Trust Thou Thy Love
by John Ruskin (1819-1900)
Trust thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet?
Trust thou thy Love: if she be mute, is she not pure?
Lay thou thy soul full in her hands, low at her feet;
Fail, Sun and Breath!—yet, for thy peace, She shall endure
Views: 35
The Daft Days
by Robert Fergusson (1750-1774)
Now mirk December’s dowie face
Glowers owre the rigs wi’ sour grimace,
While, thro’ his minimum of space,
The bleer-ey’d sun,
Wi’ blinkin light and stealin’ pace,
His race doth run.
From naked groves nae birdie sings;
To shepherd’s pipe nae hillock rings;
The breeze nae odorous flavour brings
From Borean cave,
And dwynin’ nature droops her wings,
Wi’ visage grave.
Mankind but scanty pleasure glean
Frae snawy hill or barren plain,
When winter, ’midst his nipping train,
Wi’ frozen spear,
Sends drift owre a’ his bleak domain,
And guides the weir.
Auld Reikie! thou’art the canty hole,
A bield for mony a caldrife soul,
Wha snugly at thine ingle loll,
Baith warm and couth;
While round they gar the bicker roll
To weet their mouth.
When merry Yule-day comes, I trow,
You’ll scantlins find a hungry mou;
Sma’ are our cares, our stamacks fu’
O’ gusty gear,
And kickshaws, strangers to our view,
Sin’ fern-year.
Ye browster wives! now busk ye braw,
And fling your sorrows far awa’;
Then, come and gie’s the tither blaw
Of reaming ale,
Mair precious than the well o’ Spa,
Our hearts to heal.
Then, tho’ at odds wi a’ the warl’,
Amang oursels we’ll never quarrel;
Though Discord gie a canker’d snarl
To spoil our glee,
As lang’s there’s pith into the barrel
We’ll drink and gree.
Fiddlers! your pins in temper fix,
And rozet weel your fiddle-sticks;
But banish vile Italian tricks
Frae out your quorum,
Not fortes wi’ pianos mix—
Gie’s Tullochgorum.
For nought can cheer the heart sae weel
As can a canty Highland reel;
It even vivifies the heel
To skip and dance:
Lifeless is he wha canna feel
Its influence.
Let mirth abound, let social cheer
Invest the dawnin’ o’ the year;
Let blithesome innocence appear
To crown our joy;
Nor envy, wi sarcastic sneer
Our bliss destroy.
And thou, great god o’ aqua vitae!
Wha sway’st the empire o’ this city,
When fou, we’re sometimes capernoity,
Be thou prepar’d
To hedge us frae that black banditti,
The City Guard.
Views: 49
Resurrection
by Robert Huntington (1958-)
You smiled, took my arm, and whispered some words in my ear;
I did not understand, but they must have meant
“Breathe again.”
For a tremor shook the depths of my being,
And my dead thoughts, my dead hopes, stirred to life.
Surely Lazarus felt this self-same joy
When our Lord touched him and said “Live.”
And the worms and the maggots disappeared,
And the bones came together, bone to bone,
And the sinews and flesh covered him,
And the wind put breath in him, and he lived, and stood up on his feet.
But then our Lord spake a few words more:
“You may live, but life remains the same as before;
Men still pass each other indifferently on the street;
Envy and calumny and deceit are unchanged;
Above all, love still struggles with shame
And finding no nourishment in hope,
Eats thistles and thorns, nourishing itself on despair.
It is not an act of kindness that I perform;
A wise man would prefer the worms.”
Views: 43
Evening on Calais Beach
by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free;
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder—everlastingly.
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear’st untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year;
And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
Views: 42
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod
(Dutch Lullaby)
by Eugene Field (1850-1895)
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe—
Sailed on a river of crystal light
Into a sea of dew.
“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”
The old moon asked the three.
“We have come to fish for the herring-fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we!”
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe,
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring-fish
That lived in the beautiful sea—
“Now cast your nets wherever you wish—
Never afeard are we!”
So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam—
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home:
’Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
As if it could not be;
And some folk thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea;
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one’s trundle-bed.
