Or is't not Juno, Heaven's great dame, Or Pallas armed, as on she came To assist the Greeks in fight, Or Cynthia, that huntress bold, Or from old Tithon's bed so cold, Aurora chasing night?

No, none of those, yet one that shall Compare, perhaps exceed them all, For beauty, wit, and birth; As good as great, as chaste as fair, A brighter nymph none breathes the air, Or treads upon the earth.

'Tis Dorothee, a maid high-born, And lovely as the blushing morn, Of noble Sidney's race; Oh! could you see into her mind, The beauties there locked-up outshine The beauties of her face.

Fair Dorothea, sent from heaven To add more wonders to the seven, And glad each eye and ear, Crown of her sex, the Muse's port, The glory of our English court, The brightness of our sphere.

To welcome her the Spring breathes forth Elysian sweets, March strews the earth With violets and posies, The sun renews his darting fires, April puts on her best attires, And May her crown of roses.

Go, happy maid, increase the store Of graces born with you, and more Add to their number still; So neither all-consuming age, Nor envy's blast, nor fortune's rage Shall ever work you ill.

Edmund Waller [1606-1687]



"O, SAW YE BONNY LESLEY"

O saw ye bonny Lesley As she gaed owre the Border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever; For nature made her what she is, And ne'er made sic anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee; Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee.

The deil he couldna scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonny face, And say, "I canna wrang thee!"

The powers aboon will tent thee; Misfortune sha' na steer thee; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie! That we may brag we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonny.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]



TO A YOUNG LADY

Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid!— Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy throng: With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon her destined course; Graceful and useful all she does, Blessing and blest where'er she goes; Pure-bosomed as that watery glass, And Heaven reflected in her face!

William Cowper [1731-1800]



RUTH

She stood breast high among the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush, Deeply ripened;—such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell. But long lashes veiled a light, That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim; Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks:

Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean, Where I reap thou shouldst but glean; Lay thy sheaf adown and come, Share my harvest and my home.

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]



THE SOLITARY REAPER

Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of Travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again!

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;— I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]



THE THREE COTTAGE GIRLS

I How blest the Maid whose heart—yet free From Love's uneasy sovereignty— Beats with a fancy running high, Her simple cares to magnify; Whom Labor, never urged to toil, Hath cherished on a healthful soil; Who knows not pomp, who heeds not pelf; Whose heaviest sin it is to look Askance upon her pretty Self Reflected in some crystal brook; Whom grief hath spared—who sheds no tear But in sweet pity; and can hear Another's praise from envy clear.

II Such (but O lavish Nature! why That dark unfathomable eye, Where lurks a Spirit that replies To stillest mood of softest skies, Yet hints at peace to be o'erthrown, Another's first, and then her own?) Such haply, yon Italian Maid, Our Lady's laggard Votaress, Halting beneath the chestnut shade To accomplish there her loveliness: Nice aid maternal fingers lend; A Sister serves with slacker hand; Then, glittering like a star, she joins the festal band.

III How blest (if truth may entertain Coy fancy with a bolder strain) The Helvetian Girl—who daily braves, In her light skiff, the tossing waves, And quits the bosom of the deep Only to climb the rugged steep! —Say whence that modulated shout! From Wood-nymph of Diana's throng? Or does the greeting to a rout Of giddy Bacchanals belong? Jubilant outcry! rock and glade Resounded—but the voice obeyed The breath of an Helvetian Maid.

IV Her beauty dazzles the thick wood; Her courage animates the flood; Her steps the elastic greensward meets Returning unreluctant sweets; The mountains (as ye heard) rejoice Aloud, saluted by her voice! Blithe Paragon of Alpine grace, Be as thou art—for through thy veins The blood of Heroes runs its race! And nobly wilt thou brook the chains That, for the virtuous, Life prepares; The fetter which the Matron wears; The patriot Mother's weight of anxious cares!

"Sweet Highland Girl! a very shower Of beauty was thy earthly dower," When thou didst flit before mine eyes, Gay Vision under sullen skies, While Hope and Love around thee played, Near the rough falls of Inversneyd! Have they, who nursed the blossom, seen No breach of promise in the fruit? Was joy, in following joy, as keen As grief can be in grief's pursuit? When youth had flown did hope still bless Thy goings—or the cheerfulness Of innocence survive to mitigate distress?

VI But from our course why turn—to tread A way with shadows overspread; Where what we gladliest would believe Is feared as what may most deceive? Bright Spirit, not with amaranth crowned But heath-bells from thy native ground, Time cannot thin thy flowing hair, Nor take one ray of light from Thee; For in my Fancy thou dost share The gift of immortality; And there shall bloom, with Thee allied, The Votaress by Lugano's side; And that intrepid Nymph, on Uri's steep descried!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

BLACKMWORE MAIDENS

The primrwose in the sheade do blow, The cowslip in the zun, The thyme upon the down do grow, The cote where streams do run; An' where do pretty maidens grow An' blow, but where the tower Do rise among the bricken tuns, In Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you could zee their comely gait, An' pretty feaces' smiles, A-trippen on so light o' waight, An' steppen off the stiles; A-gwain to church, as bells do swing An' ring within the tower, You'd own the pretty maidens' pleace Is Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you vrom Wimborne took your road, To Stower or Paladore, An' all the farmers' housen showed Their daughters at the door; You'd cry to bachelors at hwome— "Here, come: 'ithin an hour You'll vind ten maidens to your mind, In Blackmwore by the Stour."

An' if you looked 'ithin their door, To zee em in their pleace, A-doen housework up avore Their smilen mother's feace; You'd cry—"Why if a man would wive An' thrive, 'ithout a dower, Then let en look en out a wife In Blackmwore by the Stour."

As I upon my road did pass A school-house back in May, There out upon the beaten grass Wer maidens at their play; An' as the pretty souls did tweil An' smile, I cried, "The flower O' beauty, then, is still in bud In Blackmwore by the Stour."

William Barnes [1801-1886]



A PORTRAIT "One name is Elizabeth" Ben Jonson

I will paint her as I see her. Ten times have the lilies blown Since she looked upon the sun.

And her face is lily-clear, Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty To the law of its own beauty.

Oval cheeks encolored faintly, Which a trail of golden hair Keeps from fading off to air:

And a forehead fair and saintly, Which two blue eyes undershine, Like meek prayers before a shrine.

Face and figure of a child,— Though too calm, you think, and tender, For the childhood you would lend her.

Yet child-simple, undefiled, Frank, obedient, waiting still On the turnings of your will.

Moving light, as all young things, As young birds, or early wheat When the wind blows over it.

Only, free from flutterings Of loud mirth that scorneth measure— Taking love for her chief pleasure.

Choosing pleasures, for the rest, Which come softly—just as she, When she nestles at your knee.

Quiet talk she liketh best, In a bower of gentle looks,— Watering flowers, or reading books.

And her voice, it murmurs lowly, As a silver stream may run, Which yet feels (you feel) the sun.

And her smile it seems half holy, As if drawn from thoughts more far Than our common jestings are.

And if any poet knew her, He would sing of her with falls Used in lovely madrigals.

And if any painter drew her, He would paint her unaware With a halo round her hair.

And if reader read the poem, He would whisper—"You have done a Consecrated little Una!"

And a dreamer (did you show him That same picture) would exclaim, "'Tis my angel, with a name!"

And a stranger,—when he sees her In the street even—smileth stilly, Just as you would at a lily.

And all voices that address her, Soften, sleeken every word, As if speaking to a bird.

And all fancies yearn to cover The hard earth, whereon she passes, With the thymy-scented grasses.

And all hearts do pray, "God love her!" Ay and always, in good sooth, We may all be sure HE DOTH.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]



TO A CHILD OF FANCY

The nests are in the hedgerows, The lambs are on the grass; With laughter sweet as music The hours lightfooted pass, My darling child of fancy, My winsome prattling lass.

Blue eyes, with long brown lashes, Thickets of golden curl, Red little lips disclosing Twin rows of fairy pearl, Cheeks like the apple blossom, Voice lightsome as the merle.

A whole Spring's fickle changes, In every short-lived day, A passing cloud of April, A flowery smile of May, A thousand quick mutations From graver moods to gay.

Far off, I see the season When thy childhood's course is run, And thy girlhood opens wider Beneath the growing sun, And the rose begins to redden, But the violets are done.

And further still the summer, When thy fair tree, fully grown, Shall bourgeon, and grow splendid With blossoms of its own, And the fruit begins to gather, But the buttercups are mown.

