Home

There is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth.

The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air;
In every clime the magnet of his soul,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his softened looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend.

Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life!
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel-guard of love and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.

Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?
Art thou a man? - a patriot? - look around;
Oh, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home!

"Home"
James Montgomery

Lead, Kindly Light

 

Lead, kindly light, amid th' encircling gloom,
     Lead Thou me on;
The night is dark and I am far from home;
     Lead Thou me on;
Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene; one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
     Should lead me on;
I loved to choose and see my path; but now
     Lead Thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years!

So long Thy Power hast blest me, sure it still
     Will lead me on;
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
     The night is gone,
And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!

 

"Lead, Kindly Light"  
John Henry Newman

Leisure and Love

 

Sooth 'twere a pleasant life to lead,
     With nothing in the world to do,
But just to blow a shepherd's reed
     The silent seasons through,
And just to drive a flock to feed—
     Sheep, quiet, fond, and few!

Pleasant to breathe beside a brook,
     And count the bubbles - love-worlds - there;
To muse upon some minstrel's book,
     Or watch the haunted air;
To slumber in some leafy nook-
     Or, idle anywhere.

And then a draught of nature's wine,
     A meal of summer's daintiest fruit;
To take the air with forms divine;
     Clouds, silvery, cool, and mute;
Descending, if the night be fine,
     In a star-parachute.

Give me to live with love alone,
     And let the world go dine and dress;
For love hath lowly haunts - a stone
     Holds something meant to bless.
If life's a flower, I choose my own -
     'Tis "Love in Idleness!"

 

"Leisure and Love"  
Samuel Laman Blanchard

Inscription on Raleigh's Bible

 

Even such is time that takes on trust
Our youth, our joys, and all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days!
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
The Lord shall raise me up, I trust.

 

"Inscription on Raleigh's Bible"  
Walter Raleigh

'Whiles in the early Winter eve'

 

Whiles in the early Winter eve

We pass amid the gathering night

Some homestead that we had to leave

Years past; and see its candles bright

Shine in the room beside the door

Where we were merry years agone

But now must never enter more,

As still the dark road drives us on.

E'en so the world of men may turn

At even of some hurried day

And see the ancient glimmer burn

Across the waste that hath no way;

Then with that faint light in its eyes

A while I bid it linger near

And nurse in wavering memories

The bitter-sweet of days that were.

 

" 'Whiles in the early Winter eve' "  
William Morris  

Found at the beginning of "The House of the Wolfings" by William Morris.

Life in Death

 

     He should have followed who goes forth before us,
       Last born of us in life, in death first-born:
       The last to lift up eyes against the morn,
     The first to see the sunset. Life, that bore us
     Perchance for death to comfort and restore us,
       Of him hath left us here awhile forlorn,
       For him is as a garment overworn,
     And time and change, with suns and stars in chorus,
     Silent. But if, beyond all change or time,
     A law more just, more equal, more sublime
       Than sways the surge of life's loud sterile sea
     Sways that still world whose peace environs him,
     Where death lies dead as night when stars wax dim,
       Above all thought or hope of ours is he.

 

"Life in Death"  
Algernon Charles Swinburne

Richard Cory

 

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

 

"Richard Cory"  
Edwin Arlington Robinson

The New Colossus

 

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

 

"The New Colossus"  
    Emma Lazarus

The Light of Other Days

 

   Oft in the stilly night
      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
    Fond Memory brings the light
      Of other days around me:
        The smiles, the tears
        Of boyhood's years,
      The words of love then spoken;
        The eyes that shone,
        Now dimmed and gone,
      The cheerful hearts now broken!
    Thus in the stilly night
      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
    Sad Memory brings the light
      Of other days around me.

    When I remember all
      The friends so link'd together
    I've seen around me fall
      Like leaves in wintry weather,
        I feel like one
        Who treads alone
      Some banquet-hall deserted,
        Whose lights are fled,
        Whose garlands dead,
      And all but he departed!
    Thus in the stilly night
      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
    Sad Memory brings the light
      Of other days around me.

 

"The Light of Other Days"  
Thomas Moore

A Wish

 

   Mine be a cot beside the hill;
      A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
    A willowy brook that turns a mill
      With many a fall shall linger near.

    The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
      Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
    Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
      And share my meal, a welcome guest.

    Around my ivied porch shall spring
      Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
    And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
      In russet gown and apron blue.

    The village church among the trees,
      Where first our marriage-vows were given,
    With merry peals shall swell the breeze
      And point with taper spire to Heaven.

 

"A Wish"  
Samuel Rogers

Oh come to me now

 

Oh! come to me now, for my sorrows are past,
And the cloud on my heart is dissolv'd at last;
Spirit of Poesy, come from above,
Come, on the wings of nature and love!

Come, while the yellow light streams thro' the pane,
And the air is fresh with the morning rain,
And the wind is up with its sweet wild voice,
Like a song of sorrow that bids us rejoice.

