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78 |
Three Years She Grew
|
Three years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown;
This Child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A Lady of my own.
"Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse: and with me
The Girl, in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.
"She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs;
And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.
"The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the Storm
Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form
By silent sympathy.
"The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.
"And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell."
Thus Nature spake—The work was done—
How soon my Lucy's race was run!
She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be.
|
William Wordsworth
|
Living,Death,Nature,Landscapes & Pastorals,Funerals
|
79 |
To a Highland Girl
|
(At Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond)
Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these grey rocks; that household lawn;
Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn;
This fall of water that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake;
This little bay; a quiet road
That holds in shelter thy Abode—
In truth together do ye seem
Like something fashioned in a dream;
Such Forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep!
But, O fair Creature! in the light
Of common day, so heavenly bright,
I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,
I bless thee with a human heart;
God shield thee to thy latest years!
Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers;
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall pray
For thee when I am far away:
For never saw I mien, or face,
In which more plainly I could trace
Benignity and home-bred sense
Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here scattered, like a random seed,
Remote from men, Thou dost not need
The embarrassed look of shy distress,
And maidenly shamefacedness:
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
The freedom of a Mountaineer:
A face with gladness overspread!
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred!
And seemliness complete, that sways
Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
With no restraint, but such as springs
From quick and eager visitings
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
Of thy few words of English speech:
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife
That gives thy gestures grace and life!
So have I, not unmoved in mind,
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind—
Thus beating up against the wind.
What hand but would a garland cull
For thee who art so beautiful?
O happy pleasure! here to dwell
Beside thee in some heathy dell;
Adopt your homely ways, and dress,
A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess!
But I could frame a wish for thee
More like a grave reality:
Thou art to me but as a wave
Of the wild sea; and I would have
Some claim upon thee, if I could,
Though but of common neighbourhood.
What joy to hear thee, and to see!
Thy elder Brother I would be,
Thy Father—anything to thee!
Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place.
Joy have I had; and going hence
I bear away my recompense.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:
Then, why should I be loth to stir?
I feel this place was made for her;
To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life shall last.
Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;
For I, methinks, till I grow old,
As fair before me shall behold,
As I do now, the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
And thee, the spirit of them all!
|
William Wordsworth
|
Living,Separation & Divorce,Sorrow & Grieving,Love,Infatuation & Crushes,Relationships,Nature,Landscapes & Pastorals,Farewells & Good Luck
|
80 |
To the Skylark
|
Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
Those quivering wings composed, that music still!
Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;
A privacy of glorious light is thine;
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!
|
William Wordsworth
|
Nature,Animals
|
81 |
To the Cuckoo
|
O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear;
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off, and near.
Though babbling only to the Vale
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
O blessèd Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for Thee!
|
William Wordsworth
|
Living,Nature,Animals,Landscapes & Pastorals,Philosophy
|
82 |
The Virgin
|
Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrostWith the least shade of thought to sin allied.Woman! above all women glorified,Our tainted nature's solitary boast;Purer than foam on central ocean tost;Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak strewnWith fancied roses, than the unblemished moonBefore her wane begins on heaven's blue coast;Thy image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween,Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might bend,As to a visible Power, in which did blendAll that was mixed and reconciled in theeOf mother's love with maiden purity,Of high with low, celestial with terrene!
|
William Wordsworth
|
Religion,Christianity
|
83 |
The World Is Too Much With Us
|
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
|
William Wordsworth
|
Nature,Social Commentaries,Money & Economics
|
84 |
Written in London. September, 1802
|
O Friend! I know not which way I must lookFor comfort, being, as I am, opprest,To think that now our life is only drestFor show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,Or groom! — We must run glittering like a brookIn the open sunshine, or we are unblest:The wealthiest man among us is the best:No grandeur now in nature or in bookDelights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,This is idolatry; and these we adore:Plain living and high thinking are no more:The homely beauty of the good old causeIs gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,And pure religion breathing household laws.
|
William Wordsworth
|
Social Commentaries,Cities & Urban Life,Class,History & Politics
|
85 |
Yarrow Revisited
|
The gallant Youth, who may have gained,
Or seeks, a "winsome Marrow,"
Was but an Infant in the lap
When first I looked on Yarrow;
Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate
Long left without a warder,
I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee,
Great Minstrel of the Border!
Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day,
Their dignity installing
In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves
Were on the bough, or falling;
But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed-
The forest to embolden;
Reddened the fiery hues, and shot
Transparence through the golden.
For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on
In foamy agitation;
And slept in many a crystal pool
For quiet contemplation:
No public and no private care
The freeborn mind enthralling,
We made a day of happy hours,
Our happy days recalling.
Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth,
With freaks of graceful folly,-
Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve,
Her Night not melancholy;
Past, present, future, all appeared
In harmony united,
Like guests that meet, and some from far,
By cordial love invited.
And if, as Yarrow, through the woods
And down the meadow ranging,
Did meet us with unaltered face,
Though we were changed and changing;
If, then, some natural shadows spread
Our inward prospect over,
The soul's deep valley was not slow
Its brightness to recover.
Eternal blessings on the Muse,
And her divine employment!
The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons
For hope and calm enjoyment;
Albeit sickness, lingering yet,
Has o'er their pillow brooded;
And Care waylays their steps-a Sprite
Not easily eluded.
For thee, O Scott! compelled to change
Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot
For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes;
And leave thy Tweed and Tiviot
For mild Sorrento's breezy waves;
May classic Fancy, linking
With native Fancy her fresh aid,
Preserve thy heart from sinking!
Oh! while they minister to thee,
Each vying with the other,
May Health return to mellow Age
With Strength, her venturous brother;
And Tiber, and each brook and rill
Renowned in song and story,
With unimagined beauty shine,
Nor lose one ray of glory!
For Thou, upon a hundred streams,
By tales of love and sorrow,
Of faithful love, undaunted truth
Hast shed the power of Yarrow;
And streams unknown, hills yet unseen,
Wherever they invite Thee,
At parent Nature's grateful call,
With gladness must requite Thee.
A gracious welcome shall be thine,
Such looks of love and honour
As thy own Yarrow gave to me
When first I gazed upon her;
Beheld what I had feared to see,
Unwilling to surrender
Dreams treasured up from early days,
The holy and the tender.
And what, for this frail world, were all
That mortals do or suffer,
Did no responsive harp, no pen,
Memorial tribute offer?
Yea, what were mighty Nature's self?
Her features, could they win us,
Unhelped by the poetic voice
That hourly speaks within us?
Nor deem that localized Romance
Plays false with our affections;
Unsanctifies our tears-made sport
For fanciful dejections:
Ah, no! the visions of the past
Sustain the heart in feeling
Life as she is-our changeful Life,
With friends and kindred dealing.
Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day
In Yarrow's groves were centred;
Who through the silent portal arch
Of mouldering Newark entered;
And clomb the winding stair that once
Too timidly was mounted
By the "last Minstrel,"(not the last!)
Ere he his Tale recounted.
Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream!
Fulfil thy pensive duty,
Well pleased that future Bards should chant
For simple hearts thy beauty;
To dream-light dear while yet unseen,
Dear to the common sunshine,
And dearer still, as now I feel,
To memory's shadowy moonshine!
|
William Wordsworth
|
Living,Health & Illness,Relationships,Friends & Enemies,Nature,Seas, Rivers, & Streams,Philosophy
|
86 |
Yarrow Unvisited
|
From Stirling castle we had seenThe mazy Forth unravelled;Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,And with the Tweed had travelled;And when we came to Clovenford,Then said my "winsome Marrow ,""Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,And see the Braes of Yarrow.""Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,Who have been buying, selling,Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own;Each maiden to her dwelling!On Yarrow's banks let her herons feed,Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!But we will downward with the TweedNor turn aside to Yarrow."There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,Both lying right before us;And Dryborough, where with chiming TweedThe lintwhites sing in chorus;There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a landMade blithe with plough and harrow:Why throw away a needful dayTo go in search of Yarrow?"What's Yarrow but a river bare,That glides the dark hills under?There are a thousand such elsewhereAs worthy of your wonder."—Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;My True-love sighed for sorrow;And looked me in the face, to thinkI thus could speak of Yarrow!"Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms,And sweet is Yarrow flowing!Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,But we will leave it growing.O'er hilly path, and open Strath,We'll wander Scotland thorough;But, though so near, we will not turnInto the dale of Yarrow."Let beeves and home-bred kine partakeThe sweets of Burn-mill meadow,The swan on still St. Mary's LakeFloat double, swan and shadow!We will not see them; will not go,To-day, nor yet to-morrow;Enough if in our hearts we knowThere's such a place as Yarrow."Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!It must, or we shall rue it:We have a vision of our own;Ah! why should we undo it?The treasured dreams of times long past,We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!For when we'er there, although 'tis fair,'Twill be another Yarrow!"If Care with freezing years should come,And wandering seem but folly,—Should we be loth to stir from home,And yet be melancholy;Should life be dull, and spirits low,'Twill soothe us in our sorrow,That earth has something yet to show,The bonny holms of Yarrow!"
|
William Wordsworth
|
Nature,Landscapes & Pastorals,Seas, Rivers, & Streams
|
87 |
I Abide and Abide and Better Abide
|
I abide and abide and better abide, And after the old proverb, the happy day; And ever my lady to me doth say, "Let me alone and I will provide." I abide and abide and tarry the tide, And with abiding speed well ye may. Thus do I abide I wot alway, Nother obtaining nor yet denied. Ay me! this long abiding Seemeth to me, as who sayeth, A prolonging of a dying death, Or a refusing of a desir'd thing. Much were it better for to be plain Than to say "abide" and yet shall not obtain.
|
Sir Thomas Wyatt
|
Living,Disappointment & Failure
|
88 |
I Find no Peace
|
I find no peace, and all my war is done. I fear and hope. I burn and freeze like ice. I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise; And nought I have, and all the world I season. That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison And holdeth me not—yet can I scape no wise— Nor letteth me live nor die at my device, And yet of death it giveth me occasion. Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain. I desire to perish, and yet I ask health. I love another, and thus I hate myself. I feed me in sorrow and laugh in all my pain; Likewise displeaseth me both life and death, And my delight is causer of this strife.
|
Sir Thomas Wyatt
|
Love,Infatuation & Crushes,Relationships
|
89 |
In Spain
|
Tagus, farewell! that westward with thy streamsTurns up the grains of gold already triedWith spur and sail, for I go seek the ThamesGainward the sun that shewth her wealthy pride,And to the town which Brutus sought by dreams,Like bended moon doth lend her lusty side.My king, my country, alone for whome I live,Of mighty love the wings for this me give.
|
Sir Thomas Wyatt
|
Activities,Travels & Journeys
|
90 |
Is it Possible
|
Is it possible
That so high debate,
So sharp, so sore, and of such rate,
Should end so soon and was begun so late?
Is it possible?
Is it possible
So cruel intent,
So hasty heat and so soon spent,
From love to hate, and thence for to relent?
Is it possible?
Is it possible
That any may find
Within one heart so diverse mind,
To change or turn as weather and wind?
Is it possible?
Is it possible
To spy it in an eye
That turns as oft as chance on die,
The truth whereof can any try?
Is it possible?
It is possible
For to turn so oft,
To bring that lowest which was most aloft,
And to fall highest yet to light soft:
It is possible.
All is possible
Whoso list believe.
Trust therefore first, and after preve,
As men wed ladies by licence and leave.
All is possible.
|
Sir Thomas Wyatt
|
Living,Disappointment & Failure
|
91 |
The Long Love that in my Thought doth Harbour
|
The longë love that in my thought doth harbour And in mine hert doth keep his residence, Into my face presseth with bold pretence And therein campeth, spreading his banner. She that me learneth to love and suffer And will that my trust and lustës negligence Be rayned by reason, shame, and reverence, With his hardiness taketh displeasure. Wherewithall unto the hert's forest he fleeth, Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry, And there him hideth and not appeareth. What may I do when my master feareth But in the field with him to live and die? For good is the life ending faithfully.
|
Sir Thomas Wyatt
|
Living,Disappointment & Failure,Sorrow & Grieving,Love,Break-ups & Vexed Love,Infatuation & Crushes,Unrequited Love,Relationships
|
92 |
Madam, withouten many Words
|
Madam, withouten many words Once I am sure ye will or no ...And if ye will, then leave your bourds And use your wit and show it so,And with a beck ye shall me call; And if of one that burneth alwayYe have any pity at all, Answer him fair with & {.} or nay.If it be &, {.} I shall be fain; If it be nay, friends as before;Ye shall another man obtain, And I mine own and yours no more.
|
Sir Thomas Wyatt
|
Love,Realistic & Complicated,Relationships,Men & Women,Engagement
|
93 |
My Galley, Charged with Forgetfulness
|
My galley, chargèd with forgetfulness,Thorough sharp seas in winter nights doth pass'Tween rock and rock; and eke mine en'my, alas,That is my lord, steereth with cruelness;And every owre a thought in readiness,As though that death were light in such a case.An endless wind doth tear the sail apaceOf forced sighs and trusty fearfulness.A rain of tears, a cloud of dark disdain,Hath done the weared cords great hinderance;Wreathèd with error and eke with ignorance.The stars be hid that led me to this pain;Drownèd is Reason that should me comfort,And I remain despairing of the port.
|
Sir Thomas Wyatt
|
Living,Disappointment & Failure,Sorrow & Grieving,Nature,Seas, Rivers, & Streams
|
94 |
My Lute Awake
|
My lute awake! perform the last Labour that thou and I shall waste, And end that I have now begun; For when this song is sung and past, My lute be still, for I have done. As to be heard where ear is none, As lead to grave in marble stone, My song may pierce her heart as soon; Should we then sigh or sing or moan? No, no, my lute, for I have done. The rocks do not so cruelly Repulse the waves continually, As she my suit and affection; So that I am past remedy, Whereby my lute and I have done. Proud of the spoil that thou hast got Of simple hearts thorough Love's shot, By whom, unkind, thou hast them won, Think not he hath his bow forgot, Although my lute and I have done. Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain That makest but game on earnest pain. Think not alone under the sun Unquit to cause thy lovers plain, Although my lute and I have done. Perchance thee lie wethered and old The winter nights that are so cold, Plaining in vain unto the moon; Thy wishes then dare not be told; Care then who list, for I have done. And then may chance thee to repent The time that thou hast lost and spent To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon; Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want as I have done. Now cease, my lute; this is the last Labour that thou and I shall waste, And ended is that we begun. Now is this song both sung and past: My lute be still, for I have done.
|
Sir Thomas Wyatt
|
Living,Disappointment & Failure,Love,Break-ups & Vexed Love,Unrequited Love,Relationships,Arts & Sciences,Music
|
95 |
Mine own John Poynz
|
Mine own John Poynz, since ye delight to knowThe cause why that homeward I me draw,And flee the press of courts, whereso they go,Rather than to live thrall under the aweOf lordly looks, wrappèd within my cloak,To will and lust learning to set a law:It is not for because I scorn or mockThe power of them, to whom fortune hath lentCharge over us, of right, to strike the stroke.But true it is that I have always meantLess to esteem them than the common sort,Of outward things that judge in their intentWithout regard what doth inward resort.I grant sometime that of glory the fireDoth twyche my heart. Me list not to reportBlame by honour, and honour to desire.But how may I this honour now attain,That cannot dye the colour black a liar?My Poynz, I cannot from me tune to feign,To cloak the truth for praise without desertOf them that list all vice for to retain.I cannot honour them that sets their partWith Venus and Bacchus all their life long;Nor hold my peace of them although I smart.I cannot crouch nor kneel to do so great a wrong,To worship them, like God on earth alone,That are as wolves these sely lambs among.I cannot with my word complain and moan,And suffer nought, nor smart without complaint,Nor turn the word that from my mouth is gone.I cannot speak and look like a saint,Use willes for wit, and make deceit a pleasure,And call craft counsel, for profit still to paint.I cannot wrest the law to fill the cofferWith innocent blood to feed myself fat,And do most hurt where most help I offer.I am not he that can allow the stateOf him Caesar, and damn Cato to die,That with his death did scape out of the gateFrom Caesar's hands (if Livy do not lie)And would not live where liberty was lost;So did his heart the common weal apply.I am not he such eloquence to boastTo make the crow singing as the swan;Nor call the liond of cowardes beasts the mostThat cannot take a mouse as the cat can;And he that dieth for hunger of the goldCall him Alexander; and say that PanPasseth Apollo in music many fold;Praise Sir Thopias for a noble tale,And scorn the story that the Knight told;Praise him for counsel that is drunk of ale;Grin when he laugheth that beareth all the sway,Frown when he frowneth and groan when is pale;On others' lust to hang both night and day:None of these points would ever frame in me.My wit is nought—I cannot learn the way.And much the less of things that greater be,That asken help of colours of deviceTo join the mean with each extremity,With the nearest virtue to cloak alway the vice;And as to purpose, likewise it shall fallTo press the virtue that it may not rise;As drunkenness good fellowship to call;The friendly foe with his double faceSay he is gentle and courteous therewithal;And say that favel hath a goodly graceIn eloquence; and cruelty to nameZeal of justice and change in time and place;And he that suffer'th offence without blameCall him pitiful; and him true and plainThat raileth reckless to every man's shame.Say he is rude that cannot lie and feign;The lecher a lover; and tyrannyTo be the right of a prince's reign.I cannot, I; no, no, it will not be!This is the cause that I could never yetHang on their sleeves that way, as thou mayst see,A chip of chance more than a pound of wit.This maketh me at home to hunt and to hawk,And in foul weather at my book to sit;In frost and snow then with my bow to stalk;No man doth mark whereso I ride or go:In lusty leas at liberty I walk.And of these news I feel nor weal nor woe,Save that a clog doth hang yet at my heel.No force for that, for it is ordered so,That I may leap both hedge and dyke full well.I am not now in France to judge the wine,With saffry sauce the delicates to feel;Nor yet in Spain, where one must him inclineRather than to be, outwardly to seem:I meddle not with wits that be so fine.Nor Flanders' cheer letteth not my sight to deemOf black and white; nor taketh my wit awayWith beastliness; they beasts do so esteem.Nor I am not where Christ is given in preyFor money, poison, and treason at Rome—A common practice used night and day:But here I am in Kent and ChristendomAmong the Muses where I read and rhyme;Where if thou list, my Poinz, for to come,Thou shalt be judge how I do spend my time.
|
Sir Thomas Wyatt
|
Activities,Travels & Journeys,Relationships,Friends & Enemies,Social Commentaries,History & Politics
|
96 |
They Flee From Me
|
They flee from me that sometime did me seek
With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek,
That now are wild and do not remember
That sometime they put themself in danger
To take bread at my hand; and now they range,
Busily seeking with a continual change.
Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise
Twenty times better; but once in special,
In thin array after a pleasant guise,
When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,
And she me caught in her arms long and small;
Therewithall sweetly did me kiss
And softly said, “Dear heart, how like you this?”
It was no dream: I lay broad waking.
But all is turned thorough my gentleness
Into a strange fashion of forsaking;
And I have leave to go of her goodness,
And she also, to use newfangleness.
But since that I so kindly am served
I would fain know what she hath deserved.
|
Sir Thomas Wyatt
|
Living,Growing Old,Separation & Divorce,Sorrow & Grieving,Love,Break-ups & Vexed Love,Classic Love,Desire,Heartache & Loss,Infatuation & Crushes,Romantic Love,Relationships,Men & Women
|
97 |
Unstable Dream
|
Unstable dream, according to the place,Be steadfast once, or else at least be true.By tasted sweetness make me not to rueThe sudden loss of thy false feignèd grace.By good respect in such a dangerous caseThou broughtest not her into this tossing mewBut madest my sprite live, my care to renew,My body in tempest her succour to embrace.The body dead, the sprite had his desire,Painless was th'one, th'other in delight.Why then, alas, did it not keep it right,Returning, to leap into the fire? And where it was at wish, it could not remain, Such mocks of dreams they turn to deadly pain.
|
Sir Thomas Wyatt
|
Living,Disappointment & Failure,Sorrow & Grieving,Love,Heartache & Loss,Relationships
|
98 |
What Needeth these Threat'ning Words
|
What needeth these threnning words and wasted wind?All this cannot make me restore my prey.To rob your good, iwis, is not my mind,Nor causeless your fair hand did I display.Let love be judge or else whom next we meetThat may both hear what you and I can say:She took from me an heart, and I a glove from her.Let us see now if th'one be worth th'other.
|
Sir Thomas Wyatt
|
Love,Desire,Infatuation & Crushes,Relationships
|
99 |
What should I Say
|
What should I say,
Since faith is dead,
And truth away
From you is fled?
Should I be led
With doubleness?
Nay, nay, mistress!
I promised you,
And you promised me,
To be as true
As I would be.
But since I see
Your double heart,
Farewell my part!
Though for to take
It is not my mind,
But to forsake
[One so unkind]
And as I find,
So will I trust:
Farewell, unjust!
Can ye say nay?
But you said
That I alway
Should be obeyed?
And thus betrayed
Or that I wiste—
Farewell, unkissed.
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Sir Thomas Wyatt
|
Living,Disappointment & Failure,Separation & Divorce,Love,Break-ups & Vexed Love,Relationships,Men & Women
|
100 |
The Last Bargain
|
"Come and hire me," I cried, while in the morning I was walking on the stone-paved road.
Sword in hand, the King came in his chariot.
He held my hand and said, "I will hire you with my power."
But his power counted for nought, and he went away in his chariot.