If I should see thy autumn, 'Twill not be close at hand, But with a spirit vision, From some far-distant land. Or, perhaps, I hence may see thee Amongst the angels stand.

I know not what of fortune The future holds for thee, Nor if skies fair or clouded Wait thee in days to be, But neither joy nor sorrow Shall sever thee from me.

Dear child, whatever changes Across our lives may pass, I shall see thee still for ever, Clearly as in a glass, The same sweet child of fancy, The same dear winsome lass.

Lewis Morris [1833-1907]



DAISY

Where the thistle lifts a purple crown Six foot out of the turf, And the harebell shakes on the windy hill— O the breath of the distant surf!—

The hills look over on the South, And southward dreams the sea; And with the sea-breeze hand in hand Came innocence and she.

Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry Red for the gatherer springs, Two children did we stray and talk Wise, idle, childish things.

She listened with big-lipped surprise, Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine: Her skin was like a grape, whose veins Run snow instead of wine.

She knew not those sweet words she spake, Nor knew her own sweet way; But there's never a bird, so sweet a song Thronged in whose throat that day!

Oh, there were flowers in Storrington On the turf and on the spray; But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills Was the Daisy-flower that day!

Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face! She gave me tokens three:— A look, a word of her winsome mouth, And a wild raspberry.

A berry red, a guileless look, A still word,—strings of sand! And yet they made my wild, wild heart Fly down to her little hand.

For standing artless as the air, And candid as the skies, She took the berries with her hand, And the love with her sweet eyes.

The fairest things have fleetest end: Their scent survives their close, But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose!

She looked a little wistfully, Then went her sunshine way:— The sea's eye had a mist on it, And the leaves fell from the day.

She went her unremembering way, She went and left in me The pang of all the partings gone, And partings yet to be.

She left me marveling why my soul Was sad that she was glad; At all the sadness in the sweet, The sweetness in the sad.

Still, still I seemed to see her, still Look up with soft replies, And take the berries with her hand, And the love with her lovely eyes.

Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in others' pain, And perish in our own.

Francis Thompson [1859?-1907]



TO PETRONILLA WHO HAS PUT UP HER HAIR

Yesterday it blew alway, Yesterday is dead, Now forever must it stay Coiled about your head, Tell me Whence the great Command Hitherward has sped. "Silly boy, as if I knew," Petronilla said.

Nay, but I am very sure, Since you left my side, Something has befallen you, You are fain to hide, Homage has been done to you, Innocents have died. "Silly boy, and what of that?" Petronilla cried.

Petronilla, much I fear Scarcely have you wept All those merry yesterdays, Slaughtered whilst you slept, Slain to bind that pretty crown Closer round your head. "Silly boy, as if I cared," Petronilla said.

Henry Howarth Bashford [1880-



THE GYPSY GIRL

Passing I saw her as she stood beside A lonely stream between two barren wolds; Her loose vest hung in rudely gathered folds On her swart bosom, which in maiden pride Pillowed a string of pearls; among her hair Twined the light bluebell and the stone-crop gay; And not far thence the small encampment lay, Curling its wreathed smoke into the air. She seemed a child of some sun-favored clime; So still, so habited to warmth and rest; And in my wayward musings on past time, When my thought fills with treasured memories, That image nearest borders on the blest Creations of pure art that never dies.

Henry Alford [1810-1871]



FANNY A Southern Blossom

Come and see her as she stands, Crimson roses in her hands; And her eyes Are as dark as Southern night, Yet than Southern dawn more bright, And a soft, alluring light In them lies.

None deny if she beseech With that pretty, liquid speech Of the South. All her consonants are slurred, And the vowels are preferred; There's a poem in each word From that mouth.

Even Cupid is her slave; Of her arrows, half he gave Her one day In a merry, playful hour. Dowered with these and beauty's dower, Strong indeed her magic power, So they say.

Venus, not to be outdone By her generous little son, Shaped the mouth Very like to Cupid's bow. Lack-a-day! Our North can show No such lovely flowers as grow In the South!

Anne Reeve Aldrich [1866-1892]



SOMEBODY'S CHILD

Just a picture of Somebody's child,— Sweet face set in golden hair, Violet eyes, and cheeks of rose, Rounded chin, with a dimple there,

Tender eyes where the shadows sleep, Lit from within by a secret ray,— Tender eyes that will shine like stars When love and womanhood come this way:

Scarlet lips with a story to tell,— Blessed be he who shall find it out, Who shall learn the eyes' deep secret well, And read the heart with never a doubt.

Then you will tremble, scarlet lips, Then you will crimson, loveliest cheeks: Eyes will brighten and blushes will burn When the one true lover bends and speaks.

But she's only a child now, as you see, Only a child in her careless grace: When Love and Womanhood come this way Will anything sadden the flower-like face?

Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]



EMILIA

Halfway up the Hemlock valley turnpike, In the bend of Silver Water's arm, Where the deer come trooping down at even, Drink the cowslip pool, and fear no harm, Dwells Emilia, Flower of the fields of Camlet Farm.

Sitting sewing by the western window As the too brief mountain sunshine flies, Hast thou seen a slender-shouldered figure With a chestnut braid, Minerva-wise, Round her temples, Shadowing her gray, enchanted eyes?

When the freshets flood the Silver Water, When the swallow flying northward braves Sleeting rains that sweep the birchen foothills Where the windflowers' pale plantation waves— (Fairy gardens Springing from the dead leaves in their graves),—

Falls forgotten, then, Emilia's needle; Ancient ballads, fleeting through her brain, Sing the cuckoo and the English primrose, Outdoors calling with a quaint refrain; And a rainbow Seems to brighten through the gusty rain.

Forth she goes, in some old dress and faded, Fearless of the showery shifting wind; Kilted are her skirts to clear the mosses, And her bright braids in a 'kerchief pinned, Younger sister Of the damsel-errant Rosalind.

While she helps to serve the harvest supper In the lantern-lighted village hall, Moonlight rises on the burning woodland, Echoes dwindle from the distant Fall. Hark, Emilia! In her ear the airy voices call.

Hidden papers in the dusty garret, Where her few and secret poems lie,— Thither flies her heart to join her treasure, While she serves, with absent-musing eye, Mighty tankards Foaming cider in the glasses high.

"Would she mingle with her young companions!" Vainly do her aunts and uncles say; Ever, from the village sports and dances, Early missed, Emilia slips away. Whither vanished? With what unimagined mates to play?

Did they seek her, wandering by the water, They should find her comrades shy and strange: Queens and princesses, and saints and fairies, Dimly moving in a cloud of change:— Desdemona; Mariana of the Moated Grange.

Up this valley to the fair and market When young farmers from the southward ride, Oft they linger at a sound of chanting In the meadows by the turnpike side; Long they listen, Deep in fancies of a fairy bride.

Sarah N. Cleghorn [1876-



TO A GREEK GIRL

With breath of thyme and bees that hum, Across the years you seem to come,— Across the years with nymph-like head, And wind-blown brows unfilleted; A girlish shape that slips the bud In lines of unspoiled symmetry; A girlish shape that stirs the blood With pulse of Spring, Autonoe!

Where'er you pass,—where'er you go, I hear the pebbly rillet flow; Where'er you go,—where'er you pass, There comes a gladness on the grass; You bring blithe airs where'er you tread,— Blithe airs that blow from down and sea; You wake in me a Pan not dead,— Not wholly dead!—Autonoe!

How sweet with you on some green sod To wreathe the rustic garden-god; How sweet beneath the chestnut's shade With you to weave a basket-braid; To watch across the stricken chords Your rosy-twinkling fingers flee; To woo you in soft woodland words, With woodland pipe, Autonoe!

In vain,—in vain! The years divide: Where Thamis rolls a murky tide, I sit and fill my painful reams, And see you only in my dreams;— A vision, like Alcestis, brought From under-lands of Memory,— A dream of Form in days of Thought,— A dream,—a dream, Autonoe!

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]



"CHAMBER SCENE" An Exquisite Picture In The Studio Of A Young Artist At Rome

She rose from her untroubled sleep, And put away her soft brown hair, And, in a tone as low and deep As love's first whisper, breathed a prayer— Her snow-white hands together pressed, Her blue eyes sheltered in the lid, The folded linen on her breast, Just swelling with the charms it hid; And from her long and flowing dress Escaped a bare and slender foot, Whose shape upon the earth did press Like a new snow-flake, white and "mute"; And there, from slumber pure and warm, Like a young spirit fresh from heaven, She bowed her slight and graceful form, And humbly prayed to be forgiven.

