Cherry-Ripe
by Robert Herrick (1591-1674)
Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones; come and buy.
If so be you ask me where
They do grow, I answer: There,
Where my Julia’s lips do smile;
There’s the land, or cherry-isle,
Whose plantations fully show
All the year where cherries grow.
Views: 39
A Hue and Cry after Fair Amoret
by William Congreve (1670-1729)
Fair Amoret is gone astray—
Pursue and seek her, ev’ry lover;
I’ll tell the signs by which you may
The wand’ring Shepherdess discover.
Coquette and coy at once her air,
Both studied, tho’ both seem neglected;
Careless she is, with artful care,
Affecting to seem unaffected.
With skill her eyes dart ev’ry glance,
Yet change so soon you’d ne’er suspect them,
For she’d persuade they wound by chance,
Tho’ certain aim and art direct them.
She likes herself, yet others hates
For that which in herself she prizes;
And, while she laughs at them, forgets
She is the thing that she despises.
Views: 34
Love’s Philosophy
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)
I
The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix for ever,
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one another’s being mingle: —
Why not I with thine?
II
See, the mountains kiss high heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower would be forgiven
If it disdain’d its brother:
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea: —
What is all this sweet work worth,
If thou kiss not me?
Views: 53
Cats Sleep Anywhere
by Eleanor Farjeon (1881-1965)
Cats sleep, anywhere,
Any table, any chair
Top of piano, window-ledge,
In the middle, on the edge,
Open drawer, empty shoe,
Anybody’s lap will do,
Fitted in a cardboard box,
In the cupboard, with your frocks-
Anywhere! They don’t care!
Cats sleep anywhere.
Views: 37
The Bear Hunt
by Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865)
A wild bear chase didst never see?
Then hast thou lived in vain—
Thy richest bump of glorious glee
Lies desert in thy brain.
When first my father settled here,
’T was then the frontier line;
The panther’s scream filled night with fear
And bears preyed on the swine.
But woe for bruin’s short-lived fun
When rose the squealing cry;
Now man and horse, with dog and gun
For vengeance at him fly.
A sound of danger strikes his ear;
He gives the breeze a snuff;
Away he bounds, with little fear,
And seeks the tangled rough.
On press his foes, and reach the ground
Where’s left his half-munched meal;
The dogs, in circles, scent around
And find his fresh made trail.
With instant cry, away they dash,
And me at fast pursue;
O’er logs they leap, through water splash
And shout the brisk halloo.
Now to elude the eager pack
Bear shuns the open ground,
Through matted vines he shapes his track,
And runs it, round and round.
The tall, fleet cur, with deep-mouthed voice
Now speeds him, as the wind;
While half-grown pup, and short-legged fice
Are yelping far behind.
And fresh recruits are dropping in
To join the merry corps;
With yelp and yell, a mingled din—
The woods are in a roar—
And round, and round the chase now goes,
The world’s alive with fun;
Nick Carter’s horse his rider throws,
And Mose Hill drops his gun.
Now, sorely pressed, bear glances back,
And lolls his tired tongue,
When as, to force him from his track
An ambush on him sprung.
Across the glade he sweeps for flight,
And fully is in view—
The dogs, new fired by the sight
Their cry and speed renew.
The foremost ones now reach his rear;
He turns, they dash away,
And circling now the wrathful bear
They have him full at bay.
At top of speed the horsemen come,
All screaming in a row—
‘Whoop!’ ‘Take him, Tiger!’ ‘Seize him, Drum!’
Bang—Bang! the rifles go!
And furious now, the dogs he tears,
And crushes in his ire—
Wheels right and left, and upward rears,
With eyes of burning fire.
But leaden death is at his heart—
Vain all the strength he plies,
And, spouting blood from every part,
He reels, and sinks, and dies!
And now a dinsome clamor rose,—
‘But who should have his skin?’
Who first draws blood, each hunter knows
This prize must always win.
But, who did this, and how to trace
What’s true from what’s a lie,—
Like lawyers in a murder case
They stoutly argufy.
Aforesaid fice, of blustering mood,
Behind, and quite forgot,
Just now emerging from the wood
Arrives upon the spot.
With grinning teeth, and up-turned hair
Brim full of spunk and wrath,
He growls, and seizes on dead bear
And shakes for life and death—
And swells, as if his skin would tear,
And growls, and shakes again,
And swears, as plain as dog can swear
That he has won the skin!
