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Edgar Allan Poe

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Edgar Allan Poe A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avowYou are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sandHow few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep- while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream? A lonely spirit guiding. What though that light, thro' storm and night, So trembled from afarWhat could there be more purely bright In Truth's day-star?

Dreamland
By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands but newly From an ultimate dim ThuleFrom a wild clime that lieth, sublime, Out of SPACE- out of TIME. Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods, With forms that no man can discover For the tears that drip all over; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas without a shore; Seas that restlessly aspire, Surging, unto skies of fire; Lakes that endlessly outspread Their lone waters- lone and dead,Their still waters- still and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily. By the lakes that thus outspread Their lone waters, lone and dead,Their sad waters, sad and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily,By the mountains- near the river Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,By the grey woods,- by the swamp Where the toad and the newt encampBy the dismal tarns and pools Where dwell the Ghouls,By each spot the most unholy-

A Dream
In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departedBut a waking dream of life and light Hath left me broken-hearted. Ah! what is not a dream by day To him whose eyes are cast On things around him with a ray Turned back upon the past? That holy dream- that holy dream, While all the world were chiding, Hath cheered me as a lovely beam

In each nook most melancholyThere the traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the PastShrouded forms that start and sigh As they pass the wanderer byWhite-robed forms of friends long given, In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven. For the heart whose woes are legion 'Tis a peaceful, soothing regionFor the spirit that walks in shadow 'Tis- oh, 'tis an Eldorado! But the traveller, travelling through it, May not- dare not openly view it! Never its mysteries are exposed To the weak human eye unclosed; So wills its King, who hath forbid The uplifting of the fringed lid; And thus the sad Soul that here passes Beholds it but through darkened glasses. By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have wandered home but newly From this ultimate dim Thule.

He met a pilgrim shadow"Shadow," said he, "Where can it beThis land of Eldorado?" "Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow, Ride, boldly ride," The shade replied"If you seek for Eldorado!"

Dreams
Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream! My spirit not awakening, till the beam Of an Eternity should bring the morrow. Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow, 'Twere better than the cold reality Of waking life, to him whose heart must be, And hath been still, upon the lovely earth, A chaos of deep passion, from his birth. But should it be- that dream eternally Continuing- as dreams have been to me In my young boyhood- should it thus be given, 'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven. For I have revell'd, when the sun was bright I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light And loveliness,- have left my very heart In climes of my imagining, apart From mine own home, with beings that have been Of mine own thought- what more could I have seen? 'Twas once- and only once- and the wild hour From my remembrance shall not pass- some power Or spell had bound me- 'twas the chilly wind Came o'er me in the night, and left behind Its image on my spirit- or the moon Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon Too coldly- or the stars- howe'er it was

Eldorado
Gaily bedight, A gallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado. But he grew oldThis knight so boldAnd o'er his heart a shadow Fell as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado. And, as his strength Failed him at length,

That dream was as that night-wind- let it pass. I have been happy, tho' in a dream. I have been happy- and I love the theme: Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life, As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife Of semblance with reality, which brings To the delirious eye, more lovely things Of Paradise and Love- and all our own! Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.

Alone
From childhood's hour I have not been As others were; I have not seen As others saw; I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone. Then- in my childhood, in the dawn Of a most stormy life- was drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still: From the torrent, or the fountain, From the red cliff of the mountain, From the sun that round me rolled In its autumn tint of gold, From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by, From the thunder and the storm, And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view.

Fairy-Land
Dim vales- and shadowy floodsAnd cloudy-looking woods, Whose forms we can't discover For the tears that drip all over! Huge moons there wax and wane-

Again- again- againEvery moment of the nightForever changing placesAnd they put out the star-light With the breath from their pale faces. About twelve by the moon-dial, One more filmy than the rest (A kind which, upon trial, They have found to be the best) Comes down- still down- and down, With its centre on the crown Of a mountain's eminence, While its wide circumference In easy drapery falls Over hamlets, over halls, Wherever they may beO'er the strange woods- o'er the seaOver spirits on the wingOver every drowsy thingAnd buries them up quite In a labyrinth of lightAnd then, how deep!- O, deep! Is the passion of their sleep. In the morning they arise, And their moony covering Is soaring in the skies, With the tempests as they toss, Like- almost anythingOr a yellow Albatross. They use that moon no more For the same end as beforeVidelicet, a tentWhich I think extravagant: Its atomies, however, Into a shower dissever, Of which those butterflies Of Earth, who seek the skies, And so come down again, (Never-contented things!) Have brought a specimen Upon their quivering wings.

Sonnet- Silence
There are some qualities- some incorporate things,

That have a double life, which thus is made A type of that twin entity which springs From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade. There is a two-fold Silence- sea and shoreBody and soul. One dwells in lonely places, Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces, Some human memories and tearful lore, Render him terrorless: his name's "No More." He is the corporate Silence: dread him not! No power hath he of evil in himself; But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!) Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf, That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod No foot of man,) commend thyself to God!

To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o'er, But I will half believe that wild light fraught With more of sovereignty than ancient lore Hath ever told - or is it of a thought The unembodied essence, and no more That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass As dew of the night time, o'er the summer grass? III. Doth o'er us pass, when as th' expanding eye To the loved object - so the tear to the lid Will start, which lately slept in apathy? And yet it need not be - (that object) hid From us in life - but common - which doth lie Each hour before us - but then only bid With a strange sound, as of a harpstring broken T' awake us - 'Tis a symbol and a token IV. Of what in other worlds shall be - and given In beauty by our God, to those alone Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone, That high tone of the spirit which hath striven Though not with Faith - with godliness whose throne With desperate energy 't hath beaten down; Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.

In Youth I have Known One


How often we forget all time, when lone Admiring Nature's universal throne; Her woods - her winds - her mountains - the intense Reply of Hers to Our intelligence! I. In youth I have known one with whom the Earth In secret communing held - as he with it, In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth: Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth A passionate light - such for his spirit was fit And yet that spirit knew - not in the hour Of its own fervour - what had o'er it power. II. Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought

Imitation
A dark unfathomed tide Of interminable pride A mystery, and a dream, Should my early life seem; I say that dream was fraught With a wild and waking thought

Of beings that have been, Which my spirit hath not seen, Had I let them pass me by, With a dreaming eye! Let none of earth inherit That vision of my spirit; Those thoughts I would control, As a spell upon his soul: For that bright hope at last And that light time have past, And my worldly rest hath gone With a sigh as it passed on: I care not though it perish With a thought I then did cherish

no wrong. The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside, Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride. For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes The life still there, upon her hair- the death upon her eyes. "Avaunt! avaunt! from fiends below, the indignant ghost is rivenFrom Hell unto a high estate far up within the HeavenFrom grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven! Let no bell toll, then,- lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth, Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damned Earth! And I!- to-night my heart is light!- no dirge will I upraise, But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days!"

Lenore
Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! Let the bell toll!- a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river; And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?- weep now or nevermore! See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! Come! let the burial rite be read- the funeral song be sung!An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so youngA dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young. "Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride, And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her- that she died! How shall the ritual, then, be read?- the requiem how be sung By you- by yours, the evil eye,- by yours, the slanderous tongue That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?" Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel

The Valley Of Unrest


Once it smiled a silent dell Where the people did not dwell; They had gone unto the wars, Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, Nightly, from their azure towers, To keep watch above the flowers, In the midst of which all day The red sunlight lazily lay. Now each visitor shall confess The sad valley's restlessness. Nothing there is motionlessNothing save the airs that brood Over the magic solitude. Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees That palpitate like the chill seas

Around the misty Hebrides! Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven That rustle through the unquiet Heaven Uneasily, from morn till even, Over the violets there that lie In myriad types of the human eyeOver the lilies there that wave And weep above a nameless grave! They wave:- from out their fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in drops. They weep:- from off their delicate stems Perennial tears descend in gems

There open fanes and gaping graves Yawn level with the luminous waves; But not the riches there that lie In each idol's diamond eyeNot the gaily-jewelled dead Tempt the waters from their bed; For no ripples curl, alas! Along that wilderness of glassNo swellings tell that winds may be Upon some far-off happier seaNo heavings hint that winds have been On seas less hideously serene. But lo, a stir is in the air! The wave- there is a movement there! As if the towers had thrust aside, In slightly sinking, the dull tideAs if their tops had feebly given A void within the filmy Heaven. The waves have now a redder glowThe hours are breathing faint and lowAnd when, amid no earthly moans, Down, down that town shall settle hence, Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, Shall do it reverence.

