I May, I Might, I Must
by Marianne Moore (1887-1972)

If you will tell me why the fen
appears impassable, I then
will tell you why I think that I
can get across it if I try.

Views: 26

Aladdins Vuggesang
by Adam Oehlenschläger (1779-1850)

Visselulle, nu barnlil!
   Sov nu sodt og sov nu længe!
   Skjønt din Vugge stander stil,
Uden Dun og uden Gænge.

Hører du den dumpe Storm
   Sukke ved hvad jeg forliste?
   Mærker du den sultne Orm
Pikke paa din Fyrrekiste?

Sov, barnlille! ved min Sang
   Intet skal din Glæde mangle.
   Hører du den muntre Klang,
Hist i Taarnet af din rangle!

Nattergalen nærmer sig,—
   Fryder dig dens blide Klukke?
   Du har ofte vugget mig,
Nu skal jeg igden dig vugge.

Er ei Hjertet haardt som Sten,
   Mærk min Idræt, Moder kjære!
   Her af denne Hyldegren
Vil jeg dig en Fløite skære.

Ved dens Toner kvæg dit Sind!
   Hvor den klager svagt og ene,
   Som en vildsom Nattevind
I de vaade Vintergrene!

Ak, nu maa jeg fra dig gaae;
   Det er koldt i dine Arme,
   Men jeg ejer ingen Vraa,
Hvor jeg mig igjen kan varme.

Visselulle da, barnlil!
   Sov nu sodt og sov nu længe,
   Skjønt din Vugge stander stil
Uden Dun og uden Gænge.

Views: 33

Detente sombra
by Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz (1651-1695)

Detente, sombra de mi bien esquivo,
imagen del hechizo que más quiero,
bella ilusión por quien alegre muero,
dulce ficción por quien penosa vivo.

Si al imán de tus gracias, atractivo,
sirve mi pecho de obediente acero,
¿para qué me enamoras lisonjero
si has de burlarme luego fugitivo?

Mas blasonar no puedes, satisfecho,
de que triunfa de mí tu tiranía:
que aunque dejas burlado el lazo estrecho

que tu forma fantástica ceñía,
poco importa burlar brazos y pecho
si te labra prisión mi fantasía.

Views: 32

Fannie
by Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836-1907)

Fannie has the sweetest foot
Ever in a gaiter boot!
And the hoyden knows it,
And, of course, she shows it-
Not the knowledge, but the foot-
Yet with such a modest grace,
Never seems it out of place,
            Ah, there are not many
               Half so sly, or sad, or mad,
            Or wickeder than Fannie.

Fannie has the blackest hair
      Of any of the village girls;
It does not shower on her neck
      In silken or coquettish curls.
It droops in folds around her brow,
      As clouds, at night, around the moon,
Looped with lilies here and there,
      In many a dangerous festoon.
And Fannie wears a gipsy hat,
Saucily-yes, all of that!
            Ah, there are not many
               Half so sly, or sad, or mad,
            Or wickeder than Fannie.

Fannie wears an open dress-
      Ah! the charming chemisette!
Half concealing, half revealing
      Something far more charming yet.
Fannie draper her breast with lace,
As one would drape a costly vase
To keep away mischevious flies;
But lace can’t keep away one’s eyes,
For every time her bosom heaves,
      Ah, it peepeth through it;
Yet Fannie looks the while as if
      Never once she knew it.
            Ah, there are not many
               Half so sly, or sad, or mad,
            Or innocent than Fannie.

Fannie lays her hand in mine;
      Fannie speaks with naivete,
Fannie kisses me, she does!
      In her own coquettish way.
Then softly speaks and deeply sighs,
With angels nestled in her eyes.
In the merrie month of May,
Fannie swears sincerely
She will be my own wife,
And love me dearly, dearly
Ever after all her life.
            Ah, there are not many
               Half so sly, or sad, or mad,
            As my true-hearted Fannie.

Views: 34

Inscription For a Grotto
by Mark Akenside (1721-1770)

To me, whom in their lays the shepherds call
Actaea, daughter of the neighbouring stream,
This cave belongs. The fig-tree and the vine,
Which o’er the rocky entrance downward shoot,
Were plac’d by Glycon. He with cowslips pale,
Primrose, and purple Lychnis, deck’d the green
Before my threshold, and my shelving walls
With honeysuckle cover’d. Here at noon,
Lull’d by the murmur of my rising fount,
I slumber: here my clustering fruits I tend;
Or from the humid flowers, at break of day,
Fresh garlands weave, and chace from all my bounds
Each thing impure or noxious. Enter-in,
O stranger, undismay’d. nor bat nor toad
Here lurks: and if thy breast of blameless thoughts
Approve thee, not unwelcome shalt thou tread
My quiet mansion: chiefly, if thy name
Wise Pallas and the immortal Muses own.

Views: 52

“Methought I saw my late espoused Saint”
by John Milton (1608-1674)

Methought I saw my late espoused Saint
   Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
   Whom Joves great Son to her glad Husband gave,
   Rescu’d from death by force though pale and faint.
Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint,
   Purification in the old Law did save,
   And such, as yet once more I trust to have
   Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:
   Her face was vail’d, yet to my fancied sight,
   Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin’d
So clear, as in no face with more delight.
   But O as to embrace me she enclin’d
   I wak’d, she fled, and day brought back my night.

Views: 42

Break, Break, Break
by Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

Break, break, break,
         On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
         The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman’s boy,
         That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
         That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
         To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish’d hand,
         And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,
         At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
         Will never come back to me.

Views: 39

We Are Seven
by William Wordsworth (1779-1850)

A simple child, dear brother Jim,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
—Her beauty made me glad.

“Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?”
“How many? Seven in all,” she said,
And wondering looked at me.

“And where are they? I pray you tell.”
She answered, “Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

“Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.”

“You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!—I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be?”

Then did the little Maid reply,
“Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree.”

“You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five.”

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
The little Maid replied,
“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,
And they are side by side.

“My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit—
I sit and sing to them.

“And often after sun-set, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

“The first that died was little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

“So in the church-yard she was laid;
And all the summer dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

“And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.”

“How many are you then,” said I,
“If they two are in Heaven?”
The little Maiden did reply,
“O Master! we are seven.”

“But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in Heaven!”
‘Twas throwing words away: for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

Views: 25

Thanatopsis
by William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878)

      To him who in the love of nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature’s teachings, while from all around—
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—
Comes a still voice. Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.

      Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings,
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods — rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,—
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone.

      So shalt thou rest — and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men—
The youth in life’s fresh spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man—
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn, shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Views: 31

Complaint of Love
by Philip Sidney (1554-1586)

Lovèd I am, and yet complain of love;
As loving not, accused, in love I die.
When pity most I crave, I cruel prove;
Still seeking love, love found as much I fly.
Burnt in myself, I muse at others’ fire;
What I call wrong, I do the same, and more;
Barr’d of my will, I have beyond desire;
I wail for want, and yet am choked with store.
This is thy work, thou god for ever blind;
Though thousands old, a boy entitled still.
Thus children do the silly birds they find
With stroking hurt, and too much cramming kill.
Yet thus much love, O Love, I crave of thee:
Let me be loved, or else not loved be.

Views: 33