism
clutches our floating values underneath like a bracket
under a bouquet: if someone pauses to


congratulate me on some slight nothing, I see the
quiver of a curse undermine his lip: he
tries to make a better world even while it crumbles in


on him and us (a brutality): when I give my body to another
(or take another’s) I sometimes fear more
body being taken than was of...