So shut your eyes while mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea,
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
Views: 42
I Loved a Lass
by George Wither (1588-1667)
I loved a lass, a fair one,
As fair as e’er was seen;
She was indeed a rare one,
Another Sheba Queen:
But, fool as then I was,
I thought she loved me too:
But now, alas! she’s left me,
Falero, lero, loo!
Her hair like gold did glister,
Each eye was like a star,
She did surpass her sister,
Which pass’d all others far;
She would me ‛honey’ call,
She’d—O she’d kiss me too!
But now, alas! she’s left me,
Falero, lero, loo!
In summer time to Medley
My love and I would go;
The boatmen there stood read’ly
My love and me to row.
For cream there would we call,
For cakes and for prunes too;
But now, alas! she’s left me,
Falero, lero, loo!
Her cheeks were like the cherry,
Her skin was white as snow;
When she was blithe and merry
She angel-like did show;
Her waist exceeding small,
The fives did fit her shoe:
But now, alas! she’s left me,
Falero, lero, loo!
In summer time or winter
She had her heart’s desire;
I still did scorn to stint her
From sugar, sack, or fire;
The world went round about,
No cares we ever knew:
But now, alas! she’s left me,
Falero, lero, loo!
To maidens’ vows and swearing
Henceforth no credit give;
You may give them the hearing,
But never them believe;
They are as false as fair,
Unconstant, frail, untrue:
For mine, alas! hath left me,
Falero, lero, loo!
Views: 37
Wishes to His Supposed Mistress
by Richard Crashaw (1613?-1649)
Whoe’er she be—
That not impossible She
That shall command my heart and me:
Where’er she lie,
Lock’d up from mortal eye
In shady leaves of destiny:
Till that ripe birth
Of studied Fate stand forth,
And teach her fair steps to our earth:
Till that divine
Idea take a shrine
Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:
Meet you her, my Wishes,
Bespeak her to my blisses,
And be ye call’d my absent kisses.
I wish her Beauty,
That owes not all its duty
To gaudy tire, or glist’ring shoe-tie:
Something more than
Taffata or tissue can,
Or rampant feather, or rich fan.
A Face, that ’s best
By its own beauty drest,
And can alone commend the rest.
A Face, made up
Out of no other shop
Than what Nature’s white hand sets ope.
A Cheek, where youth
And blood, with pen of truth,
Write what the reader sweetly ru’th.
A Cheek, where grows
More than a morning rose,
Which to no box his being owes.
Lips, where all day
A lover’s kiss may play,
Yet carry nothing thence away.
Looks, that oppress
Their richest tires, but dress
And clothe their simplest nakedness.
Eyes, that displace
The neighbour diamond, and outface
That sunshine by their own sweet grace.
Tresses, that wear
Jewels but to declare
How much themselves more precious are:
Whose native ray
Can tame the wanton day
Of gems that in their bright shades play.
Each ruby there,
Or pearl that dare appear,
Be its own blush, be its own tear.
A well-tamed Heart,
For whose more noble smart
Love may be long choosing a dart.
Eyes, that bestow
Full quivers on love’s bow,
Yet pay less arrows than they owe.
Smiles, that can warm
The blood, yet teach a charm,
That chastity shall take no harm.
Blushes, that bin
The burnish of no sin,
Nor flames of aught too hot within.
Joys, that confess
Virtue their mistress,
And have no other head to dress.
Fears, fond and slight
As the coy bride’s, when night
First does the longing lover right.
Days, that need borrow
No part of their good-morrow
From a fore-spent night of sorrow.
Days, that in spite
Of darkness, by the light
Of a clear mind, are day all night.
Nights, sweet as they,
Made short by lovers’ play,
Yet long by th’ absence of the day.
Life, that dares send
A challenge to his end,
And when it comes, say, ‛Welcome, friend!’
Sydneian showers
Of sweet discourse, whose powers
Can crown old Winter’s head with flowers.
Soft silken hours,
Open suns, shady bowers;
’Bove all, nothing within that lowers.
Whate’er delight
Can make Day’s forehead bright,
Or give down to the wings of Night.