The City In The Sea


Lo! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city lying alone Far down within the dim West, Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines and palaces and towers (Time-eaten towers that tremble not!) Resemble nothing that is ours. Around, by lifting winds forgot, Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters he. No rays from the holy heaven come down On the long night-time of that town; But light from out the lurid sea Streams up the turrets silentlyGleams up the pinnacles far and freeUp domes- up spires- up kingly hallsUp fanes- up Babylon-like wallsUp shadowy long-forgotten bowers Of sculptured ivy and stone flowersUp many and many a marvellous shrine Whose wreathed friezes intertwine The viol, the violet, and the vine. Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. So blend the turrets and shadows there That all seem pendulous in air, While from a proud tower in the town Death looks gigantically down.

To One Departed
Seraph! thy memory is to me Like some enchanted far-off isle In some tumultuous sea Some ocean vexed as it may be With storms; but where, meanwhile, Serenest skies continually Just o'er that one bright island smile. For 'mid the earnest cares and woes That crowd around my earthly path, (Sad path, alas, where grows Not even one lonely rose!) My soul at least a solace hath In dreams of thee; and therein knows An Eden of bland repose.

Robert Frost
A Late Walk
When I go up through the mowing field, The headless aftermath, Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew, Half closes the garden path. And when I come to the garden ground, The whir of sober birds Up from the tangle of withered weeds Is sadder than any words A tree beside the wall stands bare, But a leaf that lingered brown, Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought, Comes softly rattling down. I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you. (Microscopic) A speck that would have been beneath my sight On any but a paper sheet so white Set off across what I had written there. And I had idly poised my pen in air To stop it with a period of ink When something strange about it made me think, This was no dust speck by my breathing blown, But unmistakably a living mite With inclinations it could call its own. It paused as with suspicion of my pen, And then came racing wildly on again To where my manuscript was not yet dry; Then paused again and either drank or smelt-With loathing, for again it turned to fly. Plainly with an intelligence I dealt. It seemed too tiny to have room for feet, Yet must have had a set of them complete To express how much it didn't want to die. It ran with terror and with cunning crept. It faltered: I could see it hesitate; Then in the middle of the open sheet Cower down in desperation to accept Whatever I accorded it of fate. I have none of the tenderer-than-thou Collectivistic regimenting love With which the modern world is being swept. But this poor microscopic item now! Since it was nothing I knew evil of I let it lie there till I hope it slept. I have a mind myself and recognize Mind when I meet with it in any guise No one can know how glad I am to find On any sheet the least display of mind.

A Boundless Moment
He halted in the wind, and -- what was that Far in the maples, pale, but not a ghost? He stood there bringing March against his thought, And yet too ready to believe the most. "Oh, that's the Paradise-in-bloom," I said; And truly it was fair enough for flowers had we but in us to assume in march Such white luxuriance of May for ours. We stood a moment so in a strange world, Myself as one his own pretense deceives; And then I said the truth (and we moved on). A young beech clinging to its last year's leaves.

A Considerable Speck

A Patch of Old Snow

There's a patch of old snow in a corner That I should have guessed Was a blow-away paper the rain Had brought to rest. It is speckled with grime as if Small print overspread it, The news of a day I've forgotten -If I ever read it.

A Prayer in Spring
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day; And give us not to think so far away As the uncertain harvest; keep us here All simply in the springing of the year. Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night; And make us happy in the happy bees, The swarm dilating round the perfect trees. And make us happy in the darting bird That suddenly above the bees is heard, The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill, And off a blossom in mid air stands still. For this is love and nothing else is love, The which it is reserved for God above To sanctify to what far ends He will, But which it only needs that we fulfil.

A Question
A voice said, Look me in the stars And tell me truly, men of earth, If all the soul-and-body scars Were not too much to pay for birth.

All out of doors looked darkly in at him Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars, That gathers on the pane in empty rooms. What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand. What kept him from remembering what it was That brought him to that creaking room was age. He stood with barrels round him -- at a loss. And having scared the cellar under him In clomping there, he scared it once again In clomping off; -- and scared the outer night, Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar Of trees and crack of branches, common things, But nothing so like beating on a box. A light he was to no one but himself Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what, A quiet light, and then not even that. He consigned to the moon, such as she was, So late-arising, to the broken moon As better than the sun in any case For such a charge, his snow upon the roof, His icicles along the wall to keep; And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted, And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept. One aged man -- one man -- can't keep a house, A farm, a countryside, or if he can, It's thus he does it of a winter night.

Carpe Diem
Age saw two quiet children Go loving by at twilight, He knew not whether homeward, Or outward from the village, Or (chimes were ringing) churchward,

An Old Man's Winter Night

He waited, (they were strangers) Till they were out of hearing To bid them both be happy. 'Be happy, happy, happy, And seize the day of pleasure.' The age-long theme is Age's. 'Twas Age imposed on poems Their gather-roses burden To warn against the danger That overtaken lovers From being overflooded With happiness should have it. And yet not know they have it. But bid life seize the present? It lives less in the present Than in the future always, And less in both together Than in the past. The present Is too much for the senses, Too crowding, too confusingToo present to imagine.

And have stopped dying now forever. I think they would believe the lie.

In Equal Sacrifice
Thus of old the Douglas did: He left his land as he was bid With the royal heart of Robert the Bruce In a golden case with a golden lid, To carry the same to the Holy Land; By which we see and understand That that was the place to carry a heart At loyalty and love's command, And that was the case to carry it in. The Douglas had not far to win Before he came to the land of Spain, Where long a holy war had been Against the too-victorious Moor; And there his courage could not endure Not to strike a blow for God Before he made his errand sure. And ever it was intended so, That a man for God should strike a blow, No matter the heart he has in charge For the Holy Land where hearts should go. But when in battle the foe were met, The Douglas found him sore beset, With only strength of the fighting arm For one more battle passage yetAnd that as vain to save the day As bring his body safe awayOnly a signal deed to do And a last sounding word to say. The heart he wore in a golden chain He swung and flung forth into the plain, And followed it crying 'Heart or death!' And fighting over it perished fain. So may another do of right, Give a heart to the hopeless fight, The more of right the more he loves; So may another redouble might For a few swift gleams of the angry brand, Scorning greatly not to demand In equal sacrifice with his The heart he bore to the Holy Land.

Devotion
The heart can think of no devotion Greater than being shore to ocean Holding the curve of one position, Counting an endless repetition.

In a Disused Graveyard
The living come with grassy tread To read the gravestones on the hill; The graveyard draws the living still, But never anymore the dead. The verses in it say and say: "The ones who living come today To read the stones and go away Tomorrow dead will come to stay." So sure of death the marbles rhyme, Yet can't help marking all the time How no one dead will seem to come. What is it men are shrinking from? It would be easy to be clever And tell the stones: Men hate to die

In Neglect
They leave us so to the way we took, As two in whom them were proved mistaken, That we sit sometimes in the wayside nook, With michievous, vagrant, seraphic look, And try if we cannot feel forsaken.

She, in her place, refused him any help, With the least stiffening of her neck and silence. She let him look, sure that he wouldn't see, Blind creature; and a while he didn't see. But at last he murmured, "Oh" and again, "Oh." "What is it -- what?" she said. "Just that I see."

Meeting And Passing


As I went down the hill along the wall There was a gate I had leaned at for the view And had just turned from when I first saw you As you came up the hill. We met. But all We did that day was mingle great and small Footprints in summer dust as if we drew The figure of our being less that two But more than one as yet. Your parasol Pointed the decimal off with one deep thrust. And all the time we talked you seemed to see Something down there to smile at in the dust. (Oh, it was without prejudice to me!) Afterward I went past what you had passed Before we met and you what I had passed.