In the heat of the midday the houses stood with shut doors.
I wandered along the crooked lane.
An old man came out with his bag of gold.
He pondered and said, "I will hire you with my money."
He weighed his coins one by one, but I turned away.
It was evening. The garden hedge was all aflower.
The fair maid came out and said, "I will hire you with a smile."
Her smile paled and melted into tears, and she went back alone into the dark.
The sun glistened on the sand, and the sea waves broke waywardly.
A child sat playing with shells.
He raised his head and seemed to know me, and said, "I hire you with nothing."
From thenceforward that bargain struck in child's play made me a free man.
|
Rabindranath Tagore
|
Social Commentaries,Money & Economics
|
101 |
Playthings
|
Child, how happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a broken twig all the morning.
I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig.
I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour.
Perhaps you glance at me and think, "What a stupid game to spoil your morning with!"
Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud-pies.
I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and silver.
With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both my time and my strength over things I never can obtain.
In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing a game.
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Rabindranath Tagore
| null |
102 |
To Rosemounde: A Balade
|
Madame, ye ben of al beaute shryne
As fer as cercled is the mapamounde,
For as the cristal glorious ye shyne,
And lyke ruby ben your chekes rounde.
Therwith ye ben so mery and so jocounde
That at a revel whan that I see you daunce,
It is an oynement unto my wounde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.
For thogh I wepe of teres ful a tyne,
Yet may that wo myn herte nat confounde;
Your semy voys that ye so smal out twyne
Maketh my thoght in joy and blis habounde.
So curtaysly I go with love bounde
That to myself I sey in my penaunce,
"Suffyseth me to love you, Rosemounde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce."
Nas neuer pyk walwed in galauntyne
As I in love am walwed and ywounde,
For which ful ofte I of myself devyne
That I am trew Tristam the secounde.
My love may not refreyde nor affounde,
I brenne ay in an amorous plesaunce.
Do what you lyst, I wyl your thral be founde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.
|
Geoffrey Chaucer
|
The Body,Love,Break-ups & Vexed Love,Infatuation & Crushes,Romantic Love,Unrequited Love,Relationships,Men & Women,Nature
|
103 |
Safe in their Alabaster Chambers (124)
|
Safe in their Alabaster Chambers -
Untouched by Morning -
and untouched by noon -
Sleep the meek members of the Resurrection,
Rafter of Satin and Roof of Stone -
Grand go the Years,
In the Crescent above them -
Worlds scoop their Arcs -
and Firmaments - row -
Diadems - drop -
And Doges surrender -
Soundless as Dots,
On a Disk of Snow.
|
Emily Dickinson
|
Living,Death,Time & Brevity,Funerals
|
104 |
Surgeons must be very careful (156)
|
Surgeons must be very careful
When they take the knife!
Underneath their fine incisions
Stirs the Culprit - Life!
|
Emily Dickinson
|
Living,Health & Illness,Arts & Sciences,Sciences
|
105 |
Paradise Regain'd: Book 1 (1671 version)
|
I Who e're while the happy Garden sung, By one mans disobedience lost, now sing Recover'd Paradise to all mankind, By one mans firm obedience fully tri'd Through all temptation, and the Tempter foil'd In all his wiles, defeated and repuls't, And Eden rais'd in the wast Wilderness. Thou Spirit who ledst this glorious Eremite Into the Desert, his Victorious Field Against the Spiritual Foe, and broughtst him thence By proof the undoubted Son of God, inspire, As thou art wont, my prompted Song else mute, And bear through highth or depth of natures bounds With prosperous wing full summ'd to tell of deeds Above Heroic, though in secret done, And unrecorded left through many an Age, Worthy t'have not remain'd so long unsung. Now had the great Proclaimer with a voice More awful then the sound of Trumpet, cri'd Repentance, and Heavens Kingdom nigh at hand To all Baptiz'd: to his great Baptism flock'd With aw the Regions round, and with them came From Nazareth the Son of Joseph deem'd To the flood Jordan, came as then obscure, Unmarkt, unknown; but him the Baptist soon Descri'd, divinely warn'd, and witness bore As to his worthier, and would have resign'd To him his Heavenly Office, nor was long His witness unconfirm'd: on him baptiz'd Heaven open'd, and in likeness of a Dove The Spirit descended, while the Fathers voice From Heav'n pronounc'd him his beloved Son. That heard the Adversary, who roving still About the world, at that assembly fam'd Would not be last, and with the voice divine Nigh Thunder-struck, th' exalted man, to whom Such high attest was giv'n, a while survey'd With wonder, then with envy fraught and rage Flies to his place, nor rests, but in mid air To Councel summons all his mighty Peers, Within thick Clouds and dark ten-fold involv'd, A gloomy Consistory; and them amidst With looks agast and sad he thus bespake. O ancient Powers of Air and this wide world, For much more willingly I mention Air, This our old Conquest, then remember Hell Our hated habitation; well ye know How many Ages, as the years of men, This Universe we have possest, and rul'd In manner at our will th' affairs of Earth, Since Adam and his facil consort Eve Lost Paradise deceiv'd by me, though since With dread attending when that fatal wound Shall be inflicted by the Seed of Eve Upon my head, long the decrees of Heav'n Delay, for longest time to him is short; And now too soon for us the circling hours This dreaded time have compast, wherein we Must bide the stroak of that long threatn'd wound, At least if so we can, and by the head Broken be not intended all our power To be infring'd, our freedom and our being. In this fair Empire won of Earth and Air; For this ill news I bring, the Womans seed Destin'd to this, is late of woman born, His birth to our just fear gave no small cause, But his growth now to youths full flowr, displaying All vertue, grace and wisdom to atchieve Things highest, greatest, multiplies my fear. Before him a great Prophet, to proclaim His coming, is sent Harbinger, who all Invites, and in the Consecrated stream Pretends to wash off sin, and fit them so Purified to receive him pure, or rather To do him honour as their King; all come, And he himself among them was baptiz'd, Not thence to be more pure, but to receive The testimony of Heaven, that who he is Thenceforth the Nations may not doubt; I saw The Prophet do him reverence, on him rising Out of the water, Heav'n above the Clouds Unfold her Crystal Dores, thence on his head A perfect Dove descend, what e're it meant, And out of Heav'n the Sov'raign voice I heard, This is my Son belov'd, in him am pleas'd. His Mother then is mortal, but his Sire, He who obtains the Monarchy of Heav'n, And what will he not do to advance his Son? His first-begot we know, and sore have felt, When his fierce thunder drove us to the deep; Who this is we must learn, for man he seems In all his lineaments, though in his face The glimpses of his Fathers glory shine. Ye see our danger on the utmost edge Of hazard, which admits no long debate, But must with something sudden be oppos'd, Not force, but well couch't fraud, well woven snares, E're in the head of Nations he appear Their King, their Leader, and Supream on Earth. I, when no other durst, sole undertook The dismal expedition to find out And ruine Adam, and the exploit perform'd Successfully; a calmer voyage now Will waft me; and the way found prosperous once Induces best to hope of like success. He ended, and his words impression left Of much amazement to th' infernal Crew, Distracted and surpriz'd with deep dismay At these sad tidings; but no time was then For long indulgence to their fears or grief: Unanimous they all commit the care And management of this main enterprize To him their great Dictator, whose attempt At first against mankind so well had thriv'd In Adam's overthrow, and led thir march From Hell's deep-vaulted Den to dwell in light, Regents and Potentates, and Kings, yea gods Of many a pleasant Realm and Province wide. So to the Coast of Jordan he directs His easie steps; girded with snaky wiles, Where he might likeliest find this new-declar'd, This man of men, attested Son of God, Temptation and all guile on him to try; So to subvert whom he suspected rais'd To end his Raign on Earth so long enjoy'd: But contrary unweeting he fulfill'd The purpos'd Counsel pre-ordain'd and fixt Of the most High, who in full frequence bright Of Angels, thus to Gabriel smiling spake. Gabriel this day by proof thou shalt behold, Thou and all Angels conversant on Earth With man or mens affairs, how I begin To verifie that solemn message late, On which I sent thee to the Virgin pure In Galilee, that she should bear a Son Great in Renown, and call'd the Son of God; Then toldst her doubting how these things could be To her a Virgin, that on her should come The Holy Ghost, and the power of the highest O're-shadow her: this man born and now up-grown, To shew him worthy of his birth divine And high prediction, henceforth I expose To Satan; let him tempt and now assay His utmost subtilty, because he boasts And vaunts of his great cunning to the throng Of his Apostasie; he might have learnt Less over-weening, since he fail'd in Job, Whose constant perseverance overcame Whate're his cruel malice could invent. He now shall know I can produce a man Of female Seed, far abler to resist All his sollicitations, and at length All his vast force, and drive him back to Hell, Winning by Conquest what the first man lost By fallacy surpriz'd. But first I mean To exercise him in the Wilderness, There he shall first lay down the rudiments Of his great warfare, e're I send him forth To conquer Sin and Death the two grand foes, By Humiliation and strong Sufferance: His weakness shall o'recome Satanic strength And all the world, and mass of sinful flesh; That all the Angels and Ætherial Powers, They now, and men hereafter may discern, From what consummate vertue I have chose This perfect Man, by merit call'd my Son, To earn Salvation for the Sons of men. So spake the Eternal Father, and all Heaven Admiring stood a space, then into Hymns Burst forth, and in Celestial measures mov'd, Circling the Throne and Singing, while the hand Sung with the voice, and this the argument. Victory and Triumph to the Son of God Now entring his great duel, not of arms, But to vanquish by wisdom hellish wiles. The Father knows the Son; therefore secure Ventures his filial Vertue, though untri'd, Against whate're may tempt, whate're seduce, Allure, or terrifie, or undermine. Be frustrate all ye stratagems of Hell, And devilish machinations come to nought. So they in Heav'n their Odes and Vigils tun'd: Mean while the Son of God, who yet some days Lodg'd in Bethabara where John baptiz'd, Musing and much revolving in his brest, How best the mighty work he might begin Of Saviour to mankind, and which way first Publish his God-like office now mature, One day forth walk'd alone, the Spirit leading; And his deep thoughts, the better to converse With solitude, till far from track of men, Thought following thought, and step by step led on, He entred now the bordering Desert wild, And with dark shades and rocks environ'd round, His holy Meditations thus persu'd. O what a multitude of thoughts at once Awakn'd in me swarm, while I consider What from within I feel my self, and hear What from without comes often to my ears, Ill sorting with my present state compar'd. When I was yet a child, no childish play To me was pleasing, all my mind was set Serious to learn and know, and thence to do What might be publick good; my self I thought Born to that end, born to promote all truth, All righteous things: therefore above my years, The Law of God I read, and found it sweet, Made it my whole delight, and in it grew To such perfection, that e're yet my age Had measur'd twice six years, at our great Feast I went into the Temple, there to hear The Teachers of our Law, and to propose What might improve my knowledge or their own; And was admir'd by all, yet this not all To which my Spirit aspir'd, victorious deeds Flam'd in my heart, heroic acts, one while To rescue Israel from the Roman yoke, Then to subdue and quell o're all the earth Brute violence and proud Tyrannick pow'r, Till truth were freed, and equity restor'd: Yet held it more humane, more heavenly first By winning words to conquer willing hearts, And make perswasion do the work of fear; At least to try, and teach the erring Soul Not wilfully mis-doing, but unware Misled; the stubborn only to destroy. These growing thoughts my Mother soon perceiving By words at times cast forth inly rejoyc'd, And said to me apart, high are thy thoughts O Son, but nourish them and let them soar To what highth sacred vertue and true worth Can raise them, though above example high; By matchless Deeds express thy matchless Sire. For know, thou art no Son of mortal man, Though men esteem thee low of Parentage, Thy Father is the Eternal King, who rules All Heaven and Earth, Angels and Sons of men, A messenger from God fore-told thy birth Conceiv'd in me a Virgin, he fore-told Thou shouldst be great and sit on David's Throne, And of thy Kingdom there should be no end. At thy Nativity a glorious Quire Of Angels in the fields of Bethlehem sung To Shepherds watching at their folds by night, And told them the Messiah now was born, Where they might see him, and to thee they came; Directed to the Manger where thou lais't, For in the Inn was left no better room: A Star, not seen before in Heaven appearing Guided the Wise Men thither from the East, To honour thee with Incense, Myrrh, and Gold, By whose bright course led on they found the place, Affirming it thy Star new grav'n in Heaven, By which they knew thee King of Israel born. Just Simeon and Prophetic Anna, warn'd By Vision, found thee in the Temple, and spake Before the Altar and the vested Priest, Like things of thee to all that present stood. This having heard, strait I again revolv'd The Law and Prophets, searching what was writ Concerning the Messiah, to our Scribes Known partly, and soon found of whom they spake I am; this chiefly, that my way must lie Through many a hard assay even to the death, E're I the promis'd Kingdom can attain, Or work Redemption for mankind, whose sins Full weight must be transferr'd upon my head. Yet neither thus disheartn'd or dismay'd, The time prefixt I waited, when behold The Baptist, (of whose birth I oft had heard, Not knew by sight) now come, who was to come Before Messiah and his way prepare. I as all others to his Baptism came, Which I believ'd was from above; but he Strait knew me, and with loudest voice proclaim'd Me him (for it was shew'n him so from Heaven) Me him whose Harbinger he was; and first Refus'd on me his Baptism to confer, As much his greater, and was hardly won; But as I rose out of the laving stream, Heaven open'd her eternal doors, from whence The Spirit descended on me like a Dove, And last the sum of all, my Father's voice, Audibly heard from Heav'n, pronounc'd me his, Me his beloved Son, in whom alone He was well pleas'd; by which I knew the time Now full, that I no more should live obscure, But openly begin, as best becomes The Authority which I deriv'd from Heaven. And now by some strong motion I am led Into this Wilderness, to what intent I learn not yet, perhaps I need not know; For what concerns my knowledge God reveals. So spake our Morning Star then in his rise, And looking round on every side beheld A pathless Desert, dusk with horrid shades; The way he came not having mark'd, return Was difficult, by humane steps untrod; And he still on was led, but with such thoughts Accompanied of things past and to come Lodg'd in his breast, as well might recommend Such Solitude before choicest Society. Full forty days he pass'd, whether on hill Sometimes, anon in shady vale, each night Under the covert of some ancient Oak, Or Cedar, to defend him from the dew, Or harbour'd in one Cave, is not reveal'd; Nor tasted humane food, nor hunger felt Till those days ended, hunger'd then at last Among wild Beasts: they at his sight grew mild, Nor sleeping him nor waking harm'd, his walk The fiery Serpent fled, and noxious Worm, The Lion and fierce Tiger glar'd aloof. But now an aged man in Rural weeds, Following, as seem'd, the quest of some stray Ewe, Or wither'd sticks to gather; which might serve Against a Winters day when winds blow keen, To warm him wet return'd from field at Eve, He saw approach, who first with curious eye Perus'd him, then with words thus utt'red spake. Sir, what ill chance hath brought thee to this place So far from path or road of men, who pass In Troop or Caravan, for single none Durst ever, who return'd, and dropt not here His Carcass, pin'd with hunger and with droughth? I ask the rather, and the more admire, For that to me thou seem'st the man, whom late Our new baptizing Prophet at the Ford Of Jordan honour'd so, and call'd thee Son Of God; I saw and heard, for we sometimes Who dwell this wild, constrain'd by want, come forth To Town or Village nigh (nighest is far) Where ought we hear, and curious are to hear, What happ'ns new; Fame also finds us out. To whom the Son of God. Who brought me hither Will bring me hence, no other Guide I seek. By Miracle he may, reply'd the Swain, What other way I see not, for we here Live on tough roots and stubs, to thirst inur'd More then the Camel, and to drink go far, Men to much misery and hardship born; But if thou be the Son of God, Command That out of these hard stones be made thee bread; So shalt thou save thy self and us relieve With Food, whereof we wretched seldom taste. He ended, and the Son of God reply'd. Think'st thou such force in Bread? is it not written (For I discern thee other then thou seem'st) Man lives not by Bread only, but each Word Proceeding from the mouth of God; who fed Our Fathers here with Manna; in the Mount Moses was forty days, nor eat nor drank, And forty days Eliah without food Wandred this barren waste, the same I now. Why dost thou then suggest to me distrust, Knowing who I am, as I know who thou art? Whom thus answer'd th' Arch Fiend now undisguis'd. 'Tis true, I am that Spirit unfortunate, Who leagu'd with millions more in rash revolt Kept not my happy Station, but was driv'n With them from bliss to the bottomless deep, Yet to that hideous place not so confin'd By rigour unconniving, but that oft Leaving my dolorous Prison I enjoy Large liberty to round this Globe of Earth, Or range in th' Air, nor from the Heav'n of Heav'ns Hath he excluded my resort sometimes. I came among the Sons of God, when he Gave up into my hands Uzzean Job To prove him, and illustrate his high worth; And when to all his Angels he propos'd To draw the proud King Ahab into fraud That he might fall in Ramoth, they demuring, I undertook that office, and the tongues Of all his flattering Prophets glibb'd with lyes To his destruction, as I had in charge. For what he bids I do; though I have lost Much lustre of my native brightness, lost To be belov'd of God, I have not lost To love, at least contemplate and admire What I see excellent in good, or fair, Or vertuous, I should so have lost all sense. What can be then less in me then desire To see thee and approach thee, whom I know Declar'd the Son of God, to hear attent Thy wisdom, and behold thy God-like deeds? Men generally think me much a foe To all mankind: why should I? they to me Never did wrong or violence, by them I lost not what I lost, rather by them I gain'd what I have gain'd, and with them dwell Copartner in these Regions of the World, If not disposer; lend them oft my aid, Oft my advice by presages and signs, And answers, oracles, portents and dreams, Whereby they may direct their future life. Envy they say excites me, thus to gain Companions of my misery and wo. At first it may be; but long since with wo Nearer acquainted, now I feel by proof, That fellowship in pain divides not smart, Nor lightens aught each mans peculiar load. Small consolation then, were Man adjoyn'd: This wounds me most (what can it less) that Man, Man fall'n shall be restor'd, I never more. To whom our Saviour sternly thus reply'd. Deservedly thou griev'st, compos'd of lyes From the beginning, and in lies wilt end; Who boast'st release from Hell, and leave to come Into the Heav'n of Heavens; thou com'st indeed, As a poor miserable captive thrall, Comes to the place where he before had sat Among the Prime in Splendour, now depos'd, Ejected, emptyed, gaz'd, unpityed, shun'd, A spectacle of ruin or of scorn To all the Host of Heaven; the happy place Imparts to thee no happiness, no joy, Rather inflames thy torment, representing Lost bliss, to thee no more communicable, So never more in Hell then when in Heaven. But thou art serviceable to Heaven's King. Wilt thou impute to obedience what thy fear Extorts, or pleasure to do ill excites? What but thy malice mov'd thee to misdeem Of righteous Job, then cruelly to afflict him With all inflictions, but his patience won? The other service was thy chosen task, To be a lyer in four hundred mouths; For lying is thy sustenance, thy food. Yet thou pretend'st to truth; all Oracles By thee are giv'n, and what confest more true Among the Nations? that hath been thy craft, By mixing somewhat true to vent more lyes. But what have been thy answers, what but dark Ambiguous and with double sense deluding, Which they who ask'd have seldom understood, And not well understood as good not known? Who ever by consulting at thy shrine Return'd the wiser, or the more instruct To flye or follow what concern'd him most, And run not sooner to his fatal snare? For God hath justly giv'n the Nations up To thy Delusions; justly, since they fell Idolatrous, but when his purpose is Among them to declare his Providence To thee not known, whence hast thou then thy truth, But from him or his Angels President In every Province, who themselves disdaining To approach thy Temples, give thee in command What to the smallest tittle thou shalt say To thy Adorers; thou with trembling fear, Or like a Fawning Parasite obey'st; Then to thy self ascrib'st the truth fore-told. But this thy glory shall be soon retrench'd; No more shalt thou by oracling abuse The Gentiles; henceforth Oracles are ceast, And thou no more with Pomp and Sacrifice Shalt be enquir'd at Delphos or elsewhere, At least in vain, for they shall find thee mute. God hath now sent his living Oracle Into the World, to teach his final will, And sends his Spirit of Truth henceforth to dwell In pious Hearts, an inward Oracle To all truth requisite for men to know. So spake our Saviour; but the subtle Fiend, Though inly stung with anger and disdain, Dissembl'd, and this Answer smooth return'd. Sharply thou hast insisted on rebuke, And urg'd me hard with doings, which not will But misery hath rested from me; where Easily canst thou find one miserable, And not inforc'd oft-times to part from truth; If it may stand him more in stead to lye, Say and unsay, feign, flatter, or abjure? But thou art plac't above me, thou art Lord; From thee I can and must submiss endure Check or reproof, and glad to scape so quit. Hard are the ways of truth, and rough to walk, Smooth on the tongue discourst, pleasing to th' ear, And tuneable as Silvan Pipe or Song; What wonder then if I delight to hear Her dictates from thy mouth? most men admire Vertue, who follow not her lore: permit me To hear thee when I come (since no man comes) And talk at least, though I despair to attain. Thy Father, who is holy, wise and pure, Suffers the Hypocrite or Atheous Priest To tread his Sacred Courts, and minister About his Altar, handling holy things, Praying or vowing, and vouchsaf'd his voice To Balaam Reprobate, a Prophet yet Inspir'd; disdain not such access to me. To whom our Saviour with unalter'd brow. Thy coming hither, though I know thy scope, I bid not or forbid; do as thou find'st Permission from above; thou canst not more. He added not; and Satan bowing low His gray dissimulation, disappear'd Into thin Air diffus'd: for now began Night with her sullen wing to double-shade The Desert, Fowls in thir clay nests were couch't; And now wild Beasts came forth the woods to roam.
