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I have defaulted to centering all of these poems instead how they actually were layed out in the books I got them from.
Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay,
Within that temple where the vestal flame
Was wont to burn; and passing by that way,
To see that buried dust of living fame,
Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept,
All suddenly I saw the Faery Queen,
At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept;
And from thenceforth those graces were not seen,
For they this queen attended; in whose stead
Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse.
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed,
And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce:
Where Homer's sprite did tremble all for grief,
And cursed th' access of that celestial thief.
My prime of youth is but a frost of cares;
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain;
My crop of corn is but a field of tares;
And all my good is but vain hope of gain;
My life is fled, and yet I saw no sun;
And now I live, and now my life is done.
The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung;
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves be green;
My youth is gone, and yet I am but young
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen;
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;
And now I live, and now my life is done.
I sought my death, and found it in my womb,
I looked for life, and saw it was a shade,
I trod the earth and knew it was my tomb,
And now I die, and now I am but made:
The glass is full, and now my glass is run,
And now I live, and now my life is done.
Love is a sickness of woes,
All remedies refusing;
A plant that with most cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.
Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies,
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,
Heigh-ho!
Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind
Not well, nor full nor fasting.
Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies,
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries,
Heigh-ho!
Pardon, goddess of the night,
Those that slew thy virgin knight;
For the which, with songs of woe,
Round about her tomb they go.
Midnight, assist our moan;
Help us to sigh and groan,
Heavily, heavily:
Graves, yawn, and yield your dead,
Till death be uttered,
Heavily, heavily.
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O, where,
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there!
Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
thou thy worldy task hast done,
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o' the great;
Thou art past they tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
Pressed by these rebel powers that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
By terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men;
And Death once dead, there's nor more dying then.
Adieu; farewell earth's bliss,
This world uncertain is:
Fond are life's lustful joys,
Death proves them all but toys.
None from his darts can fly:
I am sick, I must die.
Lord have mercy on us!
Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physic himself must fade;
All things to end are made;
The plague full swift goes by;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord have mercy on us!
Beauty is but a flower,
Which wrinkles will devour:
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair;
Dust hath closed Helen's eye;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord have mercy on us!
Strength stoops unto the grave:
Worms feed on Hector brave;
Swords may not fight with fate:
Earth still holds ope her gate.
Come, come, the bells do cry;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord have mercy on us!
Wit with his wantonness,
Tasteth death's bitterness.
Hell's excecutioner
Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord have mercy on us!
Haste therefore each degree
To welcome destiny:
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a player's stage.
Mount we unto the sky;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord have mercy on us!
He first deceased; she for a little tried
To live without him, liked it not, and died.
I loved thee once; I'll love no more.
Thine be the grief, as is the blame;
Thou are not what thou wast before,
What reason I should be the same?
He that can love unloved again,
Hath better store of love than brain;
God send me love my debts to pay
While unthrifts fool thier love away!
Nothing could have my love o'erthrown
If thou hadst still continued mine;
Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own,
I might perchance have yet been thine.
But thou thy freedom did recall
That it thou might elsewhere enthrall;
And then how could I but disdain
A captive's captive to remain?
When new desires had conquered thee
And changed the object of thy will,
It had been lethargy in me,
Not constancy, to love thee still.
Yea, it had been a sin to go
And prostitute affection so;
Since we are taught no prayers to say
To such as must to others pray.
Yet do thou glory in thy choice,
Thy choice of his good fortune boast;
I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice
To see him gain what I have lost;
The height of my disdain shall be
To laugh at him, to blush for thee;
To love thee still, but go no more
A-begging at a begger's door.
Weep no more, nor sigh nor groan,
Sorrow calls no time that's gone;
Violets plucked, the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again;
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully,
Fate's hidden ends eyes cannot see.
Joys as winged dreams fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe;
Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no more.
Fly hence, shadows, that do keep
Watchful sorrows, charmed in sleep!
Though the eyes be overtaken,
Yet the heart doth ever waken
Thoughts, chained up in busy snares
Of continual woes and cares;
Love and griefs are so expressed,
As they rather sigh than rest.
Fly hence, shadows, that do keep
Watchful sorrows, charmed in sleep.
