O Pleasant eventide!Clouds on the western sideGrow gray and grayer, hiding the warm sun:The bees and birds, their happy labors done,Seek their close nests and bide.Screened in the leafy woodThe stockdoves sit and brood:The very squirrel leaps from bough to boughBut lazily; pauses; and settles nowWhere once he stored his food.One by one the flowers close,Lily and dewy roseShutting their tender petals from the moon:The grasshoppers are still; but not so soonAre still the noisy crows.The dormouse squats and eatsChoice little dainty bitsBeneath the spreading roots of a broad lime;Nibbling his fill he stops from time to timeAnd listens where he sits.From far the lowings comeOf cattle driven home:From farther still the wind brings fitfullyThe vast continual murmur of the sea,Now loud, now almost dumb.The gnats whirl in the air,The evening gnats; and thereThe owl opes broad his eyes and wings to sailFor prey; the bat wakes; and the shell-less snailComes forth, clammy and bare.Hark! that's the nightingale.Telling the selfsame taleHer song told when this ancient earth was young:So echoes answered when her song was sungIn the first wooded vale.We call it love and pain,The passion of her strain;And yet we little understand or know:Why should it not be rather joy that soThrobs in each throbbing vein?In separate herds the deerLie; here the bucks, and hereThe does, and by its mother sleeps the fawn:Through all the hours of night until the dawnThey sleep, forgetting fear.The hare sleeps where it lies,With wary half-closed eyes:The cock has ceased to crow, the hen to cluck:Only the fox is out, some heedless duckOr chicken to surprise.Remote, each single starComes out, till there they areAll shining brightly: how the dews fall damp!While close at hand the glowworm lights her lampOr twinkles from afar.But evening now is doneAs much as if the sunDay-giving had arisen in the east:For night has come; and the great calm has ceased,The quiet sands have run.
O Pleasant eventide!Clouds on the western sideGrow gray and grayer, hiding the warm sun:The bees and birds, their happy labors done,Seek their close nests and bide.
Screened in the leafy woodThe stockdoves sit and brood:The very squirrel leaps from bough to boughBut lazily; pauses; and settles nowWhere once he stored his food.
One by one the flowers close,Lily and dewy roseShutting their tender petals from the moon:The grasshoppers are still; but not so soonAre still the noisy crows.
The dormouse squats and eatsChoice little dainty bitsBeneath the spreading roots of a broad lime;Nibbling his fill he stops from time to timeAnd listens where he sits.
From far the lowings comeOf cattle driven home:From farther still the wind brings fitfullyThe vast continual murmur of the sea,Now loud, now almost dumb.
The gnats whirl in the air,The evening gnats; and thereThe owl opes broad his eyes and wings to sailFor prey; the bat wakes; and the shell-less snailComes forth, clammy and bare.
Hark! that's the nightingale.Telling the selfsame taleHer song told when this ancient earth was young:So echoes answered when her song was sungIn the first wooded vale.
We call it love and pain,The passion of her strain;And yet we little understand or know:Why should it not be rather joy that soThrobs in each throbbing vein?
In separate herds the deerLie; here the bucks, and hereThe does, and by its mother sleeps the fawn:Through all the hours of night until the dawnThey sleep, forgetting fear.
The hare sleeps where it lies,With wary half-closed eyes:The cock has ceased to crow, the hen to cluck:Only the fox is out, some heedless duckOr chicken to surprise.
Remote, each single starComes out, till there they areAll shining brightly: how the dews fall damp!While close at hand the glowworm lights her lampOr twinkles from afar.
But evening now is doneAs much as if the sunDay-giving had arisen in the east:For night has come; and the great calm has ceased,The quiet sands have run.