Come, mid fancies gathering fast,
'Mid thoughts of the present, and thoughts of the past,
Oh! come to me now! 't is thy chosen hour,
And the spirits of evil no longer have power!

 

"Oh come to me now" 

The Death of Procris

 

Poor jealous Procris in the Cretan wood,
     Slain by the very hand of love at last!
This way was best; the cordial bath of blood,
               The long love-sickness past.

The brown fauns gather round with piteous cries;
     They mourn her beauty, know not of her woe;
They find no Eos graven on those eyes
               Whence tears no longer flow.

Her griefs, her frailties from the flowery turf
     Exhaled, are like the dews of yesterday;
The grim ship hurrying through the Phocian surf,
               The exile on her way,

The cruel goddess, and the twofold test,
     The breaking heart of hate, the poisoned hours, —
All these have faded out in utter rest
               Among the Cretan flowers.

Ah! wrap her body in its fluttering lawns!
     'Tis Cephalus' own shaft that hath made cease
The passion of her breast; hush, foolish fauns,
               Hush! for her end was peace.

 

"The Death of Procris"
Edmund William Gosse

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

The Dream-Bridge

 

All drear and barren seemed the hours,
That passed rain-swept and tempest-blown.
The dead leaves fell like brownish notes
Within the rain's grey monotone.

There came a lapse between the showers:
The clouds grew rich with sunset gleams;
Then o'er the sky a rainbow sprang-
A bridge unto the Land of Dreams.

 

"The Dream-Bridge"
Clark Ashton Smith

Love

 

Foolish love is only folly;
Wanton love is too unholy;
Greedy love is covetous;
Idle love is frivolous;
But the gracious love is it
That doth prove the work of it.

Beauty but deceives the eye;
Flattery leads the ear awry;
Wealth doth but enchant the wit;
Want, the overthrow of it;
While in Wisdom's worthy grace,
Virtue sees the sweetest face.

There hath Love found out his life,
Peace without all thought of strife;
Kindness in Discretion's care;
Truth, that clearly doth declare
Faith doth in true fancy prove,
Lust the excrements of Love.

Then in faith may fancy see
How my love may constru'd be;
How it grows and what it seeks;
How it lives and what it likes;
So in highest grace regard it,
Or in lowest scorn discard it.

 

"Love"
Nicholas Breton

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 imposters 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!

 

"If—"
Rudyard Kipling

The Rainy Day

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

"The Rainy Day"
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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 motionless-
Nothing 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
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye-
Over 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.

 

"The Valley of Unrest"
Edgar Allan Poe

The Poet

 

A moody child and wildly wise

Pursued the game with joyful eyes,

Which chose, like meteors, their way,

And rived the dark with private ray:

They overleapt the horizon's edge,

Searched with Apollo's privilege;

Through man, and woman, and sea, and star,

Saw the dance of nature forward far;

Through worlds, and races, and terms, and times,

Saw musical order, and pairing rhymes.

Olympian bards who sung

Divine ideas below,

Which always find us young,

And always keep us so.

 

 

"The Poet"
Ralph Waldo Emerson

The Other World

 

    It lies around us like a cloud,--
    The world we do not see;
    Yet the sweet closing of an eye
    May bring us there to be.

    Its gentle breezes fan our cheeks
    Amid our worldly cares;
    Its gentle voices whisper love,
    And mingle with our prayers.

    Sweet hearts around us throb and beat,
    Sweet helping hands are stirred,
    And palpitates the veil between
    With breathings almost heard.

    The silence--awful, sweet, and calm,--
    They have no power to break;
    For mortal words are not for them
    To utter or partake.

    So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide,
    So near to press they seem,
    They lull us gently to our rest,
    And melt into our dream.

    And, in the hush of rest they bring,
    'Tis easy now to see
    How lovely and how sweet a pass
    The hour of death may be!

    To close the eye and close the ear,
    Wrapped in a trance of bliss,
    And, gently drawn in loving arms,
    To swoon to that--from this.

    Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep,
    Scarce asking where we are,
    To feel all evil sink away,
    All sorrow and all care.

    Sweet souls around us! Watch us still,
    Press nearer to our side,
    Into our thoughts, into our prayers,
    With gentle helping glide.

    Let death between us be as naught,
    A dried and vanished stream;
    Your joy be the reality,
    Our suffering life the dream.

 

"The Other World"
Harriet Beecher Stowe

The Stream of Life

 

O STREAM descending to the sea,
  Thy mossy banks between,
The flowerets blow, the grasses grow,
  The leafy trees are green.

In garden plots the children play,
  The fields the labourers till,
And houses stand on either hand,
  And thou descendest still.

O life descending into death,
  Our walking eyes behold,
Parent and friend thy lapse attend,
  Companions young and old.

Strong purposes our minds possess,
  Our hearts affections fill,
We toil and earn, we seek and learn,
  And thou descendest still.

O end to which our currents tend,
  Inevitable sea,
To which we flow, what do we know,
  What shall we guess of thee?