I wish her store
Of worth may leave her poor
Of wishes; and I wish—no more.
Now, if Time knows
That Her, whose radiant brows
Weave them a garland of my vows;
Her, whose just bays
My future hopes can raise,
A trophy to her present praise;
Her, that dares be
What these lines wish to see;
I seek no further, it is She.
’Tis She, and here,
Lo! I unclothe and clear
My Wishes’ cloudy character.
May she enjoy it
Whose merit dare apply it,
But modesty dares still deny it!
Such worth as this is
Shall fix my flying Wishes,
And determine them to kisses.
Let her full glory,
My fancies, fly before ye;
Be ye my fictions—but her story.
Views: 110
Stanzas (“Oh, come to me in dreams, my love!”)
by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (1797-1851)
Oh, come to me in dreams, my love!
I will not ask a dearer bliss;
Come with the starry beams, my love,
And press mine eyelids with thy kiss.
’Twas thus, as ancient fables tell,
Love visited a Grecian maid,
Till she disturbed the sacred spell,
And woke to find her hopes betrayed.
But gentle sleep shall veil my sight,
And Psyche’s lamp shall darkling be,
When, in the visions of the night,
Thou dost renew thy vows to me.
Then come to me in dreams, my love,
I will not ask a dearer bliss;
Come with the starry beams, my love,
And press mine eyelids with thy kiss.
Views: 58
A Birthday Tribute
by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr (1809-1894)
Who is the shepherd sent to lead,
Through pastures green, the Master’s sheep?
What guileless “Israelite indeed”
The folded flock may watch and keep?
He who with manliest spirit joins
The heart of gentlest human mould,
With burning light and girded loins,
To guide the flock, or watch the fold;
True to all Truth the world denies,
Not tongue-tied for its gilded sin;
Not always right in all men’s eyes,
But faithful to the light within;
Who asks no meed of earhtly fame,
Who knows no earthly master’s call,
Who hopes for man, through guilt and shame,
Still answering, “God is over all”;
Who makes another’s grief his own,
Whose smile lends joy a double cheer;
Where lives the saint, if such be known?—
Speak softly,—such an one is here!
O faithful shepherd! thou hast born
The heat and burden of the day;
Yet o’er thee, bright with beams unshorn,
The sun still shows thine onward way.
To thee our fragrant love we bring,
In buds that April half displays,
Sweet first-born angels of the spring,
Caught in their opening hymn of praise.
What though our faltering accents fail,
Our captives know their message well,
Our words unbreathed their lips exhale,
And sigh more love than ours can tell.
Views: 51
Willkommen und Abschied
by Johann Wofgang von Goethe (1749-1832)
Es schlug mein Herz; geschwind zu Pferde!
Es war gethan fast eh’ gedacht;
Der Abend wiegte schon die Erde
Und an den Bergen hing die Nacht:
Schon stand im Nebelkleid die Eiche
Ein aufgethürmter Riese da,
Wo Finsterniß aus dem Gesträuche
Mit hundert schwarzen Augen sah.
Der Mond von einem Wolkenhügel
Sah kläglich aus dem Duft hervor,
Die Winde schwangen leise Flügel,
Umsaus’ten schauerlich mein Ohr;
Die Nacht schuf tausend Ungeheuer;
Doch frisch und fröhlich war mein Muth:
In meinen Adern welches Feuer!
In meinem Herzen welche Gluth!
Dich sah ich, und die milde Freude
Floß von dem süßen Blick auf mich;
Ganz war mein Herz an deiner Seite
Und jeder Athemzug für dich.
Ein rosenfarbnes Frühlingswetter
Umgab das liebliche Gesicht,
Und Zärtlichkeit für mich – Ihr Götter!
Ich hofft’ es, ich verdient’ es nicht!
Doch ach schon mit der Morgensonne
Verengt der Abschied mir das Herz:
In deinen Küssen, welche Wonne!
In deinem Auge, welcher Schmerz!
Ich ging, du standst und sahst zur Erden,
Und sahst mir nach mit nassem Blick:
Und doch, welch Glück geliebt zu werden!
Und lieben, Götter, welch ein Glück!
Views: 53