An die Morgenröthe
by Ewald Christian von Kleist (1715-1859)

Aurora fahr herauf auf deinem güldnen Wagen,
Da ich für Lieb und Schmerz nicht schlafen kann!
Wenn Chloe bey mir ruht, dann halt die Zügel an,
Dann Göttin, laß es späte tagen.

Views: 34

The Best Thing in the World
by Elizabeth Barrett Brtowning (1806-1861)

What’s the best thing in the world?
June-rose, by May-dew impearled;
Sweet south-wind, that means no rain;
Truth, not cruel to a friend;
Pleasure, not in haste to end;
Beauty, not self-decked and curled
Till its pride is over-plain;
Love, when, so, you’re loved again.
What’s the best thing in the world?
–Something out of it, I think.

Views: 44

The Nightingale: A Conversation Poem
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
Of sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy Bridge!
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
But hear no murmuring: it flows silently
O’er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,
A balmy night! and tho’ the stars be dim,
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
That gladden the green earth, and we shall find
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,
“Most musical, most melancholy” Bird!
A melancholy Bird? O idle thought!
In nature there is nothing melancholy.
—But some night-wandering Man, whose heart was pierc’d
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
Or slow distemper or neglected love,
(And so, poor Wretch! fill’d all things with himself
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale
Of his own sorrows) he and such as he
First named these notes a melancholy strain:
And many a poet echoes the conceit;
Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme
When he had better far have stretch’d his limbs
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell
By sun or moonlight, to the influxes
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song
And of his fame forgetful! so his fame
Should share in nature’s immortality,
A venerable thing! and so his song
Should make all nature lovelier, and itself
Be lov’d, like nature!—But ’twill not be so;
And youths and maidens most poetical
Who lose the deep’ning twilights of the spring
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs
O’er Philomela’s pity-pleading strains.
My Friend, and my Friend’s Sister! we have learnt
A different lore: we may not thus profane
Nature’s sweet voices always full of love
And joyance! ’Tis the merry Nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
As he were fearful, that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul
Of all its music! And I know a grove
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge
Which the great lord inhabits not: and so
This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.
But never elsewhere in one place I knew
So many Nightingales: and far and near
In wood and thicket over the wide grove
They answer and provoke each other’s songs—
With skirmish and capricious passagings,
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug
And one low piping sound more sweet than all—
Stirring the air with such an harmony,
That should you close your eyes, you might almost
Forget it was not day!

               A most gentle maid
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home
Hard by the Castle, and at latest eve,
(Even like a Lady vow’d and dedicate
To something more than nature in the grove)
Glides thro’ the pathways; she knows all their notes,
That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment’s space,
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,
Hath heard a pause of silence: till the Moon
Emerging, hath awaken’d earth and sky
With one sensation, and those wakeful Birds
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,
As if one quick and sudden Gale had swept
An hundred airy harps! And she hath watch’d
Many a Nightingale perch giddily
On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze,
And to that motion tune his wanton song,
Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.

Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve,
And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!
We have been loitering long and pleasantly,
And now for our dear homes.—That strain again!
Full fain it would delay me!—My dear Babe,
Who, capable of no articulate sound,
Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How he would place his hand beside his ear,
His little hand, the small forefinger up,
And bid us listen! And I deem it wise
To make him Nature’s playmate. He knows well
The evening star: and once when he awoke
In most distressful mood (some inward pain
Had made up that strange thing, an infant’s dream)
I hurried with him to our orchard plot,
And he beholds the moon, and hush’d at once
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,
While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tears
Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well—
It is a father’s tale. But if that Heaven
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up
Familiar with these songs, that with the night
He may associate Joy! Once more farewell,
Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! Farewell.

Views: 41

Idleness
by Thomas Sturge Moore (1870-1944)

O idleness, too fond of me,
Begone, I know and hate thee!
Nothing canst thou of pleasure see
In one that so doth rate thee;

For empty are both mind and heart
While thou with me dost linger;
More profit would to thee impart
A babe that sucks its finger.

I know thou hast a better way
To spend these hours thou squand’rest;
Some lad toils in the trough to-day
Who groans because thou wand’rest;

A bleating sheep he dowses now
Or wrestles with ram’s terror;
Ah, ’mid the washing’s hubbub, how
His sighs reproach thine error!

He knows and loves thee, Idleness;
For when his sheep are browsing,
His open eyes enchant and bless
A mind divinely drowsing;

No slave to sleep, he wills and sees
From hill-lawns the brown tillage;
Green winding lanes and clumps of trees,
Far town or nearer village,

The sea itself; the fishing feet
Where more, thine idle lovers,
Heark’ning to sea-mews find thee sweet
Like him who hears the plovers.

Begone; those haul their ropes at sea,
These plunge sheep in yon river:
Free, free from toil thy friends, and me
From Idleness deliver!