Oh, no more, no more, too late
Sighs are spent: the burning tapers
Of a life as chaste as fate,
Pure as are unwritten papers,
Are burned out; no heat, no light
Now remains; 'tis ever night.
Love is dead; let lover's eyes,
Locked in endless dreams,
Th' extremes of all extremes,
Ope no more, for now love dies.
Now Love dies-implying
Love's martyrs must be ever, ever dying.
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of Heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting;
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.
That age is best, which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times, still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time;
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.
I say my lady weep,
And Sorrow proud to be advanced so
In those fair eyes where all perfections keep.
Her face was full of woe,
But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts
Than mirth can do with her enticing parts.
Sorrow was there made fair,
And Passion wise; tears a delightful thing;
Silence beyond all speach, a wisdom rare;
She made her sighs to sing,
And all things with so sweet a sadness move
As made my heart at once both grieve and love.
O fairer than aught else
The world can show, leave off in time to grieve.
Enough, enough; your joyful look excels:
Tears kill the heart, believe.
O strive not to be excellent in woe,
Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow.
Love not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face,
Nor for any outward part:
No, nor for a constant heart!
For these may fail or turn to ill:
So thou and I shall sever.
Keep therefore a true woman's eye,
And love me still, but know not why!
So hast thou the same reason still
To doat upon me ever.
Farewell, ungrateful tritor,
Farewll, my perjured swain;
Let never injured creature
Believe a man again.
The pleasure of possessing
Surpasses all expressing,
But 'tis too short a blessing,
And love too long a pain.
'Tis easy to decieve us
In pity of your pain,
But when we love you leave us
To rail at you in vain.
Before we have described it,
There is no bliss beside it,
But she that once has tried it,
Will never love again.
The passion you pretended
Was only to obtain,
But when the charm is ended
The charmer you disdain.
Your love by ours we measure
Till we have lost our treasure,
But dying is a pleasure,
When living is a pain.
What has this bugbear Death that's worth our care?
After a life in pain and sorrow past,
After deluding hope and dire despair,
Death only gives us quiet at the last.
How strangely are our love and hate misplaced!
Freedom we seek, and yet from freedom flee;
Courting those tyrant-sins that chain us fast,
And shunning Death that only sets us free.
'Tis not a foolish fear of future pains-
Why should they fear who keep their souls from stains?-
That makes me dread thy terrors, Death, to see;
'Tis not the loss of riches or of fame,
Or the vain toys the vulgar pleasures name:
'Tis nothing, Celia, but the losing thee.
If sadly thinking
With spirits sinking,
Could more than drinking
My cares compose,
A cure for sorrow
From sighs I'd borrow,
And hope to-morrow
Would end my woes.
But as in wailing
There's nought availing,
And Death unfailing
Will strike the blow,
Then for that reason,
And for a season,
Let us be merry
Before we go.
To joy a stranger,
A way-worn ranger,
In every danger
My course I've run;
Now hope all ending,
And Death befriending,
His last aid lending,
My cares are done:
No more a rover,
Or hapless lover,
My griefs are over,
My glass runs low;
Then for that reason,
And for a season,
Let us be merry
Before we go!
Can I see another's woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another's grief,
And not seek for kind relief?
Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow's share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill'd?
Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan an infant fear?
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
And can he who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird's grief and care,
Hear the woes that infants bear,
And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in thier breast;
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant's tear;
And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
O, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
He doth give his joy to all;
He becomes an infant small;
He becomes a man of woe;
He doth feel the sorrow too.
Think not thou canst sigh a sigh
And thy maker is not by;
Think not thou canst weep a tear
And thy maker is not near.
O! He gives to us his joy
That our grief he may destroy;
Till our grief is fled and gone
He doth sit by us and moan.
O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy;
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
"Nought loves another as itself,
"Nor venerates another so,
"Nor is it possible to thought
"A greater than itself to know;
"And Father, how can i love you
"Or any of my brothers more?
"I love you like the little bird
"That picks up crumbs around the door."
The Priest sat by and heard the child,
In trembling zeal he seiz'd his hair:
He led him by his little coat,
And all admir'd the Priestly care.
And standing on the altar high,
"Lo what a fiend is here!" said he,
"One who sets reason up for judge
"Of our most holy Mystery."
