Original Epitath on a Drunkard
by Royall Tyler (1757-1826)

Pray who lies here? why don’t you know,
‘Tis stammering, staggering, boozy Joe;
What, dead at last? I thought that death
Could never stop his long long breath.
True, death ne’er threw his dart at him,
But kill’d, like David, with a sling:
Whither he’s gone we do not know,
With spirits above or spirits below:—
But, if he former taste inherits,
He’s quaffing in a world of spirits.

Views: 62

Love’s Martyrs
by John Ford (1586-1639)

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 lovers’ eyes,
      Locked in endless dreams,
      The extremes of all extremes,
Ope no more, for now Love dies.
      Now Love dies, implying
Love’s martyrs must be ever, ever dying.

Views: 54

The Soul and the Body
by John Davies (1569-1626)

But how shall we this union well express?
   Nought ties the soul; her subtlety is such
She moves the body, which she doth possess,
   Yet no part toucheth, but by virtue’s touch.

Then dwells she not therein as in a tent;
   Nor as a pilot in his ship doth sit;
Nor as the spider in his web is pent;
   Nor as the wax retains the print in it;

Nor as a vessel water doth contain;
   Nor as one liquor in another shed;
Nor as the heat doth in the fire remain;
   Nor as a voice throughout the air is spread.

But as the fair and cheerful morning light
   Doth here and there her silver beams impart,
And in an instant doth herself unite
   To the transparent air, in all and part;

Still resting whole, when blows the air divide,
   Abiding pure, when the air is most corrupted,
Throughout the air her beams dispersing wide,
   And when the air is tossed, not interrupted:

So doth the piercing soul the body fill,
   Being all in all, and all in part diffused;
Indivisible, incorruptible still,
   Not forced, encountered, troubled or confused.

And as the sun above the light doth bring,
   Though we behold it in the air below,
So from the eternal light the soul doth spring,
   Though in the body she her powers do show.

Views: 69

Waltzing Matilda
by Andrew Barton “Banjo” Patterson (1864-1941)

Did you know that today is Waltzing Matilda Day? Over the years, since Patterson wrote the song, circa. 1895, numerous variations have crept into both the lyrics and the tune to which it was sung. This is one of the earliest versions (from a 1901 Australian newspaper). It has, of course, been recorded countless times. Here are a few versions, from Johnny Cash, Richard Dyer-Bennet, Burl Ives, Jimmie Rodgers, and Josh White.

Once a jolly swagman camped on a billabong,
Under the shade of a coolibah tree;
And he sang as he watched his old billy boiling—
“You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me.”

Chorus.
Waltzing Matilda, Matilda, my darling,
You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me;
And he sang as he watched his old billy boiling—
“You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me.”

Down came a jumbuck to drink at the waterhole,
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee;
And he sang as he stowed him away in his tucker bag—
“You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me.”

Down came the squatter riding a thoroughbred,
Down came the p’licemen, one, two, and three,
Whose is the jumbuck you’ve got in your tucker bag?
“You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me.”

Up jumped the swagman, sprang into the waterhole,
Drowning himself ‘neath the coolibah tree;
And his ghost can be heard as he sings through the billabong—
“You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me.”

Views: 62

Den døende Barn
by Hans Christian Anderson (1805-1875)

Moder, jeg er træt, nu vil jeg sove,
Lad mig ved dit Hjerte slumre ind;
Græd dog ei det maa Du først mig love,
Thi Din Taare brænder paa min Kind.
Her er koldt og ude Stormen truer,
Men i Drømme, der er Alt saa smukt,
Og de søde Englebørn jeg skuer
Naar jeg har det trætte Øie lukt.

Moder, seer Du Englen ved min Side?
Hører Du den deilige Musik?
See, han har to Vinger smukke hvide,
Dem han sikkert af vor Herre fik;
Grønt og Guult og Rødt for Øiet svæver
Det er Blomster Engelen udstrøer!
Faaer jeg ogsaa Vinger mens jeg lever,
Eller, Moder, faaer jeg naar jeg døer?

Hvorfor trykker saa Du mine Hænder?
Hvorfor lægger Du din Kind til min?
Den er vaad, og dog som Ild den brænder,
Moder, jeg vil altid være din!
Men saa maa Du ikke længer sukke,
Græder Du, saa græder jeg med Dig,
O, jeg er saa træt! – maa Øiet lukke –
– Moder – see! nu kysser Englen mig!