A roar we hear upon thy shore,
  As we our course fulfil;
Scarce we divine a sun will shine
  And be above us still.

 

"The Stream of Life"
Arthur Hugh Clough

The Wayfarers

 

Is it the hour? We leave this resting-place
  Made fair by one another for a while.
Now, for a god-speed, one last mad embrace;
  The long road then, unlit by your faint smile.
Ah! the long road! and you so far away!
Oh, I'll remember! but . . . each crawling day
Will pale a little your scarlet lips, each mile
  Dull the dear pain of your remembered face.

. . . Do you think there's a far border town, somewhere,
  The desert's edge, last of the lands we know,
    Some gaunt eventual limit of our light,
  In which I'll find you waiting; and we'll go
Together, hand in hand again, out there,
    Into the waste we know not, into the night?

 

 

"The Wayfarers"
Rupert Brooke

The Cry of the Dreamer

 

I am tired of planning and toiling
In the crowded hives of men;
Heart-weary of building and spoiling,
And spoiling and building again.
And I long for the dear old river,
Where I dreamed my youth away;
For a dreamer lives for ever,
And a toiler dies in a day.

I am sick of the showy seeming
Of a life that is half a lie;
Of the faces lined with scheming
In the throng that hurries by.
From the sleepless thoughts endeavour
I would go where the children play;
For a dreamer lives forever
And a thinker dies in a day.

I can feel no pride but pity
For the burdens the rich endure;
There is nothing sweet in the city
But the patient lives of the poor.
Oh, the little hands too skilful
And the child-mind chocked with weeds!
The daughter's heart grown wilful,
And the father's heart that bleeds!

No, no! from the streat's rude bustle,
From trophies of mart and stage,
I would fly to the woods' low rustle
And the meadows' kindly page.
Let me dream as of old by the river,
And be loved by the dream away;
For the dreamer lives for ever,
And a toiler dies in a day.

 

"The Cry of the Dreamer"
John Boyle O'Reilly

August on the Mountains

 

There is sultry gloom on the mountain's brow
     And a sultry glow beneath;
Oh, for a breeze from the western sea,
Soft and reviving, sweet and free,
Over the shadowless hill and lea,
     Over the barren heath.

There are clouds and darkness around God's ways,
     And the noon of life grows hot;
And though his faithfulness standeth fast
As the mighty mountains, a shroud is cast
Over the glory, solemn and vast,
     Veiling, but changing it not.

Send a sweet breeze from thy sea, O Lord,
     From thy deep, deep sea of love;
Though it lift not the veil from the cloudy height,
Let the brow grow cool and the footstep light,
As it comes with holy and soothing might,
     Like the wing of a snowy dove.

 

"August on the Mountains"
Frances Ridley Havergal

To My Brother

 

O faithful!
Moulded in one womb,
We have stood together all the years,
All the glad years and all the sorrowful years,
Own brothers: through good repute and ill,
In direst peril true to me,
Leaving all things for me, spending yourself
In the hard service that I taught to you,
Of all the men that I have known on earth,
You only have been my familiar friend,
Nor needed I another.

 

"To My Brother"
Patrick Henry Pearse

The Holy Thing

 

THEY all were looking for a king
   To slay their foes and lift them high:
Thou cam'st, a little baby thing
   That made a woman cry.
O Son of Man, to right my lot
   Naught but Thy presence can avail;
Yet on the road Thy wheels are not,
   Nor on the sea Thy sail!
My how or when Thou wilt not heed,
   But come down Thine own secret stair,
That Thou mayst answer all my need-
   Yea, every bygone prayer.

 

"The Holy Thing"
George MacDonald

Who Ever Loved, That Loved Not at First Sight

 

It lies not in our power to love or hate,
For will in us is overruled by fate.
When two are stripped, long ere the course begin,
We wish that one should love, the other win;
And one especially do we affect
Of two gold ingots, like in each respect:
The reason no man knows, let it suffice,
What we behold is censured by our eyes.
Where both deliberate, the love is slight:
Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?

 

 

"Who Ever Loved, That Loved Not at First Sight"
Christopher Marlowe

The Forest Glade

 

As one dark morn I trod a forest glade,
     A sunbeam entered at the further end,
And ran to meet me through the yielding shade —
     As one who in the distance sees a friend,
And smiling, hurries to him; but mine eyes,
     Bewilder'd by the change from dark to bright,
Received the greeting with a quick surprise
     At first, and then with tears of pure delight;
For sad my thoughts had been, — the tempest's wrath
     Had gloom'd the night, and made the morrow gray;
That heavenly guidance humble sorrow hath,
     Had turn'd my feet into that forest way,
Just when His morning light came down the path,
     Among the lonely woods at early day.

 

"The Forest Glade"
Charles Tennyson Turner

The Pagan

 

SO HERE are you, and here am I,
    Where we may thank our gods to be;
Above the earth, beneath the sky,
    Naked souls alive and free.
The autumn wind goes rustling by
    And stirs the stubble at our feet;
        Out of the west it whispering blows,
        Stops to caress and onward goes,
    Bringing its earthy odours sweet.
See with what pride the the setting sun
    Kinglike in gold and purple dies,
And like a robe of rainbow spun
Tinges the earth with shades divine.
    That mystic light is in your eyes
And ever in your heart will shine.