"You don't," she challenged. "Tell me what it is." "The wonder is I didn't see at once. I never noticed it from here before. I must be wonted to it -- that's the reason. The little graveyard where my people are! So small the window frames the whole of it. Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it? There are three stones of slate and one of marble, Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight On the sidehill. We haven't to mind those. But I understand: it is not the stones, But the child's mound ----" "Don't, don't, don't, don't," she cried. She withdrew, shrinking from beneath his arm That rested on the banister, and slid downstairs; And turned on him with such a daunting look, He said twice over before he knew himself: "Can't a man speak of his own child he's lost?" "Not you! -- Oh, where's my hat? Oh, I don't need it! I must get out of here. I must get air.-I don't know rightly whether any man can."

Home Burial
He saw her from the bottom of the stairs Before she saw him. She was starting down, Looking back over her shoulder at some fear. She took a doubtful step and then undid it To raise herself and look again. He spoke Advancing toward her: "What is it you see From up there always? -- for I want to know." She turned and sank upon her skirts at that, And her face changed from terrified to dull. He said to gain time: "What is it you see?" Mounting until she cowered under him. "I will find out now -- you must tell me, dear."

"Amy! Don't go to someone else this time. Listen to me. I won't come down the stairs." He sat and fixed his chin between his fists. "There's something I should like to ask you, dear." "You don't know how to ask it." "Help me, then." Her fingers moved the latch for all reply. "My words are nearly always an offense. I don't know how to speak of anything So as to please you. But I might be taught, I should suppose. I can't say I see how. A man must partly give up being a man With womenfolk. We could have some arrangement By which I'd bind myself to keep hands off Anything special you're a-mind to name. Though I don't like such things 'twixt those that love. Two that don't love can't live together without them. But two that do can't live together with them." She moved the latch a little. "Don't -- don't go. Don't carry it to someone else this time. Tell me about it if it's something human. Let me into your grief. I'm not so much Unlike other folks as your standing there Apart would make me out. Give me my chance. I do think, though, you overdo it a little. What was it brought you up to think it the thing To take your mother-loss of a first child So inconsolably -- in the face of love. You'd think his memory might be satisfied ---" "There you go sneering now!" "I'm not, I'm not!

You make me angry. I'll come down to you. God, what a woman! And it's come to this, A man can't speak of his own child that's dead." "You can't because you don't know how to speak. If you had any feelings, you that dug With your own hand -- how could you? -his little grave; I saw you from that very window there, Making the gravel leap and leap in air, Leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightly And roll back down the mound beside the hole. I thought, Who is that man? I didn't know you. And I crept down the stairs and up the stairs To look again, and still your spade kept lifting. Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voice Out in the kitchen, and I don't know why, But I went near to see with my own eyes. You could sit there with the stains on your shoes Of the fresh earth from your own baby's grave And talk about your everyday concerns. You had stood the spade up against the wall Outside there in the entry, for I saw it." "I shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed. I'm cursed. God, if I don't believe I'm cursed." "I can repeat the very words you were saying: 'Three foggy mornings and one rainy day Will rot the best birch fence a man can build.' Think of it, talk like that at such a time! What had how long it takes a birch to rot To do with what was in the darkened parlour?

You couldn't care! The nearest friends can go With anyone to death, comes so far short They might as well not try to go at all. No, from the time when one is sick to death, One is alone, and he dies more alone. Friends make pretense of following to the grave, But before one is in it, their minds are turned And making the best of their way back to life And living people, and things they understand. But the world's evil. I won't have grief so If I can change it. Oh, I won't, I won't!" "There, you have said it all and you feel better. You won't go now. You're crying. Close the door. The heart's gone out of it: why keep it up? Amyl There's someone coming down the road!" "You -- oh, you think the talk is all. I must go -Somewhere out of this house. How can I make you ----" "If -- you -- do!" She was opening the door wider. "Where do you mean to go? First tell me that. I'll follow and bring you back by force. I will! --"

The bridegroom came forth into the porch With, 'Let us look at the sky, And question what of the night to be, Stranger, you and I.' The woodbine leaves littered the yard, The woodbine berries were blue, Autumn, yes, winter was in the wind; 'Stranger, I wish I knew.' Within, the bride in the dusk alone Bent over the open fire, Her face rose-red with the glowing coal And the thought of the heart's desire. The bridegroom looked at the weary road, Yet saw but her within, And wished her heart in a case of gold And pinned with a silver pin. The bridegroom thought it little to give A dole of bread, a purse, A heartfelt prayer for the poor of God, Or for the rich a curse; But whether or not a man was asked To mar the love of two By harboring woe in the bridal house, The bridegroom wished he knew.

Into My Own
One of my wishes is that those dark trees, So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze, Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom, But stretched away unto the edge of doom. I should not be withheld but that some day into their vastness I should steal away, Fearless of ever finding open land, or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand. I do not see why I should e'er turn back,

Love And A Question


A stranger came to the door at eve, And he spoke the bridegroom fair. He bore a green-white stick in his hand, And, for all burden, care. He asked with the eyes more than the lips For a shelter for the night, And he turned and looked at the road afar Without a window light.

Or those should not set forth upon my track To overtake me, who should miss me here And long to know if still I held them dear. They would not find me changed from him they knew-Only more sure of all I though was true.

In hopes of seeing the calm of heaven break On his particular time and personal sight. That calm seems certainly safe to last tonight.

Neither Out Far Nor In Deep


The people along the sand All turn and look one way. They turn their back on the land. They look at the sea all day. As long as it takes to pass A ship keeps raising its hull; The wetter ground like glass Reflects a standing gull The land may vary more; But wherever the truth may be-The water comes ashore, And the people look at the sea. They cannot look out far. They cannot look in deep. Btu when was that ever a bar To any watch they keep?

Nothing Gold Can Stay


Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf, So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day Nothing gold can stay.

On Looking Up by Chance at the Constellations


You'll wait a long, long time for anything much To happen in heaven beyond the floats of cloud And the Northern Lights that run like tingling nerves. The sun and moon get crossed, but they never touch, Nor strike out fire from each other nor crash out loud. The planets seem to interfere in their curves But nothing ever happens, no harm is done. We may as well go patiently on with our life, And look elsewhere than to stars and moon and sun For the shocks and changes we need to keep us sane. It is true the longest drout will end in rain, The longest peace in China will end in strife. Still it wouldn't reward the watcher to stay awake

Never Again Would Bird's Song Be the Same


He would declare and could himself believe That the birds there in all the garden round From having heard the daylong voice of Eve Had added to their own an oversound, Her tone of meaning but without the words. Admittedly an eloquence so soft Could only have had an influence on birds When call or laughter carried it aloft. Be that as may be, she was in their song. Moreover her voice upon their voices crossed Had now persisted in the woods so long That probably it never would be lost.

Never again would birds' song be the same. And to do that to birds was why she came.

At hide-and-seek to God afar, So all who hide too well away Must speak and tell us where they are.

Reluctance
Out through the fields and the woods And over the walls I have wended; I have climbed the hills of view And looked at the world, and descended; I have come by the highway home, And lo, it is ended. The leaves are all dead on the group, Save those that the oak is keeping To ravel them one by one And let them go scraping and creeping Out over the crusted snow, When others are sleeping. And the dead leaves lie huddled and still, No longer blown hither and thither; The last long aster is gone; The flowers of the witch-hazel wither; The heart is still aching to seek, But the feel question 'Whither?' Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason, And bow and accept the end Of a love or a season?

Storm Fear
When the wind works against us in the dark, And pelts with snow The lowest chamber window on the east, And whispers with a sort of stifled bark, The beast, 'Come out! Come out!'It costs no inward struggle not to go, Ah, no! I count our strength, Two and a child, Those of us not asleep subdued to mark How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,How drifts are piled, Dooryard and road ungraded, Till even the comforting barn grows far away And my heart owns a doubt Whether 'tis in us to arise with day And save ourselves unaided.

Plowmen
A plow, they say, to plow the snow. They cannot mean to plant it, no -Unless in bitterness to mock At having cultivated rock.