|
John Milton
|
Religion,Christianity,God & the Divine
|
106 |
Paradise Regain'd: Book 2 (1671 version)
|
MEan while the new-baptiz'd, who yet remain'd At Jordan with the Baptist, and had seen Him whom they heard so late expresly call'd Jesus Messiah Son of God declar'd, And on that high Authority had believ'd, And with him talkt, and with him lodg'd, I mean Andrew and Simon, famous after known With others though in Holy Writ not nam'd, Now missing him thir joy so lately found, So lately found, and so abruptly gone, Began to doubt, and doubted many days, And as the days increas'd, increas'd thir doubt: Sometimes they thought he might be only shewn, And for a time caught up to God, as once Moses was in the Mount, and missing long; And the great Thisbite who on fiery wheels Rode up to Heaven, yet once again to come. Therefore as those young Prophets then with care Sought lost Eliah, so in each place these Nigh to Bethabara; in Jerico The City of Palms, Ænon, and Salem Old, Machærus and each Town or City wall'd On this side the broad lake Genezaret, Or in Perea, but return'd in vain. Then on the bank of Jordan, by a Creek: Where winds with Reeds, and Osiers whisp'ring play Plain Fishermen, no greater men them call, Close in a Cottage low together got Thir unexpected loss and plaints out breath'd. Alas, from what high hope to what relapse Unlook'd for are we fall'n, our eyes beheld Messiah certainly now come, so long Expected of our Fathers; we have heard His words, his wisdom full of grace and truth, Now, now, for sure, deliverance is at hand, The Kingdom shall to Israel be restor'd: Thus we rejoyc'd, but soon our joy is turn'd Into perplexity and new amaze: For whither is he gone, what accident Hath rapt him from us? will he now retire After appearance, and again prolong Our expectation? God of Israel, Send thy Messiah forth, the time is come; Behold the Kings of the Earth how they oppress Thy chosen, to what highth thir pow'r unjust They have exalted, and behind them cast All fear of thee, arise and vindicate Thy Glory, free thy people from thir yoke, But let us wait; thus far he hath perform'd, Sent his Anointed, and to us reveal'd him, By his great Prophet, pointed at and shown, In publick, and with him we have convers'd; Let us be glad of this, and all our fears Lay on his Providence; he will not fail Nor will withdraw him now, nor will recall, Mock us with his blest sight, then snatch him hence, Soon we shall see our hope, our joy return. Thus they out of their plaints new hope resume To find whom at the first they found unsought: But to his Mother Mary, when she saw Others return'd from Baptism, not her Son, Nor left at Jordan, tydings of him none; Within her brest, though calm; her brest though pure, Motherly cares and fears got head, and rais'd Some troubl'd thoughts, which she in sighs thus clad. O what avails me now that honour high To have conceiv'd of God, or that salute Hale highly favour'd, among women blest; While I to sorrows am no less advanc't, And fears as eminent, above the lot Of other women, by the birth I bore, In such a season born when scarce a Shed Could be obtain'd to shelter him or me From the bleak air; a Stable was our warmth, A Manger his, yet soon enforc't to flye Thence into Egypt, till the Murd'rous King Were dead, who sought his life, and missing fill'd With Infant blood the streets of Bethlehem; From Egypt home return'd, in Nazareth Hath been our dwelling many years, his life Private, unactive, calm, contemplative, Little suspicious to any King; but now Full grown to Man, acknowledg'd, as I hear, By John the Baptist, and in publick shown, Son own'd from Heaven by his Father's voice; I look't for some great change; to Honour? no, But trouble, as old Simeon plain fore-told, That to the fall and rising he should be Of many in Israel, and to a sign Spoken against, that through my very Soul A sword shall pierce, this is my favour'd lot, My Exaltation to Afflictions high; Afflicted I may be, it seems, and blest; I will not argue that, nor will repine. But where delays he now? some great intent Conceals him: when twelve years he scarce had seen, I lost him, but so found, as well I saw He could not lose himself; but went about His Father's business; what he meant I mus'd, Since understand; much more his absence now Thus long to some great purpose he obscures. But I to wait with patience am inur'd; My heart hath been a store-house long of things And sayings laid up, portending strange events. Thus Mary pondering oft, and oft to mind Recalling what remarkably had pass'd Since first her Salutation heard, with thoughts Meekly compos'd awaited the fulfilling: The while her Son tracing the Desert wild, Sole but with holiest Meditations fed, Into himself descended, and at once All his great work to come before him set; How to begin, how to accomplish best His end of being on Earth, and mission high: For Satan with slye preface to return Had left him vacant, and with speed was gon Up to the middle Region of thick Air, Where all his Potentates in Council sate; There without sign of boast, or sign of joy, Sollicitous and blank he thus began. Princes, Heavens antient Sons, Æthereal Thrones, Demonian Spirits now, from the Element Each of his reign allotted, rightlier call'd, Powers of Fire, Air, Water, and Earth beneath, So may we hold our place and these mild seats Without new trouble; such an Enemy Is ris'n to invade us, who no less Threat'ns then our expulsion down to Hell; I, as I undertook, and with the vote Consenting in full frequence was impowr'd, Have found him, view'd him, tasted him, but find Far other labour to be undergon Then when I dealt with Adam first of Men, Though Adam by his Wives allurement fell, However to this Man inferior far, If he be Man by Mothers side at least, With more then humane gifts from Heaven adorn'd, Perfections absolute, Graces divine, And amplitude of mind to greatest Deeds. Therefore I am return'd, lest confidence Of my success with Eve in Paradise Deceive ye to perswasion over-sure Of like succeeding here; I summon all Rather to be in readiness, with hand Or counsel to assist; lest I who erst Thought none my equal, now be over-match'd. So spake the old Serpent doubting, and from all With clamour was assur'd thir utmost aid At his command; when from amidst them rose Belial the dissolutest Spirit that fell, The sensuallest, and after Asmodai The fleshliest Incubus, and thus advis'd. Set women in his eye and in his walk, Among daughters of men the fairest found; Many are in each Region passing fair As the noon Skie; more like to Goddesses Then Mortal Creatures, graceful and discreet, Expert in amorous Arts, enchanting tongues Perswasive, Virgin majesty with mild And sweet allay'd, yet terrible to approach, Skill'd to retire, and in retiring draw Hearts after them tangl'd in Amorous Nets. Such object hath the power to soft'n and tame Severest temper, smooth the rugged'st brow, Enerve, and with voluptuous hope dissolve, Draw out with credulous desire, and lead At will the manliest, resolutest brest, As the Magnetic hardest Iron draws. Women, when nothing else, beguil'd the heart Of wisest Solomon, and made him build, And made him bow to the Gods of his Wives. To whom quick answer Satan thus return'd. Belial, in much uneven scale thou weigh'st All others by thy self; because of old Thou thy self doat'st on womankind, admiring Thir shape, thir colour, and attractive grace, None are, thou think'st, but taken with such toys. Before the Flood thou with thy lusty Crew, False titl'd Sons of God, roaming the Earth Cast wanton eyes on the daughters of men, And coupl'd with them, and begot a race. Have we not seen, or by relation heard, In Courts and Regal Chambers how thou lurk'st, In Wood or Grove by mossie Fountain side, In Valley or Green Meadow to way-lay Some beauty rare, Calisto, Clymene, Daphne, or Semele, Antiopa, Or Amymone, Syrinx, many more Too long, then lay'st thy scapes on names ador'd, Apollo, Neptune, Jupiter, or Pan, Satyr, or Fawn, or Silvan? But these haunts Delight not all; among the Sons of Men, How many have with a smile made small account Of beauty and her lures, easily scorn'd All her assaults, on worthier things intent? Remember that Pellean Conquerour, A youth, how all the Beauties of the East He slightly view'd, and slightly over-pass'd; How hee sirnam'd of Africa dismiss'd In his prime youth the fair Iberian maid. For Solomon he liv'd at ease, and full Of honour, wealth, high fare, aim'd not beyond Higher design then to enjoy his State; Thence to the bait of Women lay expos'd; But he whom we attempt is wiser far Then Solomon, of more exalted mind, Made and set wholly on the accomplishment Of greatest things; what woman will you find, Though of this Age the wonder and the fame, On whom his leisure will vouchsafe an eye Of fond desire? or should she confident, As sitting Queen ador'd on Beauties Throne, Descend with all her winning charms begirt To enamour, as the Zone of Venus once Wrought that effect on Jove, so Fables tell; How would one look from his Majestick brow Seated as on the top of Vertues hill, Discount'nance her despis'd, and put to rout All her array; her female pride deject, Or turn to reverent awe? for Beauty stands In the admiration only of weak minds Led captive; cease to admire, and all her Plumes Fall flat and shrink into a trivial toy, At every sudden slighting quite abasht: Therefore with manlier objects we must try His constancy, with such as have more shew Of worth, of honour, glory, and popular praise; Rocks whereon greatest men have oftest wreck'd; Or that which only seems to satisfie Lawful desires of Nature, not beyond; And now I know he hungers where no food Is to be found, in the wide Wilderness; The rest commit to me, I shall let pass No advantage, and his strength as oft assay. He ceas'd, and heard thir grant in loud acclaim; Then forthwith to him takes a chosen band Of Spirits likest to himself in guile To be at hand, and at his beck appear, If cause were to unfold some active Scene Of various persons each to know his part; Then to the Desert takes with these his flight; Where still from shade to shade the Son of God After forty days fasting had remain'd, Now hungring first, and to himself thus said. Where will this end? four times ten days I have pass'd Wandring this woody maze, and humane food Nor tasted, nor had appetite; that Fast To Vertue I impute not, or count part Of what I suffer here; if Nature need not, Or God support Nature without repast Though needing, what praise is it to endure? But now I feel I hunger, which declares, Nature hath need of what she asks; yet God Can satisfie that need some other way, Though hunger still remain: so it remain Without this bodies wasting, I content me, And from the sting of Famine fear no harm, Nor mind it, fed with better thoughts that feed Mee hungring more to do my Fathers will. It was the hour of night, when thus the Son Commun'd in silent walk, then laid him down Under the hospitable covert nigh Of Trees thick interwoven; there he slept, And dream'd, as appetite is wont to dream, Of meats and drinks, Natures refreshment sweet; Him thought, he by the Brook of Cherith stood And saw the Ravens with their horny beaks Food to Elijah bringing Even and Morn, Though ravenous, taught to abstain from what they brought: He saw the Prophet also how he fled Into the Desert, and how there he slept Under a Juniper; then how awakt, He found his Supper on the coals prepar'd, And by the Angel was bid rise and eat, And eat the second time after repose, The strength whereof suffic'd him forty days; Sometimes that with Elijah he partook, Or as a guest with Daniel at his pulse. Thus wore out night, and now the Herald Lark Left his ground-nest, high towring to descry The morns approach, and greet her with his Song: As lightly from his grassy Couch up rose Our Saviour, and found all was but a dream, Fasting he went to sleep, and fasting wak'd. Up to a hill anon his steps he rear'd, From whose high top to ken the prospect round, If Cottage were in view, Sheep-cote or Herd; But Cottage, Herd or Sheep-cote none he saw, Only in a bottom saw a pleasant Grove, With chaunt of tuneful Birds resounding loud; Thither he bent his way, determin'd there To rest at noon, and entr'd soon the shade High rooft and walks beneath, and alleys brown That open'd in the midst a woody Scene, Natures own work it seem'd (Nature taught Art) And to a Superstitious eye the haunt Of Wood-Gods and Wood-Nymphs; he view'd it round, When suddenly a man before him stood, Not rustic as before, but seemlier clad, As one in City, or Court, or Palace bred, And with fair speech these words to him address'd. With granted leave officious I return, But much more wonder that the Son of God In this wild solitude so long should bide Of all things destitute, and well I know, Not without hunger. Others of some note, As story tells, have trod this Wilderness; The Fugitive Bond-woman with her Son Out cast Nebaioth, yet found he relief By a providing Angel; all the race Of Israel here had famish'd, had not God Rain'd from Heaven Manna, and that Prophet bold Native of Thebes wandring here was fed Twice by a voice inviting him to eat. Of thee these forty days none hath regard, Forty and more deserted here indeed. To whom thus Jesus; what conclud'st thou hence? They all had need, I as thou seest have none. How hast thou hunger then? Satan reply'd, Tell me if Food were now before thee set, Would'st thou not eat? Thereafter as I like The giver, answer'd Jesus. Why should that Cause thy refusal, said the subtle Fiend, Hast thou not right to all Created things, Owe not all Creatures by just right to thee Duty and Service, nor to stay till bid, But tender all their power? nor mention I Meats by the Law unclean, or offer'd first To Idols, those young Daniel could refuse; Nor proffer'd by an Enemy, though who Would scruple that, with want opprest? behold Nature asham'd, or better to express, Troubl'd that thou shouldst hunger, hath purvey'd From all the Elements her choicest store To treat thee as beseems, and as her Lord With honour, only deign to sit and eat. He spake no dream, for as his words had end, Our Saviour lifting up his eyes beheld In ample space under the broadest shade A Table richly spred, in regal mode, With dishes pill'd, and meats of noblest sort And savour, Beasts of chase, or Fowl of game, In pastry built, or from the spit, or boyl'd, Gris-amber-steam'd; all Fish from Sea or Shore, Freshet, or purling Brook, of shell or fin, And exquisitest name, for which was drain'd Pontus and Lucrine Bay, and Afric Coast. Alas how simple, to these Cates compar'd, Was that crude Apple that diverted Eve! And at a stately side-board by the wine That fragrant smell diffus'd, in order stood Tall stripling youths rich clad, of fairer hew Then Ganymed or Hylas, distant more Under the Trees now trip'd, now solemn stood Nymphs of Diana's train, and Naiades With fruits and flowers from Amalthea's horn, And Ladies of th' Hesperides, that seem'd Fairer then feign'd of old, or fabl'd since Of Fairy Damsels met in Forest wide By Knights of Logres, or of Lyones, Lancelot or Pelleas, or Pellenore, And all the while Harmonious Airs were heard Of chiming strings, or charming pipes and winds Of gentlest gale Arabian odors fann'd From their soft wings, and Flora's earliest smells. Such was the Splendour, and the Tempter now His invitation earnestly renew'd. What doubts the Son of God to sit and eat? These are not Fruits forbidden, no interdict Defends the touching of these viands pure, Thir taste no knowledge works, at least of evil, But life preserves, destroys life's enemy, Hunger, with sweet restorative delight. All these are Spirits of Air, and Woods, and Springs, Thy gentle Ministers, who come to pay Thee homage, and acknowledge thee thir Lord: What doubt'st thou Son of God? sit down and eat. To whom thus Jesus temperately reply'd: Said'st thou not that to all things I had right? And who withholds my pow'r that right to use? Shall I receive by gift what of my own, When and where likes me best, I can command? I can at will, doubt not, as soon as thou, Command a Table in this Wilderness, And call swift flights of Angels ministrant Array'd in Glory on my cup to attend: Why shouldst thou then obtrude this diligence, In vain, where no acceptance it can find, And with my hunger what has thou to do? Thy pompous Delicacies I contemn, And count thy specious gifts no gifts but guiles. To whom thus answer'd Satan malecontent: That I have also power to give thou seest, If of that pow'r I bring thee voluntary What I might have bestow'd on whom I pleas'd, And rather opportunely in this place Chose to impart to thy apparent need, Why shouldst thou not accept it? but I see What I can do or offer is suspect; Of these things others quickly will dispose Whose pains have earn'd the far fet spoil. With that Both Table and Provision vanish'd quite With sound of Harpies wings, and Talons heard; Only the importune Tempter still remain'd, And with these words his temptation pursu'd. By hunger, that each other Creature tames, Thou art not to be harm'd, therefore not mov'd; Thy temperance invincible besides, For no allurement yields to appetite, And all thy heart is set on high designs, High actions; but wherewith to be atchiev'd? Great acts require great means of enterprise, Thou art unknown, unfriended, low of birth, A Carpenter thy Father known, thy self Bred up in poverty and streights at home; Lost in a Desert here and hunger-bit: Which way or from what hope dost thou aspire To greatness? whence Authority deriv'st, What Followers, what Retinue canst thou gain, Or at thy heels the dizzy Multitude, Longer then thou canst feed them on thy cost? Money brings Honour, Friends, Conquest, and Realms; What rais'd Antipater the Edomite, And his Son Herod plac'd on Juda's Throne; (Thy throne) but gold that got him puissant friends? Therefore, if at great things thou wouldst arrive, Get Riches first, get Wealth, and Treasure heap, Not difficult, if thou hearken to me, Riches are mine, Fortune is in my hand; They whom I favour thrive in wealth amain, While Virtue, Valour, Wisdom sit in want. To whom thus Jesus patiently reply'd; Yet Wealth without these three is impotent, To gain dominion or to keep it gain'd. Witness those antient Empires of the Earth, In highth of all thir flowing wealth dissolv'd: But men endu'd with these have oft attain'd In lowest poverty to highest deeds; Gideon and Jephtha, and the Shepherd lad, Whose off-spring on the Throne of Juda sat So many Ages, and shall yet regain That seat, and reign in Israel without end. Among the Heathen, (for throughout the World To me is not unknown what hath been done Worthy of Memorial) canst thou not remember Quintius, Fabricius, Curius, Regulus? For I esteem those names of men so poor Who could do mighty things, and could contemn Riches though offer'd from the hand of Kings. And what in me seems wanting, but that I May also in this poverty as soon Accomplish what they did, perhaps and more? Extol not Riches then, the toyl of Fools, The wise mans cumbrance if not snare, more apt To slacken Virtue, and abate her edge, Then prompt her to do aught may merit praise. What if with like aversion I reject Riches and Realms; yet not for that a Crown, Golden in shew, is but a wreath of thorns, Brings dangers, troubles, cares, and sleepless nights To him who wears the Regal Diadem, When on his shoulders each mans burden lies; For therein stands the office of a King, His Honour, Vertue, Merit and chief Praise, That for the Publick all this weight he bears. Yet he who reigns within himself, and rules Passions, Desires, and Fears, is more a King; Which every wise and vertuous man attains: And who attains not, ill aspires to rule Cities of men or head-strong Multitudes, Subject himself to Anarchy within, Or lawless passions in him which he serves. But to guide Nations in the way of truth By saving Doctrine, and from errour lead To know, and knowing worship God aright, Is yet more Kingly, this attracts the Soul, Governs the inner man, the nobler part, That other o're the body only reigns, And oft by force, which to a generous mind So reigning can be no sincere delight. Besides to give a Kingdom hath been thought Greater and nobler done, and to lay down Far more magnanimous, then to assume. Riches are needless then, both for themselves, And for thy reason why they should be sought, To gain a Scepter, oftest better miss't.