 

"The Pagan"
George Orwell

Fairest Maid on Devon Banks

 

Fairest maid on Devon banks,
Crystal Devon, winding Devon,
Wilt thou lay that frown aside,
And smile as thou were wont to do?
Full well thou know’st I love thee, dear!
Could’st thou to malice lend an ear!
O! did not love exclaim “Forbear,
Nor use a faithful lover so.”

Then come, thou fairest of the fair,
Those wonted smiles, O let me share;
And by thy beauteous self I swear,
No love but thine my heart shall know.
Fairest maid on Devon banks,
Crystal Devon, winding Devon,
Wilt thou lay that frown aside,
And smile as thou were wont to do?

 

"Fairest Maid on Devon Banks"
Robert Burns

Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night

 

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

"Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"
Dylan Thomas

Tame Cat

 

"It rests me to be among beautiful women.

Why should one always lie about such matters?

 

I repeat:

It rests me to converse with beautiful women

Even though we talk nothing but nonsense,

 

The purring of the invisible antennæ

Is both stimulating and delightful."

 

"Tame Cat"
Ezra Pound

A Lament

O world! O life! O time!
On whose last steps I climb,
Trembling at that where I had stood before;
When will return the glory of your prime?
No more -- Oh, never more!

Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight;
Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar,
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
No more -- Oh, never more!

"A Lament"
Percy Bysshe Shelley

Forgive and Forget

"Forgive--forget! I own the wrong!"

You fondly sigh'd when last I met you;

The task is neither hard nor long--

I do forgive--I will forget you!

"Forgive and Forget"
Frances Sargent Osgood

The Palm and the Pine

In the far North stands a Pine-tree, lone,
Upon a wintry height;
It sleeps: around it snows have thrown
A covering of white.

It dreams forever of a Palm
That, far i’ the Morning-land,
Stands silent in a most sad calm
Midst of the burning sand.

"The Palm and the Pine"
Sidney Lanier

Love

 

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;
In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;
In hamlets, dances on the green.
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And men below, and saints above;
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.

 

"Love" 
Walter Scott

Thou Shalt Not Kill a Certain Evening

 

I had grown weary of him; of his breath
And hands and features I was sick to death.
Each day I heard the same dull voice and tread;
I did not hate him: but I wished him dead.
And he must with his blank face fill my life -
Then my brain blackened; and I snatched a knife.

But ere I struck, my soul's grey deserts through
A voice cried, 'Know at least what thing you do.'
'This is a common man: knowest thou, O soul,
What this thing is? somewhere where seasons roll
There is some living thing for whom this man
Is as seven heavens girt into a span,
For some one soul you take the world away -
Now know you well your deed and purpose. Slay!'

Then I cast down the knife upon the ground
And saw that mean man for one moment crowned.
I turned and laughed: for there was no one by -
The man that I had sought to slay was I.

 

"Thou Shalt Not Kill a Certain Evening" 
Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Address to the Moon

 

How sweet the silver Moon's pale ray,
Falls trembling on the distant bay,
O'er which the breezes sigh no more,
Nor billows lash the sounding shore.

Say, do the eyes of those I love,
Behold thee as thou soar'st above,
Lonely, majestic and serene,
The calm and placid evening's Queen?

Say, if upon thy peaceful breast,
Departed spirits find their rest,
For who would wish a fairer home,
Than in that bright, refulgent dome?

 

"Address to the Moon" 
Nathaniel Hawthorne

A Legacy

 

Friend of my many years
When the great silence falls, at last, on me,
Let me not leave, to pain and sadden thee,
A memory of tears,

But pleasant thoughts alone
Of one who was thy friendship's honored guest
And drank the wine of consolation pressed
From sorrows of thy own.

I leave with thee a sense
Of hands upheld and trials rendered less--
The unselfish joy which is to helpfulness
Its own great recompense;

The knowledge that from thine,
As from the garments of the Master, stole
Calmness and strength, the virtue which makes whole
And heals without a sign;

Yea more, the assurance strong
That love, which fails of perfect utterance here,
Lives on to fill the heavenly atmosphere
With its immortal song.

 

"A Legacy" 
John Greenleaf Whittier

October

 

Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath!
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief
And the year smiles as it draws near its death.
Wind of the sunny south! oh, still delay
In the gay woods and in the golden air,
Like to a good old age released from care,
Journeying, in long serenity, away.
In such a bright, late quiet, would that I
Might wear out life like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks
And dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,
And music of kind voices ever nigh;
And when my last sand twinkled in the glass,
Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.

