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Already fallen plum-bloom stars the greenAnd apple-boughs as knarred as old toads' backsWear their small roses ere a rose is seen;The building thrush watches old Job who stacksThe bright-peeled osiers on the sunny fence,The pent sow grunts to hear him stumping by,And tries to push the bolt and scamper thence,But her ringed snout still keeps her to the sty.Then out he lets her run; away she snortsIn bundling gallop for the cottage door,With hungry hubbub begging crusts and orts,Then like the whirlwind bumping round once more;Nuzzling the dog, making the pullets run,And sulky as a child when her play's done.
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At Quincey's moat the squandering village ends,And there in the almshouse dwell the dearest friendsOf all the village, two old dames that clingAs close as any trueloves in the spring.Long, long ago they passed threescore-and-ten,And in this doll's house lived together then;All things they have in common, being so poor,And their one fear, Death's shadow at the door.Each sundown makes them mournful, each sunriseBrings back the brightness in their failing eyes.How happy go the rich fair-weather daysWhen on the roadside folk stare in amazeAt such a honeycomb of fruit and flowersAs mellows round their threshold; what long hoursThey gloat upon their steepling hollyhocks,Bee's balsams, feathery southernwood, and stocks,Fiery dragon's-mouths, great mallow leavesFor salves, and lemon-plants in bushy sheaves,Shagged Esau's-hands with five green finger-tips.Such old sweet names are ever on their lips.As pleased as little children where these growIn cobbled pattens and worn gowns they go,Proud of their wisdom when on gooseberry shootsThey stuck eggshells to fright from coming fruitsThe brisk-billed rascals; pausing still to seeTheir neighbour owls saunter from tree to tree,Or in the hushing half-light mouse the laneLong-winged and lordly.But when those hours wane,Indoors they ponder, scared by the harsh stormWhose pelting saracens on the window swarm,And listen for the mail to clatter pastAnd church clock's deep bay withering on the blast;They feed the fire that flings a freakish lightOn pictured kings and queens grotesquely bright,Platters and pitchers, faded calendarsAnd graceful hour-glass trim with lavenders.Many a time they kiss and cry, and prayThat both be summoned in the self-same day,And wiseman linnet tinkling in his cageEnd too with them the friendship of old age,And all together leave their treasured roomSome bell-like evening when the may's in bloom.
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On the far hill the cloud of thunder grewAnd sunlight blurred below; but sultry blueBurned yet on the valley water where it hoardsBehind the miller's elmen floodgate boards,And there the wasps, that lodge them ill-concealedIn the vole's empty house, still drove afieldTo plunder touchwood from old crippled treesAnd build their young ones their hutched nurseries;Still creaked the grasshoppers' rasping unisonNor had the whisper through the tansies runNor weather-wisest bird gone home.How thenShould wry eels in the pebbled shallows kenLightning coming? troubled up they stoleTo the deep-shadowed sullen water-hole,Among whose warty snags the quaint perch lair.As cunning stole the boy to angle there,Muffling least tread, with no noise balancing throughThe hangdog alder-boughs his bright bamboo.Down plumbed the shuttled ledger, and the quillOn the quicksilver water lay dead still.A sharp snatch, swirling to-fro of the line,He's lost, he's won, with splash and scuffling shinePast the low-lapping brandy-flowers drawn in,The ogling hunchback perch with needled fin.And there beside him one as large as he,Following his hooked mate, careless who shall seeOr what befall him, close and closer yet —The startled boy might take him in his netThat folds the other.Slow, while on the clay,The other flounces, slow he sinks away.What agony usurps that watery brainFor comradeship of twenty summers slain,For such delights below the flashing weirAnd up the sluice-cut, playing buccaneerAmong the minnows; lolling in hot sunWhen bathing vagabonds had drest and done;Rootling in salty flannel-weed for mealAnd river shrimps, when hushed the trundling wheel;Snapping the dapping moth, and with new wonderProwling through old drowned barges falling asunder.And O a thousand things the whole year throughThey did together, never more to do.
