complaining all the while
in horrid, hooting stanza;
then chase itself down hill
and neigh like Boanerges;
then, punctual as a star,
stop—docile and omnipotent—
at its own stable door.
I taste a liQuor never brewed1
I taste a liQuor never brewed—
from Tankards scooped in Pearl—
not all the Vats upon the Rhine
yield such an Alcohol!
Inebriate of Air—am I—
and Debauchee of Dew—
reeling—thro endless summer days—
from inns of Molten Blue—
When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee
out of the Foxglove’s door—
when Butterflies—renounce their “drams”—
I shall but drink the more!
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats—
and Saints—to windows run—
to see the little Tippler
leaning against the—Sun—
I’m nobody! Who are you?1
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you—Nobody—too?
Then there’s a pair of us?
Don’t tell! they’d advertise—you know!
How dreary—to be—Somebody!
How public—like a Frog—
to tell one’s name—the livelong June—
to an admiring Bog!
I’ve Known a Heaven, Like a Tent2
I’ve known a Heaven like a tent
to wrap its shining yards,
pluck up its stakes and disappear
without the sound of boards
or rip of nail, or carpenter,
but just the miles of stare
that signalize a show’s retreat
in North America.
No trace, no figment of the thing
that dazzled yesterday,
no ring, no marvel;
men and feats
dissolved as utterly
as birds’ far navigation
discloses just a hue;
a plash of oars—a gaiety,
then swallowed up to view.
My life closed twice before its close1
My life closed twice before its close—
it yet remains to see
if Immortality unveil
a third event to me
so huge, so hopeless to conceive
as these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
and all we need of hell.
The Last Night2
The last night that she lived,
it was a common night,
except the dying; this to us
made nature different.
We noticed smallest things,—
things overlooked before,
by this great light upon our minds
italicized, as ’t were.
That others could exist
while she must finish quite,
a jealousy for her arose
so nearly infinite.
We waited while she passed;
it was a narrow time,
too jostled were our souls to speak,
at length the notice came.
She mentioned, and forgot;
then lightly as a reed
bent to the water, shivered scarce,
consented, and was dead.
And we, we placed the hair,
and drew the head erect;
and then an awful leisure was,
our faith to regulate.
The Props Assist the House1
The Props assist the House
until the House is built
and then the Props withdraw
and adequate, erect,
the House support itself
and cease to recollect
the Auger and the Carpenter—
Just such a retrospect
hath the perfected Life—
a past of Plank and Nail
and slowness—then the Scaffolds drop
affirming it a Soul.
The way I read a letter’s this2
The Way I read a Letter’s—this—
‘tis first—I lock the Door—
and push it with my fingers—next—
for transport it be sure—
and then I go the furthest off
to counteract a knock—
then draw my little Letter forth
and slowly pick the lock—
then—glancing narrow, at the Wall—
and narrow at the floor
for firm Conviction of a Mouse
not exorcised before—
Peruse how infinite I am
to no one that You—know—
and sigh for lack of Heaven—but not
the Heaven God bestow—
There came a wind like a bugle1
There came a Wind like a Bugle—
it quivered through the Grass
and a Green Chill upon the Heat
so ominous did pass
We barred the Windows and the Doors
as from an Emerald Ghost—
the Doom’s electric Moccasin
that very instant passed—
on a strange Mob of panting Trees
and Fences fled away
and Rivers where the Houses ran
Those looked that lived—that Day—
The Bell within the steeple wild
the flying tidings told—
how much can come
and much can go,
and yet abide the World!
There’s a certain slant of light1
There’s a certain Slant of light,
winter Afternoons—
that oppresses, like the Heft
of Cathedral Tunes—
Heavenly Hurt, it gives us—
we can find no scar,
but internal difference,
where the Meanings, are—
None may teach it—Any—
‘tis the Seal Despair—
an imperial affliction
sent us of the air—
When it comes, the Landscape listens—
shadows—hold their breath—
when it goes, ’tis like the Distance
on the look of Death—
To make a prairie it takes a clover1
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
one clover, and a bee,
and revery.