 

"October"  
William Cullen Bryant

The Fireside Poets

I have already published here in my blog poems of two authors that were members of this group. "The Fireside Poets" were so called for their influence in the American culture on the 19th century, when families would gather around the fire and recite poems to spend some quality time to spend the evening. The Fireside Poets were:

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

William Cullen Bryant

 

John Greenleaf Whittier

 

James Russel Lowell

 

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

For the first time a group of American poets rivaled with English poets in popularity in America and throughout the world. The subject of their poems went from normal topics of domestic life to politics of their country. I'll try to post at least one poem from each of them.

Autumn Within

It is autumn; not without,
But within me is the cold.
Youth and spring are all about;
It is I that have grown old.

Birds are darting through the air,
Singing, building without rest;
Life is stirring everywhere,
Save within my lonely breast.

There is silence: the dead leaves
Fall and rustle and are still;
Beats no flail upon the sheaves
Comes no murmur from the mill.

"Autumn Within"

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Kraken

Below the thunders of the upper deep,
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy sides; above him swell
Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;
And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous and secret cell
Unnumber'd and enormous polypi
Winnow with giant arms the lumbering green.
There hath he lain for ages, and will lie
Battening upon huge sea-worms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;
Then once by man and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

"The Kraken"

Alfred Tennyson

Solitude

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mixt, sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

"Solitude"

Alexander Pope

Work Without Hope

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—
The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—
And Winter slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
Yet well I ken the banks where Amaranths blow,

Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, O ye Amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!
With lips unbrighten'd, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And Hope without an object cannot live.

"Work Without Hope"

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Mad as the Mist and Snow

Bolt and bar the shutter,
For the foul winds blow:
Our minds are at their best this night,
And I seem to know
That everything outside us is
Mad as the mist and snow.

Horace there by Homer stands,
Plato stands below,
And here is Tully's open page.
How many years ago
Were you and I unlettered lads
Mad as the mist and snow?

You ask what makes me sigh, old friend,
What makes me shudder so?
I shudder and I sigh to think
That even Cicero
And many-minded Homer were
Mad as the mist and snow.

"Mad as the Mist and Snow"

William Butler Yeats

On the Sea

It keeps eternal whisperings around
Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell
Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell
Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.
Often 'tis in such gentle temper found,
That scarcely will the very smallest shell
Be moved for days from whence it sometime fell,
When last the winds of heaven were unbound.
Oh ye! who have your eye-balls vexed and tired,
Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea;
Oh ye! whose ears are dinned with uproar rude,
Or fed too much with cloying melody, -
Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood
Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs choired!

"On the Sea"

John Keats

The Song of the Bats

The dusk was on the mountain
And the stars were dim and frail
When the bats came flying, flying
From the river and the vale
To wheel against the twilight
And sing their witchy tale.

"We were kings of old!" they chanted,
"Rulers of a world enchanted;
"Every nation of creation
"Owned our lordship over men.
"Diadems of power crowned us,
"Then rose Solomon to confound us,
"In the form of beasts he bound us,
"So our rule was broken then."

Whirling, wheeling into westward,
Fled they in their phantom flight;
Was it but a wing-beat music
Murmured through the star-gemmed night?
Or the singing of a ghost clan
Whispering of forgotten might?

"The Song of the Bats"

Robert E. Howard

A Noiseless Patient Spider

A noiseless patient spider,
I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark'd how to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself.
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detatched, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them.
Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

"A Noiseless Patient Spider"

Walt Whitman

The House of Life

All wondering, and eager-eyed, within her portico
I made my plea to Hostess Life, one morning long ago.

"Pray show me this great house of thine, nor close a single door;
But let me wander where I will, and climb from floor to floor!

For many rooms, and curious things, and treasures great and small
Within your spacious mansion lie, and I would see them all."

Then Hostess Life turned silently, her searching gaze on me,
And with no word, she reached her hand, and offered up the key.

It opened first the door of Hope, and long I lingered there,
Until I spied the room of Dreams, just higher by a stair.

And then a door whereon the one word "Happiness" was writ;
But when I tried the little key I could not make it fit.

It turned the lock of Pleasure's room, where first all seemed so bright -
But after I had stayed awhile it somehow lost its light.

And wandering down a lonely hall, I came upon a room
Marked "Duty," and I entered it--to lose myself in gloom.

Along the shadowy halls I groped my weary way about,
And found that from dull Duty's room, a door of Toil led out.

It led out to another door, whereon a crimson stain
Made sullenly against the dark these words: "The Room of Pain."

But oh the light, the light, the light, that spilled down from above
And upward wound, the stairs of Faith, right to the Tower of Love!

And when I came forth from that place, I tried the little key -
And lo! the door of Happiness swung open, wide and free.

"The House of Life"

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Sonnet

PURE form, that like some chalice of old time
Contain'st the liquid of the poet's thought
Within thy curving hollow, gem-enwrought
With interwoven traceries of rhyme,

While o'er thy brim the bubbling fancies climb,
What thing am I, that undismayed have sought
To pour my verse with trembling hand untaught
Into a shape so small yet so sublime?

