Bartlett's Poems for Occasions

by Geoffrey O'Brien

  Out of damned bald rock, I cannot guess.

  The game is worth the candle if there’s flame.

  JEAN GARRIGUE

  AMERICAN (1912-1972)

  Album

  This is a hard life you are living

  While you are young,

  My father said,

  As I scratched my casted knees with a paper knife.

  By laws of compensation

  Your old age should be grand.

  Not grand, but of a terrible

  Compensation, to perceive

  Past the energy of survival

  In its sadness

  The hard life of the young.

  JOSEPHINE MILES

  AMERICAN (1911-1985)

  MARRIAGE

  The maidens came

  The maidens came

  When I was in my mother’s bower;

  I had all that I would.

  The bailey beareth the bell away;

  The lily, the rose, the rose I lay.

  The silver is white, red is the gold;

  The robes they lay in fold.

  The bailey beareth the bell away;

  The lily, the rose, the rose I lay.

  And through the glass window shines the sun.

  How should I love, and I so young?

  The bailey beareth the bell away;

  The lily, the rose, the rose I lay.

  ANONYMOUS

  ENGLISH (MEDIEVAL)

  My true Love hath my heart, and I have his

  My true Love hath my heart, and I have his,

  By just exchange one for the other given:

  I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;

  There never was a better bargain driven.

  His heart in me keeps me and him in one,

  My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:

  He loves my heart, for once it was his own;

  I cherish his because in me it bides.

  His heart his wound receivëd from my sight,

  My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;

  For as from me, on him his hurt did light,

  So still methought in me his hurt did smart.

  Both, equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss:

  My true Love hath my heart, and I have his.

  SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

  ENGLISH (1554-1586)

  The Shepherd’s Wife’s Song

  Ah, what is love? It is a pretty thing,

  As sweet unto a shepherd as a king;

  And sweeter too,

  For kings have cares that wait upon a crown,

  And cares can make the sweetest love to frown;

  Ah then, ah then,

  If country loves such sweet desires do gain,

  What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

  His flocks are folded, he comes home at night,

  As merry as a king in his delight;

  And merrier too,

  For kings bethink them what the state require,

  When shepherds careless carol by the fire:

  Ah then, ah then,

  If country loves such sweet desires do gain,

  What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

  He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat

  His cream and curds as doth the king his meat;

  And blither too,

  For kings have often fears when they do sup,

  Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup:

  Ah then, ah then,

  If country loves such sweet desires do gain,

  What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

  To bed he goes, as wanton then, I ween,

  As is a king in dalliance with a queen;

  More wanton too,

  For kings have many griefs affects to move,

  Where shepherds have no greater grief than love:

  Ah then, ah then,

  If country loves such sweet desires do gain,

  What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

  Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound,

  As doth the king upon his bed of down;

  More sounder too,

  For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill,

  Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill:

  Ah then, ah then,

  If country loves such sweet desires do gain,

  What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

  Thus with his wife he spends the year, as blithe

  As doth the king at every tide or sithe;

  And blither too,

  For kings have wars and broils to take in hand,

  Where shepherds laugh and love upon the land:

  Ah then, ah then,

  If country loves such sweet desires do gain,

  What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

  ROBERT GREENE

  ENGLISH (1560?-1592)

  Prothalamion

  Calme was the day, and through the trembling ayre

  Sweete-breathing Zephyrus did softly play

  A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay

  Hot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre;

  When I, (whom sullein care,

  Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay

  In Princes Court, and expectation vayne

  Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away,

  Like empty shaddowes, did afflict my brayne,)

  Walkt forth to ease my payne

  Along the shoare of silver streaming Themmes;

  Whose rutty Bancke, the which his River hemmes,

  Was paynted all with variable flowers,

  And all the meades adorned with daintie gemmes

  Fit to decke maydens bowres,

  And crowne their Paramours

  Against the Brydale day, which is not long:

  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

  There, in a Meadow, by the Rivers side,

  A Flocke of Nymphes I chauncèd to espy,

  All lovely Daughters of the Flood thereby,

  With goodly greenish locks, all loose untyde,

  As each had bene a Bryde;

  And each one had a little wicker basket,

  Made of the twigs, entraylèd curiously,

  In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket,

  And with fine Fingers crept full feateously

  The tender stalkes on hye.

