To the River Ladon
by Thomas Warton (1728-1790)

Ah! what a weary race my feet have run,
      Since first I trod thy banks with alders crown’d,
      And thought my way was all through fairy ground,
      Beneath thy azure sky, and golden sun:
Where first my muse to lisp her notes begun!
      While pensive memory traces back the round,
      Which fills the varied interval between;
      Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene.
Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure
      No more return, to chear my evening road!
      Yet still one joy remains, that not obscure,
Nor useless, all my vacant days have flow’d,
      From youth’s gay dawn to manhood’s prime mature;
      Nor with the Muse’s laurel unbestow’d.

Views: 31

Love Lives Beyond the Tomb
by John Clare (1793-1864)

Love lives beyond
The tomb, the earth, which fades like dew-
I love the fond,
The faithful, and the true.
Love lies in sleep,
The happiness of healthy dreams,
Eve’s dews may weep,
But love delightful seems.
’Tis seen in flowers,
And in the even’s pearly dew
On earth’s green hours,
And in the heaven’s eternal blue.

’Tis heard in spring
When light and sunbeams, warm and kind,
On angels wing
Bring love and music to the wind.
And where is voice
So young, so beautiful, so sweet
As nature’s choice,
Where spring and lovers meet?
Love lies beyond
The tomb, the earth, the flowers, and dew.
I love the fond,
The faithful, young, and true.

Views: 46

Deirdre’s Lament for the Sons of Usnach
by Samuel Ferguson (1810-1886)

The lions of the hill are gone,
And I am left alone—alone—
Dig the grave both wide and deep,
For I am sick, and fain would sleep!

The falcons of the wood are flown,
And I am left alone—alone—
Dig the grave both deep and wide,
And let us slumber side by side.

The dragons of the rock are sleeping,
Sleep that wakes not for our weeping:
Dig the grave and make it ready;
Lay me on my true Love’s body.

Lay their spears and bucklers bright
By the warriors’ sides aright;
Many a day the Three before me
On their linked bucklers bore me.

Lay upon the low grave floor,
’Neath each head, the blue claymore;
Many a time the noble Three
Redden’d those blue blades for me.

Lay the collars, as is meet,
Of their greyhounds at their feet;
Many a time for me have they
Brought the tall red deer to bay

Oh! to hear my true Love singing,
Sweet as sound of trumpets ringing:
Like the sway of ocean swelling
Roll’d his deep voice round our dwelling.

Oh! to hear the echoes pealing
Round our green and fairy sheeling,
When the Three, with soaring chorus,
Pass’d the silent skylark o’er us.

Echo now, sleep, morn and even—
Lark alone enchant the heaven!—
Ardan’s lips are scant of breath,—
Neesa’s tongue is cold in death.

Stag, exult on glen and mountain—
Salmon, leap from loch to fountain—
Heron, in the free air warm ye—
Usnach’s Sons no more will harm ye!

Erin’s stay no more you are,
Rulers of the ridge of war;
Never more ’twill be your fate
To keep the beam of battle straight.

Woe is me! by fraud and wrong—
Traitors false and tyrants strong—
Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold,
For Barach’s feast and Conor’s gold!

Woe to Eman, roof and wall!—
Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!—
Tenfold woe and black dishonour
To the false and foul Clan Conor!

Dig the grave both wide and deep,
Sick I am, and fain would sleep!
Dig the grave and make it ready,
Lay me on my true Love’s body.

Views: 31

A Ballad of Past Meridain’
by George Meredith (1828-1909)

                        I.

One night returning from my twilight walk
I met the grey mist Death, whose eyeless brow
Was bent on me, and from his hand of chalk
He reached me flowers as from a withered bough:
O Death, what bitter nosegays givest thou!

                        II.

Death said, “I gather,” and pursued his way.
Another stood by me, a shape in stone,
Sword-hacked and iron-stained, with breasts of clay,
And metal veins that sometimes fiery shone:
O Life, how naked and how hard when known!

                        III.

Life said, “As thou hast carved me,” such am I.
Then memory, like the nightjar on the pine,
And sightless hope, a woodlark in night sky,
Joined notes of Death and Life till night’s decline
Of Death, of Life, those inwound notes are mine.

Views: 51

Under the Greenwood Tree
(from As You Like It)
by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

      Under the greenwood tree
      Who loves to lie with me,
      And turn his merry note
      Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
            Here shall he see
            No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

      Who doth ambition shun
      And loves to live i’ the sun,
      Seeking the food he eats,
      And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
            Here shall he see
            No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

Views: 38

“Because I could not stop for Death”
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality.

We slowly drove—He knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—

We passed the School, where Children strove
At recess—in the ring—
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—
We passed the Setting Sun—

Or rather—He passed Us—
The Dews drew quivering and chill—
For only Gossamer, my Gown—
My Tippet—only Tulle—

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground—
The Roof was scarcely visible—
The Cornice—in the Ground—

Since then—’tis centuries— and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity—

Views: 34

Medusa
by Louise Bogan (1897-1970)

I had come to the house, in a cave of trees,
Facing a sheer sky.
Everything moved,—a bell hung ready to strike,
Sun and reflection wheeled by.

When the bare eyes were before me
And the hissing hair,
Held up at a window, seen through a door.
The stiff bald eyes, the serpents on the forehead
Formed in the air.

This is a dead scene forever now.
Nothing will ever stir.
The end will never brighten it more than this,
Nor the rain blur.

The water will always fall, and will not fall,
And the tipped bell make no sound.
The grass will always be growing for hay
Deep on the ground.

And I shall stand here like a shadow
Under the great balanced day,
My eyes on the yellow dust, that was lifting in the wind,
And does not drift away.

Views: 36

The Day Is Done
by Phoebe Cary (1824-1871)

The day is done, and darkness
      From the wing of night is loosed,
As a feather is wafted downward
      From a chicken going to roost.

I see the lights of the baker
      Gleam through the rain and mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me
      That I cannot well resist.

A feeling of sadness and longing,
      That is not like being sick,
And resembles sorrow only
      As a brickbat resembles a brick.

Come, get for me some supper,—
      A good and regular meal,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
      And banish the pain I feel.

Not from the pastry baker’s,
      Not from the shops for cake,
I wouldn’t give a farthing
      For all that they can make.

For, like the soup at dinner,
      Such things would but suggest
Some dishes more substantial,
      And to-night I want the best.

Go to some honest butcher,
      Whose beef is fresh and nice
As any they have in the city,
      And get a liberal slice.

Such things through days of labour,
      And nights devoid of ease,
For sad and desperate feelings
      Are wonderful remedies.

They have an astonishing power
      To aid and reinforce,
And come like the ‘Finally, brethren,’
      That follows a long discourse.

Then get me a tender sirloin
      From off the bench or hook,
And lend to its sterling goodness
      The science of the cook.

And the night shall be filled with comfort,
      And the cares with which it begun
Shall fold up their blankets like Indians,
      And silently cut and run.

Views: 36

The Woodspunge
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882)

The wind flapped loose, the wind was still,
Shaken out dead from tree and hill:
I had walked on at the wind’s will,—
I sat now, for the wind was still.

Between my knees my forehead was,—
My lips, drawn in, said not Alas!
My hair was over in the grass,
My naked ears heard the day pass.

My eyes, wide open, had the run
Of some ten weeds to fix upon;
Among those few, out of the sun,
The woodspurge flowered, three cups in one.

From perfect grief there need not be
Wisdom or even memory:
One thing then learnt remains to me,—
The woodspurge has a cup of three.

Views: 30

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant (1129)
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind —

Views: 163