Christina G. Rossetti.
moon shining on water
Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide;The darkness deepens: Lord, with me abide!When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,Help of the helpless, O abide with me!Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;Earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass away:Change and decay in all around I see;O Thou, who changest not, abide with me!Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word,But as Thou dwell'st with Thy disciples, Lord,Familiar, condescending, patient, free,Come, not to sojourn, but abide with me!Come not in terrors, as the King of kings;But kind and good, with healing in Thy wings:Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea:—Come, Friend of sinners, and thus bide with me!Thou on my head in early youth didst smile,And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile,Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee;On to the close, O Lord, abide with me!I need Thy presence every passing hour:What but Thy grace can foil the Tempter's power?Who like Thyself my guide and stay can be?Through cloud and sunshine, O abide with me!I fear no foe with Thee at hand to bless:Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.Where is Death's sting? where, Grave, thy victory?—I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies:Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee:—In life and death, O Lord, abide with me!
Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide;The darkness deepens: Lord, with me abide!When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,Help of the helpless, O abide with me!
Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;Earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass away:Change and decay in all around I see;O Thou, who changest not, abide with me!
Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word,But as Thou dwell'st with Thy disciples, Lord,Familiar, condescending, patient, free,Come, not to sojourn, but abide with me!
Come not in terrors, as the King of kings;But kind and good, with healing in Thy wings:Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea:—Come, Friend of sinners, and thus bide with me!
Thou on my head in early youth didst smile,And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile,Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee;On to the close, O Lord, abide with me!
I need Thy presence every passing hour:What but Thy grace can foil the Tempter's power?Who like Thyself my guide and stay can be?Through cloud and sunshine, O abide with me!
I fear no foe with Thee at hand to bless:Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.Where is Death's sting? where, Grave, thy victory?—I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.
Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies:Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee:—In life and death, O Lord, abide with me!
Henry F. Lyte.
The year's at the spring,And day's at the morn;Morning's at seven;The hillside's dew-pearled;The lark's on the wing;The snail's on the thorn;God's in His heaven—All's right with the world.
The year's at the spring,And day's at the morn;Morning's at seven;The hillside's dew-pearled;The lark's on the wing;The snail's on the thorn;God's in His heaven—All's right with the world.
Robert Browning.
A sad man on a summer dayDid look upon the earth and say—"Purple cloud, the hilltop binding,Folded hills, the valleys wind in,Valleys, with fresh streams among you,Streams, with bosky trees along you,Trees, with many birds and blossoms,Birds, with music-trembling bosoms,Blossoms, dropping dews that wreathe youTo your fellow flowers beneath you,Flowers, that constellate on earth,Earth, that shakest to the mirthOf the merry Titan ocean,All his shining hair in motion!Why am I thus the only oneWho can be dark beneath the sun?"But when the summer day was past,He looked to heaven and smiled at last,Self-answered so—"Because, O cloud,Pressing with thy crumpled shroudHeavily on mountain top,—Hills, that almost seem to drop,Stricken with a misty death,To the valleys underneath,—Valleys, sighing with the torrent,—Waters, streaked with branches horrent,—Branchless trees, that shake your headWildly o'er your blossoms spreadWhere the common flowers are found,—Flowers, with foreheads to the ground,—Ground, that shriekest while the seaWith his iron smiteth thee—I am, besides, the only oneWho can be brightwithoutthe sun."
A sad man on a summer dayDid look upon the earth and say—"Purple cloud, the hilltop binding,Folded hills, the valleys wind in,Valleys, with fresh streams among you,Streams, with bosky trees along you,Trees, with many birds and blossoms,Birds, with music-trembling bosoms,Blossoms, dropping dews that wreathe youTo your fellow flowers beneath you,Flowers, that constellate on earth,Earth, that shakest to the mirthOf the merry Titan ocean,All his shining hair in motion!Why am I thus the only oneWho can be dark beneath the sun?"
But when the summer day was past,He looked to heaven and smiled at last,Self-answered so—"Because, O cloud,Pressing with thy crumpled shroudHeavily on mountain top,—Hills, that almost seem to drop,Stricken with a misty death,To the valleys underneath,—Valleys, sighing with the torrent,—Waters, streaked with branches horrent,—Branchless trees, that shake your headWildly o'er your blossoms spreadWhere the common flowers are found,—Flowers, with foreheads to the ground,—Ground, that shriekest while the seaWith his iron smiteth thee—I am, besides, the only oneWho can be brightwithoutthe sun."