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From what sad star I know not, but I foundMyself new-born below the coppice rail,No bigger than the dewdrops and as round,In a soft sward, no cattle might assail.And so I gathered mightiness and grewWith this one dream kindling in me, that IShould never cease from conquering light and dewTill my white splendour touched the trembling sky.A century of blue and stilly lightBowed down before me, the dew came again,The moon my sibyl worshipped through the night,The sun returned and long abode; but thenHoarse drooping darkness hung me with a shroudAnd switched at me with shrivelled leaves in scorn.Red morning stole beneath a grinning cloud,And suddenly clambering over dike and thornA half-moon host of churls with flags and sticksHallooed and hurtled up the partridge brood,And Death clapped hands from all the echoing thicks,And trampling envy spied me where I stood;Who haled me tired and quaking, hid me by,And came again after an age of cold,And hung me in the prison-house adryFrom the great crossbeam. Here defiled and oldI perish through unnumbered hours, I swoon,Hacked with harsh knives to staunch a child's torn hand;And all my hopes must with my body soonBe but as crouching dust and wind-blown sand.
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I came to the churchyard where pretty Joy liesOn a morning in April, a rare sunny day;Such bloom rose around, and so many birds' criesThat I sang for delight as I followed the way.I sang for delight in the ripening of spring,For dandelions even were suns come to earth;Not a moment went by but a new lark took wingTo wait on the season with melody's mirth.Love-making birds were my mates all the road,And who would wish surer delight for the eyeThan to see pairing goldfinches gleaming abroadOr yellowhammers sunning on paling and sty?And stocks in the almswomen's garden were blown,With rich Easter roses each side of the door;The lazy white owls in the glade cool and lonePaid calls on their cousins in the elm's chambered core.This peace, then, and happiness thronged me around.Nor could I go burdened with grief, but made merryTill I came to the gate of that overgrown groundWhere scarce once a year sees the priest come to bury.Over the mounds stood the nettles in pride,And, where no fine flowers, there kind weeds dared to wave;It seemed but as yesterday she lay by my side,And now my dog ate of the grass on her grave.He licked my hand wondering to see me muse so,And wished I would lead on the journey or home,As though not a moment of spring were to goIn brooding; but I stood, if her spirit might comeAnd tell me her life, since we left her that dayIn the white lilied coffin, and rained down our tears;But the grave held no answer, though long I should stay;How strange that this clay should mingle with hers!So I called my good dog, and went on my way;Joy's spirit shone then in each flower I went by,And clear as the noon, in coppice and ley,Her sweet dawning smile and her violet eye!
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Friend whom I never saw, yet dearest friend,Be with me travelling on the byeway nowIn April's month and mood: our steps shall bendBy the shut smithy with its penthouse browArmed round with many a felly and crackt plough:And we will mark in his white smock the millStanding aloof, long numbed to any wind,That in his crannies mourns, and craves him still;But now there is not any grain to grind,And even the master lies too deep for winds to find.Grieve not at these: for there are mills amainWith lusty sails that leap and drop awayOn further knolls, and lads to fetch the grain.The ash-spit wickets on the green betrayNew games begun and old ones put away.Let us fare on, dead friend, O deathless friend,Where under his old hat as green as mossThe hedger chops and finds new gaps to mend,And on his bonfires burns the thorns and dross,And hums a hymn, the best, thinks he, that ever was.There the grey guinea-fowl stands in the way,The young black heifer and the raw-ribbed mare,And scorn to move for tumbril or for dray,And feel themselves as good as farmers there.From the young corn the prick-eared leverets stareAt strangers come to spy the land — small sirs,We bring less danger than the very breezeWho in great zig-zag blows the bee, and whirsIn bluebell shadow down the bright green leas;From whom in frolic fit the chopt straw darts and flees.The cornel steepling up in white shall knowThe two friends passing by, and poplar smileAll gold within; the church-top fowl shall glowTo lure us on, and we shall rest awhileWhere the wild apple blooms above the stile;The yellow frog beneath blinks up half bold,Then scares himself into the deeper green.And thus spring was for you in days of old,And thus will be when I too walk unseenBy one that thinks me friend, the best that there has been.All our lone journey laughs for joy, the hoursLike honey-bees go home in new-found lightPast the cow pond amazed with twinkling flowersAnd antique chalk-pit newly delved to white,Or idle snow-plough nearly hid from sight.The blackbird sings us home, on a sudden peersThe round tower hung with ivy's blackened chains,Then past the little green the byeway veers,The mill-sweeps torn, the forge with cobwebbed panesThat have so many years looked out across the plains.But the old forge and mill are shut and done,The tower is crumbling down, stone by stone falls;An ague doubt comes creeping in the sun,The sun himself shudders, the day appals,The concourse of a thousand tempests sprawlsOver the blue-lipped lakes and maddening groves,Like agonies of gods the clouds are whirled,The stormwind like the demon huntsman roves —Still stands my friend, though all's to chaos hurled,The unseen friend, the one last friend in all the world.