The weeping child could not be heard,
The weeping parents wept in vain;
They strip'd him to his little shirt,
And bound him in an iron chain;
And burn'd him in a holy place,
Where many had been burn'd before:
The weeping parents wept in vain.
Are such things done on Albion's shore?
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe;
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I water'd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with my smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole:
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were - I have not seen
As others saw - I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all l lov'd, I lov'd alone.
Then in my childhood - in the dawn
Of a most stormy life was drawn -
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent or from the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that 'round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold -
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by -
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(when the rest of heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Lo! 't is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng bewinged bedight
In veils and drowned in tears
Sit in a theatre to see
A play of hopes and fears
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes in the form of God on high
Mutter and mumble low
And hither and thither fly -
Mere puppets they who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!
That motley drama! - oh be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot
And much of Madness and more of Sin
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes! - it writhes! - with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food
And the seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out - out are the lights - out all!
And over each quivering form
The curtain a funeral pall
Comes down with the rush of a storm
And the angels all pallid and wan
Uprising unveiling affirm
That the play is the tragedy "Man"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
((Willy Wonka Stuff))
WE are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.
With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample an empire down.
We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.
There's no earthly way of knowing
Which direction we are going
There's no knowing where we're rowing
Or which way the river's flowing
Is it raining? Is it snowing? Is a hurricane a'blowing?
Not a speck of light is showing
So the danger must be growing
Are the fires of hell a'glowing?
Is the grisly reaper mowing?
Yes!
The danger must be growing
For the rowers keep on rowing
And they're certainly not showing
Any signs that they are slowing!
.
The foolish fears of what might happen,
I cast them all away,
Among the clover-scented grass,
Among the new-mown hay,
Among the husking of the corn,
Where drowsy poppies nod,
Where ill thoughts die and good are born--
Out in the fields with God.
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain:
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain
Alone walking,
In thought pleyning,
And sor sighing,
All desolate.
Me remembering,
Of my living,
My deth wishing,
Bothe erly and late,
Infortunate
Is so my fate,
That-wote ye what?
Out of mesure
My lyf I hate.
Thus desperate
In pore estate
Do I endure.
Of other cure
Am I nat sure;
Thus to endure
Is hard certain.
Such is my ure,
I yow ensure.
What creature
May have more pain?
My trouth so pleyn
Is take in veyn,
And gret disdeyn
In remembraunce;
Yet I ful feyn
Wold me compleyn,
Me to absteyn
From this penaunce.
But in substaunce
Noon allegeaunce
Of my grevaunce
Can I nat finde.
Right so my chaunce
With displesaunce
Doth me avaunce.
And thus an end.
Before my face the picture hangs,
That daily should put me in mind
Of those cold names and bitter pangs,
That shortly I am like to find:
But yet, alas! full little I
Do think heron, that I must die.
I often look upon a face
Most ugly, grisly, bare and thin;
I often view the hollow place,
Where eyes and nose had sometime been:
I see the bones across that lie,
Yet little think that I must die.
I read the label underneath,
That telleth me whereto I must;
I see the sentence eke that saith,
Remember, man, that thou art dust:
But yet, alas! but seldom I
Do think indeed that I must die.
Continually at my bed's head
A hearse doth hang, which doth me tell
That I ere morning may be dead,
Though now I feel myself full well:
But yet alas! for all this I
Have little mind that I must die.
The gown which I do use to wear,
The knife wherewith I cut my meat,
And eke that old and ancient chair
Which is my only usual seat:
All these do tell me I must die,
And yet my life amend not I.
My ancestors are turn'd to clay,
And many of my mates are gone;
My youngers daily drop away,
And can I think to 'scape alone?
No, no, I know that I must die,
And yet my life amend not I.
I know my body's of so frail a kind,
As force without, fevers within can kill;
I know the heavenly nature of my mind,
But 'tis corrupted both in with and will;
I know my Soul hath power to know all things,
Yet is she blind and ignorant in all;
I know I am one of Nature's little kings,
Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.
I know my life's a pain and but a span,
I know my sense is mock'd with every thing:
And to conclude, I know myself a man,
Which is a proud, and yet a wretched thing.
Drop, drop, slow tears,
And bathe those beauteous feet
Which brought from Heaven
The news and Prince of Peace:
Cease not, wet eyes,
His mercy to entreat;
To cry for vengeance
Sin doth never cease.