The revery alone will do,
if bees are few.
We Grow Accustomed to the Dark2
We grow accustomed to the Dark—
when light is put away—
as when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
to witness her Goodbye—
A Moment—We uncertain step
for newness of the night—
then—fit our Vision to the Dark—
and meet the Road—erect—
And so of larger—Darkness—
those Evenings of the Brain—
when not a Moon disclose a sign—
or Star—come out—within—
The Bravest—grope a little—
and sometimes hit a Tree
directly in the Forehead—
but as they learn to see—
Either the Darkness alters—
or something in the sight
adjusts itself to Midnight—
and Life steps almost straight.
Wild nights! Wild nights!1
Wild Nights—Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
wild Nights should be
our luxury!
Futile—the Winds—
to a Heart in port—
done with the Compass—
done with the Chart!
Rowing in Eden—
ah, the Sea!
Might I but moor—Tonight—
in Thee!
Christina
Georgina Rossetti (1830 – 1894)
Goblin Market2
Morning and evening
maids heard the goblins cry:
“Come buy our orchard fruits,
come buy, come buy:
apples and quinces,
lemons and oranges,
plump unpecked cherries—
melons and raspberries,
bloom-down-cheeked peaches,
swart-headed mulberries,
wild free-born cranberries,
crab-apples, dewberries,
pine-apples, blackberries,
apricots, strawberries—
all ripe together
in summer weather—
morns that pass by,
fair eves that fly;
come buy, come buy;
our grapes fresh from the vine,
pomegranates full and fine,
dates and sharp bullaces,
rare pears and greengages,
damsons and bilberries,
taste them and try:
currants and gooseberries,
bright-fire-like barberries,
figs to fill your mouth,
citrons from the South,
sweet to tongue and sound to eye,
come buy, come buy.”
Evening by evening
among the brookside rushes,
Laura bowed her head to hear,
Lizzie veiled her blushes:
crouching close together
in the cooling weather,
with clasping arms and cautioning lips,
with tingling cheeks and finger-tips.
“Lie close,” Laura said,
pricking up her golden head:
we must not look at goblin men,
we must not buy their fruits:
who knows upon what soil they fed
their hungry thirsty roots?”
“Come buy,” call the goblins
hobbling down the glen.
“O! cried Lizzie, Laura, Laura,
you should not peep at goblin men.”
Lizzie covered up her eyes
covered close lest they should look;
Laura reared her glossy head,
and whispered like the restless brook:
“Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
down the glen tramp little men.
One hauls a basket,
one bears a plate,
one lugs a golden dish
of many pounds’ weight.
How fair the vine must grow
whose grapes are so luscious;
how warm the wind must blow
through those fruit bushes.”
“No,” said Lizzie, “no, no, no;
their offers should not charm us,
their evil gifts would harm us.”
She thrust a dimpled finger
in each ear, shut eyes and ran:
curious Laura chose to linger
wondering at each merchant man.
One had a cat’s face,
one whisked a tail,
one tramped at a rat’s pace,
one crawled like a snail,
one like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry,
one like a rattle tumbled hurry-scurry.
Lizzie heard a voice like voice of doves
cooing all together:
they sounded kind and full of loves
in the pleasant weather.
Laura stretched her gleaming neck
like a rush-imbedded swan,
like a lily from the beck,
like a moonlit poplar branch,
like a vessel at the launch
when its last restraint is gone.
Backwards up the mossy glen
turned and trooped the goblin men,
with their shrill repeated cry,
“Come buy, come buy.”
when they reached where Laura was
they stood stock still upon the moss,
leering at each other,
brother with queer brother;
signaling each other,
brother with sly brother.
One set his basket down,
one reared his plate;
one began to weave a crown
of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown
(men sell not such in any town);
one heaved the golden weight
of dish and fruit to offer her:
“Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry.