Because perfection haunts the hearts of men,
Because thy sacred chalice gathered up
The wine of Petrarch, Shakspere, Shelley -- then

Receive these tears of failure as they drop
(Sole vintage of my life), since I am fain
To pour them in a consecrated cup.

"The Sonnet"

Edith Wharton

I Shall Not Care

WHEN I am dead and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Tho' you should lean above me broken-hearted,
I shall not care.

I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough,
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
Than you are now.

"I Shall Not Care"

Sara Teasdale

Strings in the earth and air

Strings in the earth and air

Make music sweet;

Strings by the river where

The willows meet.

There's music along the river

For Love wanders there,

Pale flowers on his mantle,

Dark leaves on his hair.

All softly playing,

With head to the music bent,

And fingers straying

Upon an instrument.

"Strings in the earth and air"

James Joyce

Over the Hills

Over the hills and the valleys of dreaming
Slowly I take my way.
Life is the night with its dream-visions teeming,
Death is the waking at day.

Down thro' the dales and the bowers of loving,
Singing, I roam afar.
Daytime or night-time, I constantly roving,—
Dearest one, thou art my star.

"Over the Hills"

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Auguries of Innocence

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

(...)

A truth that's told with bad intent.
Beats all the Lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so;
Man was made for Joy and Woe;
And when this we rightly know
Thro' the World we safely go.
Joy and Woe are woven fine,
A Clothing for the Soul divine;

(...)

He who mocks the Infant's Faith
Shall be mock'd in Age and Death.
He who shall teach the Child to Doubt
The rotting Grave shall ne'er get out.
He who respects the Infant's faith
Triumphs over Hell and Death.
The Child's Toys and the Old Man's Reasons
Are the Fruits of the Two seasons.
The Questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to Reply.
He who replies to words of Doubt
Doth put the Light of Knowledge out.
The Strongest Poison ever known
Came from Caesar's Laurel Crown.

(...)

Every Night and every Morn
Some to Misery are Born.
Every Morn and every Night
Some are Born to sweet delight.
Some are Born to sweet delight,
Some are Born to Endless Night.
We are led to Believe a Lie
When we see not Thro' the Eye
Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night
When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light.
God Appears and God is Light
To those poor Souls who dwell in Night,
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of day.

Fragments from "Auguries of Innocence"

William Blake

Bright be the place of thy soul

I
Bright be the place of thy soul!
No lovelier spirit than thine
E'er burst from its mortal control,
In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
On earth thou wert all but divine,
As thy soul shall immortally be;
And our sorrow may cease to repine
When we know that thy God is with thee.
When we know that thy God is with thee.
Bright be the place of thy soul,
No lovelier spirit than thine
E'er burst from its mortal control,
In the orbs of the blessed to shine.

II
Light be the turf of thy tomb!
May its verdure like emeralds be!
There should not be the shadow of gloom,
In ought that reminds us of thee.
Young flow'rs and an evergreen tree,
May grow o'er the spot of thy rest.
But nor cypress nor Yew let us see,
For why should we mourn for the blest?
For why should we mourn for the blest?
Bright be the place of thy soul,
No lovelier spirit than thine
E'er burst from its mortal control,
In the orbs of the blessed to shine.

"Bright be the place of thy soul"

George Gordon Byron

Look back on Time, with kindly eyes —

Look back on Time, with kindly eyes —
He doubtless did his best —
How softly sinks that trembling sun
In Human Nature's West —

"Look back on Time, with kindly eyes —"

Emily Dickinson

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.

"Stars"

Robert Frost

Apologia

Is it thy will that I should wax and wane,
Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey,
And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain
Whose brightest threads are each a wasted day?

Is it thy will---Love that I love so well---
That my Soul's House should be a tortured spot
Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell
The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not?

Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure,
And sell ambition at the common mart,
And let dull failure be my vestiture,
And sorrow dig its grave within my heart.

Perchance it may be better so---at least
I have not made my heart a heart of stone,
Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast,
Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.

Many a man hath done so; sought to fence
In straitened bonds the soul that should be free,
Trodden the dusty road of common sense,
While all the forest sang of liberty.

Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight
Passed on wide pinion through the lofty air,
To where the steep untrodden mountain height
Caught the last tresses of the Sun God's hair.

Or how the little flower he trod upon,
The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold,
Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun
Content if once its leaves were aureoled.

But surely it is something to have been
The best beloved for a little while,
To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen
His purple wings flit once across thy smile.

Ay! though the gorged asp of passion feed
On my boy's heart, yet have I burst the bars,
Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeed
The Love which moves the Sun and all the stars!

"Apologia"

Oscar Wilde

Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd:

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

"Sonnet 18"

William Shakespeare

Chaucer

Geoffrey Chaucer was an English writer that was born in London in 1343. By that time, English was not an unified language as we know today. There were several dialects spread throughout the country. Chaucer wrote in what now we know as Middle English, a merging of the dialects used in London, Kent and Midland. This is one of his poems:

Original text:

Ma dame ye ben of Al Beaute ſhryne
As fer As cercled is the mapamonde
For As the cristall glorious ye ſhyne
And lyke Ruby ben your chekys rounde
Therwyth ye ben ſo mery and ſo iocunde
That At A Reuell whan that I ſe you dance
It is an oynement vnto my wounde
Thoght ye to me ne do no daliance.