In your deep floods
Drown all my faults and fears;
Nor let his eye
See sin, but through my tears.
Love not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face,
Nor for any outward part,
No, nor for a constant heart:
For these may fail or turn to ill,
So thou and I shall sever:
Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye,
And love me still but know not why-
So hast thou the same reason still
To doat upon me ever!
The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate:
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Victorious men of earth, no more
Proclaim how wide your empires are;
Though you bind in every shore
And your triumph reach as far
As night or day;
Yet you proud monarchs must obey,
And mingle with forgotten ashes, when
Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.
Devouring famine, plauge, and war,
Each able to undo mankind,
Death's servile emissaries are:
Nor to these alone confined:
He hath at will
More quaint and subtle ways to kill;
A smile, a kiss, as he will use the art,
Shall have a cunning skill to break a heart.
The night is come, like to the day;
Depart not Thou, great God, away.
Let not my sins, black as the night,
Eclipse the lustre of Thy light.
Keep still in my horizon; for to me
The sun makes not the day, but Thee.
Thou whose nature cannot sleep,
On my temple sentry keep;
Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes,
Whose eyes are open while mine close.
Let no dreams my head infest,
But such as Jacob's temples blest.
While I do rest my soul advance;
Make my sleep a holy trance,
That I may, my rest being wrought,
Awake into some holy thought;
And with as active vigour run
My course as doth the nimble sun.
Sleep is a death; oh! make me try,
By sleeping, what it is to die.
And as gently lay my head
On my grave, as now my bed.
Howe'er I rest, great God, let me
Awake again at last with thee.
And thus assured, behold I lie
Securely, or to wake or die.
These are drowsy days; in vain
I do now wake to sleep again:
Oh! come that hour, when I shall never
Sleep again, but wake for ever.
Vain world, what is in thee?
What do poor mortals see
Which should esteemed be,
Worthy their pleasure?
Is it the mother's womb,
Or sorrows which soon come,
Or a dark grave and tomb,
Which is their treasure?
How dost thou man deceive
By thy vain glory?
Why do they still believe
Thy false history?
Is't children's book and rod,
The lab'rer's heavy load,
Poverty undertrod,
The world desireth?
Is it distracting cares,
Or heart-tormenting fears,
Or pining grief and tears,
Which man requireth?
Or is it youthful rage,
Or childish toying?
Or is decrepid age
Worth man's enjoying?
Is it deceitful wealth,
Got by care, fraud, or stealth,
Or short uncertain health,
Which thus befool men?
Or do the serpent's lies,
By the world's flatteries
And tempting vanities,
Still overrule them?
Or do they in a dream
Sleep out their season?
Or borne down by lust's stream,
Which conquers reason?
Stranger, whoe'er thou art, that stoop'st to taste
These sweeter streams, let me arrest thy haste;
Nor of their fall
The murmurs (though the lyre
Less sweet be) stand to admire.
But as you shall
See from this marble tun
The liquid crystal run,
And mark withal
How fixed the one abides,
How fast the other glides;
Instructed thus, the difference learn to see
'Twist mortal life and immortality.
"The wind doth blow today, my love,
And a few small drops of rain;
I never had but one true-love,
In cold grave she was lain."
"I'll do as much for my true-love
As any young man may;
I'll sit and mourn all at her grave
For a twelvemonth and a day."
The twelvemonth and a day being up,
The dead begain to speak;
"Oh who sits weeping on my grave,
And will not let me sleep?"
"'Tis I, my love, sits on your grave,
And will not let you sleep;
For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
And that is all I seek."
"You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips;
Buy my breath smells earthy strong;
If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
Your time will not be long."
"'Tis down in yonder garden green,
Love, where we used to walk,
The finest flower that ere was seen
Is withered to a stalk."
"The stalk is withered dry, my love,
So will our hearts decay;
So make your heart content, my love,
Till God calls you away."
He or she that hopes to gain
Love's best sweet without some pain,
Hopes in vain.
Cupid's livery no one wears
But must put on hopes and fears,
Smiles and tears.
And, like to April weather,
Rain and shine both together,
Both or neither.
Art thou then absent, O thou dear
And only subject of my flame?
And these fair objects that appear
But shadows of that noble frame,
For which I do all other form disclaim?