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John Milton
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Religion,Christianity,God & the Divine
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107 |
Paradise Regain'd: Book 3 (1671 version)
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SO spake the Son of God, and Satan stood A while as mute confounded what to say, What to reply, confuted and convinc't Of his weak arguing, and fallacious drift; At length collecting all his Serpent wiles, With soothing words renew'd, him thus accosts. I see thou know'st what is of use to know, What best to say canst say, to do canst do; Thy actions to thy words accord, thy words To thy large heart give utterance due, thy heart Conteins of good, wise, just, the perfect shape. Should Kings and Nations from thy mouth consult, Thy Counsel would be as the Oracle Urim and Thummim, those oraculous gems On Aaron's breast: or tongue of Seers old Infallible; or wert thou sought to deeds That might require th' array of war, thy skill Of conduct would be such, that all the world Could not sustain thy Prowess, or subsist In battel, though against thy few in arms. These God-like Vertues wherefore dost thou hide? Affecting private life, or more obscure In savage Wilderness, wherefore deprive All Earth her wonder at thy acts, thy self The fame and glory, glory the reward That sole excites to high attempts the flame Of most erected Spirits, most temper'd pure Ætherial, who all pleasures else despise, All treasures and all gain esteem as dross, And dignities and powers all but the highest? Thy years are ripe, and over-ripe, the Son Of Macedonian Philip had e're these Won Asia and the Throne of Cyrus held At his dispose, young Scipio had brought down The Carthaginian pride, young Pompey quell'd The Pontic King and in triumph had rode. Yet years, and to ripe years judgment mature, Quench not the thirst of glory, but augment. Great Julius, whom now all the world admires The more he grew in years, the more inflam'd With glory, wept that he had liv'd so long Inglorious: but thou yet art not too late. To whom our Saviour calmly thus reply'd. Thou neither dost perswade me to seek wealth For Empires sake, nor Empire to affect For glories sake by all thy argument. For what is glory but the blaze of fame, The peoples praise, if always praise unmixt? And what the people but a herd confus'd, A miscellaneous rabble, who extol Things vulgar, & well weigh'd, scarce worth the praise, They praise and they admire they know not what; And know not whom, but as one leads the other; And what delight to be by such extoll'd, To live upon thir tongues and be thir talk, Of whom to be disprais'd were no small praise? His lot who dares be singularly good. Th' intelligent among them and the wise Are few, and glory scarce of few is rais'd. This is true glory and renown, when God Looking on the Earth, with approbation marks The just man, and divulges him through Heaven To all his Angels, who with true applause Recount his praises; thus he did to Job, When to extend his fame through Heaven & Earth, As thou to thy reproach mayst well remember, He ask'd thee, hast thou seen my servant Job? Famous he was in Heaven, on Earth less known; Where glory is false glory, attributed To things not glorious, men not worthy of fame. They err who count it glorious to subdue By Conquest far and wide, to over-run Large Countries, and in field great Battels win, Great Cities by assault: what do these Worthies, But rob and spoil, burn, slaughter, and enslave Peaceable Nations, neighbouring, or remote, Made Captive, yet deserving freedom more Then those thir Conquerours, who leave behind Nothing but ruin wheresoe're they rove, And all the flourishing works of peace destroy, Then swell with pride, and must be titl'd Gods, Great Benefactors of mankind, Deliverers, Worship't with Temple, Priest and Sacrifice; One is the Son of Jove, of Mars the other, Till Conquerour Death discover them scarce men, Rowling in brutish vices, and deform'd, Violent or shameful death thir due reward. But if there be in glory aught of good, It may by means far different be attain'd Without ambition, war, or violence; By deeds of peace, by wisdom eminent, By patience, temperance; I mention still Him whom thy wrongs with Saintly patience born, Made famous in a Land and times obscure; Who names not now with honour patient Job? Poor Socrates (who next more memorable?) By what he taught and suffer'd for so doing, For truths sake suffering death unjust, lives now Equal in fame to proudest Conquerours. Yet if for fame and glory aught be done, Aught suffer'd; if young African for fame His wasted Country freed from Punic rage, The deed becomes unprais'd, the man at least, And loses, though but verbal, his reward. Shall I seek glory then, as vain men seek Oft not deserv'd? I seek not mine, but his Who sent me, and thereby witness whence I am. To whom the Tempter murmuring thus reply'd. Think not so slight of glory; therein least Resembling thy great Father: he seeks glory, And for his glory all things made, all things Orders and governs, nor content in Heaven By all his Angels glorifi'd, requires Glory from men, from all men good or bad, Wise or unwise, no difference, no exemption; Above all Sacrifice, or hallow'd gift Glory he requires, and glory he receives Promiscuous from all Nations, Jew, or Greek, Or Barbarous, nor exception hath declar'd; From us his foes pronounc't glory he exacts. To whom our Saviour fervently reply'd. And reason; since his word all things produc'd, Though chiefly not for glory as prime end, But to shew forth his goodness, and impart His good communicable to every soul Freely; of whom what could he less expect Then glory and benediction, that is thanks, The slightest, easiest, readiest recompence From them who could return him nothing else, And not returning that would likeliest render Contempt instead, dishonour, obloquy? Hard recompence, unsutable return For so much good, so much beneficence. But why should man seek glory? who of his own Hath nothing, and to whom nothing belongs But condemnation, ignominy, and shame? Who for so many benefits receiv'd Turn'd recreant to God, ingrate and false, And so of all true good himself despoil'd, Yet, sacrilegious, to himself would take That which to God alone of right belongs; Yet so much bounty is in God, such grace, That who advance his glory, not thir own, Them he himself to glory will advance. So spake the Son of God; and here again Satan had not to answer, but stood struck With guilt of his own sin, for he himself Insatiable of glory had lost all, Yet of another Plea bethought him soon. Of glory as thou wilt, said he, so deem, Worth or not worth the seeking, let it pass: But to a Kingdom thou art born, ordain'd To sit upon thy Father David's Throne; By Mothers side thy Father, though thy right Be now in powerful hands, that will not part Easily from possession won with arms; Judæa now and all the promis'd land Reduc't a Province under Roman yoke, Obeys Tiberius; nor is always rul'd With temperate sway; oft have they violated The Temple, oft the Law with foul affronts, Abominations rather, as did once Antiochus: and think'st thou to regain Thy right by sitting still or thus retiring? So did not Machabeus: he indeed Retir'd unto the Desert, but with arms; And o're a mighty King so oft prevail'd, That by strong hand his Family obtain'd, Though Priests, the Crown, and David's Throne usurp'd, With Modin and her Suburbs once content. If Kingdom move thee not, let move thee Zeal, And Duty; Zeal and Duty are not slow; But on Occasions forelock watchful wait. They themselves rather are occasion best, Zeal of thy Fathers house, Duty to free Thy Country from her Heathen servitude; So shalt thou best fullfil, best verifie The Prophets old, who sung thy endless raign, The happier raign the sooner it begins, Raign then; what canst thou better do the while? To whom our Saviour answer thus return'd. All things are best fullfil'd in their due time, And time there is for all things, Truth hath said: If of my raign Prophetic Writ hath told, That it shall never end, so when begin The Father in his purpose hath decreed, He in whose hand all times and seasons roul. What if he hath decreed that I shall first Be try'd in humble state, and things adverse, By tribulations, injuries, insults, Contempts, and scorns, and snares, and violence, Suffering, abstaining, quietly expecting Without distrust or doubt, that he may know What I can suffer, how obey? who best Can suffer, best can do; best reign, who first Well hath obey'd; just tryal e're I merit My exaltation without change or end. But what concerns it thee when I begin My everlasting Kingdom, why art thou Sollicitous, what moves thy inquisition? Know'st thou not that my rising is thy fall, And my promotion will be thy destruction? To whom the Tempter inly rackt reply'd. Let that come when it comes; all hope is lost Of my reception into grace; what worse? For where no hope is left, is left no fear; If there be worse, the expectation more Of worse torments me then the feeling can. I would be at the worst; worst is my Port, My harbour and my ultimate repose, The end I would attain, my final good. My error was my error and my crime My crime; whatever for it self condemn'd, And will alike be punish'd; whether thou Raign or raign not; though to that gentle brow Willingly I could flye, and hope thy raign, From that placid aspect and meek regard, Rather then aggravate my evil state, Would stand between me and thy Fathers ire, (Whose ire I dread more then the fire of Hell) A shelter and a kind of shading cool Interposition, as a summers cloud. If I then to the worst that can be hast, Why move thy feet so slow to what is best, Happiest both to thy self and all the world, That thou who worthiest art should'st be thir King? Perhaps thou linger'st in deep thoughts detain'd Of the enterprize so hazardous and high; No wonder, for though in thee be united What of perfection can in man be found, Or human nature can receive, consider Thy life hath yet been private, most part spent At home, scarce view'd the Gallilean Towns, And once a year Jerusalem, few days Short sojourn; and what thence could'st thou observe? The world thou hast not seen, much less her glory, Empires, and Monarchs, and thir radiant Courts, Best school of best experience, quickest in sight In all things that to greatest actions lead. The wisest, unexperienc't, will be ever Timorous and loth, with novice modesty, (As he who seeking Asses found a Kingdom) Irresolute, unhardy, unadventrous: But I will bring thee where thou soon shalt quit Those rudiments, and see before thine eyes The Monarchies of the Earth, thir pomp and state, Sufficient introduction to inform Thee, of thy self so apt, in regal Arts, And regal Mysteries; that thou may'st know How best their opposition to withstand. With that (such power was giv'n him then) he took The Son of God up to a Mountain high. It was a Mountain at whose verdant feet A spatious plain out stretch't in circuit wide Lay pleasant; from his side two rivers flow'd, Th' one winding, the other strait and left between Fair Champain with less rivers interveind, Then meeting joyn'd thir tribute to the Sea: Fertil of corn the glebe, of oyl and wine, With herds the pastures throng'd, with flocks the hills, Huge Cities and high towr'd, that well might seem The seats of mightiest Monarchs, and so large The Prospect was, that here and there was room For barren desert fountainless and dry. To this high mountain top the Tempter brought Our Saviour, and new train of words began. Well have we speeded, and o're hill and dale, Forest and field, and flood, Temples and Towers Cut shorter many a league; here thou behold'st Assyria and her Empires antient bounds, Araxes and the Caspian lake, thence on As far as Indus East, Euphrates West, And oft beyond; to South the Persian Bay, And inaccessible the Arabian drouth: Here Ninevee, of length within her wall Several days journey, built by Ninus old, Of that first golden Monarchy the seat, And seat of Salmanassar, whose success Israel in long captivity still mourns; There Babylon the wonder of all tongues, As antient, but rebuilt by him who twice Judah and all thy Father David's house Led captive, and Jerusalem laid waste, Till Cyrus set them free; Persepolis His City there thou seest, and Bactra there; Ecbatana her structure vast there shews, And Hecatompylos her hunderd gates, There Susa by Choaspes, amber stream, The drink of none but Kings; of later fame Built by Emathian, or by Parthian hands, The great Seleucia, Nisibis, and there Artaxata, Teredon, Tesiphon, Turning with easie eye thou may'st behold. All these the Parthian, now some Ages past, By great Arsaces led, who founded first That Empire, under his dominion holds From the luxurious Kings of Antioch won. And just in time thou com'st to have a view Of his great power; for now the Parthian King In Ctesiphon hath gather'd all his Host Against the Scythian, whose incursions wild Have wasted Sogdiana; to her aid He marches now in hast; see, though from far, His thousands, in what martial equipage They issue forth, Steel Bows, and Shafts their arms Of equal dread in flight, or in pursuit; All Horsemen, in which fight they most excel; See how in warlike muster they appear, In Rhombs and wedges, and half moons, and wings. He look't and saw what numbers numberless The City gates out powr'd, light armed Troops In coats of Mail and military pride; In Mail thir horses clad, yet fleet and strong, Prauncing their riders bore, the flower and choice Of many Provinces from bound to bound; From Arachosia, from Candaor East, And Margiana to the Hyrcanian cliffs Of Caucasus, and dark Iberian dales, From Atropatia and the neighbouring plains Of Adiabene, Media, and the South Of Susiana to Balsara's hav'n. He saw them in thir forms of battell rang'd, How quick they wheel'd, and flying behind them shot Sharp sleet of arrowie showers against the face Of thir pursuers, and overcame by flight; The field all iron cast a gleaming brown, Nor wanted clouds of foot, nor on each horn, Cuirassiers all in steel for standing fight; Chariots or Elephants endorst with Towers Of Archers, nor of labouring Pioners A multitude with Spades and Axes arm'd To lay hills plain, fell woods, or valleys fill, Or where plain was raise hill, or over-lay With bridges rivers proud, as with a yoke; Mules after these, Camels and Dromedaries, And Waggons fraught with Utensils of war. Such forces met not, nor so wide a camp, When Agrican with all his Northern powers Besieg'd Albracca, as Romances tell; The City of Gallaphrone, from thence to win The fairest of her Sex Angelica His daughter, sought by many Prowest Knights, Both Paynim, and the Peers of Charlemane. Such and so numerous was thir Chivalrie; At sight whereof the Fiend yet more presum'd, And to our Saviour thus his words renew'd. That thou may'st know I seek not to engage Thy Vertue, and not every way secure On no slight grounds thy safety; hear, and mark To what end I have brought thee hither and shewn All this fair sight; thy Kingdom though foretold By Prophet or by Angel, unless thou Endeavour, as thy Father David did, Thou never shalt obtain; prediction still In all things, and all men, supposes means, Without means us'd, what it predicts revokes. But say thou wer't possess'd of David's Throne By free consent of all, none opposite, Samaritan or Jew; how could'st thou hope Long to enjoy it quiet and secure, Between two such enclosing enemies Roman and Parthian? therefore one of these Thou must make sure thy own, the Parthian first By my advice, as nearer and of late Found able by invasion to annoy Thy country, and captive lead away her Kings Antigonus, and old Hyrcanus bound, Maugre the Roman: it shall be my task To render thee the Parthian at dispose; Chuse which thou wilt by conquest or by league. By him thou shalt regain, without him not, That which alone can truly reinstall thee In David's royal seat, his true Successour, Deliverance of thy brethren, those ten Tribes Whose off-spring in his Territory yet serve In Habor, and among the Medes dispers't, Ten Sons of Jacob, two of Joseph lost Thus long from Israel; serving as of old Thir Fathers in the land of Egypt serv'd, This offer sets before thee to deliver. These if from servitude thou shalt restore To thir inheritance, then, nor till then, Thou on the Throne of David in full glory, From Egypt to Euphrates and beyond Shalt raign, and Rome or Caesar not need fear. To whom our Saviour answer'd thus unmov'd. Much ostentation vain of fleshly arm, And fragile arms, much instrument of war Long in preparing, soon to nothing brought, Before mine eyes thou hast set; and in my ear Vented much policy, and projects deep Of enemies, of aids, battels and leagues, Plausible to the world, to me worth naught. Means I must use thou say'st, prediction else Will unpredict and fail me of the Throne: My time I told thee, (and that time for thee Were better farthest off) is not yet come,; When that comes think not thou to find me slack On my part aught endeavouring, or to need Thy politic maxims, or that cumbersome Luggage of war there shewn me, argument Of human weakness rather then of strength. My brethren, as thou call'st them; those Ten Tribes I must deliver, if I mean to raign David's true heir, and his full Scepter sway To just extent over all Israel's Sons; But whence to thee this zeal, where was it then For Israel, or for David, or his Throne, When thou stood'st up his Tempter to the pride Of numbring Israel, which cost the lives Of threescore and ten thousand Israelites By three days Pestilence? such was thy zeal To Israel then, the same that now to me. As for those captive Tribes, themselves were they Who wrought their own captivity, fell off From God to worship Calves, the Deities Of Egypt, Baal next and Ashtaroth, And all the Idolatries of Heathen round, Besides thir other worse then heathenish crimes; Nor in the land of their captivity Humbled themselves, or penitent besought The God of their fore-fathers; but so dy'd Impenitent, and left a race behind Like to themselves, distinguishable scarce From Gentils, but by Circumcision vain, And God with Idols in their worship joyn'd. Should I of these the liberty regard, Who freed, as to their antient Patrimony, Unhumbl'd, unrepentant, unreform'd, Headlong would follow; and to thir Gods perhaps Of Bethel and of Dan? no, let them serve Thir enemies, who serve Idols with God. Yet he at length, time to himself best known, Remembring Abraham by some wond'rous call May bring them back repentant and sincere, And at their passing cleave the Assyrian flood, While to their native land with joy they hast, As the Red Sea and Jordan once he cleft, When to the promis'd land thir Fathers pass'd; To his due time and providence I leave them. So spake Israel's true King, and to the Fiend Made answer meet, that made void all his wiles. So fares it when with truth falshood contends.
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John Milton
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Religion,Christianity,God & the Divine
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108 |
Paradise Regain'd: Book 4 (1671 version)
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PErplex'd and troubl'd at his bad success The Tempter stood, nor had what to reply, Discover'd in his fraud, thrown from his hope, So oft, and the perswasive Rhetoric That sleek't his tongue, and won so much on Eve, So little here, nay lost; but Eve was Eve, This far his over-match, who self deceiv'd And rash, before-hand had no better weigh'd The strength he was to cope with, or his own: But as a man who had been matchless held In cunning, over-reach't where least he thought, To salve his credit, and for very spight Still will be tempting him who foyls him still, And never cease, though to his shame the more; Or as a swarm of flies in vintage time, About the wine-press where sweet moust is powr'd, Beat off, returns as oft with humming sound; Or surging waves against a solid rock, Though all to shivers dash't, the assault renew, Vain battry, and in froth or bubbles end; So Satan, whom repulse upon repulse Met ever; and to shameful silence brought, Yet gives not o're though desperate of success, And his vain importunity pursues. He brought our Saviour to the western side Of that high mountain, whence he might behold Another plain, long but in bredth not wide; Wash'd by the Southern Sea, and on the North To equal length back'd with a ridge of hills That screen'd the fruits of the earth and seats of men From cold Septentrion blasts, thence in the midst Divided by a river, of whose banks On each side an Imperial City stood, With Towers and Temples proudly elevate On seven small Hills, with Palaces adorn'd, Porches and Theatres, Baths, Aqueducts, Statues and Trophees, and Triumphal Arcs, Gardens and Groves presented to his eyes, Above the highth of Mountains interpos'd. By what strange Parallax or Optic skill Of vision multiplyed through air, or glass Of Telescope, were curious to enquire: And now the Tempter thus his silence broke. The City which thou seest no other deem Then great and glorious Rome, Queen of the Earth So far renown'd, and with the spoils enricht Of Nations; there the Capitol thou seest Above the rest lifting his stately head On the Tarpeian rock, her Cittadel Impregnable, and there Mount Palatine The Imperial Palace, compass huge, and high The Structure, skill of noblest Architects, With gilded battlements, conspicuous far, Turrets and Terrases, and glittering Spires. Many a fair Edifice besides, more like Houses of Gods (so well I have dispos'd My Aerie Microscope) thou may'st behold Outside and inside both, pillars and roofs Carv'd work, the hand of fam'd Artificers In Cedar, Marble, Ivory or Gold. Thence to the gates cast round thine eye, and see What conflux issuing forth, or entring in, Pretors, Proconsuls to thir Provinces Hasting or on return, in robes of State; Lictors and rods the ensigns of thir power, Legions and Cohorts, turmes of horse and wings: Or Embassies from Regions far remote In various habits on the Appian road, Or on the Æmilian, some from farthest South, Syene, and where the shadow both way falls, Meroe Nilotic Isle, and more to West, The Realm of Bocchus to the Black-moor Sea; From the Asian Kings and Parthian among these, From India and the golden Chersoness, And utmost Indian Isle Taprobane, Dusk faces with white silken Turbants wreath'd: From Gallia, Gades, and the Brittish West, Germans and Scythians, and Sarmatians North Beyond Danubius to the Tauric Pool. All Nations now to Rome obedience pay, To Rome's great Emperour, whose wide domain In ample Territory, wealth and power, Civility of Manners, Arts, and Arms, And long Renown thou justly may'st prefer Before the Parthian; these two Thrones except, The rest are barbarous, and scarce worth the sight, Shar'd among petty Kings too far remov'd; These having shewn thee, I have shewn thee all The Kingdoms of the world, and all thir glory. This Emperour hath no Son, and now is old, Old, and lascivious, and from Rome retir'd To Capreæ an Island small but strong On the Campanian shore, with purpose there His horrid lusts in private to enjoy, Committing to a wicked Favourite All publick cares, and yet of him suspicious, Hated of all, and hating; with what ease Indu'd with Regal Vertues as thou art, Appearing, and beginning noble deeds, Might'st thou expel this monster from his Throne Now made a stye, and in his place ascending A victor, people free from servile yoke? And with my help thou may'st; to me the power Is given, and by that right I give it thee. Aim therefore at no less then all the world, Aim at the highest, without the highest attain'd Will be for thee no sitting, or not long On David's Throne, be propheci'd what will. To whom the Son of God unmov'd reply'd. Nor doth this grandeur and majestic show Of luxury, though call'd magnificence, More then of arms before, allure mine eye, Much less my mind; though thou should'st add to tell Thir sumptuous gluttonies, and gorgeous feasts On Cittron tables or Atlantic stone; (For I have also heard, perhaps have read) Their wines of Setia, Cales, and Falerne, Chios and Creet, and how they quaff in Gold, Crystal and Myrrhine cups imboss'd with Gems And studs of Pearl, to me should'st tell who thirst And