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[Born,. And when the summer winds shall sweep With their light wings my place If still, as freedom's rallying sign, Upon the young heart's altars shine The very those altars burn,- A marvellous joy that even then The spirit hath its life again,.
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Little sister interrupted: Their dog so sweet and fine, Had grown quite large and fierce, And been drowned in the Rhine. You pallid creature! Why do you act that torment through, Love, torturing me on this very corner, For so many nights, those years I knew. In the end they parted and only Saw each other sometimes in dreams: It was long ago they had died, But they scarcely knew it, it seems.
We papered over the boxes We found around the yard, And we lived there together In our elegant house of card. We often sat there chatting, Sensibly, as folks do, Complaining how much better It was in our day too: How love and faith and loyalty Have vanished from the earth, How dear the coffee is now, How hard to garner wealth!
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Over my head in leaves grown deep, Sings the young nightingale. It only sings of love there, I hear it in my sleep. See how the fields and forests Are bare, extinguished, down below — Winter round you and inside you, And your heart frozen so. He took a wife, the old king, A young wife too, men say. There was a handsome pageboy With hair of gold, and thoughts so free: He bore the silks with joy That trailed behind the queen.
Do you know the ancient singing?
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It rings so true: it rings so sweet! Both had to die, of loving, Of love that was too deep. Oh, leave me in peace about Germany! The oak trees seemed So tall there, and the violets blew so sweet. It was a dream. While he was plying his naughty craft, She just lay on the bed and laughed. The days went by in pleasure and joy, At night in the sheets she hugged her boy. When they dragged him off to jail at last, She just stood at the window and laughed.
George Herbert's "The Altar"
Could no one give me a clue then, Of who she was? I asked my friends, All of them, but all in vain, I was nearly ill with passion. Daunted by the moustaches Of her elderly companions, And daunted by my own heart Even more completely, I never dared to whisper A single sighed word in passing, Scarce dared to show my ardour, By the passion in my glances. I sit here in my chair, just thinking, Here beside the crackling glow, Kettle humming, as its boiling, Melodies from long ago.
And my little cat sits near me Warms its paws beside the coals, While the flames are flickering, weaving Brave imaginings in my soul. Now many a long forgotten age Rises in twilight air, As if in shining masquerade, And faded splendour, there. Lovely women with knowing glances Beckoning with sweet mystery, And Harlequins in prancing dances Leaping, laughing merrily. Marble gods from furthest distance Greet me: near them, dreamlike, grow Flowers, from tales, that entrance In the moonlight glow.
A Spiritual Mother Poem
To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object miss- ing,. Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what is that you express in your eyes? My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and day-long ramble,. And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else,.
Philip Larkin
And the jay in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills pretty well to me,. Ya-honk he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation,. The sharp-hoof'd moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill, the chickadee, the prairie-dog,. Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and mauls, and the drivers of horses,. The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp,.
The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanks- giving dinner,. The mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance and harpoon are ready,. The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel,. The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe and looks at the oats and rye,.
He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother's bed-room;. He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the manu- script;. The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand, the drunkard nods by the bar-room stove,.
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The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his beat, the gate-keeper marks who pass,. The young fellow drives the express-wagon, I love him, though I do not know him;. The western turkey-shooting draws old and young, some lean on their rifles, some sit on logs,. Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels his piece;. As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them from his saddle,. The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their part- ners, the dancers bow to each other,. The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret and harks to the musical rain,.
The squaw wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth is offering moccasins and bead-bags for sale,.
The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with half-shut eyes bent sideways,. As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat the plank is thrown for the shore-going passengers,. The young sister holds out the skein while the elder sister winds it off in a ball, and stops now and then for the knots,. The one-year wife is recovering and happy having a week ago borne her first child,.
The clean-hair'd Yankee girl works with her sewing-machine or in the factory or mill,. The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer, the reporter's lead flies swiftly over the note-book, the sign-painter is lettering with blue and gold,. The canal boy trots on the tow-path, the book-keeper counts at his desk, the shoemaker waxes his thread,. The conductor beats time for the band and all the performers follow him,. The child is baptized, the convert is making his first professions,.
The regatta is spread on the bay, the race is begun, how the white sails sparkle! The drover watching his drove sings out to them that would stray,. The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, the purchaser hig- gling about the odd cent;. The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock moves slowly,. The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck,.
The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink to each other,. The President holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the great Secretaries,. On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with twined arms,. The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut in the hold,. The Missourian crosses the plains toting his wares and his cattle,. As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives notice by the jingling of loose change,. The floor-men are laying the floor, the tinners are tinning the roof, the masons are calling for mortar,.
Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gather'd, it is the fourth of Seventh-month, what salutes of cannon and small arms! Seasons pursuing each other the plougher ploughs, the mower mows, and the winter-grain falls in the ground;. Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hole in the frozen surface,.
The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes deep with his axe,. Flatboatmen make fast towards dusk near the cotton-wood or pecan-trees,. Coon-seekers go through the regions of the Red river or through those drain'd by the Tennessee, or through those of the Arkansas,. Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahooche or Altamahaw,. Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grand- sons around them,. In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers after their day's sport,.
The old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband sleeps by his wife;. Stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse and stuff'd with the stuff that is fine,.