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Sing Spring Rain aquamarine Down tranalucent windowa Burhlea in downapouta, 6taccato in hlue—hlack puddleo On wet—alick atreeta Until golden aun and.
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One sings a flower, and one a face, and one Screens from the world a corner choice and small, Each toy its little laureate hath, but none Sings of the whole: yea, only he sang all. Poor little bards, so shameless in your care To snatch the mighty laurel from his head, Have you no fear, dwarfs in the giant's chair, How men shall laugh, remembering the dead? Great is advertisement!
Ah, fools! Fame loved him well, because he loved not Fame, But Peace and Love, all other things before, A man was he ere yet he was a name, His song was much because his love was more. Ah, Minto, thou of that minority Wert man of men--we had deep need of thee! Had Heaven a deeper? Did the heavenly Chair Of Earthly Love wait empty for thee there? ON MR. Shrunken the mould of manhood is, and lo! Fragments and fractions of the old divine, Men pert of brain, planned on a mean design, Dapper and undistinguished--such we grow.
No more the leonine heroic head, The ruling arm, great heart, and kingly eye; No more th' alchemic tongue that turned poor themes Of statecraft into golden-glowing dreams; No more a man for man to deify: Laurel no more--the heroic age is dead. For us like thee a little hour to stay, For us like thee a little hour of play, A little hour for wine and love and song, And we too turn the glass and take our way. So many years your tomb the roses strew, Yet not one penny wiser we than you, The doubts that wearied you are with us still, And, Heaven be thanked!
For, have the years a better message brought To match the simple wisdom that you taught: Love, wine and verse, and just a little bread-- For these to live and count the rest as nought? Therefore, Great Omar, here our homage deep We drain to thee, though all too fast asleep In Death's intoxication art thou sunk To know the solemn revels that we keep. Oh, had we, best-loved Poet, but the power From our own lives to pluck one golden hour, And give it unto thee in thy great need, How would we welcome thee to this bright bower! O life that is so warm, 'twas Omar's too; O wine that is so red, he drank of you: Yet life and wine must all be put away, And we go sleep with Omar--yea, 'tis true.
And when in some great city yet to be The sacred wine is spilt for you and me, To those great fames that we have yet to build, We'll know as little of it all as he. I hear, and to myself I smile, For Christ talks with me all the while. No angel now to roll the stone From off His unawaking sleep, In vain shall Mary watch alone, In vain the soldiers vigil keep. Yet while they deem my Lord is dead My eyes are on His shining head. Yet all the while my Lord I meet In every London lane and street.
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Poor Lazarus shall wait in vain, And Bartimaeus still go blind; The healing hem shall ne'er again Be touched by suffering humankind. Yet all the while I see them rest, The poor and outcast, in His breast. No more unto the stubborn heart With gentle knocking shall He plead, No more the mystic pity start, For Christ twice dead is dead indeed. So in the street I hear men say, Yet Christ is with me all the day. Then a lark staggered singing by Up his shining ladder of dew, And the airs of dawn walked softly about the room, Filling the morning sky with the scent of the woman's hair, And giving, in sweet exchange, its hawthorn and daisy breath: And the man awoke with a sob-- But the woman dreamed.
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No longer in a glittering morn Their misty meadows flicker nigh, No singing with the spray is borne, All that is long gone by. To-day upon the golden beach No gold-haired guardian maidens stand, No apples ripen out of reach, And none are mad to land. The merchant-men, 'tis they say so, That trade across the western seas, In hurried transit to and fro, About Hesperides. But, Reader, not as these thou art, So, loose thy shallop from its hold, And, trusting to the ancient chart, Thou 'It make them as of old.
