To a Mouse
On turning her up in her nest with his plough, November 1785
by Robert Burns(1759-1796)

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou needna start awa’ sae hasty,
⁠               Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee,
⁠               Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
And justifies that ill opinion,
⁠               Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion
⁠               And fellow-mortal!

I doubtna, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
⁠               ’S a sma’ request:
I’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave,
⁠               And never miss ’t!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’!
And naething now to big a new ane
⁠               O’ foggage green,
And bleak December’s winds ensuin’,
⁠               Baith snell and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,
And weary winter comin’ fast,
And cozie here, beneath the blast,
⁠               Thou thought to dwell,
Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed
⁠               Out through thy cell.

That wee bit heap o’ leaves and stibble
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turned out for a’ thy trouble,
⁠               But house or hald,
To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,
⁠               And cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o’ mice and men
⁠               Gang aft a-gley,
And lea’e us naught but grief and pain,
⁠               For promised joy.

Still thou art blest, compared wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, och! I backward cast my e’e
⁠               On prospects drear!
And forward, though I canna see,
⁠               I guess and fear.

Views: 40

The Lake Isle of Innisfree
by William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’ s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’ s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’ s core.

Views: 47

The Chimney Sweeper
Two poems today (because it’s World Day Against Child Labour)
by William Blake (1757-1827)

from Songs of Innocence

When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue,
Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep.
So your chimneys I sweep & in soot I sleep.

There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head
That curl’d like a lambs back, was shav’d, so I said.
Hush Tom never mind it, for when your head’s bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.

And so he was quiet, & that very night,
As Tom was a sleeping he had such a sight,
That thousands of sweepers Dick, Joe, Ned & Jack
Were all of them lock’d up in coffins of black,

And by came an Angel who had a bright key,
And he open’d the coffins & set them all free.
Then down a green plain leaping laughing they run
And wash in a river and shine in the Sun.

Then naked & white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind.
And the Angel told Tom, if he’d be a good boy,
He’d have God for his father & never want joy.

And so Tom awoke and we rose in the dark
And got with our bags & our brushes to work.
Tho’ the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm,
So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

from Songs of Experience

A little black thing among the snow:
Crying weep, weep, in notes of woe!
Where are thy father & mother? say?
They are both gone up to the church to pray.

Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smil’d among the winters snow:
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.

And because I am happy, & dance and sing,
They think they have done me no injury:
And are gone to praise God & his Priest & King
Who make up a heaven of our misery.

Views: 37

Simplex Munditiis
by Ben Jonson (1572-1637)

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powder’d, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art’s hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th’ adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Views: 38

“Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing” (Sonnet 87)
by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know’st thy estimate:
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav’st it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.
⁠      Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
⁠      In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter.

Views: 32

To Music, To Becalm His Fever
by Robert Herrick (1591-1674)

Charm me asleep and melt me so
      With thy delicious numbers,
That, being ravished, hence I go
      Away in easy slumbers.
            Ease my sick head
            And make my bed,
      Thou power that canst sever
            From me this ill;
            And quickly still,
            Though thou not kill,
                  My fever.

Thou sweetly canst convert the same
      From a consuming fire
Into a gentle-licking flame,
      And make it thus expire.
            Then make me weep
            My pains asleep;
      And give me such reposes
            That I, poor I,
            May think thereby
            I live and die
                  ’Mongst roses.

Fall on me like a silent dew,
      Or like those maiden showers
Which, by the peep of day, do strew
      A baptism o’er the flowers.
            Melt, melt my pains
            With thy soft strains;
      That, having ease me given,
            With full delight
            I leave this light,
            And take my flight
                  For heaven.

Views: 40

Felix Randal
by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)

Felix Randal, the farrier, he is dead then? my duty all ended,
Who have watched his mould of man, big-boned and hardy-handsome
Pining, pining, till time when reason rambled in it and some
Fatal four disorders, fleshed there, all contended?

Sickness broke him. Impatient he cursed at first, but mended
Being anointed and all; though a heavenlier heart began some
Months earlier, since I had our sweet reprieve and ransom
Tendered to him. Ah well, God rest him all road ever he offended!

This seeing the sick endears them to us, us too it endears.
My tongue had taught thee comfort, touch had quenched thy tears,
Thy tears that touched my heart, child, Felix, poor Felix Randal;

How far from then forethought of, all thy more boisterous years,
When thou at the random grim forge, powerful amidst peers,
Didst fettle for the great grey drayhorse his bright and battering sandal!

Views: 25

Cassandra Drops Into Verse
by Dorothy Parker (1893-1967)

We’d break the city’s unfeeling clutch
      And back to good Mother Earth we’d go,
With Birds and blossoms and such-and-such,
      And love and kisses and so-and-so.
We’d build a bungalow, white and green,
      With rows of hollyhocks, all sedate.
And you’d come out on the five-eighteen
      And meet me down at the garden gate.
We’d leave the city completely flat
      And dwell with chickens and cows and bees,
‘Mid brooks and bowers and this and that,
      And joys and blisses and those and these.
We’d greet together the golden days,
      And hail the sun in the morning sky.
We’d find an Eden—to coin a phrase—
      The sole inhabitants, you and I.
With sweet simplicity all our aim,
      We’d fare together to start anew
In peace and quiet and what’s-its-name,
      And soul communion, or what have you?
But oh, my love, if we made the flight,
      I see the end of our pastoral plan . . .
Why, you’d be staying in town each night,
      And I’d elope with the furnace man.

Views: 32

Vitaï Lampada
by Henry Newbolt (1862-1938)

There’s a breathless hush in the Close to-night—
      Ten to make and the match to win—
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
      An hour to play and the last man in.
And it’s not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
      Or the selfish hope of a season’s fame,
But his Captain’s hand on his shoulder smote
      “Play up! play up! and play the game!”

The sand of the desert is sodden red,—
      Red with the wreck of a square that broke;—
The Gatling’s jammed and the colonel dead
      And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
      And England’s far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks,
      “Play up! play up! and play the game!”

This is the word that year by year
      While in her place the School is set
Every one of her sons must hear,
      And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
      Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind—
      “Play up! play up! and play the game!”

Views: 52

“Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind”
by Stephen Crane (1871-1900)

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because the lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

      Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
      Little souls who thirst for fight,
      These men were born to drill and die.
      The unexplained glory flies above them,
      Great is the Battle-God, great, and his Kingdom –
      A field where a thousand corpses lie.

Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

      Swift blazing flag of the regiment,
      Eagle with crest of red and gold,
      These men were born to drill and die.
      Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
      Make plain to them the excellence of killing
      And a field where a thousand corpses lie.

Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Views: 45