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
five birds on a branch
Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,With night we banish sorrow,Sweet air blow soft, mount lark aloftTo give my Love good morrow.Wings from the wind, to please her mind,Notes from the lark I'll borrow;Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing,To give my Love good morrow;To give my Love good morrowNotes from them all I'll borrow.Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast,Sing birds in every furrow,And from each hill, let music shrill,Give my fair Love good morrow:Blackbird and thrush, in every bush,Stare, linnet, and cock sparrow!You pretty elves, amongst yourselvesSing my fair Love good morrow.To give my Love good morrowSing birds in every furrow.
Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,With night we banish sorrow,Sweet air blow soft, mount lark aloftTo give my Love good morrow.Wings from the wind, to please her mind,Notes from the lark I'll borrow;Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing,To give my Love good morrow;To give my Love good morrowNotes from them all I'll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast,Sing birds in every furrow,And from each hill, let music shrill,Give my fair Love good morrow:Blackbird and thrush, in every bush,Stare, linnet, and cock sparrow!You pretty elves, amongst yourselvesSing my fair Love good morrow.To give my Love good morrowSing birds in every furrow.
Thomas Heywood.
On either side the river lieLong fields of barley and of rye,That clothe the wold and meet the sky;And thro' the field the road runs byTo many-towered Camelot;And up and down the people go,Gazing where the lilies blowRound an island there below,The island of Shalott.Willows whiten, aspens quiver,Little breezes dusk and shiverThro' the wave that runs foreverBy the island in the riverFlowing down to Camelot.Four gray walls, and four gray towers,Overlook a space of flowers,And the silent isle imbowersThe Lady of Shalott.By the margin, willow-veiled,Slide the heavy barges trailedBy slow horses; and unhailedThe shallop flitteth silken-sailed,Skimming down to Camelot:But who hath seen her wave her hand?Or at the casement seen her stand?Or is she known in all the land,The Lady of Shalott?Only reapers, reaping earlyIn among the bearded barley,Hear a song that echoes cheerlyFrom the river winding clearly,Down to towered Camelot:And by the moon the reaper weary,Piling sheaves in uplands airy,Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairyLady of Shalott."
On either side the river lieLong fields of barley and of rye,That clothe the wold and meet the sky;And thro' the field the road runs byTo many-towered Camelot;And up and down the people go,Gazing where the lilies blowRound an island there below,The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,Little breezes dusk and shiverThro' the wave that runs foreverBy the island in the riverFlowing down to Camelot.Four gray walls, and four gray towers,Overlook a space of flowers,And the silent isle imbowersThe Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow-veiled,Slide the heavy barges trailedBy slow horses; and unhailedThe shallop flitteth silken-sailed,Skimming down to Camelot:But who hath seen her wave her hand?Or at the casement seen her stand?Or is she known in all the land,The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping earlyIn among the bearded barley,Hear a song that echoes cheerlyFrom the river winding clearly,Down to towered Camelot:And by the moon the reaper weary,Piling sheaves in uplands airy,Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairyLady of Shalott."
There she weaves by night and dayA magic web with colors gay.She has heard a whisper say,A curse is on her if she stayTo look down to Camelot.She knows not what the curse may be,And so she weaveth steadily,And little other care hath she,The Lady of Shalott.And moving thro' a mirror clearThat hangs before her all the year,Shadows of the world appear.There she sees the highway nearWinding down to Camelot;There the river eddy whirls,And there the surly village churls,And the red cloaks of market-girls,Pass onward from Shalott.Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,An abbot on an ambling pad,Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,Or long-haired page in crimson clad,Goes by to towered Camelot;And sometimes thro' the mirror blueThe knights come riding two and two;She hath no loyal knight and true,The Lady of Shalott.But in her web she still delightsTo weave the mirror's magic sights,For often thro' the silent nightsA funeral, with plumes and lights,And music, went to Camelot:Or when the moon was overhead,Came two young lovers lately wed;"I am half sick of shadows," saidThe Lady of Shalott.
There she weaves by night and dayA magic web with colors gay.She has heard a whisper say,A curse is on her if she stayTo look down to Camelot.She knows not what the curse may be,And so she weaveth steadily,And little other care hath she,The Lady of Shalott.
