Norse Lullaby

 

The sky is dark and the hills are white
As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night;
And this is the song the storm-king sings,
As over the world his cloak he flings:
"Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;"
He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:
"Sleep, little one, sleep."

On yonder mountain-side a vine
Clings at the foot of a mother pine;
The tree bends over the trembling thing,
And only the vine can hear her sing:
"Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;
What shall you fear when I am here?
Sleep, little one, sleep."

The king may sing in his bitter flight,
The pine may croon to the vine to-night,
But the little snowflake at my breast
Liketh the song I sing the best, ---
"Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;
Weary thou art, anext my heart;
Sleep, little one, sleep."

 

"Norse Lullaby"  
Eugene Field

(Untitled)

 

Were I a king I might command content;
Were I obscure unknown should be my cares,
And were I dead no thoughts should me torment,
Nor words, nor wrongs, nor love, nor hate, nor fears
A doubtful choice for me of three things one to crave,
A kingdom or a cottage or a grave.

 

(Untitled) 
Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford

Peace

 

My soul, there is a country
     Far beyond the stars,
Where stands a wingéd sentry
     All skilful in the wars;

There above the noise and danger,
     Sweet Peace sits crown'd with smiles,
And One born in a manger
     Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious Friend,
     And—O my Soul awake! —
Did in pure love descend
     To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst get but thither,
     There grows the flower of Peace,
The Rose that cannot wither,
     Thy fortress and thy ease.

Leave then thy foolish ranges,
     For none can thee secure
But One, who never changes,
     Thy God, thy life, thy cure.

 

"Peace"  
Henry Vaughan

The Dead Man Walking

 

They hail me as one living,
      But don't they know
That I have died of late years,
      Untombed although?

I am but a shape that stands here,
      A pulseless mould,
A pale past picture, screening
      Ashes gone cold.

Not at a minute's warning,
      Not in a loud hour,
For me ceased Time's enchantments
      In hall and bower.

There was no tragic transit,
      No catch of breath,
When silent seasons inched me
      On to this death ....

— A Troubadour-youth I rambled
      With Life for lyre,
The beats of being raging
      In me like fire.

But when I practised eyeing
      The goal of men,
It iced me, and I perished
      A little then.

When passed my friend, my kinsfolk,
      Through the Last Door,
And left me standing bleakly,
      I died yet more;

And when my Love's heart kindled
      In hate of me,
Wherefore I knew not, died I
      One more degree.

And if when I died fully
      I cannot say,
And changed into the corpse-thing
      I am to-day,

Yet is it that, though whiling
      The time somehow
In walking, talking, smiling,
      I live not now.

 

"The Dead Man Walking" 
Thomas Hardy

How to Die

 

Dark clouds are smouldering into red
   While down the craters morning burns.
The dying soldier shifts his head
   To watch the glory that returns;
He lifts his fingers toward the skies
   Where holy brightness breaks in flame;
Radiance reflected in his eyes,
      And on his lips a whispered name.

You'd think, to hear some people talk,
   That lads go West with sobs and curses,
And sullen faces white as chalk,
   Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses.
But they've been taught the way to do it
   Like Christian soldiers; not with haste
And shuddering groans; but passing through it
   With due regard for decent taste.

 

"How to Die"  
Siegfried Sassoon

Futility

 

Move him into the sun-
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds-
Woke once the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved, still warm, too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
-O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?

 

"Futility" 
Wilfred Owen

Such, Such is Death

 

Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat:
Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean,
A merciful putting away of what has been.

And this we know: Death is not Life, effete,
Life crushed, the broken pail. We who have seen
So marvellous things know well the end not yet.

Victor and vanquished are a-one in death:
Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say,
"Come, what was your record when you drew breath?"
But a big blot has hid each yesterday
So poor, so manifestly incomplete.
And your bright Promise, withered long and sped,
Is touched, stirs, rises, opens and grows sweet
And blossoms and is you, when you are dead.

 

"Such, Such is Death" 
Charles Hamilton Sorley

Sunshine

 

Arise and shine! The gold light
     Fair morning makes for thee —
A tender and untold light,
     Like music on the sea.
Light and music shining
     In melodious glory,
A rare and radiant shining
     On thy changing story.

To-day the golden sunlight
     Is full and broad and strong.
The glory of the One Light
     Must overflow in song —
Song that floweth ever,
     Sweeter every day;
Song whose echoes never,
     Never die away.

How shall the light be clearer
     That is so bright to-day?
How shall the hope be dearer
     That pours such joyous ray?
We are only waiting
     For the answer golden;
What faith is antedating
     Shall not be withholden.

Sunshine 
Frances Ridley Havergal

The Good Great Man

 

How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits
Honor or wealth, with all his worth and pains!
It sounds like stories from the world of spirits,
If any man obtain that which he merits,
Or any merit that which he obtains.
For shame, dear friend! renounce this canting strain,
What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain?
Place — titles — salary — a gilded chain —
Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain? —
Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends;
Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
The good great man? — three treasures, love and light,
And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath;
And three firm friends, more sure than day and night —
Himself, his Maker, and the Angel Death.

