Fare Thee Well
by Lord Byron (1788-1824)

Fare thee well! and if for ever—
⁠      Still for ever, fare thee well—
Even though unforgiving, never
⁠      ’Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.—
Would that breast were bared before thee
⁠      Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o’er thee
⁠      Which thou ne’er canst know again:
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
⁠      Every inmost thought could show!⁠
Then thou would’st at last discover
⁠      ’Twas not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thee—
⁠      Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
⁠      Founded on another’s woe—
Though my many faults defaced me,
⁠      Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
⁠      To inflict a cureless wound!⁠
Yet—oh yet—thyself deceive not—
⁠      Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
⁠      Hearts can thus be torn away:
Still thine own its life retaineth—
⁠      Still must mine—though bleeding—beat,
And the undying thought which paineth
⁠      Is—that we no more may meet—
These are words of deeper sorrow
⁠      Than the wail above the dead;⁠
Both shall live—but every morrow
⁠      Wake us from a widowed bed.
And when thou would’st solace gather—
⁠      When our child’s first accents flow—
Wilt thou teach her to say ‛Father!’
⁠      Though his care she must forego?
When her little hands shall press thee—
⁠      When her lip to thine is pressed—
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee—
⁠      Think of him thy love had blessed.⁠
Should her lineaments resemble
⁠      Those thou never more may’st see—
Then thy heart will softly tremble
⁠      With a pulse yet true to me.—
All my faults perchance thou knowest—
⁠      All my madness—none can know;
All my hopes—where’er thou goest—
⁠      Wither—yet with thee they go.—
Every feeling hath been shaken;
⁠      Pride—which not a world could bow—
Bows to thee—by thee forsaken,
⁠      Even my soul forsakes me now.—
But ’tis done—all words are idle—
⁠      Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
⁠      Force their way without the will.—
Fare thee well!—thus disunited—
⁠      Torn from every nearer tie—
Seared in heart—and lone—and blighted—
⁠      More than this I scarce can die.

Views: 28

Jenny Kiss’d Me
by Leigh Hunt (1784-1859)
because today is International Kissing Day

Jenny kiss’d me when we met,
      Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
      Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,
      Say that health and wealth have miss’d me,
Say I’m growing old, but add
            Jenny kiss’d me.

Views: 26

“ I walk of grey noons by the old canal”
by Thomas Caulfield Irwin (1823-1892)

I walk of grey noons by the old canal
      Where rain-drops patter on the autumn leaves,
Now watching from some ivied orchard wall
      In slopes of stubble figures pile the sheaves;
Or under banks in shadow of their grass,
Blue water-flies by starts jettingly pass
’Mid large leaves level on the glassy cool;
      Or noiseless dizzy midges winking round
The yellow sallows of the meadow pool;
      While into cloudy silence ebbs each sound,
And sifts the moulting sunlight warm and mellow
O’er sandy beach remote, or slumberous flood,
Or rooky, red brick mansion by the wood,
      Mossed gate, or farmyard hay-stacks tanned and yellow.

Views: 31

The Star-Spangled Banner
by Francis Scott Key (1779-1843)
Did you know that Key wrote more than one stanza?

O say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light,
⁠What so proudly we hail’d at the twilight’s last gleaming,
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,
⁠O’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
And the rocket’s red glare, the bomb bursting in air.
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;
O! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
⁠Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that, which the breeze, o er the towering steep
⁠As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam
In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream;
’T is the star-spangled banner; O! long may it wave
O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
⁠That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
⁠Their blood has wash d out their foul footsteps’ pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave;
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

O! thus be it ever! when freemen shall stand
⁠Between their lov’d homes and the war’s desolation!
Blest with vict’ry and peace, may the heav’n-rescued land
⁠Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation,
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto—In God is our trust,
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

Views: 35

The Solsequium
by Alexander Mongomerie (c. 1545-c. 1598)

Like as the dumb solsequium, with care ourcome
      Dois sorrow, when the sun goes out of sicht,
Hings doun his head, and droops as dead, nor will not spread,
      Bot locks his leavis through langour all the nicht,
            Till foolish Phaeton rise
                  With whip in hand,
            To purge the crystal skyis
                  And licht the land.
Birds in their bour waitis for that hour
      And to their prince ane glaid good-morrow givis;
Fra then, that flour list not till lour,
      Bot laughis on Phoebus loosing out his leavis.

So standis with me except I be where I may see
      My lamp of licht, my lady and my luve;
Fra she depairts, ane thousand dairts, in sundry airts,
      Thirlis through my heavy hairt but rest or rove;
            My countenance declares
                  My inward grief,
            And hope almaist despairs
                  To find relief.
I die, I dwine, play dois me pyne,
      I loathe on every thing I look, alace!
Till Titan mine upon me shine
      That I revive through favor of her face.

