let fools thy mystic forms adore,
I’ll know thee in thy mortal state:
wise poets that wrappëd Truth in tales,
knew her themselves through all her veils.
John Milton (1608 – 1674)
On His Blindness1
When I consider how my light is spent
ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
and that one talent which is death to hide,
lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
to serve therewith my Maker, and present
my true account, lest He returning chide,
‘Doth God exact day labor, light denied?’
I fondly ask. But Patience to prevent
that murmur, soon replies, ’God doth not need
either man’s work or his own gifts. Who best
bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
and post o’er land and ocean without rest;
they also serve who only stand and wait.’
Sir John Suckling (1609 – 1642)
Song: Why so pale and wan, fond lover?2
Why so pale and wan fond lover?
Prithee why so pale?
Will, when looking well can’t move her,
looking ill prevail?
Prithee why so pale?
Why so dull and mute young sinner?
Prithee why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can’t win her,
saying nothing do’t?
Prithee why so mute?
Quit, Quit for shame, this will not move,
this cannot take her;
if of herself she will not love,
nothing can make her;
the devil take her.
Abraham Cowley (1618 – 1667)
Drinking1
The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
and drinks and gapes for drink again;
the plants suck in the earth, and are
with constant drinking fresh and fair;
the sea itself (which one would think
should have but little need of drink)
drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
so filled that they o’erflow the cup.
The busy Sun (and one would guess
by’s drunken fiery face no less)
drinks up the sea, and when he’s done,
the Moon and Stars drink up the Sun:
they drink and dance by their own light,
they drink and revel all the night:
nothing in Nature’s sober found,
but an eternal health goes round.
Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high,
fill all the glasses there—for why
should every creature drink but I?
Why, man of morals, tell me why?
Richard Lovelace (1618 – 1658)
To Lucasta, On Going to the Wars1
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,
that from the nunnery
of thy chaste breast and Quiet mind
to war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
the first foe in the field;
and with a stronger faith embrace
a sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
as thou, too, shalt adore;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
loved I not Honor more.
William Walsh (1663 – 1708)
Love and Jealousy2
How much are they deceived who vainly strive,
by jealous fears, to keep our flames alive?
Love’s like a torch, which if secured from blasts,
will faintlier burn; but then it longer lasts.
Exposed to storms of jealousy and doubt,
the blaze grows greater, but ’tis sooner out.
William Congreve (1670 – 1729)
False though she be to me and love1
False though she be to me and love,
I’ll ne’er pursue revenge;
for still the charmer I approve
though I deplore her change.
In hours of bliss we oft have met:
they could not always last;
and though the present I regret,
I’m grateful for the past.
Ryusui (1691 – 1758)
A lost child crying2
Translated from the Japanese by Peter Beilenson
A lost child crying
stumbling over the dark fields …
catching fireflies
Jokun (circa 1700)
Ah! I intended3
Translated from the Japanese by Peter Beilenson
Ah! I intended
never never to grow old …
Listen: New Year’s Bell!
William Blake (1757 – 1827)
The Garden of Love1
I laid me down upon a bank,
where Love lay sleeping;
I heard among the rushes dank
weeping, weeping.
Then I went to the heath and the wild,
to the thistles and thorns of the waste;
and they told me how they were beguiled,
driven out, and compelled to the chaste.
I went to the Garden of Love,
and saw what I never had seen;
a Chapel was built in the midst,
where I used to play on the green.
And the gates of this Chapel were shut
and “Thou shalt not,” writ over the door;
so I turned to the Garden of Love
that so many sweet flowers bore.
And I saw it was filled with graves,
and tombstones where flowers should be;
and priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
and binding with briars my joys and desires.
The Sick Rose1
O Rose, thou art sick!
The Invisible worm,
that flies in the night,
in the howling storm,
has found out thy bed
of Crimson joy;
and his dark secret love
does thy life destroy.
The Tiger2
Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright,
in the forests of the night,
what immortal hand or eye
could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art,
could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
what dread hand? And what dread feet?
What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
and watered heaven with their tears,
did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright
in the forests of the night,
what immortal hand or eye
dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
To See a World in a Grain of Sand1
To see a world in a grain of sand
and a heaven in a wild flower,
hold infinity in the palm of your hand
and eternity in an hour.
Robert Burns (1759 1796)
Epitaph for James Smith2
Lament him, Mauchline husbands a’,
he aften did assist ye;
for had ye staid hale weeks awa,
your wives they ne’er had miss’d ye.
Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press
to school in bands thegither,
O tread ye lightly on his grass—
perhap
s he was your father!
Epitaph on a Henpecked SQuire1
As father Adam first was fooled,
(a case that’s still too common,)
here lies a man a woman ruled,
the devil ruled the woman.
Epitaph on William Muir2
An honest man here lies at rest
as e’er God with his image blest;
the friend of man, the friend of truth,
the friend of age, and guide of youth:
few hearts like his, with virtue warmed,
few heads with knowledge so informed:
if there’s another world, he lives in bliss;
if there is none, he made the best of this.