Oh God! if souls unsoiled as these Need daily mercy from Thy throne; If she upon her bended knees, Our loveliest and our purest one,— She, with a face so clear and bright, We deem her some stray child of light;— If she, with those soft eyes in tears, Day after day in her first years, Must kneel and pray for grace from Thee, What far, far deeper need have we! How hardly, if she win not heaven, Will our wild errors be forgiven!

Nathaniel Parker Willis [1806-1867]



"AH, BE NOT FALSE"

Ah, be not false, sweet Splendor! Be true, be good; Be wise as thou art tender; Be all that Beauty should.

Not lightly be thy citadel subdued; Not ignobly, not untimely, Take praise in solemn mood; Take love sublimely.

Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1909]



A LIFE-LESSON

There! little girl, don't cry! They have broken your doll, I know; And your tea-set blue, And your play-house, too, Are things of the long ago; But childish troubles will soon pass by.— There! little girl, don't cry!

There! little girl, don't cry! They have broken your slate, I know; And the glad, wild ways Of your school-girl days Are things of the long ago; But life and love will soon come by.— There! little girl, don't cry!

There! little girl, don't cry! They have broken your heart, I know; And the rainbow gleams Of your youthful dreams Are things of the long ago; But Heaven holds all for which you sigh.— There! little girl, don't cry!

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]



THE MAN



THE BREAKING The Lord God Speaks To A Youth

Bend now thy body to the common weight: (But oh, that vine-clad head, those limbs of morn! Those proud young shoulders, I myself made straight! How shall ye wear the yoke that must be worn?)

Look thou, my son, what wisdom comes to thee: (But oh, that singing mouth, those radiant eyes! Those dancing feet—that I myself made free! How shall I sadden them to make them wise?)

Nay, then, thou shalt! Resist not—have a care! (Yea, I must work my plans who sovereign sit; Yet do not tremble so! I cannot bear— Though I am God—to see thee so submit!)

Margaret Steele Anderson [1869-1921]



THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH

There are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain: But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again.

We are stronger, and are better, Under manhood's sterner reign: Still we feel that something sweet Followed youth, with flying feet, And will never come again.

Something beautiful is vanished, And we sigh for it in vain: We behold it everywhere, On the earth, and in the air, But it never comes again.

Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903]



"DAYS OF MY YOUTH"

Days of my youth, Ye have glided away; Hairs of my youth, Ye are frosted and gray; Eyes of my youth, Your keen sight is no more; Cheeks of my youth, Ye are furrowed all o'er; Strength of my youth, All your vigor is gone; Thoughts of my youth, Your gay visions are flown.

Days of my youth, I wish not your recall; Hairs of my youth, I'm content ye should fall; Eyes of my youth, You much evil have seen; Cheeks of my youth, Bathed in tears have you been; Thoughts of my youth, You have led me astray; Strength of my youth, Why lament your decay?

Days of my age, Ye will shortly be past; Pains of my age, Yet awhile ye can last; Joys of my age, In true wisdom delight; Eyes of my age, Be religion your light; Thoughts of my age, Dread ye not the cold sod; Hopes of my age, Be ye fixed on your God.

St. George Tucker [1752-1827]



AVE ATQUE VALE

Farewell my Youth! for now we needs must part, For here the paths divide; Here hand from hand must sever, heart from heart,— Divergence deep and wide.

You'll wear no withered roses for my sake, Though I go mourning for you all day long, Finding no magic more in bower or brake, No melody in song.

Gray Eld must travel in my company To seal this severance more fast and sure. A joyless fellowship, i' faith, 'twill be, Yet must we fare together, I and he, Till I shall tread the footpath way no more.

But when a blackbird pipes among the boughs, On some dim, iridescent day in spring, Then I may dream you are remembering Our ancient vows.

Or when some joy foregone, some fate forsworn, Looks through the dark eyes of the violet, I may re-cross the set, forbidden bourne, I may forget Our long, long parting for a little while, Dream of the golden splendors of your smile, Dream you remember yet.

Rosamund Marriott Watson [1863-1911]



TO YOUTH

Where art thou gone, light-ankled Youth? With wing at either shoulder, And smile that never left thy mouth Until the Hours grew colder:

Then somewhat seemed to whisper near That thou and I must part; I doubted it; I felt no fear, No weight upon the heart.

If aught befell it, Love was by And rolled it off again; So, if there ever was a sigh, 'Twas not a sigh of pain.

I may not call thee back; but thou Returnest when the hand Of gentle Sleep waves o'er my brow His poppy-crested wand;

Then smiling eyes bend over mine, Then lips once pressed invite; But sleep hath given a silent sign, And both, alas! take flight.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]



STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? 'Tis but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled: Then away with all such from the head that is hoary! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?

Oh Fame!—if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover, She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]



STANZAS FOR MUSIC

There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay; 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess: The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain The shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch again.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruined turret wreathe, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.

Oh could I feel as I have felt,—or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanished scene; As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, So, midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow to me.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]



"WHEN AS A LAD"

When, as a lad, at break of day I watched the fishers sail away, My thoughts, like flocking birds, would follow Across the curving sky's blue hollow, And on and on- Into the very heart of dawn!

For long I searched the world! Ah me! I searched the sky, I searched the sea, With much of useless grief and rueing, Those winged thoughts of mine pursuing— So dear were they, So lovely and so far away!

I seek them still and always will Until my laggard heart is still, And I am free to follow, follow, Across the curving sky's blue hollow, Those thoughts too fleet For any save the soul's swift feet!

Isabel Ecclestone Mackay [1875-



"AROUND THE CHILD"

Around the child bend all the three Sweet Graces—Faith, Hope, Charity. Around the man bend other faces Pride, Envy, Malice, are his Graces.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]



ALADDIN

When I was a beggarly boy, And lived in a cellar damp, I had not a friend nor a toy, But I had Aladdin's lamp; When I could not sleep for the cold, I had fire enough in my brain, And builded, with roofs of gold, My beautiful castles in Spain!

Since then I have toiled day and night, I have money and power good store, But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright For the one that is mine no more. Take, Fortune, whatever you choose; You gave, and may snatch again; I have nothing 'twould pain me to lose, For I own no more castles in Spain!

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]



THE QUEST

It was a heavenly time of life When first I went to Spain, The lovely land of silver mists, The land of golden grain.

My little ship through unknown seas Sailed many a changing day; Sometimes the chilling winds came up And blew across her way;

Sometimes the rain came down and hid The shining shores of Spain, The beauty of the silver mists And of the golden grain.

But through the rains and through the winds, Upon the untried sea, My fairy ship sailed on and on, With all my dreams and me.

And now, no more a child, I long For that sweet time again, When on the far horizon bar Rose up the shores of Spain.

O lovely land of silver mists, O land of golden grain, I look for you with smiles, with tears, But look for you in vain!

Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz [?-1933]



MY BIRTH-DAY

"My birth-day"—what a different sound That word had in my youthful ears! And how, each time the day comes round, Less and less white its mark appears! When first our scanty years are told, It seems like pastime to grow old; And, as Youth counts the shining links That Time around him binds so fast, Pleased with the task, he little thinks How hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man, and false as vain, Who said—"were he ordained to run His long career of life again, He would do all that he had done."

Ah, 'tis not thus the voice, that dwells In sober birth-days, speaks to me; Far otherwise—of time it tells Lavished unwisely, carelessly; Of counsel mocked: of talents, made Haply for high and pure designs, But oft, like Israel's incense, laid Upon unholy, earthly shrines; Of nursing many a wrong desire; Of wandering after Love too far, And taking every meteor-fire That crossed my pathway, for a star. All this it tells, and, could I trace The imperfect picture o'er again, With power to add, retouch, efface The lights and shades, the joy and pain, How little of the past would stay! How quickly all should melt away— All—but that Freedom of the Mind, Which hath been more than wealth to me; Those friendships, in my boyhood twined, And kept till now unchangingly; And that dear home, that saving-ark, Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark, And comfortless, and stormy round!

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]



SONNET On His Having Arrived To The Age of Twenty-Three

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth That I to manhood am arrived so near; And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure even To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven: All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Task-master's eye.

John Milton [1608-1674]



ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move: Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze— A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus—and 'tis not here— Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece, around me see! The Spartan, borne upon his shield, Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece—she is awake!) Awake, my spirit! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood I—unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be.

If thou regret'st thy youth, why live? The land of honorable death Is here:—up to the field, and give Away thy breath!