And moving thro' a mirror clearThat hangs before her all the year,Shadows of the world appear.There she sees the highway nearWinding down to Camelot;There the river eddy whirls,And there the surly village churls,And the red cloaks of market-girls,Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,An abbot on an ambling pad,Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,Or long-haired page in crimson clad,Goes by to towered Camelot;And sometimes thro' the mirror blueThe knights come riding two and two;She hath no loyal knight and true,The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delightsTo weave the mirror's magic sights,For often thro' the silent nightsA funeral, with plumes and lights,And music, went to Camelot:Or when the moon was overhead,Came two young lovers lately wed;"I am half sick of shadows," saidThe Lady of Shalott.
A bowshot from her bower eaves,He rode between the barley sheaves,The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,And flamed upon the brazen greavesOf bold Sir Lancelot.A red-cross knight for ever kneeledTo a lady in his shield,That sparkled on the yellow field,Beside remote Shalott.The gemmy bridle glittered free,Like to some branch of stars we seeHung in the golden Galaxy.The bridle bells rang merrilyAs he rode down to Camelot:And from his blazoned baldric slungA mighty silver bugle hung,And as he rode his armor rung,Beside remote Shalott.All in the blue unclouded weatherThick-jeweled shone the saddle leather,The helmet and the helmet featherBurned like one burning flame together,As he rode down to Camelot.As often thro' the purple night,Below the starry clusters bright,Some bearded meteor, trailing light,Moves over still Shalott.His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed;On burnished hooves his war horse trode;From underneath his helmet flowedHis coal-black curls as on he rode,As he rode down to Camelot.From the bank and from the riverHe flashed into the crystal mirror,"Tirra, lirra," by the riverSang Sir Lancelot.She left the web, she left the loom,She made three paces thro' the room,She saw the water lily bloom,She saw the helmet and the plume,She looked down to Camelot.Out flew the web and floated wide;The mirror cracked from side to side;"The curse is come upon me," criedThe Lady of Shalott.
A bowshot from her bower eaves,He rode between the barley sheaves,The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,And flamed upon the brazen greavesOf bold Sir Lancelot.A red-cross knight for ever kneeledTo a lady in his shield,That sparkled on the yellow field,Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glittered free,Like to some branch of stars we seeHung in the golden Galaxy.The bridle bells rang merrilyAs he rode down to Camelot:And from his blazoned baldric slungA mighty silver bugle hung,And as he rode his armor rung,Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weatherThick-jeweled shone the saddle leather,The helmet and the helmet featherBurned like one burning flame together,As he rode down to Camelot.As often thro' the purple night,Below the starry clusters bright,Some bearded meteor, trailing light,Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed;On burnished hooves his war horse trode;From underneath his helmet flowedHis coal-black curls as on he rode,As he rode down to Camelot.From the bank and from the riverHe flashed into the crystal mirror,"Tirra, lirra," by the riverSang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,She made three paces thro' the room,She saw the water lily bloom,She saw the helmet and the plume,She looked down to Camelot.Out flew the web and floated wide;The mirror cracked from side to side;"The curse is come upon me," criedThe Lady of Shalott.
In the stormy east wind straining,The pale yellow woods were waning,The broad stream in his banks complaining,Heavily the low sky rainingOver towered Camelot;Down she came and found a boatBeneath a willow left afloat,And round about the prow she wroteThe Lady of Shalott.And down the river's dim expanse—Like some bold seër in a trance,Seeing all his own mischance—With a glassy countenanceDid she look to Camelot.And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away,The Lady of Shalott.Lying, robed in snowy whiteThat loosely flew to left and right—The leaves upon her falling light—Thro' the noises of the nightShe floated down to Camelot:And as the boat head wound alongThe willowy hills and fields among,They heard her singing her last song,The Lady of Shalott.Heard a carol, mournful, holy,Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,Till her blood was frozen slowly,And her eyes were darkened wholly,Turned to towered Camelot;For ere she reached upon the tideThe first house by the water-side,Singing in her song she died,The Lady of Shalott.Under tower and balcony,By garden wall and gallery,A gleaming shape she floated by,Dead-pale between the houses high,Silent into Camelot.Out upon the wharfs they came,Knight and burgher, lord and dame,And round the prow they read her name,The Lady of Shalott.Who is this? and what is here?And in the lighted palace nearDied the sound of royal cheer;And they crossed themselves for fear,All the knights at Camelot:But Lancelot mused a little space;He said, "She has a lovely face;God in his mercy lend her grace,The Lady of Shalott."