Bring a candle, for the room Is dark and cold, Antechamber of the tomb-- O grief untold! Like a snowdrift is her bed, Dinted the snow, Faint frozen lines from foot to head,-- She lies below. Turn from off her shrouded face The frigid sheet Death hath doubled all her grace-- O Jenny, sweet! Man 'neath his foot, and woman 'neath his hand, Kneel prostrate: he, 'tis meant to symbolise, Steals our strong men and our sweet women buys. Year after year a dream-fed band That scorn the vales below, And scorn the fatness of the land To win those heights of snow,-- Leave barns and kine and flocks behind, And count their fortune fair, If they a dozen leaves may bind Of laurel in their hair.
Like us, dear Poet, once you trod That sweet moon-smitten way, With mouth of silver sought the god All night and all the day; Sought singing, till in rosy fire The white Apollo came, And touched your brow, and wreathed your lyre, And named you by his name; And led you, loving, by the hand To those grave laurelled bowers, Where keep your high immortal band Your high immortal hours.
Strait was the way, thorn-set and long-- Ah, tell us, shining there, Is fame as wonderful as song? And laurels in your hair! But no! It was a ticket to admit Two happy people close to sit-- A 'Season' ticket, one might say, At Time's eternal passion play. But all you bought with that spent year,-- Ah, friends!
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Nothing at all to hold compare With what you buy with this New Year. A home! O wine upon its threshold stone, And horse-shoes on the lintel of it, And happy hearts to keep it warm, And God Himself to love it!
Dear little nest built snug on bough Within the World-Tree's mighty arms, I would I knew a spell that charms Eternal safety from the storm; To give you always stars above, And always roses on the bough-- But then the Tree's own root is Love, Love, love, all love, I vow. From flower to flower The butterfly sips, O passionate limbs And importunate lips! From candle to candle The moth loves to fly, O sweet, sweet to burn! And still sweeter to die!
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It seemed a sort of maidenhood, My little power for public good,-- Oh keep it uncorrupted, pray! And, when it must be given away, See it be given with a sense Of most uncanvassed innocence. For most men's votes are given, I hear, Either for rhetoric or--beer. A young man's vote--O fair estate! Of the great tree electorate A living leaf, of this great sea A motive wave of empire I, On this stupendous wheel--a fly.
O maiden vote, how pure must be The party that is worthy thee! And thereupon my mind began That perfect government to plan, The high millennium of man. Then in my dream I saw arise An England, ah! And statesmen in that dream became No tricksters of the petty aim, Mere speculators in the rise Of programmes and of party cries, Expert in all those turns and tricks That make this senate-house of ours, Westminster, with its lordly towers, The stock-exchange of politics.
But that ideal Parliament Did all it said, said all it meant, And every Minister of State Was guileless--as a candidate. Statesmen no more the tinker's way Mended and patched from day to day, Content with piecing part with part, But took the mighty problem whole, Beginning with the human heart: For noble rulers make in vain Unselfish laws for selfish men, And give the whole wide world its vote, But who is going to give it soul?
The shepherd weeps because, overhead, Lies the fierce storm, and his destiny. Adagio ; Presto -- His tired limbs are deprived of rest By his fear of lightning and fierce thunder, And by furious swarms of flies and hornets. Presto -- Alas, how just are his fears, Thunder and lightening fill the Heavens, and the hail Slices the tops of the corn and other grain. L'Autunno Autumn Opus 8, No.
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Allegro -- The peasants celebrate with dance and song, The joy of a rich harvest. And, full of Bacchus's liquor, They finish their celebration with sleep. Adagio molto -- Each peasant ceases his dance and song. The mild air gives pleasure, And the season invites many To enjoy a sweet slumber. Allegro -- The hunters, at the break of dawn, go to the hunt. With horns, guns, and dogs they are off, The beast flees, and they follow its trail. Already fearful and exhausted by the great noise, Of guns and dogs, and wounded, The exhausted beast tries to flee, but dies.
L'Inverno Winter Opus 8, No. Allegro non molto -- Frozen and trembling in the icy snow, In the severe blast of the horrible wind, As we run, we constantly stamp our feet, And our teeth chatter in the cold. Billy Collins. Three Haiku, Two Tanka. Philip Appleman.