The Humble-Bee
by Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

Burly, dozing humble-bee,
Where thou art is clime for me.
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
Far-off heats through seas to seek;
I will follow thee alone,
Thou animated torrid-zone!
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,
Let me chase thy waving lines;
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
Singing over shrubs and vines.

Insect lover of the sun,
Joy of thy dominion!
Sailor of the atmosphere;
Swimmer through the waves of air;
Voyager of light and noon;
Epicurean of June;
Wait, I prithee, till I come
Within earshot of thy hum,—
All without is martyrdom.

When the south wind, in May days,
With a net of shining haze
Silvers the horizon wall,
And with softness touching all,
Tints the human countenance
With a color of romance,
And infusing subtle heats,
Turns the sod to violets,
Thou, in sunny solitudes,
Rover of the underwoods,
The green silence dost displace
With thy mellow, breezy bass.

Hot midsummer’s petted crone,
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone
Tells of countless sunny hours,
Long days, and solid banks of flowers;
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound
In Indian wildernesses found;
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.

Aught unsavory or unclean
Hath my insect never seen;
But violets and bilberry bells,
Maple-sap and daffodels,
Grass with green flag half-mast high,
Succory to match the sky,
Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern, and agrimony,
Clover, catchfly, adder’s-tongue
And brier-roses, dwelt among;
All beside was unknown waste,
All was picture as he passed.

Wiser far than human seer,
Yellow-breeched philosopher!
Seeing only what is fair,
Sipping only what is sweet,
Thou dost mock at fate and care,
Leave the chaff, and take the wheat.
When the fierce northwestern blast
Cools sea and land so far and fast,
Thou already slumberest deep;
Woe and want thou canst outsleep;
Want and woe, which torture us,
Thy sleep makes ridiculous.

Views: 40

Ambassadors of God
by Charles Wesley (1707-1788)

God, the offended God most high,
Ambassadors to rebels sends;
His messengers His place supply,
And Jesus begs us to be friends.

Us, in the stead of Christ, they pray,
Us, in the stead of God, entreat,
To cast our arms, our sins, away,
And find forgiveness at His feet.

Our God in Christ! Thine embassy,
And proffered mercy, we embrace;
And gladly reconciled to Thee,
Thy condescending goodness praise.

Poor debtors, by our Lord’s request
A full acquittance we receive!
And criminals, with pardon blessed,
We, at our Judge’s instance, live!

Views: 66

Alla Musa
by Giuseppe Parini (1729-1799)

Te il mercadante, che con ciglio asciutto
Fugge i figli e la moglie ovunque il chiama
Dura avarizia, nel remoto flutto,
               Musa, non ama.

Nè quei, cui l’alma ambizïosa rode
Fulgida cura; onde salir più agogna;
E la molto fra il dì temuta frode
               Torbido sogna.

Nè giovane, che pari a tauro irrompa
Ove a la cieca più Venere piace:
Nè donna, che d’amanti osi gran pompa
               Spiegar procace.

Sai tu, vergine dea, chi la parola
Modulata da te gusta od imita;
Onde ingenuo piacer sgorga, e consola
               L’umana vita?

Colui, cui diede il ciel placido senso
E puri affetti e semplice costume;
Che di sè pago e dell’avito censo
               Più non presume.

Che spesso al faticoso ozio de’ grandi
E all’urbano clamor s’invola, e vive
Ove spande natura influssi blandi
               O in colli o in rive.

E in stuol d’amici numerato e casto,
Tra parco e delicato al desco asside;
E la splendida turba e il vano fasto
               Lieto deride.

Che a i buoni, ovunque sia, dona favore;
E cerca il vero; e il bello ama innocente;
E passa l’età sua tranquilla, il core
               Sano e la mente.

Dunque perchè quella sì grata un giorno
Del Giovin, cui diè nome il dio di Delo,
Cetra si tace; e le fa lenta intorno
               Polvere velo?

Ben mi sovvien quando, modesto il ciglio,
Ei già scendendo a me giudice fea
Me de’ suoi carmi: e a me chiedea consiglio:
               E lode avea.