Seek out—less often sought than found— A soldier's grave, for thee the best; Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]



GROWING GRAY "On a l'age de son caeur." A. D'Houdetot

A little more toward the light;— Me miserable! Here's one that's white; And one that's turning; Adieu to song and "salad days;" My Muse, let's go at once to Jay's, And order mourning.

We must reform our rhymes, my Dear,— Renounce the gay for the severe,— Be grave, not witty; We have, no more, the right to find That Pyrrha's hair is neatly twined,— That Chloe's pretty.

Young Love's for us a farce that's played; Light canzonet and serenade No more may tempt us; Gray hairs but ill accord with dreams; From aught but sour didactic themes Our years exempt us.

Indeed! you really fancy so? You think for one white streak we grow At once satiric? A fiddlestick! Each hair's a string To which our ancient Muse shall sing A younger lyric.

The heart's still sound. Shall "cakes and ale" Grow rare to youth because we rail At schoolboy dishes? Perish the thought! 'Tis ours to chant When neither Time nor Tide can grant Belief with wishes.

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]



THE ONE WHITE HAIR

The wisest of the wise Listen to pretty lies And love to hear'em told. Doubt not that Solomon Listened to many a one,— Some in his youth, and more when he grew old.

I never was among The choir of Wisdom's song, But pretty lies loved I As much as any king, When youth was on the wing, And (must it then be told?) when youth had quite gone by.

Alas! and I have not The pleasant hour forgot When one pert lady said, "O Walter! I am quite Bewildered with affright! I see (sit quiet now) a white hair on your head!"

Another more benign Snipped it away from mine, And in her own dark hair Pretended it was found... She leaped, and twirled it round... Fair as she was, she never was so fair!

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]



BALLADE OF MIDDLE AGE

Our youth began with tears and sighs, With seeking what we could not find; Our verses all were threnodies, In elegiacs still we whined; Our ears were deaf, our eyes were blind, We sought and knew not what we sought. We marvel, now we look behind: Life's more amusing than we thought!

Oh, foolish youth, untimely wise! Oh, phantoms of the sickly mind! What? not content with seas and skies, With rainy clouds and southern wind, With common cares and faces kind, With pains and joys each morning brought? Ah, old, and worn, and tired we find Life's more amusing than we thought!

Though youth "turns spectre-thin and dies," To mourn for youth we're not inclined; We set our souls on salmon flies, We whistle where we once repined. Confound the woes of human-kind! By Heaven we're "well deceived," I wot; Who hum, contented or resigned, "Life's more amusing than we thought"!

ENVOY O nate mecum, worn and lined Our faces show, but that is naught; Our hearts are young 'neath wrinkled rind: Life's more amusing than we thought!

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]



MIDDLE AGE

When that my days were fewer, Some twenty years ago, And all that is was newer, And time itself seemed slow, With ardor all impassioned, I let my hopes fly free, And deemed the world was fashioned My playing-field to be.

The cup of joy was filled then With Fancy's sparkling wine; And all the things I willed then Seemed destined to be mine. Friends had I then in plenty, And every friend was true; Friends always are at twenty, And on to twenty-two.

The men whose hair was sprinkled With little flecks of gray, Whose faded brows were wrinkled— Sure they had had their day. And though we bore no malice, We knew their hearts were cold, For they had drained their chalice, And now were spent and old.

At thirty, we admitted, A man may be alive, But slower, feebler witted; And done at thirty-five. If Fate prolongs his earth-days, His joys grow fewer still; And after five more birthdays He totters down the hill.

We were the true immortals Who held the earth in fee; For us were flung the portals Of fame and victory. The days were bright and breezy, And gay our banners flew, And every peak was easy To scale at twenty-two.

And thus we spent our gay time As having much to spend; Swift, swift, that pretty playtime Flew by and had its end. And lo! without a warning I woke, as others do, One fine mid-winter morning, A man of forty-two.

And now I see how vainly Is youth with ardor fired; How fondly, how insanely I formerly aspired. A boy may still detest age, But as for me I know, A man has reached his best age At forty-two or so.

For youth it is the season Of restlessness and strife; Of passion and unreason, And ignorance of life. Since, though his cheeks have roses, No boy can understand That everything he knows is A graft at second hand.

But we have toiled and wandered With weary feet and numb; Have doubted, sifted, pondered,— How else should knowledge come? Have seen too late for heeding, Our hopes go out in tears, Lost in the dim receding, Irrevocable years.

Yet, though with busy fingers No more we wreathe the flowers, An airy perfume lingers, A brightness still is ours. And though no rose our cheeks have, The sky still shines as blue; And still the distant peaks have The glow of twenty-two.

Rudolph Chambers Lehmann [1856-1929]



TO CRITICS

When I was seventeen I heard From each censorious tongue, "I'd not do that if I were you; You see you're rather young."

Now that I number forty years, I'm quite as often told Of this or that I shouldn't do Because I'm quite too old.

O carping world! If there's an age Where youth and manhood keep An equal poise, alas! I must Have passed it in my sleep.

Walter Learned [1847-1915]



THE RAINBOW

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]



LEAVETAKING

Pass, thou wild light, Wild light on peaks that so Grieve to let go The day. Lovely thy tarrying, lovely too is night: Pass thou away.

Pass, thou wild heart, Wild heart of youth that still Hast half a will To stay. I grow too old a comrade, let us part: Pass thou away.

William Watson [1858-1935]



EQUINOCTIAL

The sun of life has crossed the line; The summer-shine of lengthened light Faded and failed, till, where I stand, 'Tis equal day and equal night.

One after one, as dwindling hours, Youth's glowing hopes have dropped away, And soon may barely leave the gleam That coldly scores a winter's day.

I am not young; I am not old; The flush of morn, the sunset calm, Paling and deepening, each to each, Meet midway with a solemn charm.

One side I see the summer fields, Not yet disrobed of all their green; While westerly, along the hills, Flame the first tints of frosty sheen.

Ah, middle-point, where cloud and storm Make battle-ground of this my life! Where, even-matched, the night and day Wage round me their September strife!

I bow me to the threatening gale: I know when that is overpast, Among the peaceful harvest days, An Indian Summer comes at last!

Adeline D. T. Whitney [1824-1906]



"BEFORE THE BEGINNING OF YEARS" From "Atalanta in Calydon"

Before the beginning of years, There came to the making of man Time, with a gift of tears; Grief, with a glass that ran; Pleasure, with pain for leaven; Summer, with flowers that fell; Remembrance, fallen from heaven; And madness, risen from hell; Strength, without hands to smite; Love, that endures for a breath; Night, the shadow of light; And life, the shadow of death.

And the high gods took in hand Fire, and the falling of tears, And a measure of sliding sand From under the feet of the years; And froth and drift of the sea, And dust of the laboring earth; And bodies of things to be In the houses of death and of birth; And wrought with weeping and laughter, And fashioned with loathing and love, With life before and after, And death beneath and above, For a day and a night and a morrow, That his strength might endure for a span, With travail and heavy sorrow, The holy Spirit of man.

From the winds of the north and the south They gathered as unto strife; They breathed upon his mouth, They filled his body with life; Eyesight and speech they wrought For the veils of the soul therein, A time for labor and thought, A time to serve and to sin; They gave him light in his ways, And love, and a space for delight, And beauty and length of days, And night, and sleep in the night. His speech is a burning fire; With his lips he travaileth; In his heart is a blind desire, In his eyes foreknowledge of death; He weaves, and is clothed with derision Sows, and he shall not reap; His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]



MAN

Weighing the steadfastness and state Of some mean things which here below reside, Where birds, like watchful clocks, the noiseless date And intercourse of times divide. Where bees at night get home and hive, and flowers, Early as well as late, Rise with the sun, and set in the same bowers;

I would, said I, my God would give The staidness of these things to man! for these To His divine appointments ever cleave, And no new business breaks their peace; The birds nor sow nor reap, yet sup and dine, The flowers without clothes live, Yet Solomon was never dressed so fine.

Man hath still either toys, or care; He hath no root, nor to one place is tied, But ever restless and irregular About this earth doth run and ride; He knows he hath a home, but scarce knows where; He says it is so far, That he hath quite forgot how to go there.

He knocks at all doors, strays and roams; Nay, hath not so much wit as some stones have, Which in the darkest nights point to their homes By some hid sense their Maker gave; Man is the shuttle, to whose winding quest And passage through these looms God ordered motion, but ordained no rest.