Stars
How countlessly they congregate O'er our tumultuous snow, Which flows in shapes as tall as trees When wintry winds do blow!-As if with keenness for our fate, Our faltering few steps on To white rest, and a place of rest Invisible at dawn,-And yet with neither love nor hate, Those stars like some snow-white Minerva's snow-white marble eyes Without the gift of sight

Revelation
We make ourselves a place apart Behind light words that tease and flout, But oh, the agitated heart Till someone find us really out. 'Tis pity if the case require (Or so we say) that in the end We speak the literal to inspire The understanding of a friend. But so with all, from babes that play

Spoils Of The Dead

Two fairies it was On a still summer day Came forth in the woods With the flowers to play. The flowers they plucked They cast on the ground For others, and those For still others they found. Flower-guided it was That they came as they ran On something that lay In the shape of a man. The snow must have made The feathery bed When this one fell On the sleep of the dead. But the snow was gone A long time ago, And the body he wore Nigh gone with the snow. The fairies drew near And keenly espied A ring on his hand And a chain at his side. They knelt in the leaves And eerily played With the glittering things, And were not afraid. And when they went home To hide in their burrow, They took them along To play with to-morrow. When you came on death, Did you not come flower-guided Like the elves in the wood? I remember that I did. But I recognised death With sorrow and dread, And I hated and hate The spoils of the dead.

With an eye always lifted toward the west, Where an irregular, sun-bordered cloud Darkly advanced with a perpetual dagger Flickering across its bosom. Suddenly One helper, thrusting pitchfork in the ground, Marched himself off the field and home. One stayed. The town-bred farmer failed to understand. What was there wrong? Something you said just now. What did I say? About our taking pains. To cock the hay?because it's going to shower? I said that nearly half an hour ago. I said it to myself as much as you. You didn't know. But James is one big fool. He thought you meant to find fault with his work. That's what the average farmer would have meant. James had to take his time to chew it over Before he acted; he's just got round to act. He is a fool if that's the way he takes me. Don't let it bother you. You've found out something. The hand that knows his business won't be told To do work faster or betterthose two things. I'm as particular as anyone: Most likely I'd have served you just the same: But I know you don't understand our ways. You were just talking what was in your mind, What was in all our minds, and you weren't hinting. Tell you a story of what happened once. I was up here in Salem, at a man's Named Sanders, with a gang of four or five, Doing the haying. No one liked the boss.

The CodeHeroics
There were three in the meadow by the brook, Gathering up windrows, piling haycocks up,

He was one of the kind sports call a spider, All wiry arms and legs that spread out wavy From a humped body nigh as big as a biscuit. But work!that man could work, especially If by so doing he could get more work Out of his hired help. I'm not denying He was hard on himself: I couldn't find That he kept any hoursnot for himself. Day-light and lantern-light were one to him: I've heard him pounding in the barn all night. But what he liked was someone to encourage. Them that he couldn't lead he'd get behind And drive, the way you can, you know, in mowing Keep at their heels and threaten to mow their legs off. I'd seen about enough of his bulling tricks We call that bulling. I'd been watching him. So when he paired off with me in the hayfield To load the load, thinks I, look out for trouble! I built the load and topped it off; old Sanders Combed it down with the rake and said, 'O. K.' Everything went right till we reached the barn With a big take to empty in a bay. You understand that meant the easy job For the man up on top of throwing down The hay and rolling it off wholesale, Where, on a mow, it would have been slow lifting. You wouldn't think a fellow 'd need much urging Under those circumstances, would you now? But the old fool seizes his fork in both hands, And looking up bewhiskered out of the pit, Shouts like an army captain, 'Let her come!' Thinks I, d'ye mean it? 'What was that you said?' I asked out loud so's there'd be no mistake.

'Did you say, let her come?' 'Yes, let her come.' He said it over, but he said it softer. Never you say a thing like that to a man, Not if he values what he is. God, I'd as soon Murdered him as left out his middle name. I'd built the load and knew just where to find it. Two or three forkfuls I picked lightly round for Like meditating, and then I just dug in And dumped the rackful on him in ten lots. I looked over the side once in the dust And caught sight of him treading-water-like, Keeping his head above. 'Damn ye,' I says, 'That gets ye!' He squeaked like a squeezed rat. That was the last I saw or heard of him. I cleaned the rack and drove out to cool off. As I sat mopping the hayseed from my neck, And sort of waiting to be asked about it, One of the boys sings out, 'Where's the old man?' 'I left him in the barn,under the hay. If you want him you can go and dig him out.' They realized from the way I swobbed my neck More than was needed, something must be up. They headed for the barn I stayed where I was. They told me afterward: First they forked hay, A lot of it, out into the barn floor. Nothing! They listened for him. Not a rustle! I guess they thought I'd spiked him in the temple Before I buried him, else I couldn't have managed. They excavated more. 'Go keep his wife Out of the barn.' Some one looked in a window; And curse me, if he wasn't in the kitchen,

Slumped way down in a chair, with both his feet Stuck in the oven, the hottest day that summer. He looked so mad in back, and so disgusted There was no one that dared to stir him up Or let him know that he was being looked at. Apparently I hadn't buried him (I may have knocked him down), but just my trying To bury him had hurt his dignity. He had gone to the house so's not to face me. He kept away from us all afternoon. We tended to his hay. We saw him out After a while picking peas in the garden: He couldn't keep away from doing something. Weren't you relieved to find he wasn't dead? No!and yet I can't say: it's hard to tell. I went about to kill him fair enough. You took an awkward way. Did he discharge you? Discharge me? No! He knew I did just right.

And set them on the porch, then drew him down To sit beside her on the wooden steps. "When was I ever anything but kind to him? But I'll not have the fellow back," he said. "I told him so last haying, didn't I? 'If he left then,' I said, 'that ended it.' What good is he? Who else will harbour him At his age for the little he can do? What help he is there's no depending on. Off he goes always when I need him most. 'He thinks he ought to earn a little pay, Enough at least to buy tobacco with, So he won't have to beg and be beholden.' 'All right,' I say, 'I can't afford to pay Any fixed wages, though I wish I could.' 'Someone else can.' 'Then someone else will have to.' I shouldn't mind his bettering himself If that was what it was. You can be certain, When he begins like that, there's someone at him Trying to coax him off with pocket-money,In haying time, when any help is scarce. In winter he comes back to us. I'm done." "Sh! not so loud: he'll hear you," Mary said.

The Death of the Hired Man


Mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table Waiting for Warren. When she heard his step, She ran on tip-toe down the darkened passage To meet him in the doorway with the news And put him on his guard. "Silas is back." She pushed him outward with her through the door And shut it after her. "Be kind," she said. She took the market things from Warren's arms

"I want him to: he'll have to soon or late." "He's worn out. He's asleep beside the stove. When I came up from Rowe's I found him here, Huddled against the barn-door fast asleep, A miserable sight, and frightening, too-You needn't smile--I didn't recognise him-I wasn't looking for him--and he's changed. Wait till you see." "Where did you say he'd been?" "He didn't say. I dragged him to the house, And gave him tea and tried to make him smoke.

I tried to make him talk about his travels. Nothing would do: he just kept nodding off." "What did he say? Did he say anything?" "But little." "Anything? Mary, confess He said he'd come to ditch the meadow for me." "Warren!" " ;But did he? I just want to know." "Of course he did. What would you have him say? Surely you wouldn't grudge the poor old man Some humble way to save his self-respect. He added, if you really care to know, He meant to clear the upper pasture, too. That sounds like something you have heard before? Warren, I wish you could have heard the way He jumbled everything. I stopped to look Two or three times--he made me feel so queer-To see if he was talking in his sleep. He ran on Harold Wilson--you remember-The boy you had in haying four years since. He's finished school, and teaching in his college. Silas declares you'll have to get him back. He says they two will make a team for work: Between them they will lay this farm as smooth! The way he mixed that in with other things. He thinks young Wilson a likely lad, though daft On education--you know how they fought All through July under the blazing sun, Silas up on the cart to build the load, Harold along beside to pitch it on."