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Thou that in fury with thy knotted tailHast made this iron floor thy beaten drum;That now in silence walkst thy little space —Like a sea-captain — careless what may come:What power has brought thy majesty to this,Who gave those eyes their dull and sleepy look;Who took their lightning out, and from thy throatThe thunder when the whole wide forest shook?It was that man who went again, alone,Into thy forest dark — Lord, he was brave!That man a fly has killed, whose bones are leftUnburied till an earthquake digs his grave.
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A summer's morning that has but one voice;Five hundred stocks, like golden lovers, leanTheir heads together, in their quiet way,And but one bird sings, of a number seen.It is the lark, that louder, louder sings,As though but this one thought possessed his mind:'You silent robin, blackbird, thrush, and finch,I'll sing enough for all you lazy kind!'And when I hear him at this daring task,'Peace, little bird,' I say, 'and take some rest;Stop that wild, screaming fire of angry song,Before it makes a coffin of your nest.'
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While joy gave clouds the light of stars,That beamed where'er they looked;And calves and lambs had tottering knees,Excited, while they sucked;While every bird enjoyed his song,Without one thought of harm or wrong —I turned my head and saw the wind,Not far from where I stood,Dragging the corn by her golden hair,Into a dark and lonely wood.
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Tell them, when you are home again,How warm the air was now;How silent were the birds and leaves,And of the moon's full glow;And how we saw afarA falling star:It was a tear of pure delightRan down the face of Heaven this happy night.Our kisses are but love in flower,Until that greater timeWhen, gathering strength, those flowers take wing,And Love can reach his prime.And now, my heart's delight,Good night, good night;Give me the last sweet kiss —But do not breathe at home one word of this!
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How many buds in this warm lightHave burst out laughing into leaves!And shall a day like this be goneBefore I seek the wood that holdsThe richest music known?Too many times have nightingalesWasted their passion on my sleep,And brought repentance soon:But this one night I'll seek the woods,The nightingale, and moon.
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Since I have seen a bird one day,His head pecked more than half away;That hopped about, with but one eye,Ready to fight again, and die —Ofttimes since then their private livesHave spoilt that joy their music gives.So when I see this robin now,Like a red apple on the bough,And question why he sings so strong,For love, or for the love of song;Or sings, maybe, for that sweet rillWhose silver tongue is never still —Ah, now there comes this thought unkind,Born of the knowledge in my mind:He sings in triumph that last nightHe killed his father in a fight;And now he'll take his mother's blood —The last strong rival for his food.
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Isled in the midnight air,Musked with the dark's faint bloom,Out into glooming and secret hauntsThe flame cries, 'Come!'Lovely in dye and fan,A-tremble in shimmering grace,A moth from her winter swoonUplifts her face:Stares from her glamorous eyes;Wafts her on plumes like mist;In ecstasy swirls and swaysTo her strange tryst.