Henry Vaughan [1622-1695]



THE PULLEY

When God at first made Man, Having a glass of blessings standing by— Let us (said He) pour on him all we can; Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way, Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honor, pleasure: When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure, Rest in the bottom lay.

For if I should (said He) Bestow this jewel also on My creature, He would adore My gifts instead of Me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature: So both should losers be.

Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness; Let him be rich and weary, that at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to My breast.

George Herbert [1593-1633]



ODE ON THE INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD

I There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;— Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

II The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose; The Moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.

III Now, while the Birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young Lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong. The Cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep: No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and Sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every Beast keep holiday;— Thou Child of Joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!

IV Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all. O evil day! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning This sweet May morning, And the Children are culling On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:— I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! —But there's a Tree, of many, one, A single Field which I have looked upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone: The Pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

V Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy, But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily farther from the East Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, And by the vision spendid Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.

VI Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And even with something of a Mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely Nurse doth all she can, To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came.

VII Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A six years' darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his Mother's kisses, With light upon him from his Father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife: But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little Actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation.

VIII Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy Soul's immensity; Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,— Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave: Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a master o'er a Slave, A Presence which is not to be put by; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, And Custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

IX O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest— Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:— Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor Man nor Boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence, in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be, Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither, Can in a moment travel thither And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

X Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young Lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind.

XI And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the Brooks, which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they: The innocent brightness of a new-born Day Is lovely yet; The Clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober coloring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]



THE WOMAN



WOMAN

Not she with traitorous kiss her Saviour stung, Not she denied him with unholy tongue; She, while apostles shrank, could dangers brave, Last at the cross and earliest at the grave.

Eaton Stannard Barrett [1786-1820]



WOMAN

There in the fane a beauteous creature stands, The first best work of the Creator's hands, Whose slender limbs inadequately bear A full-orbed bosom and a weight of care; Whose teeth like pearls, whose lips like cherries, show, And fawn-like eyes still tremble as they glow.

From the Sanskrit of Calidasa



SIMPLEX MUNDITIIS From "Epicoene"

Still to be neat, still to be dressed As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed: Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art; They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]



DELIGHT IN DISORDER

A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness: A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction: An erring lace, which here and there Enthrals the crimson stomacher: A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbons to flow confusedly: A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat: A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility: Do more bewitch me than when art Is too precise in every part.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]



A PRAISE OF HIS LADY

Give place, you ladies, and begone! Boast not yourselves at all! For here at hand approacheth one Whose face will stain you all.

The virtue of her lively looks Excels the precious stone; I wish to have none other books To read or look upon.

In each of her two crystal eyes Smileth a naked boy; It would you all in heart suffice To see that lamp of joy.

I think Nature hath lost the mould Where she her shape did take; Or else I doubt if Nature could So fair a creature make.

She may be well compared Unto the Phoenix kind, Whose like was never seen nor heard, That any man can find.

In life she is Diana chaste, In truth Penelope; In word and eke in deed steadfast. What will you more we say?

If all the world were sought so far, Who could find such a wight? Her beauty twinkleth like a star Within the frosty night.

Her roseal color comes and goes With such a comely grace, More ruddier, too, than doth the rose Within her lively face.

At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet, Nor at no wanton play, Nor gazing in an open street, Nor gadding as a stray.

The modest mirth that she doth use Is mixed with shamefastness; All vice she doth wholly refuse, And hateth idleness.

O Lord! it is a world to see How virtue can repair, And deck her in such honesty, Whom Nature made so fair.

Truly she doth so far exceed Our women nowadays, As doth the gillyflower a weed; And more a thousand ways.

How might I do to get a graff Of this unspotted tree? For all the rest are plain but chaff, Which seem good corn to be.

This gift alone I shall her give: When death doth what he can, Her honest fame shall ever live Within the mouth of man.

John Heywood [1497?-1580?]



ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT

I know a thing that's most uncommon; (Envy, be silent and attend!) I know a reasonable woman, Handsome and witty, yet a friend.

Not warped by passion, awed by rumor; Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly; An equal mixture of good-humor And sensible soft melancholy.

"Has she no faults then, (Envy says), Sir?" Yes, she has one, I must aver: When all the world conspires to praise her, The woman's deaf, and does not hear.

Alexander Pope [1688-1744]



PERFECT WOMAN

She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]



THE SOLITARY-HEARTED

She was a queen of noble Nature's crowning, A smile of hers was like an act of grace; She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning, Like daily beauties of the vulgar race: But if she smiled, a light was on her face, A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beam Of peaceful radiance, silvering o'er the stream Of human thought with unabiding glory; Not quite a waking truth, not quite a dream, A visitation, bright and transitory.

But she is changed,—hath felt the touch of sorrow, No love hath she, no understanding friend; O grief! when Heaven is forced of earth to borrow What the poor niggard earth has not to lend; But when the stalk is snapped, the rose must bend. The tallest flower that skyward rears its head Grows from the common ground, and there must shed Its delicate petals. Cruel fate, too surely, That they should find so base a bridal bed, Who lived in virgin pride, so sweet and purely.

She had a brother, and a tender father, And she was loved, but not as others are From whom we ask return of love,—but rather As one might love a dream; a phantom fair Of something exquisitely strange and rare, Which all were glad to look on, men and maids, Yet no one claimed—as oft, in dewy glades, The peering primrose, like a sudden gladness, Gleams on the soul, yet unregarded fades;— The joy is ours, but all its own the sadness.

'Tis vain to say—her worst of grief is only The common lot, which all the world have known; To her 'tis more, because her heart is lonely, And yet she hath no strength to stand alone,— Once she had playmates, fancies of her own, And she did love them. They are passed away As Fairies vanish at the break of day; And like a spectre of an age departed, Or unsphered Angel wofully astray, She glides along—the solitary-hearted.

Hartley Coleridge [1796-1849]



OF THOSE WHO WALK ALONE

Women there are on earth, most sweet and high, Who lose their own, and walk bereft and lonely, Loving that one lost heart until they die, Loving it only.

And so they never see beside them grow Children, whose coming is like breath of flowers; Consoled by subtler loves the angels know Through childless hours.

Good deeds they do: they comfort and they bless In duties others put off till the morrow; Their look is balm, their touch is tenderness To all in sorrow.

Betimes the world smiles at them, as 'twere shame, This maiden guise, long after youth's departed; But in God's Book they bear another name— "The faithful-hearted."

Faithful in life, and faithful unto death, Such souls, in sooth, illume with lustre splendid That glimpsed, glad land wherein, the Vision saith, Earth's wrongs are ended.

Richard Burton [1861-



"SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY"

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]



PRELUDES From "The Angel in the House"

I UNTHRIFT

Ah, wasteful woman, she that may On her sweet self set her own price, Knowing man cannot choose but pay, How has she cheapened paradise; How given for nought her priceless gift, How spoiled the bread, and spilled the wine, Which, spent with due, respective thrift, Had made brutes men, and men divine.

II HONOR AND DESERT

O Queen, awake to thy renown, Require what 'tis our wealth to give, And comprehend and wear the crown Of thy despised prerogative! I, who in manhood's name at length With glad songs come to abdicate The gross regality of strength, Must yet in this thy praise abate, That, through thine erring humbleness And disregard of thy degree, Mainly, has man been so much less Than fits his fellowship with thee.

High thoughts had shaped the foolish brow, The coward had grasped the hero's sword, The vilest had been great, hadst thou, Just to thyself, been worth's reward. But lofty honors undersold Seller and buyer both disgrace; And favors that make folly bold Banish the light from virtue's face.

III THE ROSE OF THE WORLD

Lo, when the Lord made North and South, And sun and moon ordained, He, Forthbringing each by word of mouth In order of its dignity Did man from the crude clay express By sequence, and all else decreed, He formed the woman; nor might less Than Sabbath such a work succeed.

And still with favor singled out, Marred less than man by mortal fall, Her disposition is devout, Her countenance angelical: The best things that the best believe Are in her face so kindly writ The faithless, seeing her, conceive Not only heaven, but hope of it; No idle thought her instinct shrouds, But fancy chequers settled sense, Like alteration of the clouds On noonday's azure permanence.

Pure dignity, composure, ease, Declare affections nobly fixed, And impulse sprung from due degrees Of sense and spirit sweetly mixed. Her modesty, her chiefest grace, The cestus clasping Venus' side, How potent to deject the face Of him who would affront its pride!