Am I deluded? do I only rave?
Was it a phantasme only that I saw?
Have dreams such power to deceive?
Oh, lovely shade, thou didst too soon withdraw,
Like fleecy snow, that as it falls, doth thaw.
Glorious illusion! Lovely shade!
Once more deceive me with thy light;
'Tis pleasure so to be betray'd
And I for ever shall delight,
To be pursu'd by such a charming sprite.
The day of wrath, that dreadful day,
Shall the whole world in ashes lay,
As David and the Sibyls say.
What horror will invade the mind,
When the strict Judge, who would be kind,
Shall have few venial faults to find?
The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound,
Shall through the rending tombs rebound,
And wake the nations underground.
Nature and Death shall, with surprise,
Behold the pale offender rise,
And view the Judge with conscious eyes.
Then shall, with universal dread,
The sacred mystic book be read,
To try the living and the dead.
The Judge ascends his awful throne,
He makes each secret sin be known,
And all with shame confess their own.
Like children in a starry night,
When I beheld those eyes before,
I gaz'd with wonder and delight,
Insensible of all their power.
I play'd about the flame so long,
At last I felt the scorching fire;
My hopes were weak, my passion strong,
And I lay dying with desire.
By all the helps of humane art,
I just recovered so much sense,
As to avoid, with heavy heart,
The fair, but fatal influence.
But, since you shine away despair,
And now my sighs no longer shun,
No Persian in his zealous prayer
So much adores the rising sun.
If once again my vows displease,
There never was so lost a lover;
In love, that languishing disease,
A sad relapse we ne'er recover.
Love in thy youth, fair maid, be wise,
Old Time will make thee colder,
And though each morning new arise,
Yet we each day grow older.
Thou as heaven art fair and young,
Thine eyes like twin stars shining;
But ere another day be sprung;
All these will be declining;
Then winter comes with all his fears,
And all thy sweets shall borrow;
Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears,
And I, too late, shall sorrow.
I did but look and love awhile,
'Twas but for one half-hour;
Then to resist I had no will,
And now I have no power.
To sigh and wish is all my ease;
Sighs, which do heat impart
Enough to melt the coldest ice,
Yet cannot warm your heart.
O would your pity give my heart
One corner of your breast,
'Twould learn of yours the winning art,
And quickly steal the rest.
Trail all your pikes, dispirit every drum,
March in a slow procession from afar,
Ye silent, ye dejected Men of War!
Be still the hautboys, and the flute be dumb!
Display no more, in vain, the lofty banner;
For see! where on the bier before ye lies
The pale, the fall'n the untimely Sacrifice
To your mistaken Shrine, to your false Idol Honour.
Distracted with care
For Phyllis the fair,
Since nothing could move her,
Poor Damon, her lover,
Resolves in despair
No longer to languish,
Nor bear so much anguish
But, mad with his love,
To a precipice goes,
Where a leap from above
Would soon finish his woes.
When in rage he came there,
Beholding how steep
The sides did appear,
And the bottom how deep;
His torments projecting,
And sadly reflecting,
That a lover forsaken
A new love may get,
But a neck, when once broken,
Can never be set:
And, that he could die
Whenever he would,
But, that he could live
But as long as he could:
How grievous soever
The torment might grow,
He scorn'd to endeavour
To finish it so.
But bold, unconcern'd
At thoughts of the pain,
He calmly return'd
To his cottage again.
The happiest mortals once were we,
I lov'd Myra, Myra me;
Each desirous of the blessing,
Nothing wanting but possessing;
I lov'd Myra, Myra me,
The happiest mortals once were we.
But since cruel fate dissever,
Torn from love, and torn for ever,
Tortures end me,
Death befriend me;
Of all pains the greatest pain
Is to love - and love in vain.
My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook,
And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook;
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove;
For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love.
O, what had my youth with ambition to do?
Why left I Amynta? why broke I my vow?
O, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore,
And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more.
through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wide ocean secure me from love!
O, fool! to imagine that aught could subdue
A love so well founded, a passion so true!
Alas, 'tis too late at thy fate to repine;
Poor Shepherd, Amynta can no more be thine;
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain,
The moments neglected return not again.
Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!
