The Sweets of Evening
by Christopher Smart (1722-1771)

The sweets of Evening charm the mind,
      Sick of the sultry day;
The body then no more’s confin’d,
But exercise with freedom join’d,
      When Phoebus sheathes his ray.

The softer scenes of nature sooth
      The organs of our sight;
The Zephyrs fan the meadows smooth,
And on the brook we build the booth
      In pastoral delight.

While all-serene the summer moon
      Sends glances thro’ the trees,
And Philomel begins her tune,
Asteria too shall help her soon
      With voice of skilful ease.

A nosegay, every thing that grows,
      And music, every sound
To lull the sun to his repose;
The skies are coloured like the rose
      With lively streaks around.

Of all the changes rung by Time
      None half so sweet appear,
As those when thoughts themselves sublime,
And with superior natures chime
      In fancy’s highest sphere.

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The Last Hero
by George William Russell (1867-1935)

We laid him to rest with tenderness;
Homeward we turned in the twilight’s gold;
We thought in ourselves with dumb distress—
All the story of earth is told.

A beautiful word at the last was said:
A great deep heart like the hearts of old
Went forth; and the speaker had lost the thread,
Or all the story of earth was told.

The dust hung over the pale dry ways
Dizzily fired with the twilight’s gold,
And a bitter remembrance blew in each face
How all the story of earth was told.

Views: 30

Venus Verticordia
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882)

She hath the apple in her hand for thee,
      Yet almost in her heart would hold it back;
      She muses, with her eyes upon the track
Of that which in thy spirit they can see.
Haply, “Behold, he is at peace,” saith she;
      “Alas! the apple for his lips,—the dart
      That follows its brief sweetness to his heart,—
The wandering of his feet perpetually!”

A little space her glance is still and coy,
      But if she give the fruit that works her spell,
Those eyes shall flame as for her Phrygian boy.
      Then shall her bird’s strained throat the woe foretell,
And her far seas moan as a single shell,
      And through her dark grove strike the light of Troy.

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“Much madness is divinest sense”
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Much madness is divinest sense
To a discerning eye ;
Much sense the starkest madness.
‘Tis the majority
In this, as all, prevails.
Assent, and you are sane ;
Demur, — you’re straightway dangerous,
And handled with a chain.

Views: 23

The Solitary Reaper
by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

Behold er, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
So sweetly to reposing bands
Of Travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian Sands:
No sweeter voice was ever heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again!

Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending;—
I listened till I had my fill:
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

Views: 30

Shiloh: A Requiem
(April, 1862)
by Herman Melville (1819-1891)

Skimming lightly, wheeling still,
⁠      The swallows fly low
Over the field in clouded days,
⁠      The forest-field of Shiloh—
Over the field where April rain
Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain
Through the pause of night
That followed the Sunday fight
⁠      Around the church of Shiloh—
The church so lone, the log-built one,
That echoed to many a parting groan
⁠      And natural prayer
Of dying foemen mingled there—
Foemen at morn, but friends at eve—
⁠      Fame or country least their care:
(What like a bullet can undeceive!)
⁠      But now they lie low,
While over them the swallows skim,
⁠      And all is hushed at Shiloh.

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Before Dawn
by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

Sweet life, if life were stronger,
Earth clear of years that wrong her,
Then two things might live longer,
      Two sweeter things than they;
Delight, the rootless flower,
And love, the bloomless bower;
Delight that lives an hour,
      And love that lives a day.

From evensong to daytime,
When April melts in Maytime,
Love lengthens out his playtime,
      Love lessens breath by breath,
And kiss by kiss grows older
On listless throat or shoulder
Turned sideways now, turned colder
      Then life that dreams of death.

This one thing once worth giving
Life gave, and seemed worth living;
Sin sweet beyond forgiving
      And brief beyond regret:
To laugh and love together
And weave with foam and feather
And wind and words the tether
      Our memories play with yet.