For thogh I wepe of teres ful A tyne
Yet may that wo myn herte nat confounde
Your ſemy voys that ye ſo ſmall out twyne
Makyth my thoght in ioy And blys habounde
So curtayſly I go wyth love bounde
That to my ſelf I ſey in my penaunce
Suffyſeth me to loue you Rosemounde
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.

Nas never pyk walwed in galauntyne
As I in love Am walwed And I wounde
For whych ful ofte I of my ſelf devyne
That I Am trew Tristam the ſecunde
My love may not refreyde nor affound
I brenne Ay in an Amorouſe pleſaunce
Do what you lyſt I wyl your thral be founde
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliance.

tregentil,————//————Chaucer

Modern English "translation"

Madame, you are a shrine of all beauty,
As far encircling as the map of the world.
For you shine as the glorious crystal,
And your round cheeks are like Ruby.
Therewith you are so merry and so jocund,
That at a revel when that I see you dance;
It is an ointment unto my wound,
Though you, to me, do no dalliance.

For though I weep a basin of tears,
Yet may that woe not confound my heart.
Your seemly voice that you so delicately bring forth,
Make my thoughts, in joy and bliss, abound.
So courteously I go, with love bound
That, to myself, I say in my penance,
"Suffer me to love you Rosemounde;
Though you, to me, do no dalliance".

Never was pike so imbued in galantine
As I in love, am imbued and wounded.
For which I very oft, of myself, deign
That I am true Tristam the Second.
My love may not be cooled nor sunk,
I burn in an amourous pleasance.
Do what you like, I bid you find your thrall
Though you, to me, do no dalliance.

very gently,————//————Chaucer

"Balade to Rosemounde"

Geoffrey Chaucer

Fact and Fancy

How dull the wretch, whose philosophic mind
Disdains the pleasures of fantastic kind;
Whose prosy thoughts the joys of life exclude,
And wreck the solace of the poet's mood!
Young Zeno, practis'd in the Stoic's art,
Rejects the language of the glowing heart;
Dissolves sweet Nature to a mess of laws;
Condemns th' effect whilst looking for the cause;
Freezes poor Ovid in an iced review,
And sneers because his fables are untrue!
In search of hope the hopeful zealot goes,
But all the sadder tums, the more he knows!
Stay! Vandal sophist, whose deep lore would blast
The grateful legends of the storied past;
Whose tongue in censure flays th' embellish'd page,
And scorns the comforts of a dreary age:
Wouldst strip the foliage from the vital bough
Till all men grow as wisely dull as thou?
Happy the man whose fresh, untainted eye
Discerns a Pantheon in the spangled sky;
Finds sylphs and dryads in the waving trees,
And spies soft Notus in the southern breeze
For whom the stream a cheering carol sings,
While reedy music by the fountain rings;
To whom the waves a Nereid tale confide
Till friendly presence fills the rising tide.
Happy is he, who void of learning's woes,
Th' ethereal life of bodied Nature knows;
I scorn the sage that tells me it but seems,
And flout his gravity in sunlight dreams!

"Fact and Fancy"

Howard Phillips Lovecraft

A Dream Within a Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow—

You 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 sand—

How 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 Dream Within a Dream"

Edgar Allan Poe

Explaining...

I'd like to post the first part of the poem that inspired the name of this blog. There it is, the first part of "The Hollow Man" by T. S. Eliot:

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voice, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar.

Shape without form, shade without collour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us - if at all - not as lost
Violent souls, but only
as the hollow men
the stuffed men.

Future?

To live in a world without books! The Horror! The unbearable weight of reality!

Maybe not. To be completely fooled by the government and to believe only what the television told you. Only the virtual family is real! Always running! No time to think! No books to read, No thoughts to think! The dream country of those who seek alienation from reality.

Would you fancy living in a world where somebody else would think for you?

Beauty

As for what he says about beauty, Joyce make use of an old definition creeated by Thomas Aquinas, translating from latin as 'Three things are needed for beauty, wholeness, harmony and radiance'. When he talks about wholeness, the author means the need for the observer to define what is the objected that he is analysing and ignore everything else, you must notice it as a whole. Harmony is seen when the artist perceive all the parts that form the whole observed before, with each tiny structure and how these little pieces connect with each other to compose the object. The third element of beauty is also the most complex to understand and define. Radiance is the artist's way to understand the object, how it is reflected on his mind, imprinted on his soul. This can only be obtained when the observer clearly sees the two previous elements of beauty on the object, meaning that the artist need to understand both the whole as he perceive it's harmony.