"Yes, I took care to keep well out of earshot." "Well, those days trouble Silas like a dream. You wouldn't think they would. How some things linger! Harold's young college boy's assurance piqued him. After so many years he still keeps finding Good arguments he sees he might have used. I sympathise. I know just how it feels To think of the right thing to say too late. Harold's associated in his mind with Latin. He asked me what I thought of Harold's saying He studied Latin like the violin Because he liked it--that an argument! He said he couldn't make the boy believe He could find water with a hazel prong-Which showed how much good school had ever done him. He wanted to go over that. But most of all He thinks if he could have another chance To teach him how to build a load of hay----" "I know, that's Silas' one accomplishment. He bundles every forkful in its place, And tags and numbers it for future reference, So he can find and easily dislodge it In the unloading. Silas does that well. He takes it out in bunches like big birds' nests. You never see him standing on the hay He's trying to lift, straining to lift himself." "He thinks if he could teach him that, he'd be Some good perhaps to someone in the world. He hates to see a boy the fool of books. Poor Silas, so concerned for other folk, And nothing to look backward to with pride, And nothing to look forward to with hope, So now and never any different."

Part of a moon was falling down the west, Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills. Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand Among the harp-like morning-glory strings, Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves, As if she played unheard the tenderness That wrought on him beside her in the night. "Warren," she said, "he has come home to die: You needn't be afraid he'll leave you this time." "Home," he mocked gently. "Yes, what else but home? It all depends on what you mean by home. Of course he's nothing to us, any more Than was the hound that came a stranger to us Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail." "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in." "I should have called it Something you somehow haven't to deserve." Warren leaned out and took a step or two, Picked up a little stick, and brought it back And broke it in his hand and tossed it by. "Silas has better claim on us you think Than on his brother? Thirteen little miles As the road winds would bring him to his door. Silas has walked that far no doubt to-day. Why didn't he go there? His brother's rich, A somebody--director in the bank." "He never told us that." "We know it though."

"I think his brother ought to help, of course. I'll see to that if there is need. He ought of right To take him in, and might be willing to-He may be better than appearances. But have some pity on Silas. Do you think If he'd had any pride in claiming kin Or anything he looked for from his brother, He'd keep so still about him all this time?" "I wonder what's between them." "I can tell you. Silas is what he is--we wouldn't mind him-But just the kind that kinsfolk can't abide. He never did a thing so very bad. He don't know why he isn't quite as good As anyone. He won't be made ashamed To please his brother, worthless though he is." "I can't think Si ever hurt anyone." "No, but he hurt my heart the way he lay And rolled his old head on that sharp-edged chair-back. He wouldn't let me put him on the lounge. You must go in and see what you can do. I made the bed up for him there to-night. You'll be surprised at him--how much he's broken. His working days are done; I'm sure of it." "I'd not be in a hurry to say that." "I haven't been. Go, look, see for yourself. But, Warren, please remember how it is: He's come to help you ditch the meadow. He has a plan. You mustn't laugh at him. He may not speak of it, and then he may. I'll sit and see if that small sailing cloud Will hit or miss the moon." It hit the moon. Then there were three there, making a dim

row, The moon, the little silver cloud, and she. Warren returned--too soon, it seemed to her, Slipped to her side, caught up her hand and waited. "Warren," she questioned. "Dead," was all he answered.

The Fear
A lantern light from deeper in the barn Shone on a man and woman in the door And threw their lurching shadows on a house Near by, all dark in every glossy window. A horse's hoof pawed once the hollow floor, And the back of the gig they stood beside Moved in a little. The man grasped a wheel, The woman spoke out sharply, 'Whoa, stand still!' 'I saw it just as plain as a white plate,' She said, 'as the light on the dashboard ran Along the bushes at the roadside-a man's face. You must have seen it too.' 'I didn't see it. Are you sure--' 'Yes, I'm sure!' '-it was a face?' 'Joel, I'll have to look. I can't go in, I can't, and leave a thing like that unsettled. Doors locked and curtains drawn will make no difference. I always have felt strange when we came home To the dark house after so long an absence, And the key rattled loudly into place Seemed to warn someone to be getting out At one door as we entered at another. What if I'm right, and someone all the timeDon't hold my arm!' 'I say it's someone passing.' 'You speak as if this were a travelled road.

You forget where we are. What is beyond That he'd be going to or coming from At such an hour of night, and on foot too. What was he standing still for in the bushes?' 'It's not so very late-it's only dark. There's more in it than you're inclined to say. Did he look like--?' 'He looked like anyone. I'll never rest to-night unless I know. Give me the lantern.' 'You don't want the lantern.' She pushed past him and got it for herself. 'You're not to come,' she said. 'This is my business. If the time's come to face it, I'm the one To put it the right way. He'd never dareListen! He kicked a stone. Hear that, hear that! He's coming towards us. Joel, go in-please. Hark!-I don't hear him now. But please go in.' 'In the first place you can't make me believe it's--' 'It is-or someone else he's sent to watch. And now's the time to have it out with him While we know definitely where he is. Let him get off and he'll be everywhere Around us, looking out of trees and bushes Till I sha'n't dare to set a foot outdoors. And I can't stand it. Joel, let me go!' 'But it's nonsense to think he'd care enough.' 'You mean you couldn't understand his caring. Oh, but you see he hadn't had enoughJoel, I won't-I won't-I promise you. We mustn't say hard things. You mustn't either.' 'I'll be the one, if anybody goes! But you give him the advantage with this light. What couldn't he do to us standing here! And if to see was what he wanted, why He has seen all there was to see and gone.' He appeared to forget to keep his hold,

But advanced with her as she crossed the grass. 'What do you want?' she cried to all the dark. She stretched up tall to overlook the light That hung in both hands hot against her skirt. 'There's no one; so you're wrong,' he said. 'There is.What do you want?' she cried, and then herself Was startled when an answer really came. 'Nothing.' It came from well along the road. She reached a hand to Joel for support: The smell of scorching woollen made her faint. 'What are you doing round this house at night?' 'Nothing.' A pause: there seemed no more to say. And then the voice again: 'You seem afraid. I saw by the way you whipped up the horse. I'll just come forward in the lantern light And let you see.' 'Yes, do.-Joel, go back!' She stood her ground against the noisy steps That came on, but her body rocked a little. 'You see,' the voice said. 'Oh.' She looked and looked. 'You don't see-I've a child here by the hand.' 'What's a child doing at this time of night--?' 'Out walking. Every child should have the memory Of at least one long-after-bedtime walk. What, son?' 'Then I should think you'd try to find Somewhere to walk--' 'The highway as it happensWe're stopping for the fortnight down at Dean's.' 'But if that's all-Joel-you realizeYou won't think anything. You understand? You understand that we have to be careful. This is a very, very lonely place. Joel!' She spoke as if she couldn't turn. The swinging lantern lengthened to the

ground, It touched, it struck it, clattered and went out.

The Gift Outright


The land was ours before we were the land's. She was our land more than a hundred years Before we were her people. She was ours In Massachusetts, in Virginia, But we were England's, still colonials, Possessing what we still were unpossessed by, Possessed by what we now no more possessed. Something we were withholding made us weak Until we found out that it was ourselves We were withholding from our land of living, And forthwith found salvation in surrender. Such as we were we gave ourselves outright (The deed of gift was many deeds of war) To the land vaguely realizing westward, But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced, Such as she was, such as she would become.

The Lockless Door


It went many years, But at last came a knock, And I thought of the door With no lock to lock. I blew out the light, I tip-toed the floor, And raised both hands In prayer to the door. But the knock came again My window was wide; I climbed on the sill And descended outside. Back over the sill

I bade a "Come in" To whoever the knock At the door may have been. So at a knock I emptied my cage To hide in the world And alter with age

The Star Splitter


`You know Orion always comes up sideways. Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains, And rising on his hands, he looks in on me Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something I should have done by daylight, and indeed, After the ground is frozen, I should have done Before it froze, and a gust flings a handful Of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney To make fun of my way of doing things, Or else fun of Orion's having caught me. Has a man, I should like to ask, no rights These forces are obliged to pay respect to?' So Brad McLaughlin mingled reckless talk Of heavenly stars with hugger-mugger farming, Till having failed at hugger-mugger farming He burned his house down for the fire insurance And spent the proceeds on a telescope To satisfy a lifelong curiosity About our place among the infinities. `What do you want with one of those blame things?' I asked him well beforehand. `Don't you get one!' `Don't call it blamed; there isn't anything More blameless in the sense of being less A weapon in our human fight,' he said.