hunger still: then Embassies thou shew'st From Nations far and nigh; what honour that, But tedious wast of time to sit and hear So many hollow complements and lies, Outlandish flatteries? then proceed'st to talk Of the Emperour, how easily subdu'd, How gloriously; I shall, thou say'st, expel A brutish monster: what if I withal Expel a Devil who first made him such? Let his tormenter Conscience find him out, For him I was not sent, nor yet to free That people victor once, now vile and base, Deservedly made vassal, who once just, Frugal, and mild, and temperate, conquer'd well, But govern ill the Nations under yoke, Peeling thir Provinces, exhausted all By lust and rapine; first ambitious grown Of triumph that insulting vanity; Then cruel, by thir sports to blood enur'd Of fighting beasts, and men to beasts expos'd, Luxurious by thir wealth, and greedier still, And from the daily Scene effeminate. What wise and valiant man would seek to free These thus degenerate, by themselves enslav'd, Or could of inward slaves make outward free? Know therefore when my season comes to sit On David's Throne, it shall be like a tree Spreading and over-shadowing all the Earth, Or as a stone that shall to pieces dash All Monarchies besides throughout the world, And of my Kingdom there shall be no end: Means there shall be to this, but what the means, Is not for thee to know, nor me to tell. To whom the Tempter impudent repli'd. I see all offers made by me how slight Thou valu'st, because offer'd, and reject'st: Nothing will please the difficult and nice, Or nothing more then still to contradict: On the other side know also thou, that I On what I offer set as high esteem, Nor what I part with mean to give for naught; All these which in a moment thou behold'st, The Kingdoms of the world to thee I give; For giv'n to me, I give to whom I please, No trifle; yet with this reserve, not else, On this condition, if thou wilt fall down, And worship me as thy superior Lord, Easily done, and hold them all of me; For what can less so great a gift deserve? Whom thus our Saviour answer'd with disdain. I never lik'd thy talk, thy offers less, Now both abhor, since thou hast dar'd to utter The abominable terms, impious condition; But I endure the time, till which expir'd, Thou hast permission on me. It is written The first of all Commandments, Thou shalt worship The Lord thy God, and only him shalt serve; And dar'st thou to the Son of God propound To worship thee accurst, now more accurst For this attempt bolder then that on Eve, And more blasphemous? which expect to rue. The Kingdoms of the world to thee were giv'n, Permitted rather, and by thee usurp't, Other donation none thou canst produce: If given, by whom but by the King of Kings, God over all supreme? if giv'n to thee, By thee how fairly is the Giver now Repaid? But gratitude in thee is lost Long since. Wert thou so void of fear or shame, As offer them to me the Son of God, To me my own, on such abhorred pact, That I fall down and worship thee as God? Get thee behind me; plain thou now appear'st That Evil one, Satan for ever damn'd. To whom the Fiend with fear abasht reply'd. Be not so sore offended, Son of God; Though Sons of God both Angels are and Men, If I to try whether in higher sort Then these thou bear'st that title, have propos'd What both from Men and Angels I receive, Tetrarchs of fire, air, flood, and on the earth Nations besides from all the quarter'd winds, God of this world invok't and world beneath; Who then thou art, whose coming is foretold To me so fatal, me it most concerns. The tryal hath indamag'd thee no way, Rather more honour left and more esteem; Me naught advantag'd, missing what I aim'd. Therefore let pass, as they are transitory, The Kingdoms of this world; I shall no more Advise thee, gain them as thou canst, or not. And thou thy self seem'st otherwise inclin'd Then to a worldly Crown, addicted more To contemplation and profound dispute, As by that early action may be judg'd, When slipping from thy Mothers eye thou went'st Alone into the Temple; there was found Among the gravest Rabbies disputant On points and questions fitting Moses Chair, Teaching not taught; the childhood shews the man, As morning shews the day. Be famous then By wisdom; as thy Empire must extend, So let extend thy mind o're all the world, In knowledge, all things in it comprehend, All knowledge is not couch't in Moses Law, The Pentateuch or what the Prophets wrote, The Gentiles also know, and write, and teach To admiration, led by Natures light; And with the Gentiles much thou must converse, Ruling them by perswasion as thou mean'st, Without thir learning how wilt thou with them, Or they with thee hold conversation meet? How wilt thou reason with them, how refute Thir Idolisms, Traditions, Paradoxes? Error by his own arms is best evinc't. Look once more e're we leave this specular Mount Westward, much nearer by Southwest, behold Where on the Ægean shore a City stands Built nobly, pure the air, and light the soil, Athens the eye of Greece, Mother of Arts And Eloquence, native to famous wits Or hospitable, in her sweet recess, City or Suburban, studious walks and shades; See there the Olive Grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic Bird Trills her thick-warbl'd notes the summer long, There flowrie hill Hymettus with the sound Of Bees industrious murmur oft invites To studious musing; there Ilissus rouls His whispering stream; within the walls then view The schools of antient Sages; his who bred Great Alexander to subdue the world, Lyceum there, and painted Stoa next: There thou shalt hear and learn the secret power Of harmony in tones and numbers hit By voice or hand, and various-measur'd verse, Æolian charms and Dorian Lyric Odes, And his who gave them breath, but higher sung, Blind Melesigenes thence Homer call'd, Whose Poem Phoebus challeng'd for his own. Thence what the lofty grave Tragoedians taught In Chorus or Iambic, teachers best Of moral prudence, with delight receiv'd In brief sententious precepts, while they treat Of fate, and chance, and change in human life; High actions, and high passions best describing: Thence to the famous Orators repair, Those antient, whose resistless eloquence Wielded at will that fierce Democratie, Shook the Arsenal and fulmin'd over Greece, To Macedon, and Artaxerxes Throne; To sage Philosophy next lend thine ear, From Heaven descended to the low-rooft house Of Socrates, see there his Tenement, Whom well inspir'd the Oracle pronounc'd Wisest of men; from whose mouth issu'd forth Mellifluous streams that water'd all the schools Of Academics old and new, with those Sirnam'd Peripatetics, and the Sect Epicurean, and the Stoic severe; These here revolve, or, as thou lik'st, at home, Till time mature thee to a Kingdom's waight; These rules will render thee a King compleat Within thy self, much more with Empire joyn'd. To whom our Saviour sagely thus repli'd. Think not but that I know these things, or think I know them not; not therefore am I short Of knowing what I aught: he who receives Light from above, from the fountain of light, No other doctrine needs, though granted true; But these are false, or little else but dreams, Conjectures, fancies, built on nothing firm. The first and wisest of them all profess'd To know this only, that he nothing knew; The next to fabling fell and smooth conceits, A third sort doubted all things, though plain sence; Others in vertue plac'd felicity, But vertue joyn'd with riches and long life, In corporal pleasure he, and careless ease, The Stoic last in Philosophic pride, By him call'd vertue; and his vertuous man, Wise, perfect in himself, and all possessing Equal to God, oft shames not to prefer, As fearing God nor man, contemning all Wealth, pleasure, pain or torment, death and life, Which when he lists, he leaves, or boasts he can, For all his tedious talk is but vain boast, Or subtle shifts conviction to evade. Alas what can they teach, and not mislead; Ignorant of themselves, of God much more, And how the world began, and how man fell Degraded by himself, on grace depending? Much of the Soul they talk, but all awrie, And in themselves seek vertue, and to themselves All glory arrogate, to God give none, Rather accuse him under usual names, Fortune and Fate, as one regardless quite Of mortal things. Who therefore seeks in these True wisdom, finds her not, or by delusion Far worse, her false resemblance only meets, An empty cloud. However many books Wise men have said are wearisom; who reads Incessantly, and to his reading brings not A spirit and judgment equal or superior, (And what he brings, what needs he elsewhere seek) Uncertain and unsettl'd still remains, Deep verst in books and shallow in himself, Crude or intoxicate, collecting toys, And trifles for choice matters, worth a spunge; As Children gathering pibles on the shore. Or if I would delight my private hours With Music or with Poem, where so soon As in our native Language can I find That solace? All our Law and Story strew'd With Hymns, our Psalms with artful terms inscrib'd, Our Hebrew Songs and Harps in Babylon, That pleas'd so well our Victors ear, declare That rather Greece from us these Arts deriv'd; Ill imitated, while they loudest sing The vices of thir Deities, and thir own In Fable, Hymn, or Song, so personating Thir Gods ridiculous, and themselves past shame. Remove their swelling Epithetes thick laid As varnish on a Harlots cheek, the rest, Thin sown with aught of profit or delight, Will far be found unworthy to compare With Sion's songs, to all true tasts excelling, Where God is prais'd aright, and Godlike men, The Holiest of Holies, and his Saints; Such are from God inspir'd, not such from thee; Unless where moral vertue is express't By light of Nature not in all quite lost. Thir Orators thou then extoll'st, as those The top of Eloquence, Statists indeed, And lovers of thir Country, as may seem; But herein to our Prophets far beneath, As men divinely taught, and better teaching The solid rules of Civil Government In thir majestic unaffected stile Then all the Oratory of Greece and Rome. In them is plainest taught, and easiest learnt, What makes a Nation happy, and keeps it so, What ruins Kingdoms, and lays Cities flat; These only with our Law best form a King. So spake the Son of God; but Satan now Quite at a loss, for all his darts were spent, Thus to our Saviour with stern brow reply'd. Since neither wealth, nor honour, arms nor arts, Kingdom nor Empire pleases thee, nor aught By me propos'd in life contemplative, Or active, tended on by glory, or fame, What dost thou in this World? the Wilderness For thee is fittest place, I found thee there, And thither will return thee, yet remember What I foretell thee, soon thou shalt have cause To wish thou never hadst rejected thus Nicely or cautiously my offer'd aid, Which would have set thee in short time with ease On David's Throne; or Throne of all the world, Now at full age, fulness of time, thy season, When Prophesies of thee are best fullfill'd. Now contrary, if I read aught in Heaven, Or Heav'n write aught of Fate, by what the Stars Voluminous, or single characters, In their conjunction met, give me to spell, Sorrows, and labours, opposition, hate, Attends thee, scorns, reproaches, injuries, Violence and stripes, and lastly cruel death, A Kingdom they portend thee, but what Kingdom, Real or Allegoric I discern not, Nor when, eternal sure, as without end, Without beginning; for no date prefixt Directs me in the Starry Rubric set. So saying he took (for still he knew his power Not yet expir'd) and to the Wilderness Brought back the Son of God, and left him there, Feigning to disappear. Darkness now rose, As day-light sunk, and brought in lowring night Her shadowy off-spring unsubstantial both, Privation meer of light and absent day. Our Saviour meek and with untroubl'd mind After his aerie jaunt, though hurried sore, Hungry and cold betook him to his rest, Wherever, under some concourse of shades Whose branching arms thick intertwind might shield From dews and damps of night his shelter'd head, But shelter'd slept in vain, for at his head The Tempter watch'd, and soon with ugly dreams Disturb'd his sleep; and either Tropic now Gan thunder, and both ends of Heav'n, the Clouds From many a horrid rift abortive pour'd Fierce rain with lightning mixt, water with fire In ruine reconcil'd: nor slept the winds Within thir stony caves, but rush'd abroad From the four hinges of the world, and fell On the vext Wilderness, whose tallest Pines, Though rooted deep as high, and sturdiest Oaks Bow'd their Stiff necks, loaden with stormy blasts, Or torn up sheer: ill wast thou shrouded then, O patient Son of God, yet only stoodst Unshaken; nor yet staid the terror there, Infernal Ghosts, and Hellish Furies, round Environ'd thee, some howl'd, some yell'd, some shriek'd, Some bent at thee thir fiery darts, while thou Sat'st unappall'd in calm and sinless peace. Thus pass'd the night so foul till morning fair Came forth with Pilgrim steps in amice gray; Who with her radiant finger still'd the roar Of thunder, chas'd the clouds, and laid the winds, And grisly Spectres, which the Fiend had rais'd To tempt the Son of God with terrors dire. And now the Sun with more effectual beams Had chear'd the face of Earth, and dry'd the wet From drooping plant, or dropping tree; the birds Who all things now behold more fresh and green, After a night of storm so ruinous, Clear'd up their choicest notes in bush and spray To gratulate the sweet return of morn; Nor yet amidst this joy and brightest morn Was absent, after all his mischief done, The Prince of darkness, glad would also seem Of this fair change, and to our Saviour came, Yet with no new device, they all were spent, Rather by this his last affront resolv'd, Desperate of better course, to vent his rage, And mad despight to be so oft repell'd. Him walking on a Sunny hill he found, Back'd on the North and West by a thick wood, Out of the wood he starts in wonted shape; And in a careless mood thus to him said. Fair morning yet betides thee Son of God, After a dismal night; I heard the rack As Earth and Skie would mingle; but my self Was distant; and these flaws, though mortals fear them As dangerous to the pillard frame of Heaven, Or to the Earths dark basis underneath, Are to the main as inconsiderable, And harmless, if not wholsom, as a sneeze To mans less universe, and soon are gone; Yet as being oft times noxious where they light On man, beast, plant, wastful and turbulent, Like turbulencies in the affairs of men, Over whose heads they rore, and seem to point, They oft fore-signifie and threaten ill: This Tempest at this Desert most was bent; Of men at thee, for only thou here dwell'st. Did I not tell thee, if thou didst reject The perfet season offer'd with my aid To win thy destin'd seat, but wilt prolong All to the push of Fate, persue thy way Of gaining David's Throne no man knows when, For both the when and how is no where told, Thou shalt be what thou art ordain'd, no doubt; For Angels have proclaim'd it, but concealing The time and means: each act is rightliest done, Not when it must, but when it may be best. If thou observe not this, be sure to find, What I foretold thee, many a hard assay Of dangers, and adversities and pains, E're thou of Israel's Scepter get fast hold; Whereof this ominous night that clos'd thee round, So many terrors, voices, prodigies May warn thee, as a sure fore-going sign. So talk'd he, while the Son of God went on And staid not, but in brief him answer'd thus. Mee worse then wet thou find'st not; other harm Those terrors which thou speak'st of, did me none; I never fear'd they could, though noising loud And threatning nigh; what they can do as signs Betok'ning, or ill boding, I contemn As false portents, not sent from God, but thee; Who knowing I shall raign past thy preventing, Obtrud'st thy offer'd aid, that I accepting At least might seem to hold all power of thee, Ambitious spirit, and wouldst be thought my God, And storm'st refus'd, thinking to terrifie Mee to thy will; desist, thou art discern'd And toil'st in vain, nor me in vain molest. To whom the Fiend now swoln with rage reply'd: Then hear, O Son of David, Virgin-born; For Son of God to me is yet in doubt, Of the Messiah I have heard foretold By all the Prophets; of thy birth at length Announc't by Gabriel with the first I knew, And of the Angelic Song in Bethlehem field, On thy birth-night, that sung thee Saviour born. From that time seldom have I ceas'd to eye Thy infancy, thy childhood, and thy youth, Thy manhood last, though yet in private bred; Till at the Ford of Jordan whither all Flock'd to the Baptist, I among the rest, Though not to be Baptiz'd, by voice from Heav'n Heard thee pronounc'd the Son of God belov'd. Thenceforth I thought thee worth my nearer view And narrower Scrutiny, that I might learn In what degree or meaning thou art call'd The Son of God, which bears no single sence; The Son of God I also am, or was, And if I was, I am; relation stands; All men are Sons of God; yet thee I thought In some respect far higher so declar'd. Therefore I watch'd thy footsteps from that hour, And follow'd thee still on to this wast wild; Where by all best conjectures I collect Thou art to be my fatal enemy. Good reason then, if I before-hand seek To understand my Adversary, who And what he is; his wisdom, power, intent, By parl, or composition, truce, or league To win him, or win from him what I can. And opportunity I here have had To try thee, sift thee, and confess have found thee Proof against all temptation as a rock Of Adamant, and as a Center, firm To the utmost of meer man both wise and good, Not more; for Honours, Riches, Kingdoms, Glory Have been before contemn'd, and may agen: Therefore to know what more thou art then man, Worth naming Son of God by voice from Heav'n, Another method I must now begin. So saying he caught him up, and without wing Of Hippogrif bore through the Air sublime Over the Wilderness and o're the Plain; Till underneath them fair Jerusalem, The holy City lifted high her Towers, And higher yet the glorious Temple rear'd Her pile, far off appearing like a Mount Of Alabaster, top't with Golden Spires: There on the highest Pinacle he set The Son of God; and added thus in scorn: There stand, if thou wilt stand; to stand upright Will ask thee skill; I to thy Fathers house Have brought thee, and highest plac't, highest is best, Now shew thy Progeny; if not to stand, Cast thy self down; safely if Son of God: For it is written, He will give command Concerning thee to his Angels, in thir hands They shall up lift thee, lest at any time Thou chance to dash thy foot against a stone. To whom thus Jesus: also it is written, Tempt not the Lord thy God, he said and stood. But Satan smitten with amazement fell As when Earths Son Antæus (to compare Small things with greatest) in Irassa strove With Joves Alcides, and oft foil'd still rose, Receiving from his mother Earth new strength, Fresh from his fall, and fiercer grapple joyn'd, Throttl'd at length in the Air, expir'd and fell; So after many a foil the Tempter proud, Renewing fresh assaults, amidst his pride Fell whence he stood to see his Victor fall. And as that Theban Monster that propos'd Her riddle, and him, who solv'd it not, devour'd; That once found out and solv'd, for grief and spight Cast her self headlong from th' Ismenian steep, So strook with dread and anguish fell the Fiend, And to his crew, that sat consulting, brought Joyless triumphals of his hop't success, Ruin, and desperation, and dismay, Who durst so proudly tempt the Son of God. So Satan fell and strait a fiery Globe Of Angels on full sail of wing flew nigh, Who on their plumy Vans receiv'd him soft From his uneasie station, and upbore As on a floating couch through the blithe Air, Then in a flowry valley set him down On a green bank, and set before him spred A table of Celestial Food, Divine, Ambrosial, Fruits fetcht from the tree of life, And from the fount of life Ambrosial drink, That soon refresh'd him wearied, and repair'd What hunger, if aught hunger had impair'd, Or thirst, and as he fed, Angelic Quires Sung Heavenly Anthems of his victory Over temptation, and the Tempter proud. True Image of the Father whether thron'd In the bosom of bliss, and light of light Conceiving, or remote from Heaven, enshrin'd In fleshly Tabernacle, and human form, Wandring the Wilderness, whatever place, Habit, or state, or motion, still expressing The Son of God, with Godlike force indu'd Against th' Attempter of thy Fathers Throne, And Thief of Paradise; him long of old Thou didst debel, and down from Heav'n cast With all his Army, now thou hast aveng'd Supplanted Adam, and by vanquishing Temptation, hast regain'd lost Paradise, And frustrated the conquest fraudulent: He never more henceforth will dare set foot In Paradise to tempt; his snares are broke: For though that seat of earthly bliss be fail'd, A fairer Paradise is founded now For Adam and his chosen Sons, whom thou A Saviour art come down to re-install. Where they shall dwell secure, when time shall be Of Tempter and Temptation without fear. But thou, Infernal Serpent, shalt not long Rule in the Clouds; like an Autumnal Star Or Lightning thou shalt fall from Heav'n trod down Under his feet: for proof, e're this thou feel'st Thy wound, yet not thy last and deadliest wound By this repulse receiv'd, and hold'st in Hell No triumph; in all her gates Abaddon rues Thy bold attempt; hereafter learn with awe To dread the Son of God: he all unarm'd Shall chase thee with the terror of his voice From thy Demoniac holds, possession foul, Thee and thy Legions, yelling they shall flye, And beg to hide them in a herd of Swine, Lest he command them down into the deep Bound, and to torment sent before thir time. Hail Son of the most High, heir of both worlds, Queller of Satan, on thy glorious work Now enter, and begin to save mankind. Thus they the Son of God our Saviour meek Sung Victor, and from Heavenly Feast refresht Brought on his way with joy; hee unobserv'd Home to his Mothers house private return'd.
|
John Milton
|
Religion,Christianity,God & the Divine
|
109 |
There was an Old Man with a Beard
|
There was an Old Man with a beard,
Who said, "It is just as I feared!—
Two Owls and a Hen, four Larks and a Wren,
Have all built their nests in my beard.
|
Edward Lear
|
Living,Growing Old,The Body,Relationships,Pets,Nature,Animals,Arts & Sciences,Humor & Satire
|
110 |
The Snow-Storm
|
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come see the north wind's masonry. Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate, A tapering turret overtops the work. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow.
|
Ralph Waldo Emerson
|
Nature,Landscapes & Pastorals,Weather,Winter
|
111 |
Wet-weather Talk
|
It hain't no use to grumble and complane;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.—
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y rain's my choice.
Men ginerly, to all intents—
Although they're apt to grumble some—
Puts most theyr trust in Providence,
And takes things as they come—
That is, the commonality
Of men that's lived as long as me
Has watched the world enugh to learn
They're not the boss of this concern.
With some, of course, it's different—
I've saw young men that knowed it all,
And didn't like the way things went
On this terrestchul ball;—
But all the same, the rain, some way,
Rained jest as hard on picnic day;
Er, when they railly wanted it,
It mayby wouldn't rain a bit!
In this existunce, dry and wet
Will overtake the best of men—
Some little skift o' clouds'll shet
The sun off now and then.—
And mayby, whilse you're wundern who
You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to,
And want it—out'll pop the sun,
And you'll be glad you hain't got none!
It aggervates the farmers, too—
They's too much wet, er too much sun,
Er work, er waitin' round to do
Before the plowin' 's done:
And mayby, like as not, the wheat,
Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat,
Will ketch the storm—and jest about
The time the corn's a-jintin' out.
These-here cy-clones a-foolin' round—
And back'ard crops!—and wind and rain!—
And yit the corn that's wallerd down
May elbow up again!—
They hain't no sense, as I can see,
Fer mortuls, sech as us, to be
A-faultin' Natchur's wise intents,
And lockin' horns with Providence!
