The Hair-Tonic Bottle
by Benjamin Franklin King, Jr. (1857-1894)

How dear to my heart is the old village drugstore,
      When tired and thirsty it comes to my view.
The wide-spreading sign that asks you to “Try it,”
      Vim, Vaseline, Vermifuge, Hop Bitters, too.
The old rusty stove and the cuspidor by it,
      That little back room. Oh! you’ve been there yourself,
And ofttimes have gone for the doctor’s prescription,
      But tackled the bottle that stood on the shelf.
                  The friendly old bottle,
                  The plain-labeled bottle,
The “Hair-Tonic” bottle that stood on the shelf.

How oft have I seized it with hands that were glowing,
      And guzzled awhile ere I set off for home;
I owned the whole earth all that night, but next morning
      My head felt as big as the Capitol’s dome.
And then how I hurried away to receive it,
      The druggist would smile o’er his poisonous pelf,
And laugh as he poured out his unlicensed bitters,
      And filled up the bottle that stood on the shelf.
                   The unlicensed bottle,
                   The plain-labeled bottle,
That “Hair-Tonic” bottle that stood on the shelf.

Views: 52

Wo?
by Heinrich Heine (1797-1856)

Wo wird einst des Wandermüden
Letzte Ruhestätte sein?
Unter Palmen in dem Süden?
Unter Linden an dem Rhein?

Werd’ ich wo in einer Wüste
Eingescharrt von fremder Hand?
Oder ruh’ ich an der Küste
Eines Meeres in dem Sand?

Immerhin! mich wird umgeben
Gotteshimmel dort wie hier,
Und als Totenlampen schweben
Nachts die Sterne über mir.

Views: 38

November
by William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878)

Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun!
One mellow smile through the soft vapoury air,
Ere, o’er the frozen earth, the loud winds ran,
Or snows are sifted o’er the meadows bare.
One smile on the brown hills and naked trees,
And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast,
And the blue Gentian flower, that, in the breeze,
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee
Shall murmur by the hedge that skim the way,
The cricket chirp upon the russet lea,
And man delight to linger in thy ray.
Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear
The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.

Views: 38

Perception of an object costs
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Perception of an object costs
Precise the Object’s loss —
Perception in itself a Gain
Replying to its Price —
The Object Absolute — is nought —
Perception sets it fair
And then upbraids a Perfectness
That situates so far —

Views: 37

Chanson
by Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux (1636-1711)

Voici les lieux charmans, où mon âme ravie
      Passoit à contempler Sylvie
Ces tranquilles momens si doucement perdus.
Que je l’aimois alors! Que je la trouvois belle!
Mon cœur, vous soupirez au nom de l’infidèle:
Avez-vous oublié que vous ne l’aimez plus?

C’est ici que souvent errant dans les prairies,
      Ma main des fleurs les plus chéries
Lui faisoit des présens si tendrement reçus.
Que je l’aimois alors ! Que je la trouvois belle!
Mon cœur, vous soupirez au nom de l’infidèle:
Avez-vous oublié que vous ne l’aimez, plus?

Views: 39

Lines on the Mermaid Tavern
by John Keats (1795-1821)

Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host’s Canary wine?
Or are the fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison? O generous food!
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.

I have heard that on a day
Mine host’s sign-board flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer’s old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,
Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new old sign
Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac.

Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

Views: 41

The Riot (concerning the Gordon Riots)
by James Boswell (1740-1795)

Old England, alas! what is come to thy sons!
Such rioting over the Capital runs
      That has not been seen for a cent’ry before.
A rabble like that at a country wake,
When a poor harmless bull is fast tied to a stake,
With a Scot for their leader rush rapidly on
To make at St. Stephen’s their grievances known
      Concerning the progress of Babylon’s whore.

From the fields of St. George when speaking at least
To see fifty thousand march just six abreast,
      The City might well in confusion be thrown.
Cockades of true blue never more were display’d,
And to grace the procession the bagpipes were play’d.
A more curious mixture did never appear:
Lord George in the van, and Jack Ketch in the rear,
      Crying, “Down, down with Popery, down!”

As the peers were assembling this riot begins;
Without blushing they broke the Lord President’s shins,
      And the bishops’ silk robes were shamefully tore;
From parliament wigs clouds of powder flew out,
For bagas and full-bottoms were bandied about,
And Germain very fain would have mended his pace
When a full pot of porter came dash in his face
      Who never but once was so frighted before.

But heavens be prais’d! the disturbance is o’er;
Lord George safe and snug is lodg’d in the Tower,
      Tho’ Bedlam some think full as proper a place.
From hence over Britain may harmony reign,
And London the like ne’er experience again.
When warring abroad, divisions at home
By beating religion’s fanatical drum
      On the king’dom have brought the greatest disgrace.

Views: 42

In a Churchyard
by Charlotte Turner Smith (1749-1806)

O thou, who sleep’st where hazel bands entwine
The vernal grass, with paler violets drest!
I would, sweet maid, thy humble bed were mine,
And mine thy calm and enviable rest.
For never more, by human ills opprest,
Shall thy soft spirit fruitlessly repine:
Thou canst not now thy fondest hopes resign
Even in the hour that should have made thee blest.
Light lies the turf upon thy virgin breast;
And lingering here, to love and sorrow true,
The youth who once thy simple heart possest
Shall mingle tears with April’s early dew;
While still for him shall faithful memory save
Thy form and virtues from the silent grave.

Views: 48

Per Dante Alighieri
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)

Quante dirne si de’ non si può dire,
   ché troppo agli orbi il suo splendor s’accese;
   biasmar si può più ’l popol che l’offese,
   c’al suo men pregio ogni maggior salire.
Questo discese a’ merti del fallire
   per l’util nostro, e poi a Dio ascese;
   e le porte, che ’l ciel non gli contese,
   la patria chiuse al suo giusto desire.
Ingrata, dico, e della suo fortuna
   a suo danno nutrice; ond’è ben segno
   c’a’ più perfetti abonda di più guai.
Fra mille altre ragion sol ha quest’una:
   se par non ebbe il suo exilio indegno,
   simil uom né maggior non nacque mai.

Views: 49

One Perfect Rose
by Dorothy Parker (1893-1967)

A single flow’r he sent me, since we met.
      All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet —
      One perfect rose.

I knew the language of the floweret;
      “My fragile leaves,” it said, “his heart enclose.”
Love long has taken for his amulet
      One perfect rose.

Why is it no one ever sent me yet
      One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it’s always just my luck to get
      One perfect rose.

Views: 45