Let the Water and the Blood,
From Thy riven Side which flow'd,
Be of Sin the double cure,
Cleanse me from its Guilt and Power.
Not the labours of my hands
Can fulfil Thy Law's demands:
Could my zeal no respite know,
Could my tears for ever flow,
All for Sin could not atone:
Thou must save, and Thou alone!
Nothing in my hand I bring;
Simply to Thy Cross I cling;
Naked, come to Thee for dress;
Helpless, look to Thee for Grace;
Foul, I to the fountain fly:
Wash me, Saviour! or I die.
Whilst I draw this fleeting breath-
When my eye-strings break in Death-
When I soar to tracts unknown-
See Thee on Thy Judgment-Throne-
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!
Sigh not, ye winds, as passing o'er
The chambers of the dead you fly;
Weep not, ye dews, for these no more
Shall ever weep, shall ever sigh.
Why mourn the throbbing heart at rest?
How still it lies within the breast!
Why mourn, since death presents us peace,
And in the grave our sorrows cease?
The shatter'd bark, from adverse winds,
Rest in this peaceful haven finds;
And, when the storms of life are past,
Hope drops her anchor here at last.
Sigh not, ye winds, as passing o'er
The chambers of the dead you fly;
Weep not, ye dews, for these no more
Shall ever weep, shall ever sigh.
The season comes when first we met,
But you return no more;
Why cannot I the days forget,
Which time can ne'er restore?
O days too sweet, too bright to last,
Are you indeed for ever past?
The fleeting shadows of delight,
In memory I trace;
In fancy stop their rapid flight,
And all the past replace:
But, ah, I wake to endless woes,
And tears the fading visions close!
On parent knees, a naked new-born child,
Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled:
So live, that sinking to thy life's last sleep,
Calm thou may'st smile, whilst all around thee weep.
"Thy braes were bonnie, Yarrow stream!
When first on them I met my lover:
Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream,
When now thy waves his body cover!
For ever now, O Yarrow stream!
Thou art to me a stream of sorrow:
For never on thy banks shall I
Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow."
"He promised me a milk-white steed,
To bear me to his father's bowers;
He promised me a little page,
To squire me to his father's towers;
He promised me a wedding ring-
The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow:
Alas! his watery grave in Yarrow!"
"Sweet were his words when last we met,
My passion I as freely told him:
Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought
That I should never more behild him!
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;
It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow;
Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,
And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow."
"His mother from the window look'd,
With all the longing of a mother;
His little sister weeping walk'd
The greenwood path to meet her brother:
They sought him east, they sought him west,
They sought him all the forest thorough;
They only saw the cloud of night,
They only heard the roar of Yarrow!"
"No longer from thy window look-
Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!
No longer walk, thou lovely maid!
Alas, you hast no more a brother!
No longer seek him east or west,
And search no more the forest thorough;
For, wandering in the night so dark,
He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow."
"The tear shall never leave my cheek,
No other youth shall be my marrow,
I'll seek thy body in the stream,
And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow."
No other youth became her marrow;
She found his body in the stream,
And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.
O ever skill'd to wear the form we love,
To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart;
Come gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove
The lasting sadness of an aching heart.
Thy voice, benign Enchantress! let me hear;
Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom,
That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear,
Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's gloom.
But come not glowing in the dazzling ray,
Which once with dear illusions charm'd my eye,
O! strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way
The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die;
Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast,
That asks not happiness, but longs for rest!
Would you be young again?
So would not I-
One tear to memory giv'n,
Onward I'd hie.
Life's dark flood forded o'er,
All but at rest on shore,
Say, would you plunge once more,
With home so nigh?
If you might, would you now
Retrace your way?
Wander through thorny wilds,
Faint and astray?
Night's gloomy watches fled,
Morning all beaming red,
Hope's smiles around us shed,
Heavenward-away.
Where are they gone, of yore
My best delight?
Dear and more dear, tho' now
Hidden from sight.
Where they rejoice to be,
There is the land for me;
Fly time-fly speedily,
Come life and light.
Once, in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man:-and WHO WAS HE?-
Mortal! Howe'er thy lot be cast,
That man resembled thee.
Unknown the region of his birth,
The land in which he died unknown:
His name hath perished from the earth;
This truth survives alone:
That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
Alternate triumphed in his breast;
His bliss and woe,-a smile, a tear!-
Oblivion hides the rest.