Art

James Joyce brings us a marvelous description of art and beauty. First he try to set a limit to how an art form should be observed, saying that ‘(...) to try slowly and humbly and constantly to express to press out again, from the gross earth or what it brings forth, from sound and shape and colour which are the prison gates of our soul, an image of beauty we have to come to understand (...)’. We have to observe that with this definition he makes us see Art as a representation of Beauty in forms that can be perceived by anyone, not only the artist himself.

He does so artisticaly, using the expression ‘from the gross earth’, as did God when He “formed man of the dust of the ground”.

The Blue

You can't always run away from your past. You have to face it and, sometimes, try to fix it. Maybe it won't do a thing to change the present, but it will change you, and that's the whole point.

The time flows in my diferent ways. The most complex is how it drags you on and on, endlessly, changing you deep inside. This is the way we grow. Change yourself, change your surroundings, change the world. We always try to leave our mark in this world. However... does it really matters?

As I perceive, what really matters is how you change over the time, if you master the way it tries to change you and, instead of running against the current, change the current itself. No! Of course I'm not trying to say that I'm a time-traveler or something like that. I'm just trying to say that we can decide and control the efects that time has over your life.

Trying to change how time affects you life is hard. But we have to try.

Make amends to the Past.
Enjoy the Present.
The Future? Well... let the future become the Present...

Scars of Time

When do we really depart from this world? Our ghosts survive our death for a long time. Maybe in shape of a photograph, a memo you wrote for you to remember to go to a meeting, which you'll never be able to go, or even a memory in somebody else's mind...

Can you face Oblivion? I certainly can't...

Can you defy Oblivion? I'll try...

Not the Same

There are times in one's life that one notices that it is, in fact, changing.

It's something strange, bizarre, ghastly, yet very comfortable. You can feel the world turning under your feet. You know that everything is in motion.

For good or for ill, nothing stays the same for too long...

Right where it Belongs

Surprisingly, I'm optimistic.

I know that's not a thing that I usually am... Nevertheless, I am. I know that too many things can go wrong, that I can lose too many others as well, but I know I can... No, I have to go on...

Not because I think I owe it to anybody. Not that I don't care about the opinions of other. I just know that I have the will and the strenght to continue. Now I know my place. I'm right where I belong.

Thank you. Thanks for your support. Thank you to be right where you belong.

Heavenly

Everything is quite well. I don't remember when was the last time I felt like this. I feel... how can I explain?

I've finally made peace with myself. I got a little... no, let me correct myself... I got a HUGE help from someone I love dearly in my life. She made me feel like I'm something that's "worth the trouble". For those who don't know me, I think that's a good thing...

I just wish that I'm not too big a trouble for those who care 'bout me...

Redemption

After I went to the very Doors of Hell, I'm back.

I think that these are the days that I've been expecting for a very long time.

I'm still tired to the bones, but I know, deep in my heart, that things will work out just fine.

I've made my redemption. I'm tired of all that I was. Of all that I tried to avoid. Of all that I really was.

I hope I'm not fooling myself again.

Still life

I'm tired... too tired to think... too tired to complain... too tired to feel... too tired to write... I'm sorry, but all I want is to get rid of all of this and find oblivion... and then... finally rest...

Ariel's Lament

What if our life spin around the consequences of one and only choice we make? How can we know what do we have to choose between and when we have to choose? Would we know when this time will come? Would we know if this time is already due past and now we only have to suffer the consequences that come from our lack of perception?

Damned in a world that will take away everything that has been good and bringing only more suffering to those that were oblivious of what was really going on in their own life... Are they to be blamed? Are they to be pitied? How can we know if we're not one of them? I know I have made some terrible choices in my life, but... How can I know if any of them was the Choice?

Sometimes, when I'm all alone and all the world around me seem to have forsaken me, I seem to know that my Choice was already made... And I know that I have failed... Is there any chance to correct the past or, even better, choose again, based in what we now know? And even if it's possible, would we know how, what and when to choose again?

The Dream Within

We try to live life like a way to fulfill our dreams. I always believed that someday, in a misty and far-away future I could finally live my Dream. Some people dream about wealth beyond measure. Other of pleasures that cannot be satisfied by only one person or only once. Others dream about changing the world and do a great good, or a great evil...

I have my dreams. I'm sure you also have yours.

Dreams might change from time to time. Desires that you see that have no reasons to be. Wishes that, once fulfilled, do not satisfy. Dreams that die from lack of faith.

I have faith. Do you have yours?

Dreams are hard to achieve, because you have to work hard. Most of the people that lives in this dying world stop fighting for the things they believe and the things they love. I've fought a lot. I've lost a lot. Losing is a part of the fight. Some times you lose...

Will I ever win?

Wish

Sometimes there aren't too many things to think about... Some times there are too many...

I wish I could hate some things of the past... If I could hate them, I would eventually forget about them, and then I could move on... That's a natural course of life... I don't think I follow ANY course at all...

There are times we want to change the past... There are times we want to see the future... All I want is to get rid of the present, because it doesn't offer me anything that I want or anything that I need...

All I need is redemption... All I need is salvation... All I need is......