It hain't no use to grumble and complane;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.—
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.
|
James Whitcomb Riley
|
Living,Nature,Weather,Arts & Sciences,Philosophy
|
112 |
Mrs. Benjamin Pantier
|
I know that he told that I snared his soul With a snare which bled him to death. And all the men loved him, And most of the women pitied him. But suppose you are really a lady, and have delicate tastes, And loathe the smell of whiskey and onions. And the rhythm of Wordsworth's "Ode" runs in your ears, While he goes about from morning till night Repeating bits of that common thing; "Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?" And then, suppose: You are a woman well endowed, And the only man with whom the law and morality Permit you to have the marital relation Is the very man that fills you with disgust Every time you think of it—while you think of it Every time you see him? That's why I drove him away from home To live with his dog in a dingy room Back of his office.
|
Edgar Lee Masters
|
Living,Disappointment & Failure,Marriage & Companionship,Relationships,Men & Women
|
113 |
Sarah Brown
|
Maurice, weep not, I am not here under this pine tree. The balmy air of spring whispers through the sweet grass, The stars sparkle, the whippoorwill calls, But thou grievest, while my soul lies rapturous In the blest Nirvana of eternal light! Go to the good heart that is my husband, Who broods upon what he calls our guilty love: i Tell him that my love for you, no less than my love for him Wrought out my destiny i that through the flesh I won spirit, and through spirit, peace. There is no marriage in heaven, But there is love.
|
Edgar Lee Masters
|
Living,Death,Marriage & Companionship,Sorrow & Grieving,Love,Heartache & Loss,Infatuation & Crushes,Relationships,Nature
|
114 |
Margaret Fuller Slack
|
I would have been as great as George Eliot But for an untoward fate. For look at the photograph of me made by Peniwit, Chin resting on hand, and deep-set eyes i Gray, too, and far-searching. But there was the old, old problem: Should it be celibacy, matrimony or unchastity? Then John Slack, the rich druggist, wooed me, Luring me with the promise of leisure for my novel, And I married him, giving birth to eight children, And had no time to write. It was all over with me, anyway, When I ran the needle in my hand While washing the baby's things, And died from lock-jaw, an ironical death. Hear me, ambitious souls, Sex is the curse of life!
|
Edgar Lee Masters
|
Living,Death,Disappointment & Failure,Marriage & Companionship,Relationships,Men & Women,Social Commentaries,Gender & Sexuality
|
115 |
State's Attorney Fallas
|
I, the scourge-wielder, balance-wrecker, Smiter with whips and swords; I, hater of the breakers of the law; I, legalist, inexorable and bitter, Driving the jury to hang the madman, Barry Holden, Was made as one dead by light too bright for eyes, And woke to face a Truth with bloody brow: Steel forceps fumbled by a doctor's hand Against my boy's head as he entered life Made him an idiot. I turned to books of science To care for him. That's how the world of those whose minds are sick Became my work in life, and all my world. Poor ruined boy! You were, at last, the potter And I and all my deeds of charity The vessels of your hand.
|
Edgar Lee Masters
|
Living,Death,Parenthood,Social Commentaries,Crime & Punishment
|
116 |
Washington McNeely
|
Rich, honored by my fellow citizens, The father of many children, born of a noble mother, All raised there In the great mansion-house, at the edge of town. Note the cedar tree on the lawn! I sent all the boys to Ann Arbor, all the girls to Rockford, The while my life went on, getting more riches and honors— Resting under my cedar tree at evening. The years went on. I sent the girls to Europe; I dowered them when married. I gave the boys money to start in business. They were strong children, promising as apples Before the bitten places show. But John fled the country in disgrace. Jenny died in child-birth— I sat under my cedar tree. Harry killed himself after a debauch, Susan was divorced— I sat under my cedar tree. Paul was invalided from over-study, Mary became a recluse at home for love of a man— I sat under my cedar tree. All were gone, or broken-winged or devoured by life— I sat under my cedar tree. My mate, the mother of them, was taken— I sat under my cedar tree Till ninety years were tolled. O maternal Earth, which rocks the fallen leaf to sleep!
|
Edgar Lee Masters
|
Living,Disappointment & Failure,Parenthood,Relationships,Family & Ancestors
|
117 |
The Unknown
|
Ye aspiring ones, listen to the story of the unknown
Who lies here with no stone to mark the place.
As a boy reckless and wanton,
Wandering with gun in hand through the forest
Near the mansion of Aaron Hatfield,
I shot a hawk perched on the top
Of a dead tree.
He fell with guttural cry
At my feet, his wing broken.
Then I put him in a cage
Where he lived many days cawing angrily at me
When I offered him food.
Daily I search the realms of Hades
For the soul of the hawk,
That I may offer him the friendship
Of one whom life wounded and caged.
|
Edgar Lee Masters
|
Living,Death,Relationships,Pets
|
118 |
Mrs. Kessler
|
Mr. Kessler, you know, was in the army,
And he drew six dollars a month as a pension,
And stood on the corner talking politics,
Or sat at home reading Grant’s Memoirs;
And I supported the family by washing,
Learning the secrets of all the people
From their curtains, counterpanes, shirts and skirts.
For things that are new grow old at length,
They’re replaced with better or none at all:
People are prospering or falling back.
And rents and patches widen with time;
No thread or needle can pace decay,
And there are stains that baffle soap,
And there are colors that run in spite of you,
Blamed though you are for spoiling a dress.
Handkerchiefs, napery, have their secrets
The laundress, Life, knows all about it.
And I, who went to all the funerals
Held in Spoon River, swear I never
Saw a dead face without thinking it looked
Like something washed and ironed.
|
Edgar Lee Masters
|
Living,Death,Relationships,Social Commentaries
|
119 |
Lambert Hutchins
|
I have two monuments besides this granite obelisk: One, the house I built on the hill, With its spires, bay windows, and roof of slate; The other, the lake-front in Chicago, Where the railroad keeps a switching yard, With whistling engines and crunching wheels, And smoke and soot thrown over the city, And the crash of cars along the boulevard, i A blot like a hog-pen on the harbor Of a great metropolis, foul as a sty. I helped to give this heritage To generations yet unborn, with my vote In the House of Representatives, And the lure of the thing was to be at rest From the never-ending fright of need, And to give my daughters gentle breeding, And a sense of security in life. But, you see, though I had the mansion house And traveling passes and local distinction, I could hear the whispers, whispers, whispers, Wherever I went, and my daughters grew up With a look as if some one were about to strike them; And they married madly, helter-skelter, Just to get out and have a change. And what was the whole of the business worth? Why, it wasn't worth a damn!
|
Edgar Lee Masters
|
Living,Disappointment & Failure,Social Commentaries,Money & Economics
|
120 |
Seth Compton
|
When I died, the circulating library Which I built up for Spoon River, And managed for the good of inquiring minds, Was sold at auction on the public square, As if to destroy the last vestige Of my memory and influence. For those of you who could not see the virtue Of knowing Volney's "Ruins" as well as Butler's "Analogy" And "Faust" as well as "Evangeline," Were really the power in the village, And often you asked me, "What is the use of knowing the evil in the world?" I am out of your way now, Spoon River, Choose your own good and call it good. For I could never make you see That no one knows what is good Who knows not what is evil; And no one knows what is true Who knows not what is false.
|
Edgar Lee Masters
|
Arts & Sciences,Philosophy,Reading & Books,Social Commentaries
|
121 |
Lyman King
|
You may think, passer-by, that Fate
Is a pit-fall outside of yourself,
Around which you may walk by the use of foresight
And wisdom.
Thus you believe, viewing the lives of other men,
As one who in God-like fashion bends over an anthill,
Seeing how their difficulties could be avoided.
But pass on into life:
In time you shall see Fate approach you
In the shape of your own image in the mirror;
Or you shall sit alone by your own hearth,
And suddenly the chair by you shall hold a guest,
And you shall know that guest,
And read the authentic message of his eyes.
|
Edgar Lee Masters
|
Living,Social Commentaries
|
122 |
Rutherford McDowell
|
They brought me ambrotypes Of the old pioneers to enlarge. And sometimes one sat for me i Some one who was in being When giant hands from the womb of the world Tore the republic. What was it in their eyes? i For I could never fathom That mystical pathos of drooped eyelids, And the serene sorrow of their eyes. It was like a pool of water, Amid oak trees at the edge of a forest, Where the leaves fall, As you hear the crow of a cock From a far-off farm house, seen near the hills Where the third generation lives, and the strong men And the strong women are gone and forgotten. And these grand-children and great grand-children Of the pioneers! Truly did my camera record their faces, too, With so much of the old strength gone, And the old faith gone, And the old mastery of life gone, And the old courage gone, Which labors and loves and suffers and sings Under the sun!
|
Edgar Lee Masters
|
Arts & Sciences,Photography & Film,Social Commentaries
|
123 |
Lucinda Matlock
|
I went to the dances at Chandlerville, And played snap-out at Winchester. One time we changed partners, Driving home in the moonlight of middle June, And then I found Davis. We were married and lived together for seventy years, Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children, Eight of whom we lost Ere I had reached the age of sixty. I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick, I made the garden, and for holiday Rambled over the fields where sang the larks, And by Spoon River gathering many a shell, And many a flower and medicinal weed — Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys. At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all, And passed to a sweet repose. What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness, Anger, discontent and drooping hopes? Degenerate sons and daughters, Life is too strong for you — It takes life to love Life.
|
Edgar Lee Masters
|
Love,Realistic & Complicated,Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Home Life,Social Commentaries
|
124 |
Infant Sorrow
|
My mother groand! my father wept. Into the dangerous world I leapt: Helpless, naked, piping loud; Like a fiend hid in a cloud. Struggling in my fathers hands: Striving against my swaddling bands: Bound and weary I thought best To sulk upon my mothers breast.
|
William Blake
|
Living,Infancy,Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Birth,Birthdays
|
125 |
A Poison Tree
|
I was angry with my friend; I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I waterd it in fears, Night & morning with my tears: And I sunned it with smiles, And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night. Till it bore an apple bright. And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine. And into my garden stole, When the night had veild the pole; In the morning glad I see; My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
|
William Blake
|
Relationships,Friends & Enemies,Nature,Trees & Flowers
|
126 |
The Look
|
Strephon kissed me in the spring,
Robin in the fall,
But Colin only looked at me
And never kissed at all.
Strephon's kiss was lost in jest,
Robin's lost in play,
But the kiss in Colin's eyes
Haunts me night and day.
|
Sara Teasdale
|
Love,Classic Love,Heartache & Loss,Infatuation & Crushes,Unrequited Love,Relationships
|
127 |
Union Square
|
With the man I love who loves me not,
I walked in the street-lamps' flare;
We watched the world go home that night
In a flood through Union Square.
I leaned to catch the words he said
That were light as a snowflake falling;
Ah well that he never leaned to hear
The words my heart was calling.
And on we walked and on we walked
Past the fiery lights of the picture shows —
Where the girls with thirsty eyes go by
On the errand each man knows.
And on we walked and on we walked,
At the door at last we said good-bye;
I knew by his smile he had not heard
My heart's unuttered cry.
With the man I love who loves me not
I walked in the street-lamps' flare —
But oh, the girls who ask for love
In the lights of Union Square.
|
Sara Teasdale
|
Love,Heartache & Loss,Infatuation & Crushes,Unrequited Love,Relationships,Men & Women,Social Commentaries,Cities & Urban Life
|
128 |
I Shall not Care
|
When I am dead and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Tho' you should lean above me broken-hearted,
I shall not care.
I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough,
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
Than you are now.
|
Sara Teasdale
|
Living,Death,Nature,Spring
|
129 |
Let It Be Forgotten
|
Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten,
Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold,
Let it be forgotten for ever and ever,
Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.
If anyone asks, say it was forgotten
Long and long ago,
As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall
In a long forgotten snow.
|
Sara Teasdale
|
Living,Time & Brevity
|
130 |
Warm Summer Sun
|
Warm summer sun, Shine kindly here,Warm southern wind, Blow softly here.Green sod above, Lie light, lie light.Good night, dear heart, Good night, good night.
|
Mark Twain
|
Living,Death,Marriage & Companionship,Sorrow & Grieving,Nature,Summer
|
131 |
The Housewife
|
Here is the House to hold me — cradle of all the race;
Here is my lord and my love, here are my children dear —
Here is the House enclosing, the dear-loved dwelling place;
Why should I ever weary for aught that I find not here?
Here for the hours of the day and the hours of the night;
Bound with the bands of Duty, rivetted tight;
Duty older than Adam — Duty that saw
Acceptance utter and hopeless in the eyes of the serving squaw.
Food and the serving of food — that is my daylong care;
What and when we shall eat, what and how we shall wear;
Soiling and cleaning of things — that is my task in the main —
Soil them and clean them and soil them — soil them and clean them again.
To work at my trade by the dozen and never a trade to know;
To plan like a Chinese puzzle — fitting and changing so;
To think of a thousand details, each in a thousand ways;
For my own immediate people and a possible love and praise.
My mind is trodden in circles, tiresome, narrow and hard,
Useful, commonplace, private — simply a small back-yard;
And I the Mother of Nations! — Blind their struggle and vain! —
I cover the earth with my children — each with a housewife's brain.
|
Charlotte Anna Perkins Gilman
|
Living,Disappointment & Failure,Relationships,Home Life,Social Commentaries,Gender & Sexuality
|
132 |
To The Indifferent Women
|
A Sestina
You who are happy in a thousand homes,
Or overworked therein, to a dumb peace;
Whose souls are wholly centered in the life
Of that small group you personally love;
Who told you that you need not know or care
About the sin and sorrow of the world?
Do you believe the sorrow of the world
Does not concern you in your little homes? —
That you are licensed to avoid the care
And toil for human progress, human peace,
And the enlargement of our power of love
Until it covers every field of life?
The one first duty of all human life
Is to promote the progress of the world
In righteousness, in wisdom, truth and love;
And you ignore it, hidden in your homes,
Content to keep them in uncertain peace,
Content to leave all else without your care.
Yet you are mothers! And a mother's care
Is the first step toward friendly human life.
Life where all nations in untroubled peace
Unite to raise the standard of the world
And make the happiness we seek in homes
Spread everywhere in strong and fruitful love.
You are content to keep that mighty love
In its first steps forever; the crude care
Of animals for mate and young and homes,
Instead of pouring it abroad in life,
Its mighty current feeding all the world
Till every human child can grow in peace.
You cannot keep your small domestic peace
Your little pool of undeveloped love,
While the neglected, starved, unmothered world
Struggles and fights for lack of mother's care,
And its tempestuous, bitter, broken life
Beats in upon you in your selfish homes.
We all may have our homes in joy and peace
When woman's life, in its rich power of love
Is joined with man's to care for all the world.
|
Charlotte Anna Perkins Gilman
|
Relationships,Home Life,Social Commentaries,Gender & Sexuality,History & Politics
|
133 |
Similar Cases
|
There was once a little animal,
No bigger than a fox,
And on five toes he scampered
Over Tertiary rocks.
They called him Eohippus,
And they called him very small,
And they thought him of no value --
When they thought of him at all;
For the lumpish old Dinoceras
And Coryphodon so slow
Were the heavy aristocracy
In days of long ago.
Said the little Eohippus,
“I am going to be a horse!
And on my middle finger-nails
To run my earthly course!
I’m going to have a flowing tail!
I’m going to have a mane!
I’m going to stand fourteen hands high
On the psychozoic plain!”
The Coryphodon was horrified,
The Dinoceras was shocked;
And they chased young Eohippus,
But he skipped away and mocked.
Then they laughed enormous laughter,
And they groaned enormous groans.
And they bade young Eohippus
Go view his father’s bones.
Said they, “You always were as small
And mean as now we see,
And that’s conclusive evidence
That you’re always going to be.
What! Be a great, tall, handsome beast,
With hoofs to gallop on?
Why! You’d have to change your nature! Said the Loxolophodon.
They considered him disposed of,
And retired with gait serene;
That was the way they argued
In “the early Eocene”.
There was once an Anthropoidal Ape,
Far smarter than the rest,
And everything that they could do
He always did the best;
So they naturally disliked him
And they gave him shoulders cool,
And when they had to mention him
They said he was a fool.
Cried this pretentious Ape one day,
“I’m going to be a man!
And stand upright, and hunt, and fight,
And conquer all I can!
I’m going to cut down forest trees,
To make my houses higher!
I’m going to kill the Mastodon!
I’m going to make a fire!”
Loud screamed the Anthropoidal Apes
With laughter wild and gay;
They tried to catch that boastful one,
But he always got away.
So they yelled at him in chorus,
Which he minded not a whit;
And they pelted him with cocoanuts,
Which didn’t seem to hit.
And then they gave him reasons
Which they thought of much avail,
To prove how his preposterous
Attempt was sure to fail.
Said the sages, “In the first place,
The thing cannot be done!
And, second, if it could be,
It would not be any fun!
And, third, and most conclusive,
And admitting no reply,
You would have to change your nature!
We should like to see you try!”
They chuckled then triumphantly,
These lean and hairy shapes,
For these things passed as arguments
With the Anthropoidal Apes.
There was once a Neolithic Man,
An enterprising wight,
Who made his chopping implements
Unusually bright.
Unusually clever he,
Unusually brave,
And he drew delightful Mammoths
On the borders of his cave.
To his Neolithic neighbours,
Who were startled and surprised,
Said he, “My friends, in course of time,
We shall be civilized!
We are going to live in cities!
We are going to fight in wars!
We are going to eat three times a day
Without the natural cause!
We are going to turn life upside down
About a thing called gold!
We are going to want the earth, and take
As much as we can hold!
We are going to wear great piles of stuff
Outside our proper skins!
We are going to have Diseases!
And Accomplishments!! And Sins!!!”
Then they all rose up in fury
Against their boastful friend,
For prehistoric patience
Cometh quickly to an end.
Said one, “This is chimerical!
Utopian! Absurd!”
Said another, “What a stupid life!
Too dull, upon my word!”
Cried all, Before such things can come,
You idiotic child,
You must alter Human Nature!”
And they all sat back and smiled.
Thought they, “An answer to that last
It will be hard to find!”
It was a clinching argument
To the Neolithic Mind!
|
Charlotte Anna Perkins Gilman
|
Relationships,Arts & Sciences,Humor & Satire
|
134 |
To the Young Wife
|
Are you content, you pretty three-years’ wife?
Are you content and satisfied to live
On what your loving husband loves to give,
And give to him your life?
Are you content with work, — to toil alone,
To clean things dirty and to soil things clean;
To be a kitchen-maid, be called a queen, —
Queen of a cook-stove throne?
Are you content to reign in that small space --
A wooden palace and a yard-fenced land --
With other queens abundant on each hand,
Each fastened in her place?
Are you content to rear your children so?
Untaught yourself, untrained, perplexed, distressed,
Are you so sure your way is always best?
That you can always know?
Have you forgotten how you used to long
In days of ardent girlhood, to be great,
To help the groaning world, to serve the state,
To be so wise — so strong?
And are you quite convinced this is the way,
The only way a woman’s duty lies --
Knowing all women so have shut their eyes?
Seeing the world to-day?
Having no dream of life in fuller store?
Of growing to be more than that you are?
Doing the things you know do better far,
Yet doing others - more?
Losing no love, but finding as you grew
That as you entered upon nobler life
You so became a richer, sweeter wife,
A wiser mother too?
What holds you? Ah, my dear, it is your throne,
Your paltry queenship in that narrow place,
Your antique labours, your restricted space,
Your working all alone!
Be not deceived! ‘Tis not your wifely bond
That holds you, nor the mother’s royal power,
But selfish, slavish service hour by hour --
A life with no beyond!
|
Charlotte Anna Perkins Gilman
|
Relationships,Home Life,Social Commentaries,Gender & Sexuality,History & Politics
|
135 |
I Would Fain Die a Dry Death
|
The American public is patient,
The American public is slow,
The American public will stand as much
As any public I know.
We submit to be killed by our railroads,
We submit to be fooled by our press,
We can stand as much government scandal
As any folks going, I guess,
We can bear bad air in the subway,
We can bear quick death in the street,
But we are a little particular
About the things we eat.
It is not so much that it kills us --
We are used to being killed;
But we like to know what fills us
When we pay for being filled
When we pay the Beef Trust prices,
As we must, or go without,
It is not that we grudge the money
But we grudge the horrid doubt.
Is it ham or trichinosis?
Can a label command belief?
Is it pork we have purchased, or poison?
Is it tuberculosis or beef?
There is really a choice of diseases,
To any one, little or big;
And no man really pleases
To die of a long dead pig.
We take our risks as we’re able,
On elevator and train,
But to sit in peace at the table
And to be seized with sudden pain
When we are at home and happy --
Is really against the grain.
And besides admitting the poison,
Admitting we all must die,
Accepting the second-hand sickness
From a cholera-smitten stye;
Patiently bearing the murder,
Amiable, meek, inert, —
We do rise up and remonstrate
Against the Packingtown dirt.
Let there be death in the dinner,
Subtle and unforeseen,
But O, Mr. Packer, in packing our death,
Won’t you please to pack it clean!
|
Charlotte Anna Perkins Gilman
|
Living,Health & Illness,Activities,Eating & Drinking,Arts & Sciences,Humor & Satire,Social Commentaries,History & Politics
|
136 |
More Females of the Species
|
(After Kipling)
When the traveller in the pasture meets the he-bull in his pride, He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside; But the milch cow, thus accosted, pins the traveller to the rail -- For the female of the species is deadlier than the male. When Nag, the raging stallion, meets a careless man on foot, He will sometimes not destroy him, even if the man don’t shoot; But the mare, if he should meet one, makes the bravest cowboy pale -- For the female of the species is more deadly than the male. When our first colonial settlers met the Hurons and Choctaws, They were burned and scalped and slaughtered by the fury-breathing squaws; ‘Twas the women, not the warriors, who in war-paint took the trail -- For the female of the species is more deadly than the male. Man’s timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say As to women, lest in speaking he should give himself away; But when he meets a woman -- see him tremble and turn pale -- For the female of the species is more deadly than the male Lay your money on the hen-fight! On the dog-fight fought by shes! On the gory Ladies Prize-fight -- there are none so fierce as these! See small girls each other pounding, while their peaceful brothers wail -- For the female of the species is more deadly than the male. So in history they tell us how all China shrieked and ran Before the wholesale slaughter dealt by Mrs. Genghis Khan. And Attila, the Scourge of God, who made all Europe quail, Was a female of the species and more deadly than the male. Red war with all its million dead is due to female rage, The names of women murderers monopolize the page, The pranks of a Napoleon are nothing to the tale Of destruction wrought by females, far more deadly than the male. In the baleful female infant this ferocity we spy, It glares in bloodshot fury from the maiden’s dewy eye, But the really deadly female, when you see her at her best, Has two babies at her petticoat and a suckling at her breast. Yet hold! there is Another! A monster even worse! The Terror of Humanity! Creation’s direst curse! Before whom men in thousands must tremble, shrink and fail -- A sanguinary Grandma -- more deadly than the male!
|
Charlotte Anna Perkins Gilman
|
Arts & Sciences,Humor & Satire,Social Commentaries,Gender & Sexuality,War & Conflict
|
137 |
The Preface
|
Infinity, when all things it beheldIn Nothing, and of Nothing all did build,Upon what Base was fixt the Lath whereinHe turn
|
Edward Taylor
|
Religion,Christianity,God & the Divine
|
138 |
Upon a Spider Catching a Fly
|
Thou sorrow, venom Elfe: Is this thy play, To spin a web out of thyselfe To Catch a Fly? For Why? I saw a pettish wasp Fall foule therein: Whom yet thy Whorle pins did not clasp Lest he should fling His sting. But as affraid, remote Didst stand hereat, And with thy little fingers stroke And gently tap His back. Thus gently him didst treate Lest he should pet, And in a froppish, aspish heate Should greatly fret Thy net. Whereas the silly Fly, Caught by its leg Thou by the throate tookst hastily And 'hinde the head Bite Dead. This goes to pot, that not Nature doth call. Strive not above what strength hath got, Lest in the brawle Thou fall. This Frey seems thus to us. Hells Spider gets His intrails spun to whip Cords thus And wove to nets And sets. To tangle Adams race In's stratigems To their Destructions, spoil'd, made base By venom things, Damn'd Sins. But mighty, Gracious Lord Communicate Thy Grace to breake the Cord, afford Us Glorys Gate And State. We'l Nightingaile sing like When pearcht on high In Glories Cage, thy glory, bright, And thankfully, For joy.
|
Edward Taylor
|
Nature,Animals,Religion,Christianity
|
139 |
Huswifery
|
Make me, O Lord, thy Spining Wheele compleate.