Wrong dares not in her presence speak, Nor spotted thought its taint disclose Under the protest of a cheek Outbragging Nature's boast, the rose. In mind and manners how discreet; How artless in her very art; How candid in discourse; how sweet The concord of her lips and heart!

How simple and how circumspect; How subtle and how fancy-free; Though sacred to her love, how decked With unexclusive courtesy; How quick in talk to see from far The way to vanquish or evade; How able her persuasions are To prove, her reasons to persuade.

How (not to call true instinct's bent And woman's very nature, harm), How amiable and innocent Her pleasure in her power to charm; How humbly careful to attract, Though crowned with all the soul desires, Connubial aptitude exact, Diversity that never tires!

IV THE TRIBUTE

Boon Nature to the woman bows; She walks in earth's whole glory clad, And, chiefest far herself of shows, All others help her and are glad: No splendor 'neath the sky's proud dome But serves her for familiar wear; The far-fetched diamond finds its home Flashing and smouldering in her hair; For her the seas their pearls reveal; Art and strange lands her pomp supply With purple, chrome, and cochineal, Ochre, and lapis lazuli; The worm its golden woof presents; Whatever runs, flies, dives, or delves, All doff for her their ornaments, Which suit her better than themselves; And all, by this their power to give, Proving her right to take, proclaim Her beauty's clear prerogative To profit so by Eden's blame.

V NEAREST THE DEAREST

Till Eve was brought to Adam, he A solitary desert trod, Though in the great society Of nature, angels, and of God. If one slight column counterweighs The ocean, 'tis the Maker's law, Who deems obedience better praise Than sacrifice of erring awe.

VI THE FOREIGN LAND

A woman is a foreign land, Of which, though there he settle young, A man will ne'er quite understand The customs, politics, and tongue. The foolish hie them post-haste through, See fashions odd and prospects fair, Learn of the language, "How d'ye do," And go and brag they have been there. The most for leave to trade apply, For once, at Empire's seat, her heart, Then get what knowledge ear and eye Glean chancewise in the life-long mart. And certain others, few and fit, Attach them to the Court, and see The Country's best, its accent hit, And partly sound its polity.

Coventry Patmore [1823-1896]



A HEALTH

I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee Forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers; And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns,— The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon— Her health! and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name.

Edward Coote Pinkney [1802-1828]



OUR SISTER

Her face was very fair to see, So luminous with purity:— It had no roses, but the hue Of lilies lustrous with their dew— Her very soul seemed shining through!

Her quiet nature seemed to be Tuned to each season's harmony. The holy sky bent near to her; She saw a spirit in the stir Of solemn woods. The rills that beat Their mosses with voluptuous feet, Went dripping music through her thought. Sweet impulse came to her unsought From graceful things, and beauty took A sacred meaning in her look.

In the great Master's steps went she With patience and humility. The casual gazer could not guess Half of her veiled loveliness; Yet ah! what precious things lay hid Beneath her bosom's snowy lid:— What tenderness and sympathy, What beauty of sincerity, What fancies chaste, and loves, that grew In heaven's own stainless light and dew!

True woman was she day by day In suffering, toil, and victory. Her life, made holy and serene By faith, was hid with things unseen. She knew what they alone can know Who live above but dwell below.

Horatio Nelson Powers [1826-1890]



FROM LIFE

Her thoughts are like a flock of butterflies. She has a merry love of little things, And a bright flutter of speech, whereto she brings A threefold eloquence—voice, hands and eyes. Yet under all a subtle silence lies As a bird's heart is hidden by its wings; And you shall search through many wanderings The fairyland of her realities.

She hides herself behind a busy brain— A woman, with a child's laugh in her blood; A maid, wearing the shadow of motherhood— Wise with the quiet memory of old pain, As the soft glamor of remembered rain Hallows the gladness of a sunlit wood.

Brian Hooker [1880-



THE ROSE OF THE WORLD

Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream? For these red lips, with all their mournful pride, Mournful that no new wonder may betide, Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam, And Usna's children died.

We and the laboring world are passing by: Amid men's souls, that waver and give place, Like the pale waters in their wintry race, Under the passing stars, foam of the sky, Lives on this lonely face.

Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode: Before you were, or any hearts to beat, Weary and kind one lingered by His seat; He made the world to be a grassy road Before her wandering feet.

William Butler Yeats [1865-



DAWN OF WOMANHOOD

Thus will I have the woman of my dream. Strong must she be and gentle, like a star Her soul burn whitely; nor its arrowy beam

May any cloud of superstition mar: True to the earth she is, patient and calm. Her tranquil eyes shall penetrate afar

Through centuries, and her maternal arm Enfold the generations yet unborn; Nor she, by passing glamor nor alarm,

Will from the steadfast way of life be drawn. Gray-eyed and fearless, I behold her gaze Outward into the furnace of the dawn.

Sacred shall be the purport of her days, Yet human; and the passion of the earth Shall be for her adornment and her praise.

She is most often joyous, with a mirth That rings true-tempered holy womanhood, She cannot fear the agonies of birth,

Nor sit in pallid lethargy and brood Upon the coming seasons of her pain: By her the mystery is understood

Of harvest, and fulfilment in the grain. Yea, she is wont to labor in the field, Delights to heap, at sunset, on the wain

Festoons and coronals of the golden yield. A triumph is the labor of her soul, Sublime along eternity revealed.

Lo, everlastingly in her control, Under the even measure of her breath, Like crested waves the onward centuries roll.

Nor to far heaven her spirit wandereth, Nor lifteth she her voice in barren prayer, Nor trembleth at appearances of death.

She, godlike in her womanhood, will fare Calm-visaged and heroic to the end. The homestead is her most especial care;

She loves the sacred hearth: she will defend Her gods from desecration of the vile. Fierce, like a wounded tigress, she can rend

Whatever may have entered to defile. I see her in the evening by the fire, And in her eyes, illumined from the pile

Of blazing logs, a motherly desire Glows like the moulded passion of a rose; Beautiful is her presence in the bower:

Her spirit is the spirit of repose. Mankind shall hold her motherhood in awe: Woman is she indeed, and not of those

That he with sacramental gold must draw Discreetly to his chamber in the night, Or bind to him with fetters of the law.

He holds her by a spiritual right. With diamond and with pearl he need not sue; Nor will she deck herself for his delight:

Beauty is the adornment of the true. She shall possess for ornament and gem A flower, the glowworm, or the drop of dew:

More innocently fair than all of them, It will not even shame her if she make A coronal of stars her diadem.

Though she is but a vision, I can take Courage from her. I feel her arrowy beam Already, for her spirit is awake,

And passes down the future like a gleam,— Thus have I made the woman of my dream.

Harold Monro [1879-1932]



THE SHEPHERDESS

She walks—the lady of my delight— A shepherdess of sheep. Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; She guards them from the steep. She feeds them on the fragrant height, And folds them in for sleep.

She roams maternal hills and bright, Dark valleys safe and deep. Into that tender breast at night The chastest stars may peep. She walks—the lady of my delight— A shepherdess of sheep.

She holds her little thoughts in sight, Though gay they run and leap. She is so circumspect and right; She has her soul to keep. She walks—the lady of my delight— A shepherdess of sheep.

Alice Meynell [1853-1922]



A PORTRAIT

Mother and maid and soldier, bearing best Her girl's lithe body under matron gray, And opening new eyes on each new day With faith concealed and courage unconfessed; Jealous to cloak a blessing in a jest, Clothe beauty carefully in disarray, And love absurdly, that no word betray The worship all her deeds make manifest:

Armored in smiles, a motley Britomart— Her lance is high adventure, tipped with scorn; Her banner to the suns and winds unfurled, Washed white with laughter; and beneath her heart, Shrined in a garland of laborious thorn, Blooms the unchanging Rose of all the World.

Brian Hooker [1880-



THE WIFE

The little Dreams of Maidenhood— I put them all away As tenderly as mother would The toys of yesterday, When little children grow to men Too over-wise for play.

The little dreams I put aside— I loved them every one, And yet since moon-blown buds must hide Before the noon-day sun, I close them wistfully away And give the key to none.

O little Dreams of Maidenhood— Lie quietly, nor care If some day in an idle mood I, searching unaware Through some closed corner of my heart, Should laugh to find you there.

Theodosia Garrison [1874-



"TRUSTY, DUSKY, VIVID, TRUE"

Trusty, dusky, vivid, true, With eyes of gold and bramble-dew, Steel true and blade straight The great Artificer made my mate.

Honor, anger, valor, fire, A love that life could never tire, Death quench, or evil stir, The mighty Master gave to her.