Ma or non più. Chi sa? Simile a rosa
Tutta fresca e vermiglia al sol, che nasce,
Tutto forse di lui l’eletta Sposa
               L’animo pasce.

E di bellezza, di virtù, di raro
Amor, di grazie, di pudor natìo
L’occupa sì, ch’ei cede ogni già caro
               Studio all’oblìo.

Musa, mentr’ella il vago crine annoda
A lei t’appressa; e con vezzoso dito
A lei premi l’orecchio; e dille: e t’oda.
               Anco il marito.

Giovinetta crudel, perchè mi togli
Tutto il mio d’Adda, e di mie cure il pregio,
E la speme concetta, e i dolci orgogli
               D’alunno egregio?

Costui di me, de’ genj miei si accese
Pria che di te. Codeste forme infanti
Erano ancor, quando vaghezza il prese
               De’ nostri canti.

Ei t’era ignoto ancor quando a me piacque.
Io di mia man per l’ombra, e per la lieve
Aura de’ lauri l’avviai ver l’acque,
               Che al par di neve

Bianche le spume, scaturir dall’alto
Fece Aganippe il bel destrier, che ha l’ale:
Onde chi beve io tra i celesti esalto
               E fo immortale.

Io con le nostre il volsi arti divine
Al decente, al gentile, al raro, al bello:
Fin che tu stessa gli apparisti al fine
               Caro modello.

E, se nobil per lui fiamma fu desta
Nel tuo petto non conscio: e s’ei nodrìa
Nobil fiamma per te, sol opra è questa
               Del cielo e mia.

Ecco già l’ale il nono mese or scioglie
Da che sua fosti, e già, deh ti sia salvo,
Te chiaramente in fra le madri accoglie
               Il giovin alvo.

Lascia che a me solo un momento ei torni;
E novo entro al tuo cor sorgere affetto,
E novo sentirai da i versi adorni
               Piover diletto.

Però ch’io stessa, il gomito posando
Di tua seggiola al dorso, a lui col suono
De la soave andrò tibia spirando
               Facile tono.

Onde rapito, ei canterà che sposo
Già felice il rendesti, e amante amato;
E tosto il renderai dal grembo ascoso
               Padre beato.

Scenderà in tanto dall’eterea mole
Giuno, che i preghi de le incinte ascolta.
E vergin io de la Memoria prole 95
               Nel velo avvolta

Uscirò co’ bei carmi; e andrò gentile
Dono a farne al Parini, Italo cigno,
Che a i buoni amico, alto disdegna il vile
               Volgo maligno.

Views: 63

Delfica
by Gérard de Nerval (1808-1855)

La connais-tu, Dafné, cette ancienne romance,
Au pied du sycomore, ou sous les lauriers blancs,
Sous l’olivier, le myrte, ou les saules tremblants,
Cette chanson d’amour qui toujours recommence?…

Reconnais-tu le Temple au péristyle immense,
Et les citrons amers où s’imprimaient tes dents,
Et la grotte, fatale aux hôtes imprudents,
Où du dragon vaincu dort l’antique semence?…

Ils reviendront, ces Dieux que tu pleures toujours!
Le temps va ramener l’ordre des anciens jours ;
La terre a tressailli d’un souffle prophétique…

Cependant la sibylle au visage latin
Est endormie encor sous l’arc de Constantin
— Et rien n’a dérangé le sévère portique.

Views: 46

An Essay on Criticism
by Alexander Pope (1688-1744)

’Tis hard to say, if greater Want of Skill
Appear in Writing or in Judging ill,
But, of the two, less dang’rous is th’ Offence,
To tire our Patience, than mis-lead our Sense:
Some few in that, but Numbers err in this,
Ten Censure wrong for one who Writes amiss;
A Fool might once himself alone expose,
Now One in Verse makes many more in Prose.

’Tis with our Judgments as our Watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critick’s Share;
Both must alike from Heav’n derive their Light,
These born to Judge, as well as those to Write.
Let such teach others who themselves excell,
And censure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their Wit, ’tis true,
But are not Criticks to their Judgment too?

Continue reading …

Views: 60

Evening
by John Clare (1793-1864)

’Tis evening; the black snail has got on his track,
And gone to its nest is the wren,
And the packman snail, too, with his home on his back,
Clings to the bowed bents like a wen.