  Of every sort, which in that Meadow grew,

  They gathered some; the Violet, pallid blew,

  The little Dazie, that at evening closes,

  The virgin Lillie, and the Primrose trew,

  With store of vermeil Roses,

  To decke their Bridegromes posies

  Against the Brydale day, which was not long:

  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

  With that I saw two Swannes of goodly hewe

  Come softly swimming downe along the Lee;

  Two fairer Birds I yet did never see;

  The snow, which doth the top of Pindus strew,

  Did never whiter shew;

  Nor Jove himselfe, when he a Swan would be

  For love of Leda, whiter did appeare;

  Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,

  Yet not so white as these, nor nothing neare;

  So purely white they were,

  That even the gentle streame, the which them bare,

  Seem’d foule to them, and bad his billowes spare

  To wet their silken feathers, least they might

  Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre,

  And marre their beauties bright,

  That shone as heavens light,

  Against their Brydale day, which was not long:

  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

  Eftsoones the Nymphes, which now had Flowers their fill

  Ran all in haste to see that silver brood,

  As they came floating on the Christal Flood;

  Whom when they sawe, they
stood amazèd still,

  Their wondring eyes to fill;

  Them seem’d they never saw a sight so fayre,

  Of Fowles, so lovely, that they sure did deeme

  Them heavenly borne, or to be that same payre

  Which through the Skie draw Venus silver Teeme;

  For sure they did not seeme

  To be begot of any earthly Seede,

  But rather Angels, or of Angels breede;

  Yet were they bred of Somers-heat, they say,

  In sweetest Season, when each Flower and weede

  The earth did fresh aray;

  So fresh they seem’d as day,

  Even as their Brydale day, which was not long:

  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

  Then forth they all out of their baskets drew

  Great store of Flowers, the honour of the field,

  That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,

  All which upon those goodly Birds they threw

  And all the Waves did strew,

  That like old Peneus Waters they did seeme,

  When downe along by pleasant Tempes shore,

  Scattred with Flowres, through Thessaly they streeme.

  That they appeare, through Lillies plenteous store,

  Like a Brydes Chamber flore.

  Two of those Nymphes, meane while, two Garlands bound

  Of freshest Flowres which in that Mead they found,

  The which presenting all in trim Array,

  Their snowie Foreheads therewithall they crownd,

  Whil’st one did sing this Lay,

  Prepar’d against that Day,

  Against their Brydale day, which was not long:

  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

  ‘Ye gentle Birdes! the worlds faire ornament,

  And heavens glorie, whom this happie hower

  Doth leade unto your lovers blisfull bower,

  Joy may you have, and gentle hearts content

  Of your loves couplement;

  And let faire Venus, that is Queene of love,

  With her heart-quelling Sonne upon you smile,

  Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to remove

  All Loves dislike, and friendships faultie guile

  For ever to assoile.

  Let endlesse Peace your steadfast hearts accord,

  And blessèd Plentie wait upon your bord;

  And let your bed with pleasures chast abound,

  That fruitfull issue may to you afford,

  Which may your foes confound,

  And make your joyes redound

  Upon your Brydale day, which is not long:

  Sweete Themmes! runne softlie, till I end my Song.’

  So ended she; and all the rest around

  To her redoubled that her undersong,

  Which said their brydale daye should not be long:

  And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground

  Their accents did resound.

  So forth those joyous Birdes did passe along,

  Adowne the Lee, that to them murmurde low,

  As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong,

  Yet did by signes his glad affection show,

  Making his streame run slow.

  And all the foule which in his flood did dwell

  Gan flock about these twaine, that did excell

  The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend

  The lesser starres. So they, enrangèd well,

  Did on those two attend,

  And their best service lend

  Against their wedding day, which was not long:

  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

  At length they all to mery London came,

  To mery London, my most kyndly Nurse,

  That to me gave this Lifes first native sourse,

  Though from another place I take my name,

  An house of auncient fame:

  There when they came, whereas those bricky towres

  The which on Themmes brode agèd backe doe ryde,

  Where now the studious Lawyers have their bowers,

  There whylome wont the Templer Knights to byde,

  Till they decayd through pride:

  Next whereunto there standes a stately place,

  Where oft I gaynèd giftes and goodly grace

  Of that great Lord, which therein wont to dwell,

  Whose want too well now feeles my freendles case;

  But ah! here fits not well

  Olde woes, but joyes, to tell

  Against the Brydale daye, which is not long:

  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

  Yet therein now doth lodge a noble Peer,

  Great Englands glory, and the Worlds wide wonder,

  Whose dreadfull name late through all Spaine did thunder,

  And Hercules two pillars standing neere

  Did make to quake and feare:

  Faire branch of Honor, flower of Chevalrie!