Thy Holy Worde my Distaff make for mee.
Make mine Affections thy Swift Flyers neate
And make my Soule thy holy Spoole to bee.
My Conversation make to be thy Reele
And reele the yarn thereon spun of thy Wheele.
Make me thy Loome then, knit therein this Twine:
And make thy Holy Spirit, Lord, winde quills:
Then weave the Web thyselfe. The yarn is fine.
Thine Ordinances make my Fulling Mills.
Then dy the same in Heavenly Colours Choice,
All pinkt with Varnisht Flowers of Paradise.
Then cloath therewith mine Understanding, Will,
Affections, Judgment, Conscience, Memory
My Words, and Actions, that their shine may fill
My wayes with glory and thee glorify.
Then mine apparell shall display before yee
That I am Cloathd in Holy robes for glory.
|
Edward Taylor
|
Relationships,Home Life,Religion,Christianity
|
140 |
Upon Wedlock, and Death of Children
|
A Curious Knot God made in Paradise, And drew it out inamled neatly Fresh. It was the True-Love Knot, more sweet than spice And set with all the flowres of Graces dress. Its Weddens Knot, that ne're can be unti'de. No Alexanders Sword can it divide. The slips here planted, gay and glorious grow: Unless an Hellish breath do sindge their Plumes. Here Primrose, Cowslips, Roses, Lilies blow With Violets and Pinkes that voide perfumes. Whose beautious leaves ore laid with Hony Dew. And Chanting birds Cherp out sweet Musick true. When in this Knot I planted was, my Stock Soon knotted, and a manly flower out brake. And after it my branch again did knot Brought out another Flowre its sweet breath’d mate. One knot gave one tother the tothers place. Whence Checkling smiles fought in each others face. But oh! a glorious hand from glory came Guarded with Angells, soon did Crop this flowere Which almost tore the root up of the same At that unlookt for, Dolesome, darksome houre. In Pray're to Christ perfum'de it did ascend, And Angells bright did it to heaven tend. But pausing on't, this sweet perfum'd my thought, Christ would in Glory have a Flowre, Choice, Prime, And having Choice, chose this my branch forth brought. Lord, take't. I thanke thee, thou takst ought of mine, It is my pledg in glory, part of mee Is now in it, Lord, glorifi'de with thee. But praying ore my branch, my branch did sprout And bore another manly flower, and gay And after that another, sweet brake out, The which the former hand soon got away. But oh! the tortures, Vomit, screechings, groans, And six weeks fever would pierce hearts like stones. Griefe o're doth flow: and nature fault would finde Were not thy Will, my Spell, Charm, Joy, and Gem: That as I said, I say, take, Lord, they're thine. I piecemeale pass to Glory bright in them. In joy, may I sweet Flowers for Glory breed, Whether thou getst them green, or lets them seed.
|
Edward Taylor
|
Living,Death,Sorrow & Grieving,Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Nature,Trees & Flowers,Religion,Christianity
|
141 |
I am the Living Bread: Meditation Eight: John 6:51
|
I kening through Astronomy Divine
The Worlds bright Battlement, wherein I spy
A Golden Path my Pensill cannot line,
From that bright Throne unto my Threshold ly.
And while my puzzled thoughts about it pore
I finde the Bread of Life in't at my doore.
When that this Bird of Paradise put in
This Wicker Cage (my Corps) to tweedle praise
Had peckt the Fruite forbad: and so did fling
Away its Food; and lost its golden dayes;
It fell into Celestiall Famine sore:
And never could attain a morsell more.
Alas! alas! Poore Bird, what wilt thou doe?
The Creatures field no food for Souls e're gave.
And if thou knock at Angells dores they show
An Empty Barrell: they no soul bread have.
Alas! Poore Bird, the Worlds White Loafe is done
And cannot yield thee here the smallest Crumb.
In this sad state, Gods Tender Bowells run
Out streams of Grace: And he to end all strife
The Purest Wheate in Heaven, his deare-dear Son
Grinds, and kneads up into this Bread of Life.
Which Bread of Life from Heaven down came and stands
Disht on thy Table up by Angells Hands.
Did God mould up this Bread in Heaven, and bake,
Which from his Table came, and to thine goeth?
Doth he bespeake thee thus, This Soule Bread take.
Come Eate thy fill of this thy Gods White Loafe?
Its Food too fine for Angells, yet come, take
And Eate thy fill. Its Heavens Sugar Cake.
What Grace is this knead in this Loafe? This thing
Souls are but petty things it to admire.
Yee Angells, help: This fill would to the brim
Heav'ns whelm'd-down Chrystall meele Bowle, yea and higher.
This Bread of Life dropt in thy mouth, doth Cry.
Eate, Eate me, Soul, and thou shalt never dy.
|
Edward Taylor
|
Activities,Eating & Drinking,Religion,Christianity
|
142 |
November Night
|
Listen. . With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees And fall.
|
Adelaide Crapsey
|
Nature,Fall,Trees & Flowers,Weather,Mythology & Folklore,Ghosts & the Supernatural,Halloween
|
143 |
Release
|
With swiftGreat sweep of herMagnificent arm my painClanged back the doors that shut my soulFrom life.
|
Adelaide Crapsey
|
Living,Disappointment & Failure
|
144 |
Triad
|
These beThree silent things:The falling snow. . the hourBefore the dawn. . the mouth of oneJust dead.
|
Adelaide Crapsey
|
Living,Death,Nature,Weather
|
145 |
Trapped
|
Well andIf day on dayFollows, and weary yearOn year. . and ever days and years. .Well?
|
Adelaide Crapsey
|
Living,Disappointment & Failure,Time & Brevity
|
146 |
Niagara
|
Seen on a Night in November
How frail
Above the bulk
Of crashing water hangs,
Autumnal, evanescent, wan,
The moon.
|
Adelaide Crapsey
|
Nature,Seas, Rivers, & Streams,Stars, Planets, Heavens
|
147 |
To The Dead in the Graveyard Underneath My Window
|
Written in A Moment of Exasperation
How can you lie so still? All day I watch And never a blade of all the green sod moves To show where restlessly you toss and turn, And fling a desperate arm or draw up knees Stiffened and aching from their long disuse; I watch all night and not one ghost comes forth To take its freedom of the midnight hour. Oh, have you no rebellion in your bones? The very worms must scorn you where you lie, A pallid mouldering acquiescent folk, Meek habitants of unresented graves. Why are you there in your straight row on row Where I must ever see you from my bed That in your mere dumb presence iterate The text so weary in my ears: "Lie still And rest; be patient and lie still and rest." I'll not be patient! I will not lie still! There is a brown road runs between the pines, And further on the purple woodlands lie, And still beyond blue mountains lift and loom; And I would walk the road and I would be Deep in the wooded shade and I would reach The windy mountain tops that touch the clouds. My eyes may follow but my feet are held. Recumbent as you others must I too Submit? Be mimic of your movelessness With pillow and counterpane for stone and sod? And if the many sayings of the wise Teach of submission I will not submit But with a spirit all unreconciled Flash an unquenched defiance to the stars. Better it is to walk, to run, to dance, Better it is to laugh and leap and sing, To know the open skies of dawn and night, To move untrammeled down the flaming noon, And I will clamour it through weary days Keeping the edge of deprivation sharp, Nor with the pliant speaking on my lips Of resignation, sister to defeat. I'll not be patient. I will not lie still. And in ironic quietude who is The despot of our days and lord of dust Needs but, scarce heeding, wait to drop Grim casual comment on rebellion's end; "Yes, yes . . Wilful and petulant but now As dead and quiet as the others are." And this each body and ghost of you hath heard That in your graves do therefore lie so still.
|
Adelaide Crapsey
|
Living,Death,Religion,God & the Divine,Arts & Sciences,Music,Theater & Dance,Mythology & Folklore,Ghosts & the Supernatural,Horror
|
148 |
The Lonely Death
|
In the cold I will rise, I will batheIn waters of ice; myselfWill shiver, and shrive myself,Alone in the dawn, and anointForehead and feet and hands;I will shutter the windows from light,I will place in their sockets the fourTall candles and set them a-flameIn the grey of the dawn; and myselfWill lay myself straight in my bed,And draw the sheet under my chin.
|
Adelaide Crapsey
|
Living,Death,The Body,Nature,Winter
|
149 |
The Properly Scholarly Attitude
|
The poet pursues his beautiful theme;
The preacher his golden beatitude;
And I run after a vanishing dream—
The glittering, will-o’-the-wispish gleam
Of the properly scholarly attitude—
The highly desirable, the very advisable,
The hardly acquirable, properly scholarly attitude.
I envy the savage without any clothes,
Who lives in a tropical latitude;
It’s little of general culture he knows.
But then he escapes the worrisome woes
Of the properly scholarly attitude—
The unceasingly sighed over, wept over, cried over,
The futilely died over, properly scholarly attitude.
I work and I work till I nearly am dead,
And could say what the watchman said—that I could!
But still, with a sigh and a shake of the head,
“You don’t understand,” it is ruthlessly said,
“The properly scholarly attitude—
The aye to be sought for, wrought for and fought for,
The ne’er to be caught for, properly scholarly attitude—”
I really am sometimes tempted to say
That it’s merely a glittering platitude;
That people have just fallen into the way,
When lacking a subject, to tell of the sway
Of the properly scholarly attitude—
The easily preachable, spread-eagle speechable,
In practice unreachable, properly scholarly attitude.
|
Adelaide Crapsey
|
Activities,Jobs & Working,School & Learning,Arts & Sciences,Humor & Satire,Reading & Books
|
150 |
Men Say They Know Many Things
|
Men say they know many things;But lo! they have taken wings, —The arts and sciences,And a thousand appliances;The wind that blowsIs all that any body knows.
|
Henry David Thoreau
|
Arts & Sciences
|
151 |
I Am a Parcel of Vain Strivings Tied
|
I am a parcel of vain strivings tied
By a chance bond together,
Dangling this way and that, their links
Were made so loose and wide,
Methinks,
For milder weather.
A bunch of violets without their roots,
And sorrel intermixed,
Encircled by a wisp of straw
Once coiled about their shoots,
The law
By which I'm fixed.
A nosegay which Time clutched from out
Those fair Elysian fields,
With weeds and broken stems, in haste,
Doth make the rabble rout
That waste
The day he yields.
And here I bloom for a short hour unseen,
Drinking my juices up,
With no root in the land
To keep my branches green,
But stand
In a bare cup.
Some tender buds were left upon my stem
In mimicry of life,
But ah! the children will not know,
Till time has withered them,
The woe
With which they're rife.
But now I see I was not plucked for naught,
And after in life's vase
Of glass set while I might survive,
But by a kind hand brought
Alive
To a strange place.
That stock thus thinned will soon redeem its hours,
And by another year,
Such as God knows, with freer air,
More fruits and fairer flowers
Will bear,
While I droop here.
|
Henry David Thoreau
|
Nature,Trees & Flowers
|
152 |
[A dreadful darkness closes in]
|
A dreadful darkness closes in
On my bewildered mind;
O let me suffer and not sin,
Be tortured yet resigned.
Through all this world of whelming mist Still let me look to Thee,
And give me courage to resist The Tempter till he flee.
Weary I am — O give me strength And leave me not to faint;
Say Thou wilt comfort me at legnth And pity my complaint.
I've begged to serve Thee heart and soul, To sacrifice to Thee
No niggard portion, but the whole Of my identity.
I hoped amid the brave and strong My portioned task might lie,
To toil amid the labouring throng With purpose pure and high.
But Thou hast fixed another part, And Thou hast fixed it well;
I said so with my bleeding heart When first the anguish fell.For Thou hast taken my delight, And hope of life away,And bid me watch the painful night And wait the weary day.
The hope and delight were Thine; I bless Thee for their loan;
I gave Thee while I deemed them mine Too little thanks, I own.
Shall I with joy Thy blessings share And not endure their loss?
Or hope the martyr's crown to wear And cast away the cross?
These weary hours will not be lost, These days of passive misery,
These nights of darkness anguish tost If I can fix my heart on Thee.
Weak and weary though I lie, Crushed with sorrow, worn with pain,
Still I may lift to Heaven mine eye, And strive and labour not in vain,
That inward strife against the sins That ever wait on suffering;
To watch and strike where first begins Each ill that would corruption bring,
That secret labour to sustain With humble patience every blow,
To gather fortitude from pain, And hope and holiness from woe.
Thus let me serve Thee from my heart, Whatever be my written fate,
Whether thus early to depart Or yet a while to wait.
If Thou shouldst bring me back to life More humbled I should be;
More wise, more strengthened for the strife, More apt to lean on Thee.
Should Death be standing at the gate Thus should I keep my vow;
But, Lord, whate'er my future fate So let me serve Thee now.
|
Anne Brontë
|
Religion,Christianity,Faith & Doubt,God & the Divine
|
153 |
Shall earth no more inspire thee
|
Shall earth no more inspire thee,
Thou lonely dreamer now?
Since passion may not fire thee
Shall Nature cease to bow?
Thy mind is ever moving
In regions dark to thee;
Recall its useless roving—
Come back and dwell with me.
I know my mountain breezes
Enchant and soothe thee still—
I know my sunshine pleases
Despite thy wayward will.
When day with evening blending
Sinks from the summer sky,
I’ve seen thy spirit bending
In fond idolatry.
I’ve watched thee every hour;
I know my mighty sway,
I know my magic power
To drive thy griefs away.
Few hearts to mortals given
On earth so wildly pine;
Yet none would ask a heaven
More like this earth than thine.
Then let my winds caress thee;
Thy comrade let me be—
Since nought beside can bless thee,
Return and dwell with me.
|
Emily Brontë
|
Relationships,Nature,Gratitude & Apologies
|
154 |
Porphyria's Lover
|
The rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, Murmuring how she loved me — she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me for ever. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipped me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead! Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word!
|
Robert Browning
|
Living,Death,Love,Infatuation & Crushes,Relationships,Mythology & Folklore,Horror
|
155 |
Song
|
Nay but you, who do not love her,
Is she not pure gold, my mistress?
Holds earth aught—speak truth—above her?
Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,
And this last fairest tress of all,
So fair, see, ere I let it fall?
Because, you spend your lives in praising;
To praise, you search the wide world over:
Then why not witness, calmly gazing,
If earth holds aught—speak truth—above her?
Above this tress, and this, I touch
But cannot praise, I love so much!
|
Robert Browning
|
Love,Infatuation & Crushes,Romantic Love,Relationships
|
156 |
A Serenade at the Villa
|
I
That was I, you heard last night,
When there rose no moon at all,
Nor, to pierce the strained and tight
Tent of heaven, a planet small:
Life was dead and so was light.
II
Not a twinkle from the fly,
Not a glimmer from the worm;
When the crickets stopped their cry,
When the owls forbore a term,
You heard music; that was I.
III
Earth turned in her sleep with pain,
Sultrily suspired for proof:
In at heaven and out again,
Lightning! —- where it broke the roof,
Bloodlike, some few drops of rain.
IV
What they could my words expressed,
O my love, my all, my one!
Singing helped the verses best,
And when singing's best was done,
To my lute I left the rest.
V
So wore night; the East was gray,
White the broad-faced hemlock-flowers:
There would be another day;
Ere its first of heavy hours
Found me, I had passed away.
VI
What became of all the hopes,
Words and song and lute as well?
Say, this struck you —- "When life gropes
Feebly for the path where fell
Light last on the evening slopes,
VII
"One friend in that path shall be,
To secure my step from wrong;
One to count night day for me,
Patient through the watches long,
Serving most with none to see."
VIII
Never say —- as something bodes —-
"So, the worst has yet a worse!
When life halts 'neath double loads,
Better the taskmaster's curse
Than such music on the roads!
IX
"When no moon succeeds the sun,
Nor can pierce the midnight's tent
Any star, the smallest one,
While some drops, where lightning rent,
Show the final storm begun —-
X
"When the fire-fly hides its spot,
When the garden-voices fail
In the darkness thick and hot, —-
Shall another voice avail,
That shape be where these are not?
XI
"Has some plague a longer lease,
Proffering its help uncouth?
Can't one even die in peace?
As one shuts one's eyes on youth,
Is that face the last one sees?"
XII
Oh how dark your villa was,
Windows fast and obdurate!
How the garden grudged me grass
Where I stood —- the iron gate
Ground its teeth to let me pass!
|
Robert Browning
|
Living,Death,Love,Heartache & Loss,Relationships,Nature,Animals,Arts & Sciences,Music
|
157 |
Passage over Water
|
We have gone out in boats upon the sea at night,
lost, and the vast waters close traps of fear about us.
The boats are driven apart, and we are alone at last
under the incalculable sky, listless, diseased with stars.
Let the oars be idle, my love, and forget at this time
our love like a knife between us
defining the boundaries that we can never cross
nor destroy as we drift into the heart of our dream,
cutting the silence, slyly, the bitter rain in our mouths
and the dark wound closed in behind us.
Forget depth-bombs, death and promises we made,
gardens laid waste, and, over the wastelands westward,
the rooms where we had come together bombd.
But even as we leave, your love turns back. I feel
your absence like the ringing of bells silenced. And salt
over your eyes and the scales of salt between us. Now,
you pass with ease into the destructive world.
There is a dry crash of cement. The light fails,
falls into the ruins of cities upon the distant shore
and within the indestructible night I am alone.
|
Robert Duncan
|
Love,Heartache & Loss,Realistic & Complicated,Relationships,Nature,Seas, Rivers, & Streams
|
158 |
A Walk to Carter’s Lake
|
Look, above the creek, hummingbirds in the trumpet vine.
Not too close, wait. See the green blurs
stitching the leaves?
Here at the edge of the millennium
I don’t imagine
you’d call them anything as archaic as angels.
But aren’t they agents of a sort, and secret,
dissolving and solidifying,
spying from their constantly shifting perches of air,
always nervous
of us, risking only a stab
in a bell of petals?
Don’t look so stunned, lay your pack
in the needles and catch a breath. I know,
you thought you knew me,
and now to hear me talk this way ...
I’m glad I’ve stopped pretending
to love people
and the cities where people can’t love themselves.
This is what the quiet accomplishes,
and the water trusting
the shadows to eventually peel back to the trees.
Small wonder the angels are said to despise us.
Still, without them
how do we account for our meanness?
Look at that, what else can promenade
in the air? And how easily
they’re alarmed,
revving off into the mist.
|
David Bottoms
|
Nature,Animals
|
159 |
Under the Vulture-Tree
|
We have all seen them circling pastures,
have looked up from the mouth of a barn, a pine clearing,
the fences of our own backyards, and have stood
amazed by the one slow wing beat, the endless dihedral drift.
But I had never seen so many so close, hundreds,
every limb of the dead oak feathered black,
and I cut the engine, let the river grab the jon boat
and pull it toward the tree.
The black leaves shined, the pink fruit blossomed
red, ugly as a human heart.
Then, as I passed under their dream, I saw for the first time
its soft countenance, the raw fleshy jowls
wrinkled and generous, like the faces of the very old
who have grown to empathize with everything.
And I drifted away from them, slow, on the pull of the river,
reluctant, looking back at their roost,
calling them what I'd never called them, what they are,
those dwarfed transfiguring angels,
who flock to the side of the poisoned fox, the mud turtle
crushed on the shoulder of the road,
who pray over the leaf-graves of the anonymous lost,
with mercy enough to consume us all and give us wings.
|
David Bottoms
|
Nature,Animals
|
160 |
Sugar Cane
|
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
“Their color is a diabolic dye.”
Remember, Christians, Negroes, black as Cain,
May be refined, and join the angelic train.
Phillis Wheatley, “On Being Brought from Africa to America”
The mother bending over a baby named Shug
chuckles, “Gimme some sugar,” just to preface
a flurry of kisses sweet as sugar cane.
Later, when she stirs a spoonful of Domino
into her coffee, who’s to tell the story
how a ten-foot-tall reed from the Old World,
on being brought to the New, was raised and cropped
so cooks could sweeten whatever tasted bitter?
Or how grade-A granulated began as a thick
black syrup boiled for hours in an iron vat
until it was refined to pure, white crystal.