Views: 45

The Land of Lost Content
by Alfred Edward Housman (1859-1936)

Into my heart an air that kills
   From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
   What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
   I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
   And cannot come again.

Views: 53

For All Blasphemers
by Stephen Vincent Benét (1898-1943)

Adam was my grandfather,
A tall, spoiled child,
A red, clay tower
In Eden, green and mild.
He ripped the Sinful Pippin
From its sanctimonious limb.
Adam was my grandfather—
And I take after him.

Noah was my uncle
And he got dead drunk.
There were planets in his liquor-can
And lizards in his bunk.
He fell into the Bottomless
Past Hell’s most shrinking star.
Old Aunt Fate has often said
How much alike we are.

Lilith, she’s my sweetheart
Till my heartstrings break,
Most of her is honey-pale
And all of her is snake.
Sweet as secret thievery,
I kiss her all I can,
While Somebody Above remarks
“That’s not a nice young man!”

Bacchus was my brother,
Nimrod is my friend.
All of them have talked to me
On how such courses end.
But when His Worship takes me up
How can I fare but well?
For who in gaudy Hell will care?
And I shall be in Hell.

Views: 66

Abendlied
by Paul Gerhardt (1607-1676)

Nun ruhen alle Wälder,
Vieh, Menschen, Städt’ und Felder;
Es schläft die ganze Welt.
Ihr aber, meine Sinnen,
Auf, auf! ihr sollt beginnen,
Was eurem Schöpfer wohlgefällt.

Wo bist du, Sonne, blieben?
Die Nacht hat dich vertrieben,
Die Nacht, des Tages Feind.
Fahr hin, ein’ andre Sonne,
Mein Jesus, meine Wonne,
Gar hell in meinem Herzen scheint.

Der Tag ist nun vergangen,
Die güldnen Sternlein prangen
Am blauen Himmels Saal.
Also werd’ ich auch stehen,
Wenn mich wird heißen gehen
Mein Gott aus diesem Jammertal.

Der Leib eilt nun zur Ruhe,
Legt ab das Kleid und Schuhe,
Das Bild der Sterblichkeit.
Die zieh’ ich aus: dagegen
Wird Christus mir anlegen
Den Rock der Ehr’ und Herrlichkeit.

Das Haupt, die Füß’ und Hände
Sind froh, daß nun zum Ende
Die Arbeit kommen sei.
Herz, freu dich, du sollst werden
Vom Elend dieser Erden
Und von der Sünden Arbeit frei.

Nun geht, ihr matten Glieder,
Geht hin und legt euch nieder,
Der Betten ihr begehrt.
Es kommen Stund’ und Zeiten,
Da man euch wird bereiten
Zur Ruh’ ein Bettlein in der Erd’.

Mein’ Augen stehn verdrossen,
Im Hui sind sie geschlossen;
Wo bleibt dann Leib und Seel?
Nimm sie zu deinen Gnaden,
Sei gut für allen Schaden,
Du Aug’ und Wächter Israel!

Breit’ aus die Flügel beide,
O Jesu, meine Freude,
Und nimm dein Küchlein ein!
Will Satan mich verschlingen,
So laß die Englein singen:
Dies Kind soll unverletzet sein.

Auch euch, ihr meine Lieben,
Soll heute nicht betrüben
Ein Unfall noch Gefahr!
Gott laß’ euch selig schlafen,
Stell’ euch die güldnen Waffen
Ums Bett und seiner Engel Schar.

Views: 67

A Musical Instrument
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

What was he doing, the great god Pan,
      Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
      With the dragon-fly on the river?

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
      From the deep cool bed of the river.
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
      Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sate the great god Pan,
      While turbidly flowed the river,
And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed
      To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great god Pan,
      (How tall it stood in the river!)
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
Then notched the poor dry empty thing
      In holes as he sate by the river.

“This is the way,” laughed the great god Pan,
      (Laughed while he sate by the river!)
“The only way since gods began
To make sweet music they could succeed.”
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
      He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan,
      Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
      Came back to dream on the river.

half a beast is the great god Pan
      To laugh, as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man.
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,
For the reed that grows nevermore again
      As a reed with the reeds in the river.

Views: 79

Smoke
by Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)

Light-winged Smoke, Icarian bird,
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight;
Lark without song, and messenger of dawn,
Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;
Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;
By night star-veiling, and by day
Darkening the light and blotting out the sun;
Go thou, my incense, upward from this hearth,
And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.

Views: 41