In the stormy east wind straining,The pale yellow woods were waning,The broad stream in his banks complaining,Heavily the low sky rainingOver towered Camelot;Down she came and found a boatBeneath a willow left afloat,And round about the prow she wroteThe Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse—Like some bold seër in a trance,Seeing all his own mischance—With a glassy countenanceDid she look to Camelot.And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away,The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy whiteThat loosely flew to left and right—The leaves upon her falling light—Thro' the noises of the nightShe floated down to Camelot:And as the boat head wound alongThe willowy hills and fields among,They heard her singing her last song,The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,Till her blood was frozen slowly,And her eyes were darkened wholly,Turned to towered Camelot;For ere she reached upon the tideThe first house by the water-side,Singing in her song she died,The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,By garden wall and gallery,A gleaming shape she floated by,Dead-pale between the houses high,Silent into Camelot.Out upon the wharfs they came,Knight and burgher, lord and dame,And round the prow they read her name,The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? and what is here?And in the lighted palace nearDied the sound of royal cheer;And they crossed themselves for fear,All the knights at Camelot:But Lancelot mused a little space;He said, "She has a lovely face;God in his mercy lend her grace,The Lady of Shalott."
Alfred Tennyson.
girl sitting under a tree by a stream
Little Ellie sits alone'Mid the beeches of the meadow,By a stream-side on the grass;And the trees are showering downDoubles of their leaves in shadow,On her shining hair and face.She has thrown her bonnet by;And her feet she has been dippingIn the shallow water's flow.Now she holds them nakedlyIn her hands, all sleek and dripping,While she rocketh to and fro.Little Ellie sits alone,And the smile she softly uses,Fills the silence like a speech;While she thinks what shall be done,—And the sweetest pleasure choosesFor her future within reach.Little Ellie in her smileChooses, "I will have a lover,Riding on a steed of steeds!He shall love me without guile;And tohimI will discoverThat swan's nest among the reeds."And the steed shall be red-roan,And the lover shall be noble,With an eye that takes the breath;And the lute he plays upon,Shall strike ladies into trouble,As his sword strikes men to death!"And the steed it shall be shodAll in silver, housed in azure,And the mane shall swim the wind;And the hoofs, along the sod,Shall flash onward and keep measure,Till the shepherds look behind."But my lover will not prizeAll the glory that he rides in,When he gazes in my face;He will say, 'O Love, thine eyesBuild the shrine my soul abides in;And I kneel here for thy grace.'"Then, ay, then he shall kneel low,With the red-roan steed anear him,Which shall seem to understand—Till I answer, 'Rise, and go!'For the world must love and fear himWhom I gift with heart and hand."Then he will arise so pale,I shall feel my own lips trembleWith ayesI must not say—Nathless maiden-brave, 'Farewell,'I will utter and dissemble—'Light to-morrow with to-day.'"Then he'll ride among the hillsTo the wide world past the river,There to put away all wrong,To make straight distorted wills,And to empty the broad quiverWhich the wicked bear along."Three times shall a young foot-pageSwim the stream and climb the mountain,And kneel down beside my feet—'Lo! my master sends this gage,Lady, for thy pity's counting!What wilt thou exchange for it?'"And the first time I will sendA white rosebud for a guerdon,And the second time a glove;But the third time—I may bendFrom my pride, and answer—'Pardon,If he comes to take my love.'"Then the young foot-page will run—Then my lover will ride faster,Till he kneeleth at my knee:'I am a duke's eldest son!Thousand serfs do call me master,But, O Love, I love butthee!'"He will kiss me on the mouthThen; and lead me as a lover,Through the crowds that praise his deeds;And, when soul-tied by one troth,UntohimI will discoverThat swan's nest among the reeds."Little Ellie, with her smileNot yet ended, rose up gayly,Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe—And went homeward, round a mile,Just to see, as she did daily,What more eggs were with thetwo.Pushing through the elm-tree copseWinding by the stream, light-hearted,Where the osier pathway leads,Past the boughs she stoops, and stops.Lo, the wild swan had deserted—And a rat had gnawed the reeds!Ellie went home sad and slow.If she found the lover ever,With his red-roan steed of steeds,Sooth, I know not! but I knowShe could never show him—never,That swan's nest among the reeds.
