Sonnet VIII
by Luís de Camões (~1524-1580)
Mondego! thou, whose waters cold and clear Gird those green banks, where fancy fain would stay, Fondly to muse on that departed day When Hope was kind and Friendship seem’d sincere; —Ere I had purchas’d knowledge with a tear.—Mondego! though I bend my pilgrim way To other shores, where other fountains stray,And other rivers roll their proud career, Still—nor shall time, nor grief, nor stars severe, Nor widening distance e’er prevail in aught To make thee less to this sad bosom dear; And Memory oft, by old Affection taught, Shall lightly speed upon the plumes of thought, To bathe amongst thy waters cold and clear!
Oh, Sweet Content!
by William Henry Davies (1871-1940)
Oh, sweet content, that turns the labourer's sweatTo tears of joy, and shines the roughest face;How often have I sought you high and low,And found you still in some lone quiet place;
Here, in my room, when full of happy dreams,With no life heard beyond that merry soundOf moths that on my lighted ceiling kissTheir shadows as they dance and dance around;
Or in a garden, on a summer's night,When I have seen the dark and solemn airBlink with the blind bats' wings, and heaven's bright faceTwitch with the stars that shine in thousands there.
Reconciliation
by Else Lasker-Schüler (1869-1945)
A great star will fall into my lap. . .We would hold vigil tonight,
Praying in languagesThat are carven like harps.
We would be reconciled tonight—So fully God overwhelms us.
Our hearts are only children,Eager for weary-sweet slumber.
And our lips would kiss each other,Why are you fearful?
Does not your heart border upon mine—Your blood always dyes my cheeks red.
We would be reconciled tonight,If we clasp each other, we shall not perish.
A great star will fall into my lap.
The Depths of the Grass
by Michael Field (1846-1914 & 1862-1913)
Look, in the early light, Down to the infinite Depths at the deep grass-roots; Where the sun shoots In golden veins, as looking through A dear pool one sees it do; Where campion drifts Its bladders, iris-brinded, through the rifts Of rising, falling seed That the winds lightly scour—Down to the matted earth where over And over again crow’s-foot and clover And pink bindweed Dimly, steadily flower.
Summer Wind
by William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878)
It is a sultry day; the sun has drunkThe dew that lay upon the morning grass;There is no rustling in the lofty elmThat canopies my dwelling, and its shadeScarce cools me. All is silent, save the faintAnd interrupted murmur of the bee,Settling on the sick flowers, and then againInstantly on the wing. The plants aroundFeel the too potent fervors: the tall maizeRolls up its long green leaves; the clover droopsIts tender foliage, and declines its blooms.But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,As if the scorching heat and dazzling lightWere but an element they loved. Bright clouds,Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven—Their bases on the mountains—their white topsShining in the far ether—fire the airWith a reflected radiance, and make turnThe gazer’s eye away. For me, I lieLanguidly in the shade, where the thick turf,Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,Retains some freshness, and I woo the windThat still delays his coming. Why so slow,Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earthCoolness and life! Is it that in his cavesHe hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,The pine is bending his proud top, and nowAmong the nearer groves, chestnut and oakAre tossing their green boughs about. He comes;Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves!The deep distressful silence of the sceneBreaks up with mingling of unnumbered soundsAnd universal motion. He is come,Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,And bearing on their fragrance; and he bringsMusic of birds, and rustling of young boughs,And sound of swaying branches, and the voiceOf distant waterfalls. All the green herbsAre stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,By the road-side and the borders of the brook,Nod gayly to each other; glossy leavesAre twinkling in the sun, as if the dewWere on them yet, and silver waters breakInto small waves and sparkle as he comes.
Heart, We Will Forget Him!
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
Heart, we will forget him! You and I, to-night!You may forget the warmth he gave,I will forget the light.
When you have done, pray tell me,That I my thoughts may dim;Haste! lest while you're lagging,I may remember him!
Because
by Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)
Oh, because you never triedTo bow my will or break my pride,And nothing of the cave-man madeYou want to keep me half afraid,Nor ever with a conquering airYou thought to draw me unaware,Take me, for I love you moreThan I ever loved before.
And since the body's maidenhoodAlone were neither rare nor goodUnless with it I gave to youA spirit still untrammeled, too,Take my dreams and take my mindThat were masterless as wind;And "Master!" I shall say to youSince you never asked me to.
Saying of Il Haboul
by Adelaide Crapsey (1878-1915)
My tentA vapour thatThe wind dispels and butAs dust before the wind am IMyself.
Ebb Tide
by Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)
When the long day goes byAnd I do not see your face,The old wild, restless sorrowSteals from its hiding place.
My day is barren and broken,Bereft of light and song,A sea beach bleak and windyThat moans the whole day long.
To the empty beach at ebb tide,Bare with its rocks and scars,Come back like the sea with singing,And light of a million stars.
Rose Song
by Anne Reeve Aldrich (1866-1892)
Plant, above my lifeless heart Crimson roses, red as blood.As if the love, pent there so long Were pouring forth its flood.
Then, through them, my heart may tell, Its Past of Love and Grief,And I shall feel them grow from it, And know a vague relief.
Through rotting shroud shall feel their roots, And unto them myself shall grow,And when I blossom at her feet, She, on that day, shall know!
When You Are Old
by William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,And nodding by the fire, take down this book,And slowly read, and dream of the soft lookYour eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;How many loved your moments of glad grace,And loved your beauty with love false or true,But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,And loved the sorrows of your changing face;And bending down beside the glowing bars,Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fledAnd paced upon the mountains overheadAnd hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
Disputed Tread
by Hazel Hall (1886-1924)
Where she steps a whir,Like dust about her feet,Follows after herDown the dustless street.
Something struggles there:The forces that contendViolently as to whereHer pathway is to end.