Ah, one thing worth beginning,
One thread in life worth spinning,
Ah sweet, one sin worth sinning
      With all the whole soul’s will;
To lull you till one stilled you,
To kiss you till one killed you,
To feed you till one filled you,
      Sweet lips, if love could fill;

To hunt sweet love and lose him
Between white arm and bosom,
Between the bud and blossom,
      Between your throat and chin;
To say of shame—what is it?
Or virtue—we can miss it;
Of sin—we can but kiss it,
      And it’s no longer sin;

To feel the strong soul, stricken
Through fleshly pulses, quicken
Beneath swift sighs that thicken,
      Soft hands and lips that smite;
Lips that no love can tire,
And hands that sting like fire,
Weaving the web Desire
      To snare the bird Delight.

But love so lightly plighted,
Our love with torch unlighted,
Paused near us unaffrighted,
      Who found and left him free;
None, seeing us woven in sunder,
Will weep or laugh or wonder;
Light love stands clear of thunder,
      And safe from winds at sea.

As, when late larks give warning
Of dying lights and dawning,
Night murmurs to the morning,
      “Lie still, O love, lie still;”
And half her dark limbs cover
The white limbs of her lover,
With amorous plumes that hover
      And fervent lips that chill;

As scornful day represses
Night’s void and vain caresses,
And from her cloudier tresses
      Unwinds the gold of his,
With limbs by limbs dividing
And breath by breath subsiding;
For love has no abiding,
      But dies before the kiss;

So hath it been, so be it;
For who shall live and flee it?
But look that no man see it
      Or hear it unaware;
Lest all who love and choose him
See Love, and so refuse him;
For all who find him lose him,
      But all have found him fair.

Views: 24

The Deserted Village
by Oliver Goldsmith (1730-1774)

Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheared the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer’s lingering blooms delayed,
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loitered o’er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blest the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o’er the ground,
And slights of art and feats of strength went round;
And still as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful virgin’s side-long looks of love,
The matron’s glance that would those looks reprove!
These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught even toil to please;
These round thy bowers their chearful influence shed,
These were thy charms—But all these charms are fled. Continue reading …

Views: 32

Life
by George Herbert (1593-1633)

I made a posy, while the day ran by:
“Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie
                  My life within this band.”
But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they
By noon most cunningly did steal away,
                  And withered in my hand.

My hand was next to them, and then my heart;
I took, without more thinking, in good part
                  Time’s gentle admonition;
Who did so sweetly death’s sad taste convey,
Making my mind to smell my fatal day,
                  Yet sugaring the suspicion.

Farewell dear flowers, sweetly your time ye spent,
Fit, while ye lived, for smell or ornament,
                  And after death for cures.
I follow straight without complaints or grief,
Since, if my scent be good, I care not if
                  It be as short as yours.

Views: 23

A Vision of Truth
by John Collings Squire (1884-1958)

As it fell upon a day
I made another garden, yea,
I got me flowers to strew the way
      Like to the summer’s rain;
And the chaffinth sings on the orchard bough
“Poor moralist, and what art thou?
But blessings on thy frosty pow
      And she shall rise again!”

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,
A highly respectable Chancellor,
A military casque he wore
      Half-hidden from the eye;
The robin redbreast and the wren,
The Pickwick, the Owl and the Waverley pen,
Heckety-peckety my black hen,
      He took her with a sigh.

The fight is o’er, the battle won,
And Furious Frank and fiery Hun,
Stole a pig and away he run
      And drew my snickersnee,
A gulf divides the west and worst
“Ho! Bring us wine to quench our thirst!”
We were the fist who ever burst
      Under the greenwood tree.

Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep
(She is a shepherdess of sheep),
Bid me to weep and I will weep,
      Thy tooth is not so keen,
Then up and spake Sir Patrick Spens
Who bought a fiddle for eighteenpenc
And reverently departed thence,
      His wife could eat no lean.

                  Epilogue
‘Twas roses, roses all the way
      Nor any drop to drink.

Views: 31