Little Ellie sits alone'Mid the beeches of the meadow,By a stream-side on the grass;And the trees are showering downDoubles of their leaves in shadow,On her shining hair and face.
She has thrown her bonnet by;And her feet she has been dippingIn the shallow water's flow.Now she holds them nakedlyIn her hands, all sleek and dripping,While she rocketh to and fro.
Little Ellie sits alone,And the smile she softly uses,Fills the silence like a speech;While she thinks what shall be done,—And the sweetest pleasure choosesFor her future within reach.
Little Ellie in her smileChooses, "I will have a lover,Riding on a steed of steeds!He shall love me without guile;And tohimI will discoverThat swan's nest among the reeds.
"And the steed shall be red-roan,And the lover shall be noble,With an eye that takes the breath;And the lute he plays upon,Shall strike ladies into trouble,As his sword strikes men to death!
"And the steed it shall be shodAll in silver, housed in azure,And the mane shall swim the wind;And the hoofs, along the sod,Shall flash onward and keep measure,Till the shepherds look behind.
"But my lover will not prizeAll the glory that he rides in,When he gazes in my face;He will say, 'O Love, thine eyesBuild the shrine my soul abides in;And I kneel here for thy grace.'
"Then, ay, then he shall kneel low,With the red-roan steed anear him,Which shall seem to understand—Till I answer, 'Rise, and go!'For the world must love and fear himWhom I gift with heart and hand.
"Then he will arise so pale,I shall feel my own lips trembleWith ayesI must not say—Nathless maiden-brave, 'Farewell,'I will utter and dissemble—'Light to-morrow with to-day.'
"Then he'll ride among the hillsTo the wide world past the river,There to put away all wrong,To make straight distorted wills,And to empty the broad quiverWhich the wicked bear along.
"Three times shall a young foot-pageSwim the stream and climb the mountain,And kneel down beside my feet—'Lo! my master sends this gage,Lady, for thy pity's counting!What wilt thou exchange for it?'
"And the first time I will sendA white rosebud for a guerdon,And the second time a glove;But the third time—I may bendFrom my pride, and answer—'Pardon,If he comes to take my love.'
"Then the young foot-page will run—Then my lover will ride faster,Till he kneeleth at my knee:'I am a duke's eldest son!Thousand serfs do call me master,But, O Love, I love butthee!'
"He will kiss me on the mouthThen; and lead me as a lover,Through the crowds that praise his deeds;And, when soul-tied by one troth,UntohimI will discoverThat swan's nest among the reeds."
Little Ellie, with her smileNot yet ended, rose up gayly,Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe—And went homeward, round a mile,Just to see, as she did daily,What more eggs were with thetwo.
Pushing through the elm-tree copseWinding by the stream, light-hearted,Where the osier pathway leads,Past the boughs she stoops, and stops.Lo, the wild swan had deserted—And a rat had gnawed the reeds!