The shepherd has made a rude mark with his foot
Where his shadow reached when he first came,
And it just touched the tree where his secret love cut
Two letters that stand for love’s name.

The evening comes in with the wishes of love,
And the shepherd he looks on the flowers,
And thinks who would praise the soft song of the dove,
And meet joy in these dew-falling hours.

For Nature is love, and finds haunts for true love,
Where nothing can hear or intrude;
It hides from the eagle and joins with the dove,
In beautiful green solitude.

Views: 60

Go to the Grave
by Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864)

Go to the grave where friends are laid,
And learn how quickly mortals fade,
Learn how the fairest flower must droop,
Learn how the strongest form must stoop,
Learn that we are but dust and clay,
The short-liv’d creatures of a day.
Yet do not sigh — there is a clime,
Where they will dwell through endless time,
Who here on earth their Maker serve,
And never from his precepts swerve.
The grave to them is but a road,
That leads them to that blest abode.

Views: 57

Each and All
by Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown
Of thee from the hill-top looking down;
The heifer that lows in the upland farm,
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;
The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,
Deems not that great Napoleon
Stops his horse, and lists with delight,
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;
Nor knowest thou what argument
Thy life to thy neighbor’s creed has lent.
All are needed by each one;
Nothing is fair or good alone.
I thought the sparrow’s note from heaven,
Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
I brought him home, in his nest, at even;
He sings the song, but it cheers not now,
For I did not bring home the river and sky;—
He sang to my ear,—they sang to my eye.
The delicate shells lay on the shore;
The bubbles of the latest wave
Fresh pearls to their enamel gave,
And the bellowing of the savage sea
Greeted their safe escape to me.
I wiped away the weeds and foam,
I fetched my sea-born treasures home;
But the poor, unsightly, noisome things
Had left their beauty on the shore
With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.
The lover watched his graceful maid,
As ’mid the virgin train she strayed,
Nor knew her beauty’s best attire
Was woven still by the snow-white choir.
At last she came to his hermitage,
Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;—
The gay enchantment was undone,
A gentle wife, but fairy none.
Then I said, “I covet truth;
Beauty is unripe childhood’s cheat;
I leave it behind with the games of youth:”—
As I spoke, beneath my feet
The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,
Running over the club-moss burrs;
I inhaled the violet’s breath;
Around me stood the oaks and firs;
Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;
Over me soared the eternal sky,
Full of light and of deity;
Again I saw, again I heard,
The rolling river, the morning bird;—
Beauty through my senses stole;
I yielded myself to the perfect whole.

Views: 52

Frühlingslust
by Friedrich Rückert (1788-1866)

Der Frühling lacht von grünen Höh’n,
         Es steht vor ihm die Welt so schön,
         Als seien eines Dichters Träume
         Getreten sichtbar in die Räume.

Wann schöpferisch aus Morgenduft
         Der Sonne Strahl die Wesen ruft,
         Kehrt jedes Herz sich, jede Blume
         Empor zum lichten Heiligthume.

Der Frühling giebt im Walde Tanz,
         Und alle Blumen nah’n im Glanz,
         Wo Mädchen vorzustellen haben
         Die Rosen, und Jasmine Knaben.

Des Paradieses Pforten sind
         Nun aufgethan im Morgenwind,
         Und auf die Erde strömt vom Osten
         Der Duft, den sonst die Sel’gen kosten.

Nun lebt, berührt vom Liebeshauch,
         Das Leben neu, und Todtes auch;
         Der starre Fels vor Sehnsucht bebet,
         Bis auch ein Epheu ihn umwebet.

O Frühlingsodem, Liebeslust,
         O Glück der felsentreuen Brust,
         Die ein Geliebtes an sich drücket,
         Das dankbar sie mit Kränzen schmücket!

Views: 39

Much Madness Is Divinest Sense
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Much madness is divinest sense
To a discerning eye ;
Much sense the starkest madness.
’T is the majority
In this, as all, prevails.
Assent, and you are sane ;
Demur, — you’re straightway dangerous,
And handled with a chain.

Views: 40