Laura stared but did not stir,
longed but had no money:
the whisk-tailed merchant bade her taste
in tones as smooth as honey,
the cat-faced purr’d,
the rat-paced spoke a word
of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;
one parrot-voiced and jolly
cried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly”;
one whistled like a bird.
But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
“Good folk, I have no coin;
to take were to purloin:
I have no copper in my purse,
I have no silver either,
and all my gold is on the furze
that shakes in windy weather
above the rusty heather.”
“You have much gold upon your head,”
they answered altogether:
“buy from us with a golden curl.”
She clipped a precious golden lock,
she dropped a tear more rare than pearl,
then sucked their fruit globes fair or red:
sweeter than honey from the rock,
stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
clearer than water flowed that juice;
she never tasted such before,
how should it cloy with length of use?
She sucked and sucked and sucked the more
fruits which that unknown orchard bore,
she sucked until her lips were sore;
then flung the emptied rinds away,
but gathered up one kernel stone,
and knew not was it night or day
as she turned home alone.
Lizzie met her at the gate
full of wise upbraidings:
“Dear, you should not stay so late,
twilight is not good for maidens;
should not loiter in the glen
in the haunts of goblin men.
Do you not remember Jeanie,
how she met them in the moonlight,
took their gifts both choice and many,
ate their fruits and wore their flowers
plucked from bowers
where summer ripens at all hours?
But ever in the moonlight
she pined and pined away;
sought them by night and day,
found them no more, but dwindled and grew gray;
then fell with the first snow,
while to this day no grass will grow
where she lies low:
I planted daisies there a year ago
that never blow.
You should not loiter so.”
“Nay hush,” said Laura.
“Nay hush, my sister:
I ate and ate my fill,
yet my mouth waters still;
to-morrow night I will
buy more,” and kissed her.
“Have done with sorrow;
I’ll bring you plums to-morrow
fresh on their mother twigs,
cherries worth getting;
you cannot think what figs
my teeth have met in,
what melons, icy-cold
piled on a dish of gold
too huge for me to hold,
what peaches with a velvet nap,
pellucid grapes without one seed:
odorous indeed must be the mead
whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink,
with lilies at the brink,
and sugar-sweet t
heir sap.”
Golden head by golden head,
like two pigeons in one nest
folded in each other’s wings,
they lay down, in their curtained bed:
like two blossoms on one stem,
like two flakes of new-fallen snow,
like two wands of ivory
tipped with gold for awful kings.
Moon and stars beamed in at them,
wind sang to them lullaby,
lumbering owls forbore to fly,
not a bat flapped to and fro
round their rest:
cheek to cheek and breast to breast
locked together in one nest.
Early in the morning
when the first cock crowed his warning,
neat like bees, as sweet and busy,
Laura rose with Lizzie:
fetched in honey, milked the cows,
aired and set to rights the house,
kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,
cakes for dainty mouths to eat,
next churned butter, whipped up cream,
fed their poultry, sat and sewed;
talked as modest maidens should
Lizzie with an open heart,
Laura in an absent dream,
one content, one sick in part;
one warbling for the mere bright day’s delight,
one longing for the night.
At length slow evening came—
they went with pitchers to the reedy brook;
Lizzie most placid in her look,
Laura most like a leaping flame.
They drew the gurgling water from its deep
Lizzie plucked purple and rich golden flags,
then turning homeward said: “The sunset flushes
those furthest loftiest crags;
come, Laura, not another maiden lags,
no willful squirrel wags,
the beasts and birds are fast asleep.”
But Laura loitered still among the rushes
and said the bank was steep.
And said the hour was early still,
the dew not fallen, the wind not chill:
listening ever, but not catching
the customary cry,
“Come buy, come buy,”
with its iterated jingle
of sugar-baited words:
not for all her watching
once discerning even one goblin
racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling;
let alone the herds
that used to tramp along the glen,
in groups or single,
of brisk fruit-merchant men.
Till Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come,
I hear the fruit-call, but I dare not look:
you should not loiter longer at this brook:
come with me home.
The Giant Book of Poetry (2006) Page 19