Teacher, tender comrade, wife, A fellow-farer true through life, Heart-whole and soul-free, The August Father gave to me.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]



THE SHRINE

There is a shrine whose golden gate Was opened by the Hand of God; It stands serene, inviolate, Though millions have its pavement trod; As fresh, as when the first sunrise Awoke the lark in Paradise.

'Tis compassed with the dust and toil Of common days, yet should there fall A single speck, a single soil Upon the whiteness of its wall, The angels' tears in tender rain Would make the temple theirs again.

Without, the world is tired and old, But, once within the enchanted door, The mists of time are backward rolled, And creeds and ages are no more; But all the human-hearted meet In one communion vast and sweet.

I enter—all is simply fair, Nor incense-clouds, nor carven throne; But in the fragrant morning air A gentle lady sits alone; My mother—ah! whom should I see Within, save ever only thee?

Digby Mackworth Dolben [1848-1867]



THE VOICE

As I went down the hill I heard The laughter of the countryside; For, rain being past, the whole land stirred With new emotion, like a bride. I scarce had left the grassy lane, When something made me catch my breath: A woman called, and called again, Elizabeth! Elizabeth!

It was my mother's name. A part Of wounded memory sprang to tears, And the few violets of my heart Shook in the wind of happier years. Quicker than magic came the face That once was sun and moon for me; The garden shawl, the cap of lace, The collie's head against her knee.

Mother, who findest out a way To pass the sentinels, and stand Behind my chair at close of day, To touch me—almost—with thy hand, Deep in my breast, how sure, how clear, The lamp of love burns on till death!— How trembles if I chance to hear Elizabeth! Elizabeth!

Norman Gale [1862-



MOTHER

I have praised many loved ones in my song, And yet I stand Before her shrine, to whom all things belong, With empty hand.

Perhaps the ripening future holds a time For things unsaid; Not now; men do not celebrate in rhyme Their daily bread.

Theresa Helburn [1888-



AD MATREM

Oft in the after days, when thou and I Have fallen from the scope of human view, When, both together, under the sweet sky, We sleep beneath the daisies and the dew, Men will recall thy gracious presence bland, Conning the pictured sweetness of thy face; Will pore o'er paintings by thy plastic hand, And vaunt thy skill and tell thy deeds of grace. Oh, may they then, who crown thee with true bays, Saying, "What love unto her son she bore!" Make this addition to thy perfect praise, "Nor ever yet was mother worshipped more!" So shall I live with Thee, and thy dear fame Shall link my love unto thine honored name.

Julian Fane [1827-1870]



C. L. M.

In the dark womb where I began, My mother's life made me a man. Through all the months of human birth Her beauty fed my common earth. I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir, But through the death of some of her.

Down in the darkness of the grave She cannot see the life she gave. For all her love, she cannot tell Whether I use it ill or well, Nor knock at dusty doors to find Her beauty dusty in the mind.

If the grave's gates could be undone, She would not know her little son, I am so grown. If we should meet, She would pass by me in the street, Unless my soul's face let her see My sense of what she did for me.

What have I done to keep in mind My debt to her and womankind? What woman's happier life repays Her for those months of wretched days? For all my mouthless body leeched Ere Birth's releasing hell was reached?

What have I done, or tried, or said In thanks to that dear woman dead? Men triumph over women still, Men trample women's rights at will, And man's lust roves the world untamed... O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed.

John Masefield [1878-



STEPPING WESTWARD



STEPPING WESTWARD

"What, you are stepping westward?"—"Yea." —'Twould be a wildish destiny, If we, who thus together roam In a strange Land, and far from home, Were in this place the guests of Chance: Yet who would stop, or fear to advance Though home or shelter he had none, With such a sky to lead him on?

The dewy ground was dark and cold; Behind, all gloomy to behold; And stepping westward seemed to be A kind of heavenly destiny: I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound Of something without place or bound; And seemed to give me spiritual right To travel through that region bright.

The voice was soft, and she who spake Was walking by her native lake: The salutation had to me The very sound of courtesy: Its power was felt; and while my eye Was fixed upon the glowing Sky, The echo of the voice enwrought A human sweetness with the thought Of travelling through the world that lay Before me in my endless way.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]



A FAREWELL TO ARMS (To Queen Elizabeth)

His golden locks Time hath to silver turned; O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing! His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurned, But spurned in vain; youth waneth by increasing: Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen; Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees; And lovers' sonnets turned to holy psalms, A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees, And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms: But though from court to cottage he depart, His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.

And when he saddest sits in homely cell, He'll teach his swains this carol for a song,— "Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well, Curst be the souls that think her any wrong." Goddess, allow this aged man his right To be your beadsman now that was your knight.

George Peele [1558?-1597?]



THE WORLD

The World's a bubble, and the life of Man Less than a span: In his conception wretched,—from the womb, So to the tomb; Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years With cares and fears. Who then to frail mortality shall trust, But limns on water, or but writes in dust.

Yet whilst with sorrow here we live oppressed, What life is best? Courts are but only superficial schools To dandle fools: The rural parts are turned into a den Of savage men; And where's a city from foul vice so free, But may be termed the worst of all the three?

Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, Or pains his head: Those that live single, take it for a curse, Or do things worse: Some would have children; those that have them moan Or wish them gone: What is it, then, to have, or have no wife, But single thraldom, or a double strife?

Our own affections still at home to please Is a disease; To cross the seas to any foreign soil, Peril and toil; Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease, We are worse in peace: —What then remains, but that we still should cry For being born, or, being born, to die?

Francis Bacon [1561-1626]



"WHEN THAT I WAS AND A LITTLE TINY BOY" From "Twelfth Night"

When that I was and a little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, A foolish thing was but a toy, For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came to man's estate, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate, For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came, alas! to wive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came unto my beds, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, With toss-pots still had drunken heads; For the rain it raineth every day.

A great while ago the world begun, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, But that's all one, our play is done, And we'll strive to please you every day.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]



OF THE LAST VERSES IN THE BOOK

When we for age could neither read nor write, The subject made us able to indite; The soul, with nobler resolutions decked, The body stooping does herself erect. No mortal parts are requisite to raise Her that, unbodied, can her Maker praise.

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more. For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost. Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Conceal that emptiness which age descries.

The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made: Stronger by weakness, wiser, men become As they draw near to their eternal home. Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.

Edmund Waller [1606-1687]



A LAMENT The Night Before His Execution

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares; My feast of joy is but a dish of pain; My crop of corn is but a field of tares; And all my good is but vain hope of gain; The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun; And now I live, and now my life is done!

The spring is past, and yet it is not sprung; The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves be green; My youth is gone, and yet I am but young; I saw the world, and yet I was not seen; My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun; And now I live, and now my life is done!

I sought my death, and found it in my womb; I looked for life, and saw it was a shade; I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb; And now I die, and now I am but made; The glass is full, and now my glass is run; And now I live, and now my life is done!

Chidiock Tichborne [1558?-1586]



TOMORROW

In the down-hill of life, when I find I'm declining, May my fate no less fortunate be Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining, And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea; With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn, While I carol away idle sorrow, And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn, Look forward with hope for Tomorrow.

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, As the sunshine or rain may prevail, And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, With a barn for the use of the flail: A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game, And a purse when a friend wants to borrow; I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame, Nor what honors may wait him Tomorrow.

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely Secured by a neighboring hill; And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly By the sound of a murmuring rill. And while peace and plenty I find at my board, With a heart free from sickness and sorrow, With my friends may I share what Today may afford, And let them spread the table Tomorrow.

And when I at last must throw off this frail covering, Which I've worn for three-score years and ten, On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering, Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again; But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey, And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow; And this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare Today, May become everlasting Tomorrow.

John Collins [1742?-1808]



LATE WISDOM

We've trod the maze of error round, Long wandering in the winding glade; And now the torch of truth is found, It only shows us where we strayed: By long experience taught, we know— Can rightly judge of friends and foes; Can all the worth of these allow, And all the faults discern in those.

Now, 'tis our boast that we can quell The wildest passions in their rage, Can their destructive force repel, And their impetuous wrath assuage.— Ah, Virtue! dost thou arm when now This bold rebellious race are fled? When all these tyrants rest, and thou Art warring with the mighty dead?

George Crabbe [1754-1832]



YOUTH AND AGE

Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, Where Hope clung feeding like a bee,— Both were mine! Life went a-maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy When I was young!

