To Althea, from Prison
by Richard Lovelace (1617-1658)

When love with unconfined wings
            Hovers within my gates;
And my divine Althea brings
            To whisper at the grates;
When I lye tangled in her hair,
            And fettered to her eye,
The birds, that wanton in the air,
            Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
            With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,
            Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
            When healths and draughts go free,
Fishes, that tipple in the deep,
            Know no such liberty.

When, like committed linnets, I
            With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
            And glories of my King.
When I shall voice aloud, how good
            He is, how great should be,
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood,
            Know no such liberty.

Stone walls doe not a prison make,
            Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
            That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love,
            And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that sore above
            Enjoy such liberty.

Views: 19

The Disabled Debauchee
by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-1680)

As some brave admiral, in former war
      Deprived of force, but pressed with courage still,
Two rival fleets appearing from afar,
      Crawls to the top of an adjacent hill;

From whence, with thoughts full of concern, he views
      The wise and daring conduct of the fight,
Whilst each bold action to his mind renews
      His present glory and his past delight;

From his fierce eyes flashes of fire he throws,
      As from black clouds when lightning breaks away;
Transported, thinks himself amidst the foes,
      And absent, yet enjoys the bloody day;

So, when my days of impotence approach,
      And I’m by pox and wine’s unlucky chance
Forced from the pleasing billows of debauch
      On the dull shore of lazy temperance,

My pains at least some respite shall afford
      While I behold the battles you maintain
When fleets of glasses sail about the board,
      From whose broadsides volleys of wit shall rain.

Nor let the sight of honorable scars,
      Which my too forward valor did procure,
Frighten new-listed soldiers from the wars:
      Past joys have more than paid what I endure.

Should any youth (worth being drunk) prove nice,
      And from his fair inviter meanly shrink,
’Twill please the ghost of my departed vice
      If, at my counsel, he repent and drink.

Or should some cold-complexioned sot forbid,
      With his dull morals, our bold night-alarms,
I’ll fire his blood by telling what I did
      When I was strong and able to bear arms.

I’ll tell of whores attacked, their lords at home;
      Bawds’ quarters beaten up, and fortress won;
Windows demolished, watches overcome;
      And handsome ills by my contrivance done.

With tales like these I will such thoughts inspire
      As to important mischief shall incline:
I’ll make him long some ancient church to fire,
      And fear no lewdness he’s called to by wine.

Thus, statesmanlike, I’ll saucily impose,
      And safe from action, valiantly advise;
Sheltered in impotence, urge you to blows,
      And being good for nothing else, be wise.

Views: 22

“Farewell, sweet boy”
by Fulke Greville (1554-1628)

Farewell, sweet boy, complain not of my truth;
Thy mother loved thee not with more devotion;
For to thy boy’s play I gave all my youth:
Young Master, I did hope for your promotion.

While some sought honours, princes’ thoughts observing,
Many wooed Fame, the child of pain and anguish,
Others judged inward good a chief deserving;
I in thy wanton visions joyed to languish.

I bowed not to the image for succession,
Nor bound thy bow to shoot reformèd kindness;
Thy plays of hope and fear were my confession,
The spectacles to my life was thy blindness.
      But Cupid now farewell, I will go play me,
      With thoughts that please me less, and less betray me.

Views: 20

In an Artist’s Studio
by Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

One face looks out from all his canvases,
One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans:
We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
A queen in opal or in ruby dress,
A nameless girl in freshest summer-greens,
A saint, an angel – every canvas means
The same one meaning, neither more nor less.
He feeds upon her face by day and night,
And she with true kind eyes looks back on him,
Fair as the moon and joyful as the light:
Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;
Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;
Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.

Views: 27

Today
by Thomas Carlyle (1795-1881)

So here hath been dawning
Another blue Day:
Think wilt thou let it
Slip useless away.

Out of Eternity
This new Day is born;
Into Eternity,
At night, will return.

Behold it aforetime
No eye ever did:
So soon it forever
From all eyes is hid.

Here hath been dawning
Another blue Day:
Think wilt thou let it
Slip useless away.

Views: 20

Evensong
by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)

The embers of the day are red
Beyond the murky hill.
The kitchen smokes: the bed
In the darkling house is spread:
The great sky darkens overhead,
And the great woods are shrill.
So far have I been led,
Lord, by Thy will:
So far I have followed, Lord, and wondered still.

The breeze from the enbalmèd land
Blows sudden toward the shore,
And claps my cottage door.
I hear the signal, Lord—I understand.
The night at Thy command
Comes. I will eat and sleep and will not question more.

Views: 27

“No longer mourn for me when I am dead”
(Sonnet LXXI)
by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it, for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O! if,— I say you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;
But let your love even with my life decay;
      Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
      And mock you with me after I am gone.

Views: 33

“On Cupid’s bow how are my heartstrings bent”
by Philip Sidney (1554-1586)

On Cupid’s bow how are my heartstrings bent,
That see my wrack, and yet embrace the same?
When most I glory, then I feel most shame:
I willing run, yet while I run, repent.
My best wits still their own disgrace invent:
My very ink turns straight to Stella’s name;
And yet my words, as them my pen doth frame,
Avise themselves that they are vainly spent.
For though she pass all things, yet what is all
That unto me, who fare like him that both
Looks to the skies and in a ditch doth fall?
Oh let me prop my mind, yet in his growth,
And not in Nature, for best fruits unfit:
“Scholar,” saith Love, “bend hitherward your wit.”

Views: 39

From “Milton”
by William Blake (1757-1827)

And did those feet in ancient time,
Walk upon Englands mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On Englands pleasant pastures seen!

And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In Englands green & pleasant Land.

Views: 37

L’Abeille
by Paul Valéry (1871-1945)

Quelle, et si fine, et si mortelle,
Que soit ta pointe, blonde abeille,
Je n’ai, sur ma tendre corbeille,
Jeté qu’un songe de dentelle.

Pique du sein la gourde belle,
Sur qui l’Amour meurt ou sommeille,
Qu’un peu de moi-même vermeille,
Vienne à la chair ronde et rebelle!

J’ai grand besoin d’un prompt tourment:
Un mal vif et bien terminé
Vaut mieux qu’un supplice dormant!

Soit donc mon sens illuminé
Par cette infime alerte d’or
Sans qui l’Amour meurt ou s’endort!

Views: 35