The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The chasing spirits' rise and fall;
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.
He suffered,-but his pangs are o'er;
Enjoyed,-but his delights are fled;
Had friends-his friends are now no more;
And foes,-his foes are dead.
He loved,-but whom he loved, the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb:
O, she was fair! but nought could save
Her beauty from the tomb.
He saw whatever thou hast seen;
Encountered all that troubles thee:
He was-whatever thou hast been;
He is-what thou shalt be.
The rolling seasons, day and night,
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,
Erewhile his portion, life, and light,
To him exist in vain.
The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye
That once their shades and glory threw,
Have left in yonder silent sky
No vestige where they flew.
The annals of the human race,
Their ruins, since the world began,
Of HIM afford no other trace
Than this,-THERE LIVED A MAN!
Dark, deep and cold the current flows
Unto the sea where no wind blows,
Seeking the land which no one knows.
O'er its sad gloom still comes and goes
The mingled wail of friends and foes,
Borne to the land which no one knows.
Why shrieks for help yon wretch, who goes
With millions, from a world of woes,
Unto the land which no one knows?
Though myriads go with him who goes,
Alone he goes where no wind blows,
Unto the land which no one knows.
For all must go where no wind blows,
And none can go for him who goes;
None, none return whence no one knows.
Yet why should he who shrieking goes
With millions, from a world of woes,
Reunion seek with it or those?
Alone with God, where no wind blows,
And Death, his shadow-doom'd, he goes:
That God is there the shadow shows.
O shoreless Deep, where no wind blows!
And thou, O Land, which no one knows!
That God is All, His shadow shows.
Jenny kiss'd me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have miss'd me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss'd me.
Come not in terrors clad, to claim
An unrealistic prey:
Come like an evening shadow, Death!
So stealthily, so silently!
And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath
Then willingly, O willingly,
With thee I'll go away!
What need to clutch with iron grasp
What gentlest touch may take?
What need with aspect dark to scare,
So awfully, so terribly,
The weary soul would hardly care,
Call'd quietly, call'd tenderly,
From thy dread power to break?
'Tis not as when thou markest out
The young, the blest, the gay,
The loved, the loving-they who dream
So happily, so hopefully;
Then harsh thy kindest call may seem,
And shrinkingly, reluctantly,
The summon'd may obey.
But I have drunk enough of life-
The cup assign'd to me
Dash'd with a little sweet at best,
So scantily, so scantily-
To know full well that all the rest
More bitterly, more bitterly,
Drugg'd to the last will be.
And I may live to pain some heart
That kindly cares for me:
To pain, but not to bless. O Death;
Come quietly, come lovingly-
And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath;
I'll go away with thee!
(written in Northampton County Asylum)
I AM: yet what I am none cares or knows,
My friends forsake me like a memory lost;
I am the self-consumer of my woes,
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;
And yet I am, and live with shadows tost
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dream,
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
And een the dearest-that I loved the best-
Are strange-nay, rather stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man has never trod;
A place where woman never smiled or wept;
There to abide with my creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept;
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;-
The grass below-above the vaulted sky.
When trouble haunts me, need I sigh?
No, rather smile away despair;
For those have been more sad than I,
With burthens more than I could bear;
Aye, gone rejoicing under care
Where I had sunk in black despair.
When pain disturbs my peace and rest,
Am I a hopeless grief to keep,
When some have slept on torture's breast
And smiled as in the sweetest sleep,
Aye, peace on thorns, in faith forgiven,
And pillowed on the hope of heaven?
Though low and poor and broken down,
Am I to think myself distrest?
No, rather laugh where others frown
And think my being truly blest;
For others I can daily see
More worthy riches worse than me.
Aye, once a stranger blest the earth
Who never caused a heart to mourn,
Whose very voice gave sorrow mirth-
And how did earth his worth return?
It spurned him from its lowliest lot,
The meanest station owned him not:
An outcast thrown in sorrow's way,
A fugitive that knew no sin,
Yet in lone places forced to stray-
Men would not take the stranger in.
Yet peace, though much himself he mourned,
Was all to others he returned.
. . . .
His presence was a peace to all,
He bade the sorrowful rejoice.
Pain turned to pleasure at his call,
Health lived and issued from his voice.
