The Sand-Hill Crane
by Mary Hunter Austin (1868-1934)

Whenever the days are cool and clear,
The sand-hill crane goes walking
Across the field by the flashing weir,
Slowly, solemnly stalking.
The little frogs in the tules hear,
And jump for their lives if he comes near;
The fishes scuttle away in fear
When the sand-hill crane goes walking.

The field folk know if he comes that way,
Slowly, solemnly stalking,
There is danger and death in the least delay,
When the sand-hill crane goes walking.
The chipmunks stop in the midst of play;
The gophers hide in their holes away;
And ‛Hush, oh, hush!’ the field-mice say,
When the sand-hill crane goes walking.

Views: 30

An die Geliebte
by Eduard Mörike (1804-1875)

Wenn ich, von deinem Anschaun tief gestillt,
Mich stumm an deinem heil’gen Wert vergnüge,
Dann hör’ ich recht die leisen Atemzüge
Des Engels, welcher sich in dir verhüllt.

Und ein erstaunt, ein fragend Lächeln quillt
Auf meinem Mund, ob mich kein Traum betrüge,
Daß nun in dir, zu ewiger Genüge,
Mein kühnster Wunsch, mein einz’ger, sich erfüllt?

Von Tiefe dann zu Tiefen stürzt mein Sinn,
Ich höre aus der Gottheit nächt’ger Ferne
Die Quellen des Geschicks melodisch rauschen.

Betäubt kehr’ ich den Blick nach oben hin,
Zum Himmel auf—da lächeln alle Sterne;
Ich knie, ihrem Lichtgesang zu lauschen.

Views: 26

By the Lake
by Edith Sitwell (1887-1964)

ACROSS the flat and the pastel snow
Two people go . . . . ‛And do you remember
When last we wandered this shore?’ . . . ‛Ah no!
For it is cold-hearted December.’
‛Dead, the leaves that like asses’s ears hung on the trees
When last we wandered and squandered joy here;
Now Midas your husband will listen for these
Whispers–these tears for joy’s bier.’
And as they walk, they seem tall pagodas;
And all the ropes let down from the cloud
Ring the hard cold bell-buds upon the trees—codas
Of overtones, ecstasies, grown for love’s shroud

Views: 44

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: 44

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: 38

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: 111