Ellie went home sad and slow.If she found the lover ever,With his red-roan steed of steeds,Sooth, I know not! but I knowShe could never show him—never,That swan's nest among the reeds.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
beehive and climbing morning-glory
Here is the place; right over the hillRuns the path I took;You can see the gap in the old wall still,And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.There is the house, with the gate red-barred,And the poplars tall;And the barn's brown length, and the cattle yard,And the white horns tossing above the wall.There are the beehives ranged in the sun;And down by the brinkOf the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun,Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.A year has gone, as the tortoise goes,Heavy and slow;And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows,And the same brook sings of a year ago.There's the same sweet clover smell in the breeze;And the June sun warmTangles his wings of fire in the trees,Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.I mind me how with a lover's careFrom my Sunday coatI brushed off the burs, and smoothed my hair,And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.Since we parted, a month had passed,—To love, a year;Down through the beeches I looked at lastOn the little red gate and the well sweep near.I can see it all now,—the slantwise rainOf light through the leaves,The sundown's blaze on her windowpane,The bloom of her roses under the eaves.Just the same as a month before,—The house and the trees,The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,—Nothing changed but the hives of bees.Before them, under the garden wall,Forward and back,Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,Draping each hive with a shred of black.Trembling, I listened: the summer sunHad the chill of snow;For I knew she was telling the bees of oneGone on the journey we all must go!Then I said to myself, "My Mary weepsFor the dead to-day:Haply her blind old grandsire sleepsThe fret and the pain of his age away."But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill,With his cane to his chin,The old man sat; and the chore-girl stillSung to the bees stealing out and in.And the song she was singing ever sinceIn my ears sounds on:—"Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"
Here is the place; right over the hillRuns the path I took;You can see the gap in the old wall still,And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.
There is the house, with the gate red-barred,And the poplars tall;And the barn's brown length, and the cattle yard,And the white horns tossing above the wall.
There are the beehives ranged in the sun;And down by the brinkOf the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun,Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.
A year has gone, as the tortoise goes,Heavy and slow;And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows,And the same brook sings of a year ago.
There's the same sweet clover smell in the breeze;And the June sun warmTangles his wings of fire in the trees,Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.
I mind me how with a lover's careFrom my Sunday coatI brushed off the burs, and smoothed my hair,And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.
Since we parted, a month had passed,—To love, a year;Down through the beeches I looked at lastOn the little red gate and the well sweep near.
I can see it all now,—the slantwise rainOf light through the leaves,The sundown's blaze on her windowpane,The bloom of her roses under the eaves.
Just the same as a month before,—The house and the trees,The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,—Nothing changed but the hives of bees.
Before them, under the garden wall,Forward and back,Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,Draping each hive with a shred of black.
Trembling, I listened: the summer sunHad the chill of snow;For I knew she was telling the bees of oneGone on the journey we all must go!
Then I said to myself, "My Mary weepsFor the dead to-day:Haply her blind old grandsire sleepsThe fret and the pain of his age away."
But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill,With his cane to his chin,The old man sat; and the chore-girl stillSung to the bees stealing out and in.
And the song she was singing ever sinceIn my ears sounds on:—"Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"
John Greenleaf Whittier.
Portrait of William ShakespeareWILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
drawing of Shakespeare's birthplaceSHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHPLACE.
The man that hath no music in himself,Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;The motions of his spirit are dull as nightAnd his affections dark as Erebus:Let no such man be trusted.
The man that hath no music in himself,Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;The motions of his spirit are dull as nightAnd his affections dark as Erebus:Let no such man be trusted.
William Shakespeare.
From "The Merchant of Venice."
Sweet are the uses of adversity,Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;And this our life exempt from public hauntFinds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
Sweet are the uses of adversity,Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;And this our life exempt from public hauntFinds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
William Shakespeare.
From"As You Like It."