`I'll have one if I sell my farm to buy it.' There where he moved the rocks to plow the ground And plowed between the rocks he couldn't move, Few farms changed hands; so rather than spend years Trying to sell his farm and then not selling, He burned his house down for the fire insurance And bought the telescope with what it came to. He had been heard to say by several: `The best thing that we're put here for's to see; The strongest thing that's given us to see with's A telescope. Someone in every town Seems to me owes it to the town to keep one. In Littleton it might as well be me.' After such loose talk it was no surprise When he did what he did and burned his house down. Mean laughter went about the town that day To let him know we weren't the least imposed on, And he could wait---we'd see to him tomorrow. But the first thing next morning we reflected If one by one we counted people out For the least sin, it wouldn't take us long To get so we had no one left to live with. For to be social is to be forgiving. Our thief, the one who does our stealing from us, We don't cut off from coming to church suppers, But what we miss we go to him and ask for. He promptly gives it back, that is if still Uneaten, unworn out, or undisposed of. It wouldn't do to be too hard on Brad About his telescope. Beyond the age Of being given one for Christmas gift, He had to take the best way he knew how

To find himself in one. Well, all we said was He took a strange thing to be roguish over. Some sympathy was wasted on the house, A good old-timer dating back along; But a house isn't sentient; the house Didn't feel anything. And if it did, Why not regard it as a sacrifice, And an old-fashioned sacrifice by fire, Instead of a new-fashioned one at auction? Out of a house and so out of a farm At one stroke (of a match), Brad had to turn To earn a living on the Concord railroad, As under-ticket-agent at a station Where his job, when he wasn't selling tickets, Was setting out, up track and down, not plants As on a farm, but planets, evening stars That varied in their hue from red to green. He got a good glass for six hundred dollars. His new job gave him leisure for stargazing. Often he bid me come and have a look Up the brass barrel, velvet black inside, At a star quaking in the other end. I recollect a night of broken clouds And underfoot snow melted down to ice, And melting further in the wind to mud. Bradford and I had out the telescope. We spread our two legs as we spread its three, Pointed our thoughts the way we pointed it, And standing at our leisure till the day broke, Said some of the best things we ever said. That telescope was christened the StarSplitter, Because it didn't do a thing but split A star in two or three, the way you split A globule of quicksilver in your hand With one stroke of your finger in the middle. It's a star-splitter if there ever was one, And ought to do some good if splitting stars 'Sa thing to be compared with splitting wood.

We've looked and looked, but after all where are we? Do we know any better where we are, And how it stands between the night tonight And a man with a smoky lantern chimney? How different from the way it ever stood?

They Were Welcome To Their Belief


Grief may have thought it was grief. Care may have thought it was care. They were welcome to their belief, The overimportant pair. No, it took all the snows that clung To the low roof over his bed, Beginning when he was young, To induce the one snow on his head. But whenever the roof camme white The head in the dark below Was a shade less the color of night, A shade more the color of snow. Grief may have thought it was grief. Care may have thought it was care. But neither one was the thief Of his raven color of hair.

To E.T.
I slumbered with your poems on my breast Spread open as I dropped them half-read through Like dove wings on a figure on a tomb To see, if in a dream they brought of you, I might not have the chance I missed in life Through some delay, and call you to your face First soldier, and then poet, and then both, Who died a soldier-poet of your race.

I meant, you meant, that nothing should remain Unsaid between us, brother, and this remained-And one thing more that was not then to say: The Victory for what it lost and gained. You went to meet the shell's embrace of fire On Vimy Ridge; and when you fell that day The war seemed over more for you than me, But now for me than you--the other way. How over, though, for even me who knew The foe thrust back unsafe beyond the Rhine, If I was not to speak of it to you And see you pleased once more with words of mine?

Of tears, the aftermark Of almost too much love, The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove. When stiff and sore and scarred I take away my hand From leaning on it hard In grass and sand, The hurt is not enough: I long for weight and strength To feel the earth as rough To all my length.

Two Look at Two


Love and forgetting might have carried them A little further up the mountain side With night so near, but not much further up. They must have halted soon in any case With thoughts of a path back, how rough it was With rock and washout, and unsafe in darkness; When they were halted by a tumbled wall With barbed-wire binding. They stood facing this, Spending what onward impulse they still had In One last look the way they must not go, On up the failing path, where, if a stone Or earthslide moved at night, it moved itself; No footstep moved it. 'This is all,' they sighed, Good-night to woods.' But not so; there was more. A doe from round a spruce stood looking at them Across the wall, as near the wall as they. She saw them in their field, they her in hers. The difficulty of seeing what stood still, Like some up-ended boulder split in two, Was in her clouded eyes; they saw no fear there. She seemed to think that two thus they were

To Earthward
Love at the lips was touch As sweet as I could bear; And once that seemed too much; I lived on air That crossed me from sweet things, The flow of - was it musk From hidden grapevine springs Down hill at dusk? I had the swirl and ache From sprays of honeysuckle That when they're gathered shake Dew on the knuckle. I craved strong sweets, but those Seemed strong when I was young; The petal of the rose It was that stung. Now no joy but lacks salt That is not dashed with pain And weariness and fault; I crave the stain

safe. Then, as if they were something that, though strange, She could not trouble her mind with too long, She sighed and passed unscared along the wall. 'This, then, is all. What more is there to ask?' But no, not yet. A snort to bid them wait. A buck from round the spruce stood looking at them Across the wall as near the wall as they. This was an antlered buck of lusty nostril, Not the same doe come back into her place. He viewed them quizzically with jerks of head, As if to ask, 'Why don't you make some motion? Or give some sign of life? Because you can't. I doubt if you're as living as you look." Thus till he had them almost feeling dared To stretch a proffering hand -- and a spellbreaking. Then he too passed unscared along the wall. Two had seen two, whichever side you spoke from. 'This must be all.' It was all. Still they stood, A great wave from it going over them, As if the earth in one unlooked-for favour Had made them certain earth returned their love

May something go always unharvested! May much stay out of our stated plan, Apples or something forgotten and left, So smelling their sweetness would be no theft.

Waiting -- Afield At Dusk


What things for dream there are when spectre-like, Moving among tall haycocks lightly piled, I enter alone upon the stubble field, From which the laborers' voices late have died, And in the antiphony of afterglow And rising full moon, sit me down Upon the full moon's side of the first haycock And lose myself amid so many alike. I dream upon the opposing lights of the hour, Preventing shadow until the moon prevail; I dream upon the night-hawks peopling heaven, Each circling each with vague unearthly cry, Or plunging headlong with fierce twang afar; And on the bat's mute antics, who would seem Dimly to have made out my secret place, Only to lose it when he pirouettes, And seek it endlessly with purblind haste; On the last swallow's sweep; and on the rasp In the abyss of odor and rustle at my back, That, silenced by my advent, finds once more, After an interval, his instrument, And tries once-twice-and thrice if I be there; And on the worn book of old-golden song I brought not here to read, it seems, but hold And freshen in this air of withering sweetness; But on the memory of one absent most, For whom these lines when they shall greet her eye.

Unharvested
A scent of ripeness from over a wall. And come to leave the routine road And look for what had made me stall, There sure enough was an apple tree That had eased itself of its summer load, And of all but its trivial foliage free, Now breathed as light as a lady's fan. For there had been an apple fall As complete as the apple had given man. The ground was one circle of solid red.