Views: 32

On a Girdle
by Edmund Waller (1606-1687)

That which her slender waist confined
Shall now my joyful temples bind:
No monarch but would give his crown
His arms might do what this has done.

It was my Heaven’s extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely deer:
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love
Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass! And yet there
Dwelt all that’s good, and all that’s fair!
Give me but what this ribband bound,
Take all the rest the Sun goes round.

Views: 36

Revery
by John Jay Chapman (1862-1933)

I have a garden,—weeds paradise call it;
      The moles hold the paths in fee;
            The wild creepers rave
            O’er the flowers’ grave,
      O’er box-row and nodding pear-tree.
The heart-broken, moss-covered railings that wall it,
      Have made an arbor for me;
            And I lie in an angle
            Of the dappled tangle
      And dream of Energy.

Views: 28

Careless Content
by John Byrom (1692-1763)

I am content; I do not care,
      Wag as it will the World for me;
When Fuss and Fret was all my fare,
      It got no ground, as I could see:
So when away my Caring went,
I counted Cost and was Content.

With more of Thanks and less of Thought,
      I strive to make my Matters meet;
To seek what ancient Sages sought,
      Physic and Food, in sour and sweet:
To take what passes in good Part,
And keep the Hiccups from the Heart.

With good and gentle-humour’d Hearts
      I choose to chat, where’er I come,
Whate”er the Subject be that starts;
      But if I get among the Glum,
I hold my Tongue, to tell the Truth,
And keep my Breath to cool my Broth.

For Chance or Change, of Peace or Pain
      For Fortune’s Favor or her Frown,
For Luck or Glut, for Loss or Gain,
      I never dodge, nor up nor down:
But swing what Way the Ship shall swim,
Or tack about, with equal Trim.

I suit not where I shall not speed,
      Nor trace the Turn of ev’ry Tide;
If simple Sense will not succeed,
      I make no Bustling, but abide;
For shining Wealth, or scaring Woe,
I force no Friend, I fear no Foe.

Of Ups and Downs, of Ins and Outs,
      Of they’re-i’ th’ wrong and we’re i’ th’ right,
I shun the Rancours and the Routs;
      And wishing well to every Wight,
Whatever Turn the Matter takes,
I deem it all but Ducks and Drakes.

With whom I feast I do not fawn,
      Nor if the folks should flout me, faint
If wonted Welcome be withdrawn,
      I cook no Kind of a Complaint,
With none disposed to disagree,
I like them best, who best like me.

Not that I rate myself the Rule
      How all my Betters should behave;
But Fame shall find me no Man’s Fool,
      Nor to a Set of Men a Slave:
I love a Friendship free and frank,
But hate to hang upon a Hank.

Fond of a true and trusty Tie,
      I never loose where’er I link;
Tho’ if a Bus’ness budges by,
      I talk thereon just as I think;:
My Word, my Work, my Heart, my Hand,
Still on a Side together stand.

If Names or Notions make a noise,
      Whatever Hap the Question hath,
The Point impartially I poise,
      And read, or write, but without Wrath;
For, should I burn or break my Brains,
Pray, who will pay me for my Pains?

I love my Neighbour as myself,
      Myself like him too, by his Leave;
Nor to his Pleasure, Pow’r, or Pelf,
      Came I to crouch, as I conceive;:
Dame Nature doubtless has design’d
A Man the Monarch of his Mind.

Now taste and try this Temper, Sirs,
      Mood it, and brood it in your Breast;
Or if ye ween, for worldly Stirs,
      That Man does right to mar his Rest,
Let me be left, and debonair:
I am content; I do not care.

Views: 48

“An upper chamber in a darkened house”
by Frederick Goddard Tuckerman (1821-1873)

An upper chamber in a darkened house,
Where, ere his footsteps reached ripe manhood’s brink,
Terror and anguish were his cup to drink;
I cannot rid the thought, nor hold it close
But dimly dream upon that man alone:
Now though the autumn clouds most softly pass,
The cricket chides beneath the doorstep stone,
And greener than the season grows the grass.
Nor can I drop my lids, nor shade my brows,
But there he stands beside the lifted sash;
And with a swooning of the heart, I think
Where the black shingles slope to meet the boughs,
And, shattered on the roof like smallest snows,
The tiny petals of the mountain-ash.

Views: 35

A Psalm of Life
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
      Life is but an empty dream!—
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
      And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
      And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
      Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
      Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
      Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
      And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
      Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,
      In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
      Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
      Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,—act in the living Present!
      Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
      We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
      Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
      Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
      Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
      With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
      Learn to labor and to wait.

Views: 42

Who Ever Loved, That Loved Not at First Sight
by Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593)

 It lies not in our power to love or hate,
For will in us is overruled by fate.
When two are stripped, long ere the course begin,
We wish that one should love, the other win;
And one especially do we affect
Of two gold ingots, like in each respect:
The reason no man knows, let it suffice,
What we behold is censured by our eyes.
Where both deliberate, the love is slight:
Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?

Views: 36