He healed the sick and sent abroad
The dumb rejoicing in the Lord.
The blind met daylight in his eye,
The joys of everlasting day;
The sick found health in his reply;
The cripple threw his crutch away.v
Yet he with troubles did remain
And suffered poverty and pain.
Yet none could say of wrong he did,
And scorn was ever standing bye;
Accusers by their conscience, chid,
When proof was sought, made no reply.
Yet without sin he suffered more
Than ever sinners did before.
....
Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Young spirit, rest thee now!
Even while with us thy footstep trod,
His seal was on thy brow.
Dust, to its narrow house beneath!
Soul, to its place on high!-
They that have seen thy look in death,
No more may fear to die.
O GOD! If this indeed be all
That life can show to me;
If on my aching brow may fall
No freshing dew from Thee;
If with no brighter light than this
The lamp of hope may glow,
And I may only dream of blis,
And wake to weary woe;
If friendship's solace must decay,
When other joys are gone,
And love must keep so far away,
While I go wandering on,-
Wandering and toiling without gain,
The slave of others' will,
With constant care and frequent pain,
Despised, forgotten still;
Grieving to look on vice and sin,
Yet powerless to quell
The silent current from within,
The outward torrent's swell;
While all the good I would impart,
The feelings I would share,
Are driven backward to my heart,
And turned to wormwood there;
If clouds must ever keep from sight
The glories of the Sun,
And I must suffer Winter's Blight,
Ere Summer is begun:
If Life must be so full of care-
Then call me soon to Thee;
Or give me strength enough to bear
My load of misery!
In the hour of death, after this life's whim,
When the heart beats low, and the eyes grow dim
And pain has exhausted every limb-
The lover of the Lord shall trust in Him.
When the will has forgotten the lifelong aim,
And the mind can only disgrace its fame,
And a man is uncertain of his own name-
The power of the Lord shall fill his frame.
When the last sigh is heaved, and the last tear shed,
And the coffin is waiting beside the bed,
And the widow and the child forsake the dead-
The angel of the Lord shall lift his head.
For even the purest delight may pall,
And power must fail, and the pride must fall,
And the love of the dearest friends grow small-
But the glory of the Lord is all in all.
I flung me round him,
I drew him under;
I clung, I drown'd him,
My own white wonder!...
Father and mother,
Weeping and wild,
Came to the forest,
Calling the child,
Came from the palace,
Down to the pool,
Calling my darling,
My beautiful!
Under the water,
Cold and so pale!
Could it be love made
Beauty to fail?
Ah me for mortals!
In a few moons,
If I had left him,
After some Junes
He would have faded,
Faded away,
He, the young monarch, whom
All would obey,
Fairer than day;
Alien to springtime,
Joyless and gray.
He would have faded,
Faded away,
Moving a mockery,
Scorn'd of the day!
Now I have taken him
All in his prime,
Saved from slow poisoning
Pitiless Time,
Fill'd with his happiness,
One with the prime,
Saved from the cruel
Dishonor of Time.
Laid him to rest,
Loving, adorable,
Softly to rest,
Here in my crystalline,
Here in my breast!
I am tired of all the years can give,
I am weary of all these things;
Tho' men should ask, I would not live
The life of seers or kings.
I care no more to learn or teach,
I love no more my breath,
And all but silence is my speech,
My life is all but death.
Deep in the grass outstretched I lie,
Motionless on the hill;
Above me is a cloudless sky,
Around me all is still:
There is no breath, no sound, no stir,
The drowsy peace to break;
I close my tired eyes-it were
So simple not to wake.
I shall not die because of you,>br>
O woman, though you shame the swan;
They were foolish men you killed;
Do not think me a foolish man.
Why should I leave the world behind
For the soft hand, the dreaming eye,
The scarlet mouth, the breasts of snow,
Is it for these you'd have me die ?
The joyous air, the fancy free,
The slender palm, the eye of blue,
The side like foam, the virgin neck ?
I shall not die because of you.
The devil take the golden hair!
The maiden thought, the voice so gay,
The rounded heel, the pillared calf
Only some foolish man would slay.
O woman, though you shame the swan,
A wise man taught me all he knew,
I know the subtleties of love,
I shall not die because of you.
Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Robert Frost The Road Not Taken.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
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