William Wordsworth

A Fact, And An Imagination, Or, Canute And Alfred, On The Seashore


THE Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair, Mustering a face of haughty sovereignty, To aid a covert purpose, cried--'O ye Approaching Waters of the deep, that share With this green isle my fortunes, come not where Your Master's throne is set.'--Deaf was the Sea; Her waves rolled on, respecting his decree Less than they heed a breath of wanton air. --Then Canute, rising from the invaded throne, Said to his servile Courtiers,--'Poor the reach, The undisguised extent, of mortal sway! He only is a King, and he alone Deserves the name (this truth the billows preach) Whose everlasting laws, sea, earth, and heaven, obey.' This just reproof the prosperous Dane Drew, from the influx of the main, For some whose rugged northern mouths would strain At oriental flattery; And Canute (fact more worthy to be known) From that time forth did for his brows disown The ostentatious symbol of a crown; Esteeming earthly royalty Contemptible as vain. Now hear what one of elder days, Rich theme of England's fondest praise, Her darling Alfred, 'might' have spoken; To cheer the remnant of his host When he was driven from coast to coast, Distressed and harassed, but with mind

unbroken: 'My faithful followers, lo! the tide is spent That rose, and steadily advanced to fill The shores and channels, working Nature's will Among the mazy streams that backward went, And in the sluggish pools where ships are pent: And now, his task performed, the flood stands still, At the green base of many an inland hill, In placid beauty and sublime content! Such the repose that sage and hero find; Such measured rest the sedulous and good Of humbler name; whose souls do, like the flood Of Ocean, press right on; or gently wind, Neither to be diverted nor withstood, Until they reach the bounds by Heaven assigned.'

A Night Thought
Lo! where the Moon along the sky Sails with her happy destiny; Oft is she hid from mortal eye Or dimly seen, But when the clouds asunder fly How bright her mien! Far different we--a froward race, Thousands though rich in Fortune's grace With cherished sullenness of pace Their way pursue, Ingrates who wear a smileless face The whole year through. If kindred humours e'er would make My spirit droop for drooping's sake, From Fancy following in thy wake, Bright ship of heaven! A counter impulse let me take And be forgiven.

A Character
I marvel how Nature could ever find space For so many strange contrasts in one human face: There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom. There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain; Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease, Would be rational peace--a philosopher's ease. There's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds, And attention full ten times as much as there needs; Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy; And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy. There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there, There's virtue, the title it surely may claim, Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name. This picture from nature may seem to depart, Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart; And I for five centuries right gladly would be Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he.

There is a change--and I am poor; Your love hath been, nor long ago, A fountain at my fond heart's door, Whose only business was to flow; And flow it did; not taking heed Of its own bounty, or my need. What happy moments did I count! Blest was I then all bliss above! Now, for that consecrated fount Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, What have I? Shall I dare to tell? A comfortless and hidden well. A well of love--it may be deep-I trust it is,--and never dry: What matter? If the waters sleep In silence and obscurity. --Such change, and at the very door Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.

A Poet! He Hath Put his Heart to School


. A poet!--He hath put his heart to school, Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff Which art hath lodged within his hand--must laugh By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff, And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph. How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold; And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree Comes not by casting in a formal mould, But from its own divine vitality.

A Complaint

A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal

A slumber did my spirit seal I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees.

Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen The self-same Vision which we now behold; At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power! brought forth These mighty barriers, and the gulf between; The flood, the stars,--a spectacle as old As the beginning of the heavens and earth!

By The Side Of The Grave Some Years After


LONG time his pulse hath ceased to beat But benefits, his gift, we trace-Expressed in every eye we meet Round this dear Vale, his native place. To stately Hall and Cottage rude Flowed from his life what still they hold, Light pleasures, every day, renewed; And blessings half a century old. Oh true of heart, of spirit gay, Thy faults, where not already gone From memory, prolong their stay For charity's sweet sake alone. Such solace find we for our loss; And what beyond this thought we crave Comes in the promise from the Cross, Shining upon thy happy grave.

I Grieved For Buonaparte


I GRIEVED for Buonaparte, with a vain And an unthinking grief! The tenderest mood Of that Man's mind--what can it be? what food Fed his first hopes? what knowledge could 'he' gain? 'Tis not in battles that from youth we train The Governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood. Wisdom doth live with children round her knees: Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk Of the mind's business: these are the degrees By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these.

Hail, Twilight, Sovereign Of One Peaceful Hour


HAIL Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour! Not dull art Thou as undiscerning Night; But studious only to remove from sight Day's mutable distinctions.--Ancient Power! Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower, To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest

I Travelled Among Unknown Men


I travelled among unknown men In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee. 'Tis past, that melancholy dream!

Nor will I quit thy shore A second time; for still I seem To love thee more and more. Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire; And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire. Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed, The bowers where Lucy played; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

It is not to be Thought of
. It is not to be thought of that the Flood Of British freedom, which, to the open sea Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity Hath flowed, "with pomp of waters, unwithstood," Roused though it be full often to a mood Which spurns the check of salutary bands, That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands Should perish; and to evil and to good Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung Armoury of the invincible Knights of old: We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.--In every thing we are sprung Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold.

I wandered lonely as a cloud


I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed---and gazed---but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

Lament Of Mary Queen Of Scots


SMILE of the Moon!---for I so name That silent greeting from above; A gentle flash of light that came From her whom drooping captives love; Or art thou of still higher birth? Thou that didst part the clouds of earth, My torpor to reprove! Bright boon of pitying Heaven!---alas, I may not trust thy placid cheer! Pondering that Time tonight will pass The threshold of another year; For years to me are sad and dull; My very moments are too full Of hopelessness and fear. And yet, the soul-awakening gleam, That struck perchance the farthest cone Of Scotland's rocky wilds, did seem To visit me, and me alone;

Me, unapproached by any friend, Save those who to my sorrow lend Tears due unto their own. To night the church-tower bells will ring Through these wide realms a festire peal; To the new year a welcoming; A tuneful offering for the weal Of happy millions lulled in deep; While I am forced to watch and weep, By wounds that may not heal. Born all too high, by wedlock raised Still higherto be cast thus low! Would that mine eyes had never gazed On aught of more ambitious show Than the sweet flowerets of the fields ---It is my royal state that yields This bitterness of woe. Yet how?---for I, if there be truth In the world's voice, was passing fair; And beauty, for confiding youth, Those shocks of passion can prepare That kill the bloom before its time; And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair. Unblest distinction! showered on me To bind a lingering life in chains: All that could quit my grasp, or flee, Is gone;---but not the subtle stains Fixed in the spirit; for even here Can I be proud that jealous fear Of what I was remains. A Woman rules my prison's key; A sister Queen, against the bent O law and holiest sympathy, Detains me, doubtful of the event; Great God, who feel'st for my distress, My thoughts are all that I possess, O keep them innocent! Farewell desire of human aid, Which abject mortals vainly court!

By friends deceived, by foes betrayed, Of fears the prey, of hopes the sport; Nought but the world-redeeming Cross Is able to support my loss, My burthen to support. Hark! the death-note of the year Sounded by the castle-clock! From her sunk eyes a stagnant tear Stole forth, unsettled by the shock; But oft the woods renewed their green, Ere the tired head of Scotland's Queen Reposed upon the block!

Memory
A pen--to register; a key-That winds through secret wards Are well assigned to Memory By allegoric Bards. As aptly, also, might be given A Pencil to her hand; That, softening objects, sometimes even Outstrips the heart's demand; That smooths foregone distress, the lines Of lingering care subdues, Long-vanished happiness refines, And clothes in brighter hues; Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works Those Spectres to dilate That startle Conscience, as she lurks Within her lonely seat. Oh! that our lives, which flee so fast, In purity were such, That not an image of the past Should fear that pencil's touch! Retirement then might hourly look Upon a soothing scene, Age steal to his allotted nook Contented and serene;

With heart as calm as lakes that sleep, In frosty moonlight glistening; Or mountain rivers, where they creep Along a channel smooth and deep, To their own far-off murmurs listening.

summer's day, Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's tree, A stern face it puts on, as if ready to say, 'What ails you, that you must come creeping to me!' With our pastures about us, we could not be sad; Our comfort was near if we ever were crost; But the comfort, the blessings, and wealth that we had, We slighted them all,--and our birth-right was lost. Oh, ill-judging sire of an innocent son Who must now be a wanderer! but peace to that strain! Think of evening's repose when our labour was done, The sabbath's return; and its leisure's soft chain! And in sickness, if night had been sparing of sleep, How cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where I stood, Looking down on the kine, and our treasure of sheep That besprinkled the field; 'twas like youth in my blood! Now I cleave to the house, and am dull as a snail; And, oftentimes, hear the church-bell with a sigh, That follows the thought--We've no land in the vale, Save six feet of earth where our forefathers lie!