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To Edward Thomas
The haze of noon wanned silver-grey,The soundless mansion of the sun;The air made visible in his ray,Like molten glass from furnace run,Quivered o'er heat-baked turf and stoneAnd the flower of the gorse burned on —Burned softly as gold of a child's fair hairAlong each spiky spray, and shedAlmond-like incense in the airWhereon our senses fed.At foot — a few sparse harebells: blueAnd still as were the friend's dark eyesThat dwelt on mine, transfixèd throughWith sudden ecstatic surmise.'Hst!' he cried softly, smiling, and lo,Stealing amidst that maze gold-green,I heard a whispering music flowFrom guileful throat of bird, unseen: —So delicate, the straining earScarce carried its faint syllablingInto a heart caught-up to hearThat inmost ponderingOf bird-like self with self. We stood,In happy trance-like solitude,Hearkening a lullay grieved and sweet —As when on isle uncharted beat'Gainst coral at the palm-tree's root,With brine-clear, snow-white foam afloat,The wailing, not of water or wind —A husht, far, wild, divine lament,When Prospero his wizardry bentWinged Ariel to bind....Then silence, and o'er-flooding noon.I raised my head; smiled too. And he —Moved his great hand, the magic gone —Gently amused to seeMy ignorant wonderment. He sighed.'It was a nightingale,' he said,'Thatsotto vocecons the songHe'll sing when dark is spread;And Night's vague hours are sweet and long,And we are laid abed.'
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Black lacqueys at the wide-flung doorStand mute as men of wood.Gleams like a pool the ballroom floor —A burnished solitude.A hundred waxen tapers shineFrom silver sconces; softly pine'Cello, fiddle, mandoline,To music deftly wooed —And dancers in cambric, satin, silk,With glancing hair and cheeks like milk,Wreathe, curtsey, intertwine.The drowse of roses lulls the airWafted up the marble stair.Like warbling water clucks the talk.From room to room in splendour walkGuests, smiling in the æry sheen;Carmine and azure, white and green,They stoop and languish, pace and preenBare shoulder, painted fan,Gemmed wrist and finger, neck of swan;And still the pluckt strings warble on;Still from the snow-bowered, link-lit streetThe muffled hooves of horses beat;And harness rings; and foam-fleckt bitClanks as the slim heads toss and stareFrom deep, dark eyes. Smiling, at ease,Mount to the porch the pomped grandeesIn lonely state, by twos, and threes,Exchanging languid courtesies,While torches fume and flare.And now the banquet calls. A blareOf squalling trumpets clots the air.And, flocking out, streams up the rout;And lilies nod to velvet's swish;And peacocks prim on gilded dish,Vast pies thick-glazed, and gaping fish,Towering confections crisp as ice,Jellies aglare like cockatrice,With thousand savours tongues entice.Fruits of all hues barbaric gloom —Pomegranate, quince and peach and plum,Mandarine, grape, and cherry clearEnglobe each glassy chandelier,Where nectarous flowers their sweets distil —Jessamine, tuberose, chamomill,Wild-eye narcissus, anemone,Tendril of ivy and vinery.Now odorous wines the goblets fill;Gold-cradled meats the menials bearFrom gilded chair to gilded chair:Now roars the talk like crashing seas,Foams upward to the painted frieze,Echoes and ebbs. Still surges in,To yelp of hautboy and violin,Plumed and bedazzling, rosed and rare,Dance-bemused, with cheek aglow,Stooping the green-twined portal through,Sighing with laughter, debonair,That concourse of the proud and fair —And lo! 'La, la!Mamma ... Mamma!'Falls a small cry in the dark and calls —'I see you standing there!'Fie, fie, Sephina! not in bed!Crouched on the staircase overhead,Like ghost she gloats, her lean hand laidOn alabaster balustrade,And gazes on and onDown on that wondrous to and froTill finger and foot are cold as snow,And half the night is gone;And dazzled eyes are sore bestead;Nods drowsily the sleek-locked head;And, vague and far, spins, fading out,That rainbow-coloured, reeling rout,And, with faint sighs, her spirit fliesInto deep sleep....Come, Stranger, peep!Was ever cheek so wan?