When I was a child whose payoff for obeying
orders was red-and-white-striped candy canes,
I knew that sugar was love.
The first time someone called me “sweetheart,”
I knew sugar was love.
And when I tasted my slice of the wedding cake,
iced white and washed down with sweet champagne,
don’t you know sugar was love.
One day Evelina who worked for us
showed up with her son Bubba and laughed,
“Now y’all can play together.” He had a sweet
nature, but even so we raised a little Cain,
and Daddy told her not to bring him back.
He thought I’d begun to sound like colored people.
She smiled, dropped her eyes, kept working.
And kept putting on weight. She later died of stroke.
Daddy developed diabetes by age fifty-five,
insulin burned what his blood couldn’t handle.
Chronic depressions I have, a nutritionist
gently termed “the sugar blues,” but damned
if any lyrics come out of them, baby.
Black-and-white negatives from a picture
history of the sugar trade develop
in my dreams, a dozen able-bodied slaves
hacking forward through a field of cane.
Sweat trickles down from forehead into eye
as they sheave up stalks and cart them to the mill
where grinding iron rollers will express a thin
sucrose solution that, when not refined,
goes from blackstrap molasses on into rum,
a demon conveniently negotiable for slaves.
The master under the impression he owned
these useful properties naturally never thought
of offering them a piece of the wedding cake,
the big white house that bubbling brown sugar built
and paid for, unnaturally processed by Domino.
Phillis Wheatley said the sweet Christ was brought
here from Asia Minor to redeem an African child
and maybe her master’s soul as well. She wrote
as she lived, a model of refinement, yes,
but black as Abel racing through the canebrake,
demon bloodhounds baying in pursuit,
until at last his brother caught him,
expressed his rage, and rode back home to dinner.
Tell it to Fats Domino, to those who live
on Sugar Hill, tell it to unsuspecting Shug
as soon as she is old enough to hear it.
One day Evelina’s son waved goodbye
and climbed on board a northbound train,
black angels guiding him invisibly.
In class he quoted a sentence from Jean Toomer:
“Time and space have no meaning in a canefield.”
My father died last fall at eighty-one.
Love’s bitter, child, as often as it’s sweet.
Mm-mm, I sure do have the blues today:
Baby, will you give me some sugar?
|
Alfred Corn
|
Activities,Eating & Drinking,Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Home Life,Social Commentaries,Race & Ethnicity
|
161 |
A Walrus Tusk from Alaska
|
Arp might have done a version in white marble,
the model held aloft, in approximate awe:
this tough cross-section oval of tusk,
dense and cool as fossil cranium—
preliminary bloodshed condonable
if Inupiat hunters on King Island may
follow as their fathers did the bark of a husky,
echoes ricocheted from roughed-up eskers
on the glacier, a resonance salt-cured
and stained deep green by Arctic seas, whose tilting floor
mirrors the mainland’s snowcapped amphitheater.
Which of his elders set Mike Saclamana the task
and taught him to decide, in scrimshaw, what was so?
Netted incisions black as an etching
saw a way to scratch in living infinitives
known since the Miocene to have animated
the Bering Strait: one humpback whale, plump,
and bardic; an orca caught on the ascending arc,
salt droplets flung from a flange of soot-black fin ...
Farther along the bone conveyor belt a small
ringed seal will never not be swimming, part-time
landlubber, who may feel overshadowed by the donor
walrus ahead. And by his scribal tusk, which stands
in direct correspondence to the draftsman’s burin,
skillful enough to score their tapeloop ostinato,
no harp sonata, but, instead, the humpback whale’s
yearning bassoon (still audible if you cup
the keepsake to your ear and let it sound the depths).
|
Alfred Corn
| null |
162 |
The Snow Is Deep on the Ground
|
The snow is deep on the ground.
Always the light falls
Softly down on the hair of my belovèd.
This is a good world.
The war has failed.
God shall not forget us.
Who made the snow waits where love is.
Only a few go mad.
The sky moves in its whiteness
Like the withered hand of an old king.
God shall not forget us.
Who made the sky knows of our love.
The snow is beautiful on the ground.
And always the lights of heaven glow
Softly down on the hair of my belovèd.
|
Kenneth Patchen
|
Love,Infatuation & Crushes,Romantic Love,Relationships,Nature,Winter
|
163 |
The Rites of Darkness
|
The sleds of the children
Move down the right slope.
To the left, hazed in the tumbling air,
A thousand lights smudge
Within the branches of the old forest,
Like colored moons in a well of milk.
The sleds of the children
Make no sound on the hard-packed snow.
Their bright cries are not heard
On that strange hill.
The youngest are wrapped
In cloth of gold, and their scarfs
Have been dipped in blood.
All the others, from the son
Of Tegos, who is the Bishop
Of Black Church—near Tarn,
On to the daughter of the least slut,
Are garbed in love's shining dress;
Naked little eels, they flash
Across the amazed ice.
And behind each sled
There trots a man with his sex
Held like a whip in his snaking hand.
But no one sees the giant horse
That climbs the steps which stretch forth
Between the calling lights and that hill
Straight up to the throne of God.
He is taller than the highest tree
And his flanks steam under the cold moon.
The beat of his heart shakes the sky
And his reaching muzzle snuffles
At the most ancient star.
*
The innocent alone approach evil
Without fear; in their appointed flame
They acknowledge all living things.
The only evil is doubt; the only good
Is not death, but life. To be is to love.
This I thought as I stood while the snow
Fell in that bitter place, and the riders
Rode their motionless sleds into a nowhere
Of sleep. Ah, God, we can walk so easily,
Bed with women, do every business
That houses and roads are for, scratch
Our shanks and lug candles through
These caves; but, God, we can't believe,
We can't believe in anything.
Because nothing is pure enough.
Because nothing will ever happen
To make us good in our own sight.
Because nothing is evil enough.
*
I squat on my heels, raise my head
To the moon, and howl.
I dig my nails into my sides,
And laugh when the snow turns red.
As I bend to drink,
I laugh at everything that anyone loves.
All your damn horses climbing to heaven
|
Kenneth Patchen
| null |
164 |
My Generation Reading the Newspapers
|
We must be slow and delicate; return
the policeman's stare with some esteem,
remember this is not a shadow play
of doves and geese but this is now
the time to write it down, record the words—
I mean we should have left some pride
of youth and not forget the destiny of men
who say goodbye to the wives and homes
they've read about at breakfast in a restaurant:
"My love."—without regret or bitterness
obtain the measure of the stride we make,
the latest song has chosen a theme of love
delivering us from all evil—destroy. . . ?
why no. . . this too is fanciful. . . funny how
hard it is to be slow and delicate in this,
this thing of framing words to mark this grave
I mean nothing short of blood in every street
on earth can fitly voice the loss of these.
|
Kenneth Patchen
|
Arts & Sciences,Reading & Books,Social Commentaries,History & Politics,War & Conflict
|
165 |
The Murder of Two Men by a Young Kid Wearing Lemon-colored Gloves
|
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait. Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
W a i t.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
NOW.
|
Kenneth Patchen
|
Living,Death,Social Commentaries,Crime & Punishment
|
166 |
In Order To
|
Apply for the position (I've forgotten now for what) I had
to marry the Second Mayor's daughter by twelve noon. The
order arrived three minutes of.
I already had a wife; the Second Mayor was childless: but I
did it.
Next they told me to shave off my father's beard. All right.
No matter that he'd been a eunuch, and had succumbed in
early childhood: I did it, I shaved him.
Then they told me to burn a village; next, a fair-sized town;
then, a city; a bigger city; a small, down-at-heels country;
then one of "the great powers"; then another (another, an-
other)—In fact, they went right on until they'd told me to
burn up every man-made thing on the face of the earth! And
I did it, I burned away every last trace, I left nothing, nothing
of any kind whatever.
Then they told me to blow it all to hell and gone! And I blew
it all to hell and gone (oh, didn't I). . .
Now, they said, put it back together again; put it all back the
way it was when you started.
Well. . . it was my turn then to tell them something! Shucks,
I didn't want any job that bad.
|
Kenneth Patchen
|
Social Commentaries,History & Politics
|
167 |
Transformation & Escape
|
1
I reached heaven and it was syrupy.
It was oppressively sweet.
Croaking substances stuck to my knees.
Of all substances St. Michael was stickiest.
I grabbed him and pasted him on my head.
I found God a gigantic fly paper.
I stayed out of his way.
I walked where everything smelled of burnt chocolate.
Meanwhile St. Michael was busy with his sword
hacking away at my hair.
I found Dante standing naked in a blob of honey.
Bears were licking his thighs.
I snatched St. Michael’s sword
and quartered myself in a great circular adhesive.
My torso fell upon an elastic equilibrium.
As though shot from a sling
my torso whizzed at God fly paper.
My legs sank into some unimaginable sog.
My head, though weighed with the weight of St. Michael,
did not fall.
Fine strands of multi-colored gum
suspended it there.
My spirit stopped by my snared torso.
I pulled! I yanked! Rolled it left to right!
It bruised! It softened! It could not free!
The struggle of an Eternity!
An Eternity of pulls! of yanks!
Went back to my head,
St. Michael had sucked dry my brainpan!
Skull!
My skull!
Only skull in heaven!
Went to my legs.
St. Peter was polishing his sandals with my knees!
I pounced upon him!
Pummeled his face in sugar in honey in marmalade!
Under each arm I fled with my legs!
The police of heaven were in hot pursuit!
I hid within the sop of St. Francis.
Gasping in the confectionery of his gentility
I wept, caressing my intimidated legs.
2
They caught me.
They took my legs away.
They sentenced me in the firmament of an ass.
The prison of an Eternity!
An Eternity of labor! of hee-haws!
Burdened with the soiled raiment of saints
I schemed escape.
Lugging ampullae its daily fill
I schemed escape.
I schemed climbing impossible mountains.
I schemed under the Virgin’s whip.
I schemed to the sound of celestial joy.
I schemed to the sound of earth,
the wail of infants,
the groans of men,
the thud of coffins.
I schemed escape.
God was busy switching the spheres from hand to hand.
The time had come.
I cracked my jaws.
Broke my legs.
Sagged belly-flat on plow
on pitchfork
on scythe.
My spirit leaked from the wounds.
A whole spirit pooled.
I rose from the carcass of my torment.
I stood in the brink of heaven.
And I swear that Great Territory did quake
when I fell, free.
|
Gregory Corso
| null |
168 |
Writ on the Steps of Puerto Rican Harlem
|
There’s a truth limits man
A truth prevents his going any farther
The world is changing
The world knows it’s changing
Heavy is the sorrow of the day
The old have the look of doom
The young mistake their fate in that look
That is truth
But it isn’t all truth
Life has meaning
And I do not know the meaning
Even when I felt it were meaningless
I hoped and prayed and sought a meaning
It wasn’t all frolic poesy
There were dues to pay
Summoning Death and God
I’d a wild dare to tackle Them
Death proved meaningless without Life
Yes the world is changing
But Death remains the same
It takes man away from Life
The only meaning he knows
And usually it is a sad business
This Death
I’d an innocence I’d a seriousness
I’d a humor save me from amateur philosophy
I am able to contradict my beliefs
I am able able
Because I want to know the meaning of everything
Yet sit I like a brokenness
Moaning: Oh what responsibility
I put on thee Gregory
Death and God
Hard hard it’s hard
I learned life were no dream
I learned truth deceived
Man is not God
Life is a century
Death an instant
|
Gregory Corso
|
Living,Death
|
169 |
The Transmigration of Souls
|
Inside the starboard window
of his room in a boat at sea,
the piece of earth he's scraped from a dead gull’s leg
sprouts eighty different species, green
under bell glass. By the sunlight
of the oil lamp he makes rain
as the wind picks up toward Chiloe,
Port Famine, Concepcion, and then Galapagos.
Here he finds shipwrecked sailors’ epitaphs cut
into the shell of an old tortoise
who’s tame enough to ride,
too huge to slaughter.
Here the birds are fearless.
He can catch them with his hands, let them
perch on his finger before he
breaks their necks and wraps them
in his shirt and sets their eggs on branches drifting
from the shoreline, island to island.
Now everywhere he meets himself.
He’s tired, and half the world from home.
But his mind has entered the morning
the way all the animals
kept in his cabin in jars along the wall grow
smaller in sequence
until the window opens on the sea,
so that what he’ll remember
are the wasted spaces, the desert rock spread out for miles
as if the earth were flat again,
dangerous at the horizon,
where the stones, piled, shine
against lava black.
Dew pools in the evenings.
A few pale leaves appear.
|
Deborah Digges
| null |
170 |
In the God’s Dreams
|
Am I a character in the dreams
of the god Hermes the messenger?
Certainly many of my dreams
have nothing to do with the
common life around me. There
are never any automobiles or
airplanes in them. These
dreams belong to an age in
the distant past, to a time
perhaps when nothing was
written down, to the
time of memory.
I chose Hermes not out of
vanity but because from what
I’ve read about him he had a
pretty good time, was not
just a drunkard on Olympus.
In his traipsings delivering
divine messages he must have
met some pretty girls who
gave him pleasure. We know
that he invented the lyre
for the benefit of poets,
and Lucian relates in his Dialogues of the Dead that
he was the god of sleep
and dreams.
My dreams are not frightening,
they are not nightmares. But
their irrationality puzzles
me. What is Hermes trying to
tell me? Is he playing a game
with me? Last Monday night
I dreamt about a school for
young children who had heads
but no bodies. Last night it
was a cow that was galloping
in our meadow like a horse.
Another night, and this one
was a bit scary, I swam across
the lake with my head under
water, I didn’t have to breathe air.
What is the message of these
dreams? Into what kind of world
is Hermes leading me? It’s not
the world described daily in the New York Times. A world of
shadows? A kind of levitation?
How can I pray to Hermes to lay
off these senseless fantasies,
tell him that I want real dreams
such as my shrink can explicate.
I’ve looked up lustration in
the dictionary. Its definition
is not encouraging: “a prefatory
ceremony, performed as a preliminary
to entering a holy place.” That’s
too impersonal. I want a man-to-man
talk with Hermes, telling him to
stop infesting my nights with
his nonsense.
|
James Laughlin
|
Mythology & Folklore
|
171 |
In the Museum at Teheran
|
a sentimental curator has placed
two fragments of bronze Grecian
heads together boy
and girl so that the faces black-
ened by the three thousand years of
desert sand & sun
seem to be whispering something
that the Gurgan lion & the wing-
ed dog of Azerbaijan
must not hear but I have heard
them as I hear you now half way
around the world
so simply & so quietly more like
a child than like a woman making
love say to me in
that soft lost near and distant voice
I’m happy now I’m happy oh don’t
move don’t go away.
|
James Laughlin
|
Relationships,Men & Women
|
172 |
The Invisible Person
|
Life kept rolling her over
like a piece of driftwood
in the surf of an angry sea
she was intelligent and beau-
tiful and well-off she made
friends easily yet she wasn’t
able to put the pieces to-
gether into any recognizable
shape she wasn’t sure who
she wanted to be so she
ended up being no one in par-
ticular she made herself al-
most invisible she was the
person you loved so much who
really wasn’t there at all.
|
James Laughlin
|
Living,Life Choices
|
173 |
O Best of All Nights, Return and Return Again
|
How she let her long hair down over her shoulders, making a love cave around her face. Return and return again.
How when the lamplight was lowered she pressed against him, twining her fingers in his. Return and return again.
How their legs swam together like dolphins and their toes played like little tunnies. Return and return again.
How she sat beside him cross-legged, telling him stories of her childhood. Return and return again.
How she closed her eyes when his were open, how they breathed together, breathing each other. Return and return again.
How they fell into slumber, their bodies curled together like two spoons. Return and return again.
How they went together to Otherwhere, the fairest land they had ever seen. Return and return again.
O best of all nights, return and return again.
|
James Laughlin
|
Love,Desire,Infatuation & Crushes,Romantic Love,Relationships
|
174 |
Technical Notes
|
Catullus is my master and I mix
a little acid and a bit of honey
in his bowl love
is my subject & the lack of love
which lack is what makes evil a
poet must strike
Catullus could rub words so hard
together their friction burned a
heat that warms
us now 2000 years away I roll the
words around my mouth & count the
letters in each
line thus eye and ear contend in-
side the poem and draw its move-
ment tight Milton
thought rhyme was vulgar I agree
yet sometimes if it’s hidden in
the line a rhyme
will richen tone the thing I most
despise is quote poetic unquote
diction I prefer
to build with plain brown bricks
of common talk American talk then
set 1 Roman stone
among them for a key I know Ca-
tullus knew a poem is like a blow
an impact strik-
ing where you least expect this I
believe and yet with me a poem
is finally just
a natural thing.
|
James Laughlin
|
Arts & Sciences,Poetry & Poets
|
175 |
Swapping Minds
|
(for Vanessa)
Melissa and I were sitting
by the little lake in Green
Park in London playing
“swapping minds.” It’s an
old game that came down from
the Lowlands. It was a fine
day so we had brought
a little picnic. Melissa
makes wonderful pâté, as
good as anything from Fortnum
& Masson. Yummy. And we had
a half bottle of Chardonnay
between us.
Here is how the game of
“swapping minds” goes. It’s
not a child’s game, it’s
very intellectual, or should
I say psychological. Just
imagine Melissa and I are
talking. She says something
to me, “James why are you
always so arrogant?” But,
obviously that’s not what
she is thinking. To answer
her I must try to imagine
what she was thinking when
she asked that. I must swap
minds with her.
I ventured the following:
“Melissa, you have the most
lovely white skin in England,
you must be careful
not to get sunburned.Melissa: “James, why do you
pretend you are Scots when
you’re really of Irish descent?”James: “Melissa, are you
remembering the handsome
Russian boy you met in the
Hermitage on your trip to
Russia and he took you to have
an ice cream with him?”Melissa: “James, did the
other boys in school tease
you because you were so bad
at games?”James: “Do you really love
me or are you just flirting?”Melissa: “I’m sorry, James,
but the response is in your
mind, not in mine.”
That was the end of the
“swapping game” for that
day, and such a happy day
it was, there in Green Park,
watching the ducks on the
pond.
|
James Laughlin
|
Relationships,Men & Women
|
176 |
Return
|
This Earth the king said
Looking at the ground;This England. But we drive
A Sunday paradise
Of parkway, trees flow into trees and the grass
Like water by the very asphalt crown
And summit of things
In the flow of traffic
The family cars, in the dim
Sound of the living
The noise of increase to which we owe
What we possess. We cannot reconcile ourselves.
No one is reconciled, tho we spring
From the ground together—
And we saw the seed,
The minuscule Sequoia seed
In the museum by the tremendous slab
Of the tree. And imagined the seed
In soil and the growth quickened
So that we saw the seed reach out, forcing
Earth thru itself into bark, wood, the green
Needles of a redwood until the tree
Stood in the room without soil—
How much of the earth's
Crust has lived
The seed’s violence!
The shock is metaphysical.
For the wood weathers. Drift wood
And the foot print in the forest grow older.
This is not our time, not what we mean, it is a time
Passing, the curl at the cutwater,
The enormous prow
Outside in the weather. In that breeze,
The sense of that passage,
Is desertion,
Betrayal, that we are not innocent
Of loneliness as Pierrot, Pierrette chattering
Unaware tho we imagine nothing
Beyond the streets of the living—
A sap in the limbs. Mary,
Mary, we turn to the children
As they will turn to the children
Wanting so much to have created happiness
As if a stem to the leaves—
—we had camped in scrub,
A scrub of the past, the fringes of towns
Neither towns nor forest, nothing ours. And Linda five,
Maybe six when the mare grazing
In the meadow came to her.
‘Horse,’ she said, whispering
By the roadside
With the cars passing. Little girl welcomed,
Learning welcome. The rest is—
Whatever—whatever—remote
Mechanics, endurance,
The piers of the city
In the sea. Here are whole buildings
Razed, whole blocks
Of a city gone
Among old streets
And the old boroughs, ourselves
Among these streets where Petra beat
A washpan out her window gathering
A crowd like a rescue. Relief,
As they said it, The Relief. Petra
Decisive suddenly among her children
In those crumbling bedrooms, Petra,
Petra—. And how imagine it? or imagine
Coughlin in the streets,
Pelley and the Silver Shirts? The medieval sense seems innocent, the very
Ceremony of innocence that was drowned.
It was not. But how imagine it
Of streets boarded and vacant where no time will hatch
Now chairs and walls,
Floors, roofs, the joists and beams,
The woodwork, window sills
In sun in a great weight of brick.
|
George Oppen
|
Living,Parenthood,Time & Brevity,Nature,Trees & Flowers,Social Commentaries,History & Politics
|
177 |
Vulcan
|
The householder issuing to the street
Is adrift a moment in that ice stiff
Exterior. ‘Peninsula
Low lying in the bay
And wooded—’ Native now
Are the welder and the welder’s arc
In the subway’s iron circuits:
We have not escaped each other,
Not in the forest, not here. The crippled girl hobbles
Painfully in the new depths
Of the subway, and painfully
We shift our eyes. The bare rails
And black walls contain
Labor before her birth, her twisted
Precarious birth and the men
Laborious, burly—She sits
Quiet, her eyes still. Slowly,
Deliberately she sees
An anchor’s blunt fluke sink
Thru coins and coin machines,
The ancient iron and the voltage
In the iron beneath us in the child’s deep
Harbors into harbor sand.
|
George Oppen
|
Social Commentaries,Cities & Urban Life
|
Subsets and Splits
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