 

"The Good Great Man"  
Samuel Taylor Coleridge

By the North Sea

 

Her cheek was wet with North Sea spray,
We walked where tide and shingle meet;
The long waves rolled from far away
To purr in ripples at our feet.
And as we walked it seemed to me
That three old friends had met that day,
The old, old sky, the old, old sea,
And love, which is as old as they.

Out seaward hung the brooding mist
We saw it rolling, fold on fold,
And marked the great Sun alchemist
Turn all its leaden edge to gold,
Look well, look well, oh lady mine,
The grey below, the gold above,
For so the greyest life may shine
All golden in the light of love.

 

"By the North Sea"  
Arthur Conan Doyle

First Praise

 

Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses,
    Thou art my Lady.
I have known the crisp, splintering leaf-tread with thee on before,
White, slender through green saplings;
I have lain by thee on the brown forest floor
    Beside thee, my Lady.

Lady of rivers strewn with stones,
    Only thou art my Lady.
Where thousand the freshets are crowded like peasants to a fair;
Clear-skinned, wild from seclusion
They jostle white-armed down the tent-bordered thoroughfare
    Praising my Lady.

 

"First Praise"  
William Carlos Williams

On Reading Lord Dunsany's Book of Wonder

 

The hours of night unheeded fly,
And in the grate the embers fade;
Vast shadows one by one pass by
In silent daemon cavalcade.
But still the magic volume holds
The raptur'd eye in realms apart,
And fulgent sorcery enfolds
The willing mind and eager heart.
The lonely room no more is there -
For to the sight in pomp appear
Temples and cities pois'd in air
And blazing glories - sphere on sphere.

 

"On Reading Lord Dunsany's Book of Wonder" 
Howard Phillips Lovecraft

Thorp Green

I sit, this evening, far away,
From all I used to know,
And nought reminds my soul to-day
Of happy long ago.

Unwelcome cares, unthought-of fears,
Around my room arise;
I seek for suns of former years
But clouds o'ercast my skies.

Yes--Memory, wherefore does thy voice
Bring old times back to view,
As thou wouldst bid me not rejoice
In thoughts and prospects new?

I'll thank thee, Memory, in the hour
When troubled thoughts are mine--
For thou, like suns in April's shower,
On shadowy scenes wilt shine.

I'll thank thee when approaching death
Would quench life's feeble ember,
For thou wouldst even renew my breath
With thy sweet word 'Remember'!

"Thorp Green"
Branwell Brontë

Luck

 

I sought a four-leaved clover,—
  The grass was gemmed with dew,—
I searched the meadow over
To find a four-leaved clover;
I was a lucky rover,—
  You sought the charm-grass, too,
And seeking luck and clover
  I found it—finding you.

 

"Luck" 
Abbie Farwell Brown  

Epitaph on the World

 

Here lies the body of this world,
Whose soul alas to hell is hurled.
This golden youth long since was past,
Its silver manhood went as fast,
An iron age drew on at last;
'Tis vain its character to tell,
The several fates which it befell,
What year it died, when 'twill arise,
We only know that here it lies.

 

"Epitaph on the World" 
Henry David Thoreau

Echo-Song

 

I know a noble heart that beats
For one it loves how "wildly well!"
I only know for whom it beats;
But I must never tell!
Never tell!
Hush! hark! how Echo soft repeats,--
Ah! never tell!

I know a voice that falters low,
Whene'er one little name 't would say;
Full well that little name I know,
But that I'll ne'er betray!
Ne'er betray!
Hush! hark! how Echo murmurs low,--
Ah! ne'er betray!

I know a smile that beaming flies
From soul to lip, with rapturous glow,
And I can guess who bids it rise;
But none -- but none shall know!
None shall know!
Hush! hark! how Echo faintly sighs--
But none shall know!

 

"Echo-Song" 
Frances Sargent Osgood

To Edgar Allan Poe

 

If thy sad heart, pining for human love,
In its earth solitude grew dark with fear,
Lest the high Sun of Heaven itself should prove
Powerless to save from that phantasmal sphere
Wherein thy spirit wandered,—if the flowers
That pressed around thy feet, seemed but to bloom
In lone Gethsemanes, through starless hours,
When all who loved had left thee to thy doom,—
Oh, yet believe that in that hollow vale
Where thy soul lingers, waiting to attain
So much of Heaven's sweet grace as shall avail
To lift its burden of remorseful pain,
My soul shall meet thee, and its Heaven forego
Till God's great love, on both, one hope, one Heaven bestow.

 

"To Edgar Allan Poe"
Sarah Helen Whitman

Meeting at Night

 

The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!

 

"Meeting at Night"
Robert Browning