Repentance
A PASTORAL BALLAD THE fields which with covetous spirit we sold, Those beautiful fields, the delight of the day, Would have brought us more good than a burthen of gold, Could we but have been as contented as they. When the troublesome Tempter beset us, said I, 'Let him come, with his purse proudly grasped in his hand; But, Allan, be true to me, Allan,--we'll die Before he shall go with an inch of the land!' There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their bowers; Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide; We could do what we liked with the land, it was ours; And for us the brook murmured that ran by its side. But now we are strangers, go early or late; And often, like one overburthened with sin, With my hand on the latch of the halfopened gate, I look at the fields, but I cannot go in! When I walk by the hedge on a bright

Rudyard Kipling
If
If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too: If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; If you can dream---and not make dreams your master; If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim, If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same:. If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools; If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings, And never breathe a word about your loss: If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much: If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!

A Departure
Since first the White Horse Banner blew free, By Hengist's horde unfurled, Nothing has changed on land or sea Of the things that steer the world. (As it was when the long-ships scudded through the gale So it is where the Liners go.) Time and Tide, they are both in a tale-"Woe to the weaker -- woe! " No charm can bridle the hard-mouthed wind Or smooth the fretting swell. No gift can alter the grey Sea's mind, But she serves the strong man well. (As it is when her uttermost deeps are stirred So it is where the quicksands show,) All the waters have but one word-"Woe to the weaker -- woe! " The feast is ended, the tales are told, The dawn is overdue, And we meet on the quay in the whistling cold Where the galley waits her crew. Out with the torches, they have flared too long, And bid the harpers go. Wind and warfare have but one song--

"Woe to the weaker -- woe!" Hail to the great oars gathering way, As the beach begins to slide! Hail to the war-shields' click and play As they lift along our side! Hail to the first wave over the bow-Slow for the sea-stroke! Slow!-All the benches are grunting now:-"Woe to the weaker -- woe!"

A Dedication
And they were stronger hands than mine That digged the Ruby from the earth-More cunning brains that made it worth The large desire of a king, And stouter hearts that through the brine Went down the perfect Pearl to bring. Lo, I have wrought in common clay Rude figures of a rough-hewn race, Since pearls strew not the market-place In this my town of banishment, Where with the shifting dust I play, And eat the bread of discontent. Yet is there life in that I make. 0 thou who knowest, turn and see-As thou hast power over me So have I power over these, Because I wrought them for thy sake, And breathed in them mine agonies. Small mirth was in the making--now I lift the cloth that cloaks the clay, And, wearied, at thy feet I lay My wares, ere I go forth to sell. The long bazar will praise, but thou-Heart of my heart--have I done well?

And the Schools are loosed, and the games are played That were deadly earnest when Earth was made? Hear them chattering, shrill and hard, After dinner-time, out in the yard, As the sides are chosen and all submit To the chance of the lot that shall make them "It." (Singing) "Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo! Catch a nigger by the toe! (If he hollers let him go!) Eenee, Meenee. Mainee, Mo! You-are-It!" Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, and Mo Were the First Big Four of the Long Ago, When the Pole of the Earth sloped thirty degrees, And Central Europe began to freeze, And they needed Ambassadors staunch and stark To steady the Tribes in the gathering dark: But the frost was fierce and flesh was frail, So they launched a Magic that could not fail. (Singing) "Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo! Hear the wolves across the snow! Some one has to kill 'em--so Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo Make--you--It!" Slow ly the Glacial Epoch passed, Central Europe thawed out at last; And, under the slush of the melting snows The first dim shapes of the Nations rose. Rome, Britannia, Belgium, Gaul-Flood and avalanche fathered them all; And the First Big Four, as they watched the mess, Pitied Man in his helplessness. (Singing) "Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo! Trouble starts When Nations grow, Some one has to stop it--so Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo! Make-you-It!"

A Counting-Out Song
What is the song the children sing, When doorway lilacs bloom in Spring,

Thus it happened, but none can tell What was the Power behind the spell-Fear, or Duty, or Pride, or Faith-That sent men shuddering out to death-To cold and watching, and, worse than these, Work, more work, when they looked for ease-To the days discomfort, the nights despair, In the hope of a prize that they never could share, (Singing) "Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo! Man is born to Toil and Woe. One will cure another--so Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo Make--you--It!" Once and again, as the Ice went North The grass crept up to the Firth of Forth. Once and again, as the Ice came South The glaciers ground over Lossiemouth. But, grass or glacier, cold or hot, The men went out who would rather not, And fought with the Tiger, the Pig and the Ape, To hammer the world into decent shape. (Singing) "Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo! What's the use of doing so? Ask the Gods, for we don't know; But Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo Make-us-It!" Nothing is left of that terrible rune But a tag of gibberish tacked to a tune That ends the waiting and settles the claims Of children arguing over their games; For never yet has a boy been found To shirk his turn when the turn came round; Nor even a girl has been known to say "If you laugh at me I shan't play." For-- "Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo, (Don't you let the grown-ups know!) You may hate it ever so, But if you're chose you're bound to go, When Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo Make-you-It!"

Before a Midnight Breaks in Storm


Before a midnight breaks in storm, Or herded sea in wrath, Ye know what wavering gusts inform The greater tempest's path; Till the loosed wind Drive all from mind, Except Distress, which, so will prophets cry, O'ercame them, houseless, from the unhinting sky. Ere rivers league against the land In piratry of flood, Ye know what waters steal and stand Where seldom water stood. Yet who will note, Till fields afloat, And washen carcass and the returning well, Trumpet what these poor heralds strove to tell? Ye know who use the Crystal Ball (To peer by stealth on Doom), The Shade that, shaping first of all, Prepares an empty room. Then doth It pass Like breath from glass, But, on the extorted Vision bowed intent, No man considers why It came or went. Before the years reborn behold Themselves with stranger eye, And the sport-making Gods of old, Like Samson slaying, die, Many shall hear The all-pregnant sphere, Bow to the birth and sweat, but--speech denied-Sit dumb or--dealt in part--fall weak and wide. Yet instant to fore-shadowed need The eternal balance swings;

That winged men, the Fates may breed So soon as Fate hath wings. These shall possess Our littleness, And in the imperial task (as worthy) lay Up our lives' all to piece one giant Day.

O, leave me walk on Brookland Road, In the thunder and warm rain -O, leave me look where my love goed, And p'raps I'll see her again! Low down -- low down! Where the liddle green lanterns shine -O maids, I've done with 'ee all but one, And she can never be mine!

Brookland Road
I was very well pleased with what I knowed, I reckoned myself no fool -Till I met with a maid on the Brookland Road, That turned me back to school. Low down-low down! Where the liddle green lanterns shine -O maids, I've done with 'ee all but one, And she can never be mine! 'Twas right in the middest of a hot June night, With thunder duntin' round, And I see her face by the fairy-light That beats from off the ground. She only smiled and she never spoke, She smiled and went away; But when she'd gone my heart was broke And my wits was clean astray. O, stop your ringing and let me be -Let be, O Brookland bells! You'll ring Old Goodman out of the sea, Before I wed one else! Old Goodman's Farm is rank sea-sand, And was this thousand year; But it shall turn to rich plough-land Before I change my dear. O, Fairfield Church is water-bound From autumn to the spring; But it shall turn to high hill-ground Before my bells do ring.

By Word of Mouth
Not though you die to-night, O Sweet, and wail, A spectre at my door, Shall mortal Fear make Love immortal fail I shall but love you more, Who, from Death's House returning, give me still One moment's comfort in my matchless ill.

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