Issues, like great hands, gripAnd wrestle for her tread;One would strive to trip,And one would go ahead.
Conflicting strengths in her Grapple to guide her feet,Raising an unclean whir,Like dust, upon the street.
River Roads
by Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)
Let the crows go by hawking their caw and caw.They have been swimming in midnights of coal mines somewhere.Let ’em hawk their caw and caw.
Let the woodpecker drum and drum on a hickory stump. He has been swimming in red and blue pools somewhere hundreds of years And the blue has gone to his wings and the red has gone to his head. Let his red head drum and drum.
Let the dark pools hold the birds in a looking-glass. And if the pool wishes, let it shiver to the blur of many wings, old swimmers from old places.
Let the redwing streak a line of vermillion on the green wood lines. And the mist along the river fix its purple in lines of a woman’s shawl on lazy shoulders.
By the Sea
by Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)
Beside an ebbing northern seaWhile stars awaken one by one,We walk together, I and he.
He woos me with an easy graceThat proves him only half sincere;A light smile flickers on his face.
To him love-making is an art,And as a flutist plays a flute,So does he play upon his heart
A music varied to his whim.He has no use for love of mine,He would not have me answer him.
To hide my eyes within the nightI watch the changeful lighthouse gleamAlternately with red and white.
My laughter smites upon my ears,So one who cries and wakes from sleepKnows not it is himself he hears.
What if my voice should let him knowThe mocking words were all a sham,And lips that laugh could tremble so?
What if I lost the power to lie,And he should only hear his nameIn one low, broken cry?
Gitanjali 60
by Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances.
They build their houses with sand, and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.
They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl-fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.
The sea surges up with laughter, and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, even like a mother while rocking her baby’s cradle. The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach.
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the pathless sky, ships are wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad and children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children.
Fireworks
by Edith Sitwell (1887-1964)
Pink faces—(worlds or flowers or seas or stars),You all alike are patterned with hot bars
Of coloured light; and falling where I stand,The sharp and rainbow splinters from the band
Seem fireworks, splinters of the Infinite—(Glitter of leaves the echoes). And the night
Will weld this dust of bright InfinityTo forms that we may touch and call and see:—
Pink pyramids of faces: tulip-treesSpilling night perfumes on the terraces.
The music, blond airs waving like a seaDraws in its vortex of immensity
The new-awakened flower-strange hair and eyesOf crowds beneath the floating summer skies.
And, ’gainst the silk pavilions of the seaI watch the people move incessantly
Vibrating, petals blown from flower-hued starsBeneath the music-fireworks’ waving bars;
So all seems indivisible, at one:The flow of hair, the flowers, the seas that run,—
A coloured floating music of the nightThrough the pavilions of the Infinite.
The Sheaves
by Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935)
Where long the shadows of the wind had rolled,Green wheat was yielding to the change assigned;And as by some vast magic undivinedThe world was turning slowly into gold.Like nothing that was ever bought or soldIt waited there, the body and the mind;And with a mighty meaning of a kindThat tells the more the more it is not told.
So in a land where all days are not fair,Fair days went on till on another dayA thousand golden sheaves were lying there,Shining and still, but not for long to stay—As if a thousand girls with golden hairMight rise from where they slept and go away.
[I seek for rhythmic whisperings]
by Zinaida Gippius (1895-1945)
I seek for rhythmic whisperingsWhere noises bandy—For life I listen wistfullyIn footless banter.
I cast wide nets and tentativeIn lakes of sorrow.I go toward final tendernessBy pathways sordid.
I look for dewdrops glisteringIn falsehood’s gardens.I save truth’s globules glistening,From dust-heaps garnered.
I fain would fathom fortitudeThrough years of wormwood—And pierce the mortal fortalice,Yet live, a worldling.
My cup, through ways impassable,To bear, untainted;By tenebrous bleak passagesTo joy attaining.
The Road That Has No End
by Joseph Burrows (1953-2009)
Hast ever tramped along the road That has no end? The far brown winding road, your one Fast friend A tattered weather-beaten swag, A silent mate To send His dumb warm comfort to the heart, A fount where dreams ascend. There’s wondrous freedom on the road That has no end; A man’s heart glows, his spirit leaps To blend Its joy of life with fierce wind’s gust Upon his face: To lend Its cry to Nature’s tumult, full And shrill, as twilight shades descend. The flowers bloom along the road That has no end Cool breezes blow, the gum trees sway And bend; The wild doves woo, and softly coo Their soothing notes, And mend Heart’s throbbing pain to sweet content, And peace lights on the mind’s sad trend There’s pain and toil along the road That has no end; A sinking heart, and weary feet That spend Their strength, and lag and crave respite; And dim tired eyes That tend To close their heavy lids upon The stinging dusts that upward wend. There are sweet still hours along the road That has no end ‘Neath twinkling stars when night’s deep shades O’erpend; A man’s eyes shine with gathered tears, And memories come To rend His straining heart strings, while above The paling lights his mood commend. I love the road, the swagman’s road That has no end; I love its joys, that pains and toils Transcend; It is my dreams, the life that fills my heart And when death comes and would My peacefulness Amend, I pray that God may let my soul depart With my tattered swag beside me, ‘Mid my friends that never chide me, And my face towards the distant clouded hill, Where leads the far brown winding road That has no end.
Men Improve with the Years
by William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
I am worn out with dreams;A weather-worn, marble tritonAmong the streams;And all day long I lookUpon this lady’s beautyAs though I had found in bookA pictured beauty,Pleased to have filled the eyesOr the discerning ears,Delighted to be but wise,For men improve with the years;And yet and yetIs this my dream, or the truth?O would that we had metWhen I had my burning youth;But I grow old among dreams,A weather-worn, marble tritonAmong the streams.