Inconstancy in love3
Let not Woman e’er complain
of inconstancy in love;
let not Woman e’er complain
fickle Man is apt to rove:
look abroad thro’ Nature’s range,
nature’s mighty Law is change,
ladies, would it not seem strange
man should then a monster prove!
Mark the winds, and mark the skies,
ocean’s ebb, and ocean’s flow,
sun and moon but set to rise,
round and round the seasons go.
Why then ask of silly Man
to oppose great Nature’s plan?
We’ll be constant while we can—
you can be no more, you know.
To A Louse1 ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY’S BONNET AT CHURCH
Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie!
Your impudence protects you sairly:
I canna say but ye strunt rarely
owre gauze and lace;
tho’ faith, I fear ye dine but sparely
on sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,
detested, shunned by saunt an’ sinner,
how daur ye set your fit upon her,
sae fine a lady!
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner,
on some poor body.
Swith, in some beggar’s haffet sQuattle;
there ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle
wi’ ither kindred, jumpin cattle,
in shoals and nations;
whare horn or bane ne’er daur unsettle
your thick plantations.
Now haud ye there, ye’re out o’ sight,
below the fatt’rels, snug an’ tight;
na faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right
till ye’ve got on it,
the vera tapmost, towering height
O’ Miss’s bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
as plump an’ grey as onie grozet:
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,
or fell, red smeddum,
I’d gie ye sic a hearty dose o’t,
wad dress your droddum!
I wad na been surprised to spy
you on an auld wife’s flainen toy;
or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
on’s wyliecoat;
but Miss’s fine Lunardi!—fie!
How daur ye do’t?
O Jenny, dinna toss your head,
an’ set your beauties a’ abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
the blastie’s makin!
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,
are notice takin!
O, wad some Power the giftie gie us
to see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free
us an’ foolish notion:
what airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,
and ev’n Devotion!
To A Mountain Daisy1 ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r,
thou’s met me in an evil hour;
for I maun crush amang the stoure
thy slender stem:
to spare thee now is past my pow’r,
thou bonie gem.
Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet,
the bonie lark, companion meet,
bending thee ’mang the dewy wheat,
wi’ spreckled breast!
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet
the purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
upon thy early, humble birth;
yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
amid the storm,
scarce reared above the parent-earth
thy tender form.
The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield,
high shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield;
but thou, beneath the random bield
O’ clod or stane,
adorns the histie stibble-field,
unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
thy snawy bosom sunward spread,
thou lifts thy unassuming head
in humble guise;
but now the share uptears thy bed,
and low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless Maid,
sweet flow’ret of the rural shade!
By love’s simplicity betrayed,
and guileless trust,
till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid
low i’ the dust.
Such is the fate of simple Bard,
on Life’s rough ocean luckless starred!
Unskillful he to note the card
of prudent lore,
till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
and whelm him o’er!
Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n,
who long with wants and woes has striv’n,
by human pride or cunning driv’n
to mis’ry’s brink,
till wrenched of ev’ry stay but Heav’n,
he, ruined, sink!
Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate,
that fate is thine—no distant date;
stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives, elate,
full on thy bloom,
till crushed beneath the furrow’s weight,
shall be thy doom!
William Wordsworth (1770 – 1850)
I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud1
I wandered lonely as a cloud
that floats on high o’er vales and hills,
when all at once I saw a crowd,
a host, of golden daffodil;
beside the lake, beneath the trees,
fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
and twinkle on the milky way,
they stretched in never-ending line
along the margin of a bay:
ten thousand saw I at a glance,
tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
a poet could not but be gay,
in such a jocund company:
I gazed and gazed but little thought
what wealth the show to me had brought:
for oft, when on my couch I lie
in vacant or in pensive mood,
they flash upon that inward eye
which is the bliss of solitude;
and then my heart with pleasure fills,
and dances with the daffodils.
Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room1
Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room;
and hermits are contented with their cells;
and students with their pensive citadels;
maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
high as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
in truth the prison, into which we doom
ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,
in sundry moods, ’twas pas
time to be bound
within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;
pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
should find brief solace there, as I have found.
The Solitary Reaper2
Behold her, single in the field,
yon solitary Highland lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
and sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the vale profound
is overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chaunt
more welcome notes to weary bands
of travelers in some shady haunt,
among Arabian sands;
a voice so thrilling ne’er was heard
in spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
breaking the silence of the seas
among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
for old, unhappy, far-off things,
and battles long ago;
or is it some more humble lay,
familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
that has been, and may be again?
Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang
as if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
and o’er the sickle bending;
I listened, motionless and still;
and, as I mounted up the hill,
the music in my heart I bore
long after it was heard no more.
We are Seven1
A simple child,
that lightly draws its breath,
and feels its life in every limb,
what should it know of death?
The Giant Book of Poetry Page 5