Conceited whelp! we laugh at thee,
Nor mind that not a few
Of pompous, two-legged dogs there be
Conceited quite as you.
Views: 46
Elegy
He complains how soon the pleasing anxiety of life is over
by William Shenstone (1714-1763)
Ah me, my Friend! it will not, will not last,
This fairy scene, that cheats our youthful eyes;
The charm dissolves; th’ aerial music’s past;
The banquet ceases, and the vision flies.
Where are the splendid forms, the rich perfumes,
Where the gay tapers, where the spacious dome?
Vanished the costly pearls, the crimson plumes,
And we, delightless, left to wander home!
Vain now are books, the sage’s wisdom vain!
What has the world to bribe our steps astray?
Ere Reason learns by studied laws to reign,
The weakened passions, self-subdued, obey.
Scarce has the sun seven annual courses roll’d,
Scarce shown the whole that Fortune can supply,
Since, not the miser so caress’d his gold,
As I, for what it gave, was heard to sigh.
On the world’s stage I wish’d some sprightly part,
To deck my native fleece with tawdry lace!
’Twas life, ’twas taste, and—oh! my foolish heart!
Substantial joy was fix’d in power and place.
And you, ye works of Art! allured mine eye,
The breathing picture, and the living stone:
“Though gold, though splendour, Heaven and Fate deny,
Yet might I call one Titian stroke my own!”
Smit with the charms of Fame, whose lovely spoil,
The wreath, the garland, fire the poet’s pride,
I trimm’d my lamp, consumed the midnight oil—
But soon the paths of health and fame divide!
Oft, too, I pray’d; ’twas Nature form’d the prayer,
To grace my native scenes, my rural home;
To see my trees express their planter’s care,
And gay, on Attic models, raise my dome.
But now ’tis o’er, the dear delusion’s o’er!
A stagnant breezeless air becalms my soul;
A fond aspiring candidate no more,
I scorn the palm before I reach the goal.
Youth! enchanting stage, profusely bless’d!
Bliss even obtrusive courts the frolic mind;
Of health neglectful, yet by health caress’d,
Careless of favour, yet secure to find.
Then glows the breast, as opening roses fair;
More free, more vivid, than the linnet’s wing;
Honest as light, transparent e’en as air,
Tender as buds, and lavish as the Spring.
Not all the force of manhood’s active might,
Not all the craft to subtle age assign’d,
Not Science shall extort that dear delight,
Which gay Delusion gave the tender mind.
Adieu, soft raptures! transports void of care!
Parent of raptures, dear Deceit, adieu!
And you, her daughters, pining with despair,
Why, why so soon her fleeting steps pursue!
Tedious again to curse the drizzling day!
Again to trace the wintry tracks of snow!
Or, soothed by vernal airs, again survey
The self-same hawthorns bud, and cowslips blow!
Life! how soon of every bliss forlorn!
We start false joys, and urge the devious race;
A tender prey; that cheers our youthful morn,
Then sinks untimely, and defrauds the chase.
Views: 48
The Constant Lover
by John Suckling (1609-1642)
Out upon it, I have loved
Three whole days together!
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.
Time shall moult away his wings
Ere he shall discover
In the whole wide world again
Such a constant lover.
But the spite on ’t is, no praise
Is due at all to me:
Love with me had made no stays,
Had it any been but she.
Had it any been but she,
And that very face,
There had been at least ere this
A dozen dozen in her place.
Views: 33
Venus Transiens
by Amy Lowell (1874-1925)
Tell me,
Was Venus more beautiful
Than you are,
When she topped
The crinkled waves,
Drifting shoreward
On her plaited shell?
Was Botticelli’s vision
Fairer than mine;
And were the painted rosebuds
He tossed his lady,
Of better worth
Than the words I blow about you
To cover your too great loveliness
As with a gauze
Of misted silver?
For me,
You stand poised
In the blue and buoyant air,
Cinctured by bright winds,
Treading the sunlight.
And the waves which precede you
Ripple and stir
The sands at my feet.
Views: 34
Trust Thou Thy Love
by John Ruskin (1819-1900)
Trust thou thy Love; if she be proud, is the 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: 80
Scorn Not the Sonnet
by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch’s wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camöens soothed an exile’s grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains–alas, too few!
Views: 38