  That fillest England with thy triumphs fame,

  Joy have thou of thy noble victorie,

  And endlesse happinesse of thine owne name

  That promiseth the same;

  That through thy prowesse, and victorious armes,

  Thy country may be freed from forraine harmes;

  And great Elisaes glorious name may ring

  Through al the world, fil’d with thy wide Alarmes,

  Which some brave muse may sing

  To ages following,

  Upon the Brydale day, which is not long:

  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

  From those high Towers this noble Lord issuing,

  Like Radiant Hesper, when his golden hayre

  In th’ Ocean billowes he hath bathèd fayre,

  Descended to the Rivers open vewing,

  With a great traine ensuing.

  Above the rest were goodly to bee seene

  Two gentle Knights of lovely face and feature,

  Beseeming well the bower of anie Queene,

  With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature,

  Fit for so goodly stature,

  That like the twins of Jove they seem’d in sight,

  Which decke the Bauldricke of the Heavens bright;

  They two, forth pacing to the Rivers side,

  Received those two faire Brides, their Loves delight;

  Which, at th’ appointed tyde,

  Each one did make his Bryde

  Against their Brydale day, which is not long:

  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

  EDMUND SPENSER

  ENGLISH (1552-1599)

  Verses Made the Night before He Died

  So well I love thee as without thee I

  Love nothing; if I might choose, I’d rather die

  Than be one day debarred thy company.

  Since beasts and plants do grow and live and move,

  Beasts are those men that such a life approve:

  He only lives that deadly is in love.

  The corn, that in the ground is sown, first dies,

  And of one seed do many ears arise;

  Love, this world’s corn, by dying multiplies.

  The seeds of love first by thy eyes were thrown

  Into a ground untilled, a heart unknown

  To bear such fruit, till by thy hands ’twas sown.

  Look as your looking-glass by chance may fall,

  Divide, and break in many pieces small,

  And yet shows forth the selfsame face in all,

  Proportions, features, graces, just the same,

  And in the smallest piece as well the name

  Of fairest one deserves as in the richest frame;

  So all my thoughts are pieces but of you,

  Which put together makes a glass so true

  As I therein no other’s face but yours can view.

  MICHAEL DRAYTON

  ENGLISH (1563-1631)

  Let me n
ot to the marriage of true minds

  Let me not to the marriage of true minds

  Admit impediments. Love is not love

  Which alters when it alteration finds,

  Or bends with the remover to remove.

  O, no! it is an ever-fixèd mark,

  That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

  It is the star to every wandering bark,

  Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

  Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

  Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

  Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

  But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

  If this be error, and upon me proved,

  I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  ENGLISH (1564-1616)

  Wedding is great Juno’s crown

  From As You Like It

  Wedding is great Juno’s crown:

  O blessed bond of board and bed!

  ’Tis Hymen peoples every town:

  High wedlock then be honouréd:

  Honour, high honour and renown,

  To Hymen, god of every town!

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  ENGLISH (1564-1616)

  With thee conversing, I forget all time

  From Paradise Lost

  With thee conversing, I forget all time,

  All seasons, and their change, all please alike.

  Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,

  With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun,

  When first on this delightful land he spreads

  His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,

  Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth

  After soft showers; and sweet the coming on

  Of grateful evening mild, then silent night

  With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon

  And these the gems of heaven, her starry train:

  But neither breath of morn, when she ascends

  With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun

  On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower,

  Glistering with dew, nor fragrance after showers,

  Nor grateful evening mild, nor silent night

  With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon

  Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet.

  JOHN MILTON

  ENGLISH (1608-1674)

  Even like two little bank-dividing brooks

  Even like two little bank-dividing brooks,

  That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams,

  And having ranged and searched a thousand nooks,

  Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames

  Where in a greater current they conjoin: