Maud Muller
by John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892)

Maud Muller, on a summer’s day,
Raked the meadows sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast–

A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.

The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse’s chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

“Thanks!” said the Judge, “a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaffed.”

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;

And listened, while a pleasant surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away,

Maud Muller looked and sighed: “Ah, me!
That I the Judge’s bride might be!

“He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.

“My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
My brother should sail a painted boat.

“I’d dress my mother so grand and gay,
And the baby should have a new toy each day.

“And I’d feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
And all should bless me who left our door.”

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
And saw Maud Muller standing still.

“A form more fair, a face more sweet,
Ne’er hath it been my lot to meet.

“And her modest answer and graceful air
Show her wise and good as she is fair.

“Would she were mine, and I to-day,
Like her, a harvester of hay:

“No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,

“But low of cattle, and song of birds,
And health, and quiet, and loving words.”

But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Maud was left in the field alone.

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;

And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.

Yet oft, in his marble hearth’s bright glow,
He watched a picture come and go:

And sweet Maud Muller’s hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.

Oft when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside well instead;

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain,
“Ah, that I were free again!

“Free as when I rode that day,
Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.”

She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And many children played round her door.

But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain,
Left their traces on heart and brain.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,

And she heard the little spring brook fall
Over the roadside, through the wall,

In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein,

And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls;

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned,
The tallow candle an astral burned;

And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o’er pipe and mug,

A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, “It might have been.”

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!

God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: “It might have been!”

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!

Views: 35

The Undergraduate Killed in Battle
by George Santayana (1863-1952)

Sweet as the lawn beneath his sandalled tread
Or the scarce rippled stream beneath his oar,
For its still, channelled current constant more,
His life was, and the few blithe words he said.

One or two poets read he, and reread;
One or two friends in boyish ardour wore
Next to his heart, incurious of the lore
Dodonian woods might murmur o’er his head.

Ah, demons of the whirlwind, have a care
What, trumpeting your triumphs, ye undo!
The earth once won, begins your long despair
That never, never is his bliss for you.
He breathed betimes this clement island air
And in unwitting lordship saw the blue.

Views: 54

La Espero
by Ludwik Lejzer Zamenhof (1859-1917)
because today is Zamenhof Day

En la mondon venis nova sento,
tra la mondo iras forta voko;
Per flugiloj de facila vento
nun de loko flugu ĝi al loko.
Ne al glavo sangon soifanta
ĝi la homan tiras familion;
Al la mond’ eterne militanta
ĝi promesas sanktan harmonion.

Sub la sankta signo de l’ espero
kolektiĝas pacaj batalantoj,
Kaj rapide kreskas la afero
per laboro de la esperantoj.
Forte staras muroj de miljaroj
inter la popoloj dividitaj;
Sed dissaltos la obstinaj baroj,
per la sankta amo disbatitaj.

Sur neŭtrala lingva fundamento,
komprenante unu la alian,
La popoloj faros en konsento
unu grandan rondon familian.
Nia diligenta kolegaro
en laboro paca ne laciĝos,
Ĝis la bela sonĝo de l’ homaro
por eterna ben’ efektiviĝos.

Views: 34

The Star of Bethlehem
by Charles Wolfe (1791-1823)

When marshall’d on the mighty plain,
⁠      The glittering host bestud the sky;
One star alone, of all the train,
⁠      Can fix the sinner’s wandering eye.

Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,
⁠      From every host, from every gem;
But one alone the Saviour speaks,
⁠      It is the star of Bethlehem.

Once on the raging seas I rode,
⁠      The storm was loud-the night was dark.
The ocean yawn’d—and rudely blow’d
⁠      The wind that toss’d my foundering bark.

Deep horror then my vitals froze,
⁠      Death-struck, I ceas’d the tide to stem;
When suddenly a star arose,—
⁠      It was the star of Bethlehem.

It was my guide, my light, my all,
⁠      It bade my dark forebodings cease;
And, through the storm and danger’s thrall,
⁠      It led me to the port of peace.

Now safely moor’d—my perils o’er,
⁠      I’ll sing, first in night’s diadem
For ever and for evermore,
⁠      The Star!—-The Star of Bethlehem!

Views: 50

Allnächtlich im Traume
by Heinrich Heine (1797-1856)

Allnächtlich im Traume seh’ ich dich,
Und sehe dich freundlich grüßen,
Und lautaufweinend stürz’ ich mich
Zu deinen süßen Füßen.

Du siehst mich an wehmüthiglich,
Und schüttelst das blonde Köpfchen;
Aus deinen Augen schleichen sich
Die Perlenthränentröpfchen.

Du sagst mir heimlich ein leises Wort,
Und giebst mir den Strauß von Zypressen.
Ich wache auf, und der Strauß ist fort,
Und’s Wort hab’ ich vergessen.

Views: 42

Ozymandias
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Views: 48

Odelette, à lui mème
by Pierre de Ronsard (1524-1585)

J’ay l’esprit tout ennuyé
D’avoir trop estudié
Les Phænomenes d’Arate:
Il est temps que je m’esbate.
Et que j’aille aux champs jouër.
Bons Dieux! qui voudroit louër
Ceux qui collez sus un livre
N’ont jamais soucy de vivre?
   Que nous sert d’estudier.
Sinon de nous ennuyer!
Et soin dessus soin accroistre
A nous, qui serons peut estre
Ou ce matin, ou ce soir
Victime de l’Orque noir!
De l’Orque qui ne pardonne
Tant il est fier, à personne!
   Corydon, marche davant,
Sçache où le bon vin se vend:
Fais après à ma bouteille
Des fueilles de quelque treille
Un tapon pour la boucher:
Ne m’achète point de chair,
Car tant soit elle friande,
L’Esté je hay la viande.
   Achete des abricôs,
Des pompons, des artichôs.
Des fraises, et de la crème:
C’est en Esté ce que j’aime,
Quand sur le bord d’un ruisseau
Je la mange au bruit de l’eau,
Estendu sus le rivage,
Ou dans un antre sauvage.
   Ores que je suis dispos,
Je veux boire sans repos.
De peur que la maladie
Un de ces jours ne me die.
Me happant à l’impourveu.
Meurs gallant, c’est assez beu.

Views: 25

I dwell in Possibility
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

I dwell in Possibility —
A fairer House than Prose —
More numerous of Windows —
Superior — for Doors —

Of Chambers as the Cedars —
Impregnable of Eye —
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky —

Of Visitors — the fairest —
For Occupation — This —
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise —

Views: 30

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: 26

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: 32