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If you would happy company win,Dangle a palm-nut from a tree,Idly in green to sway and spin,Its snow-pulped kernel for bait; and see,A nimble titmouse enter in.Out of earth's vast unknown of air,Out of all summer, from wave to wave,He'll perch, and prank his feathers fair,Jangle a glass-clear wildering stave,And take his commons there —This tiny son of life; this spright,By momentary Human sought,Plume will his wing in the dappling light,Clash timbrel shrill and gay —And into time's enormous nought,Sweet-fed, will flit away.
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Suppose ... and suppose that a wild little Horse of MagicCame cantering out of the sky,With bridle of silver, and into the saddle I mounted,To fly — and to fly;And we stretched up into the air, fleeting on in the sunshine,A speck in the gleam,On galloping hoofs, his mane in the wind out-flowing,In a shadowy stream;And oh, when, all lone, the gentle star of eveningCame crinkling into the blue,A magical castle we saw in the air, like a cloud of moonlight,As onward we flew;And across the green moat on the drawbridge we foamed and we snorted,And there was a beautiful QueenWho smiled at me strangely; and spoke to my wild little Horse, too —A lovely and beautiful Queen;And she cried with delight — and delight — to her delicate maidens,'Behold my daughter — my dear!'And they crowned me with flowers, and then to their harps sate playing,Solemn and clear;And magical cakes and goblets were spread on the table;And at window the birds came in;Hopping along with bright eyes, pecking crumbs from the platters,And sipped of the wine;And splashing up — up to the roof tossed fountains of crystal;And Princes in scarlet and greenShot with their bows and arrows, and kneeled with their dishesOf fruits for the Queen;And we walked in a magical garden with rivers and bowers,And my bed was of ivory and gold;And the Queen breathed soft in my ear a song of enchantment —And I never grew old....And I never, never came back to the earth, oh, never and never;How mother would cry and cry!There'd be snow on the fields then, and all these sweet flowers in the winterWould wither, and die....Suppose ... and suppose ...
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Sterile these stonesBy time in ruin laid.Yet many a creeping thingIts haven has madeIn these least crannies, where fallsDark's dew, and noonday shade.The claw of the tender birdFinds lodgment here;Dye-winged butterflies poise;Emmet and beetle steerTheir busy course; the beeDrones, laden, near.Their myriad-mirrored eyesGreat day reflect.By their exquisite faringsIs this granite specked;Is trodden to infinite dust;By gnawing lichens decked.Toward what eventual dreamSleeps its cold on,When into ultimate darkThese lives shall be gone,And even of man not a shadow remainOf all he has done?
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Then I asked: 'Does a firm persuasion that a thing is so, make it so?'He replied: 'All Poets believe that it does, and in ages of imagination this firm persuasion removed mountains; but many are not capable of a firm persuasion of anything.'Blake'sMarriage of Heaven and Hell.
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I will ask primrose and violet to spend for youTheir smell and hue,And the bold, trembling anemone awhile to spareHer flowers starry fair;Or the flushed wild apple and yet sweeter thornTheir sweetness to keepLonger than any fire-bosomed flower bornBetween midnight and midnight deep.And I will take celandine, nettle and parsley, whiteIn its own green light,Or milkwort and sorrel, thyme, harebell and meadow-sweetLifting at your feet,And ivy-blossom beloved of soft bees; I will takeThe loveliest —The seeding grasses that bend with the winds, and shakeThough the winds are at rest.'For me?' you will ask. 'Yes! surely they wave for youTheir smell and hue,And you away all that is rare were so much lessBy your missed happiness.'Yet I know grass and weed, ivy and apple and thornTheir whole sweet would keep,Though in Eden no human spirit on a shining mornHad awaked from sleep.