Fra she appear into her sphere begins to clear
      The dawing of my long desirit day:
Then Courage cryis on Hope to rise, when he espyis
      My noysome nicht of absence went away.
            No woe, fra I awauk,
                  May me empesh;
            Bot on my stately stalk
                  I flourish fresh.
I spring, I sprout, my leavis lie out,
      My color changes in ane heartsome hue.
No more I lout, bot stand up stout,
      As glad of her for whom I only grew.

O happy day! go not away, Apollo! stay
      Thy chair from going doun into the west:
Of me thou mak thy zodiac, that I may tak
      My pleasure to behold whom I luve best.
            Thy presence me restores
                  To life from death;
            Thy absence likewayis schores
                  To cut my breath.
I wish, in vain, thee to remain,
      Sen primum mobile sayis me alwayis nay;
At least, thy wain turn soon again,
      Fareweill, with patience perforce till day.

Views: 28

Das Rosenband
by Friedrich Gottlob Klopstock (1724-1803)

Im Frühlingsschatten fand ich sie;
Da band ich Sie mit Rosenbändern:
Sie fühlt’ es nicht und schlummerte.

Ich sah sie an; mein Leben hing
Mit diesem Blick an ihrem Leben:
Ich fühlt’ es wohl, und wußt’ es nicht.

Doch lispelt’ ich ihr sprachlos zu,
Und rauschte mit den Rosenbändern:
Da wachte sie vom Schlummer auf.

Sie sah mich an; ihr Leben hing
Mit diesem Blick’ an meinem Leben,
Und um uns ward Elysium.

Views: 23

In a Station of the Metro
by Ezra Pound (1885-1972)

The apparition of those faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough

Views: 26

The Tree of Life
by Thomas Lovell Beddoes (1803-1849)

There is a mighty, magic tree,
That holds the round earth and the sea
In its branches like a net:
Its immortal trunk is set
Broader than the tide of night
With its star-tipped billows bright:
Human thought doth on it grow,
Like the barren misletoe
On an old oak’ s forehead-skin.
Ever while the planets spin
Their blue existence, that great plant
Shall nor bud nor blossom want;
Summer, winter, night and day,
It must still its harvest pay;
Ever while the night grows up
Along the wall of the wide sky,
And the thunder-bee sweeps by
On its brown wet wing, to dry
Every day-star’s crystal cup
Of its yellow summer:— still
At the foot of heaven’s hill
With fruit and blossom flush and rife,
Stays that tree of Human Life.
   Let us mark yon newest bloom
Heaving through the leafy gloom;
Now a pinkish bud it grows
Scentless, bloomless; slow unclose
Its outer pages to the sun,
Opened, but not yet begun.
Its first leaf is infancy,
Pencilled pale and tenderly,
Smooth its cheek and mild its eye:
Now it swells, and curls its head—
Little infancy is shed.
Broader childhood is the next—
      *   *   *   *

Views: 41

The Soul’s Defiance
by Lavinia Stoddard (1787-1820)

I said to Sorrow’s awful storm,
      That beat against my breast,
Rage on—thou may’st destroy this form,
      And lay it low at rest;
But still the spirit that now brooks
      Thy tempest, raging high,
Undaunted on its fury looks
      With steadfast eye.

I said to Penury’s meagre train,
      Come on—your threats I brave;
My last poor life-drop you may drain,
      And crush me to the grave;
Yet still the spirit that endures
      Shall mock your force the while,
And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours
      With bitter smile.

I said to cold Neglect and Scorn,
      Pass on—I heed you not;
Ye may pursue me till my form
      And being are forgot;
Yet still the spirit, which you see
      Undaunted by your wiles,
Draws from its own nobility
      Its high-born smiles.

I said to Friendship’s menaced blow,
      Strike deep—my heart shall bear;
Thou canst but add one bitter woe
      To those already there;
Yet still the spirit that sustains
      This last severe distress
Shall smile upon its keenest pains,
      And scorn redress.

I said to Death’s uplifted dart,
      Aim sure—oh, why delay?
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart—
      A weak, reluctant prey;
For still the spirit, firm and free,
      Unruffled by this last dismay,
Wrapt in its own eternity,
      Shall pass away.

Views: 40

The Barefoot Boy
by John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892)

   Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy, —
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art, — the grown-up man
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye, —
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

   Oh for boyhood’s painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor’s rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee’s morning chase,
Of the wild-flower’s time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole’s nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine;
Of the black wasp’s cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!
For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy, —
Blessings on the barefoot boy!

   Oh for boyhood’s time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!
Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

   Oh for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread;
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O’er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frogs’ orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!

   Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt’s for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

Views: 26