When I was young?—Ah, woful When! Ah, for the change 'twixt Now and Then! This breathing house not built with hands, This body that does me grievous wrong, O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, How lightly then it flashed along:— Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar, That fear no spite of wind or tide! Naught cared this body for wind or weather When Youth and I lived in't together.

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; Friendship is a sheltering tree; Oh! the joys that came down shower-like, Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty Ere I was old!

Ere I was old? Ah, woful Ere, Which tells me, Youth's no longer here! O Youth! for years so many and sweet, 'Tis known that Thou and I were one. I'll think it but a fond conceit— It cannot be that Thou art gone! Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled:— And thou wert aye a masker bold! What strange disguise hast now put on To make believe that thou art gone? I see these locks in silvery slips, This drooping gait, this altered size: But Springtide blossoms on thy lips, And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! Life is but thought: so think I will That Youth and I are house-mates still.

Dewdrops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve! Where no hope is, life's a warning That only serves to make us grieve When we are old:

That only serves to make us grieve With oft and tedious taking-leave, Like some poor nigh-related guest, That may not rudely be dismissed, Yet hath outstayed his welcome while, And tells the jest without the smile.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]



THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS And How He Gained Them

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried; "The few locks which are left you are gray; You are hale, Father William,—a hearty old man: Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied, "I remembered that youth would fly fast, And abused not my health and my vigor at first, That I never might need them at last."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "And pleasures with youth pass away; And yet you lament not the days that are gone: Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied, "I remembered that youth could not last; I thought of the future, whatever I did, That I never might grieve for the past."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "And life must be hastening away; You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death: Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied; "Let the cause thy attention engage; In the days of my youth, I remembered my God, And He hath not forgotten my age."

Robert Southey [1774-1843]



TO AGE

Welcome, old friend! These many years Have we lived door by door: The Fates have laid aside their shears Perhaps for some few more.

I was indocile at an age When better boys were taught, But thou at length hast made me sage, If I am sage in aught.

Little I know from other men, Too little they from me, But thou hast pointed well the pen That writes these lines to thee.

Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope, One vile, the other vain; One's scourge, the other's telescope, I shall not see again:

Rather what lies before my feet My notice shall engage.— He who hath braved Youth's dizzy heat Dreads not the frost of Age.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]



LATE LEAVES

The leaves are falling; so am I; The few late flowers have moisture in the eye; So have I too. Scarcely on any bough is heard Joyous, or even unjoyous, bird The whole wood through.

Winter may come: he brings but nigher His circle (yearly narrowing) to the fire Where old friends meet. Let him; now heaven is overcast, And spring and summer both are past, And all things sweet.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]



YEARS

Years, many parti-colored years, Some have crept on, and some have flown Since first before me fell those tears I never could see fall alone.

Years, not so many, are to come, Years not so varied, when from you One more will fall: when, carried home, I see it not, nor hear Adieu.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]



THE RIVER OF LIFE

The more we live, more brief appear Our life's succeeding stages: A day to childhood seems a year, And years like passing ages.

The gladsome current of our youth, Ere passion yet disorders, Steals, lingering like a river smooth Along its grassy borders.

But as the careworn cheek grows wan, And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, Ye Stars, that measure life to man, Why seem your courses quicker?

When joys have lost their bloom and breath, And life itself is vapid, Why, as we reach the Falls of Death, Feel we its tide more rapid?

It may be strange—yet who would change Time's course to slower speeding, When one by one our friends have gone And left our bosoms bleeding?

Heaven gives our years of fading strength Indemnifying fleetness; And those of youth, a seeming length, Proportioned to their sweetness.

Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]



"LONG TIME A CHILD"

Long time a child, and still a child, when years Had painted manhood on my check, was I,— For yet I lived like one not born to die; A thriftless prodigal of smiles and tears, No hope I needed, and I knew no fears. But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep; and waking, I waked to sleep no more; at once o'ertaking The vanguard of my age, with all arrears Of duty on my back. Nor child, nor man, Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is gray, For I have lost the race I never ran: A rathe December blights my lagging May; And still I am a child, though I be old: Time is my debtor for my years untold.

Hartley Coleridge [1796-1849]



THE WORLD I AM PASSING THROUGH

Few, in the days of early youth, Trusted like me in love and truth. I've learned sad lessons from the years; But slowly, and with many tears; For God made me to kindly view The world that I was passing through.

How little did I once believe That friendly tones could e'er deceive! That kindness, and forbearance long, Might meet ingratitude and wrong! I could not help but kindly view The world that I was passing through.

And though I've learned some souls are base, I would not, therefore, hate the race; I still would bless my fellow men, And trust them, though deceived again. God help me still to kindly view The world that I am passing through!

Through weary conflicts I have passed, And struggled into rest at last; Such rest as when the rack has broke A joint, or nerve, at every stroke. The wish survives to kindly view The world that I am passing through.

From all that fate has brought to me I strive to learn humility, And trust in Him who rules above, Whose universal law is love. Thus only can I kindly view The world that I am passing through.

When I approach the setting sun, And feel my journey nearly done, May earth be veiled in genial light, And her last smile to me seem bright! Help me till then to kindly view The world that I am passing through!

And all who tempt a trusting heart From faith and hope to drift apart,— May they themselves be spared the pain Of losing power to trust again! God help us all to kindly view The world that we are passing through!

Lydia Maria Child [1802-1880]



TERMINUS

It is time to be old, To take in sail:— The god of bounds, Who sets to seas a shore, Came to me in his fatal rounds, And said: "No more! No farther shoot Thy broad ambitious branches, and thy root. Fancy departs: no more invent; Contract thy firmament To compass of a tent. There's not enough for this and that, Make thy option which of two; Economize the failing river, Not the less revere the Giver, Leave the many and hold the few. Timely wise accept the terms, Soften the fall with wary foot; A little while Still plan and smile, And,—fault of novel germs,— Mature the unfallen fruit. Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires, Bad husbands of their fires, Who, when they gave thee breath, Failed to bequeath The needful sinew stark as once, The Baresark marrow to thy bones, But left a legacy of ebbing veins, Inconstant heat and nerveless reins,— Amid the Muses, left thee deaf and dumb, Amid the Gladiators, halt and numb."

As the bird trims her to the gale, I trim myself to the storm of time, I man the rudder, reef the sail, Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime: "Lowly faithful, banish fear, Right onward drive unharmed; The port, well worth the cruise, is near, And every wave is charmed."

Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882]



RABBI BEN EZRA

Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made: Our times are in his hand Who saith "A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"

Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall?" Not that, admiring stars, It yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars; Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!"

Not for such hopes and fears Annulling youth's brief years, Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! Rather I prize the doubt Low kinds exist without. Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.

Poor vaunt of life indeed, Were man but formed to feed On joy, to solely seek and find and feast: Such feasting ended, then As sure an end to men; Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?

Rejoice we are allied To that which doth provide And not partake, effect and not receive! A spark disturbs our clod; Nearer we hold of God Who gives, than of his tribes that take, I must believe.

Then, welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! Be our joys three-parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!

For thence,—a paradox Which comforts while it mocks,— Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: What I aspired to be, And was not, comforts me: A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale.

What is he but a brute Whose flesh has soul to suit, Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? To man, propose this test— Thy body at its best, How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?

Yet gifts should prove their use: I own the Past profuse Of power each side, perfection every turn: Eyes, ears took in their dole, Brain treasured up the whole: Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn"?

Not once beat "Praise be thine! I see the whole design, I, who saw power, see now Love perfect too: Perfect I call thy plan: Thanks that I was a man! Maker, remake, complete,—I trust what thou shalt do!"

For pleasant is this flesh; Our soul, in its rose-mesh Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest: Would we some prize might hold To match those manifold Possessions of the brute,—gain most, as we did best!

Let us not always say, "Spite of this flesh to-day I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!" As the bird wings and sings; Let us cry, "All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!"

Therefore I summon age To grant youth's heritage, Life's struggle having so far reached its term: Thence shall I pass, approved A man, for aye removed From the developed brute; a God though in the germ.

And I shall thereupon Take rest, ere I be gone Once more on my adventure brave and new: Fearless and unperplexed, When I wage battle next, What weapons to select, what armor to indue.

Youth ended, I shall try My gain or loss thereby; Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold: And I shall weigh the same, Give life its praise or blame: Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.

For note, when evening shuts, A certain moment cuts The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: A whisper from the west Shoots—"Add this to the rest, Take it and try its worth: here dies another day."

So, still within this life, Though lifted o'er its strife, Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, "This rage was right i' the main, That acquiescence vain: The Future I may face now I have proved the Past."