country cottage with daisy in foreground
In youth from rock to rock I went,From hill to hill in discontentOf pleasure high and turbulent,Most pleased when most uneasy.But now my own delights I make,—My thirst at every rill can slake,And gladly Nature's love partake,Of thee, sweet daisy!Thee winter in the garland wearsThat thinly decks his few gray hairs;Spring parts the clouds with softest airsThat she may sun thee;Whole summer fields are thine by right:And autumn, melancholy wight!Doth in thy crimson head delightWhen rains are on thee.In shoals and bands, a morrice train,Thou greet'st the traveler in the lane;Pleased at his greeting thee again;Yet nothing daunted,Nor grieved if thou be set at naught:And oft alone in nooks remoteWe meet thee, like a pleasant thought,When such are wanted.Be violets in their secret mewsThe flowers the wanton zephyrs choose;Proud be the rose, with rains and dewsHer head impearling.Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,Yet hast not gone without thy fame;Thou art indeed by many a claimThe poet's darling.If to a rock from rains he fly,Or, some bright day of April sky,Imprisoned by hot sunshine, lieNear the green holly,And wearily at length should fare;He needs but look about, and thereThou art!—a friend at hand, to scareHis melancholy.A hundred times, by rock or bower,Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,Have I derived from thy sweet powerSome apprehension;Some steady love; some brief delight;Some memory that had taken flight;Some chime of fancy wrong or right;Or stray invention.If stately passions in me burn,And one chance look to thee should turn,I drink out of an humbler urnA lowlier pleasure;The homely sympathy that heedsThe common life, our nature breeds;A wisdom fitted to the needsOf hearts at leisure.Fresh-smitten by the morning ray,When thou art up, alert and gay,Then, cheerful flower! my spirits playWith kindred gladness:And when, at dusk, by dews opprestThou sink'st, the image of thy restHath often eased my pensive breastOf careful sadness.And all day long I number yet,All seasons through, another debt,Which I, wherever thou art met,To thee am owing;An instinct call it, a blind sense;A happy, genial influence,Coming one knows not how, nor whence,Nor whither going.Child of the Year! that round dost runThy pleasant course,—when day's begunAs ready to salute the sunAs lark or leveret,Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain;Nor be less dear to future menThan in old time;—thou not in vainArt Nature's favorite.
In youth from rock to rock I went,From hill to hill in discontentOf pleasure high and turbulent,Most pleased when most uneasy.But now my own delights I make,—My thirst at every rill can slake,And gladly Nature's love partake,Of thee, sweet daisy!
Thee winter in the garland wearsThat thinly decks his few gray hairs;Spring parts the clouds with softest airsThat she may sun thee;Whole summer fields are thine by right:And autumn, melancholy wight!Doth in thy crimson head delightWhen rains are on thee.
In shoals and bands, a morrice train,Thou greet'st the traveler in the lane;Pleased at his greeting thee again;Yet nothing daunted,Nor grieved if thou be set at naught:And oft alone in nooks remoteWe meet thee, like a pleasant thought,When such are wanted.
Be violets in their secret mewsThe flowers the wanton zephyrs choose;Proud be the rose, with rains and dewsHer head impearling.Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,Yet hast not gone without thy fame;Thou art indeed by many a claimThe poet's darling.
If to a rock from rains he fly,Or, some bright day of April sky,Imprisoned by hot sunshine, lieNear the green holly,And wearily at length should fare;He needs but look about, and thereThou art!—a friend at hand, to scareHis melancholy.
A hundred times, by rock or bower,Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,Have I derived from thy sweet powerSome apprehension;Some steady love; some brief delight;Some memory that had taken flight;Some chime of fancy wrong or right;Or stray invention.
If stately passions in me burn,And one chance look to thee should turn,I drink out of an humbler urnA lowlier pleasure;The homely sympathy that heedsThe common life, our nature breeds;A wisdom fitted to the needsOf hearts at leisure.
Fresh-smitten by the morning ray,When thou art up, alert and gay,Then, cheerful flower! my spirits playWith kindred gladness:And when, at dusk, by dews opprestThou sink'st, the image of thy restHath often eased my pensive breastOf careful sadness.
And all day long I number yet,All seasons through, another debt,Which I, wherever thou art met,To thee am owing;An instinct call it, a blind sense;A happy, genial influence,Coming one knows not how, nor whence,Nor whither going.
Child of the Year! that round dost runThy pleasant course,—when day's begunAs ready to salute the sunAs lark or leveret,Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain;Nor be less dear to future menThan in old time;—thou not in vainArt Nature's favorite.
William Wordsworth.
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,Thou's met me in an evil hour;For I maun crush amang the stoureThy slender stem:To spare thee now is past my pow'r,Thou bonnie gem.Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,The bonnie lark, companion meet!Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,Wi' spreckled breast,When upward springing, blythe, to greetThe purpling east.Cauld blew the bitter-biting northUpon thy early, humble birth;Yet cheerfully thou glinted forthAmid the storm,Scarce reared above the parent earthThy tender form.The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;But thou, beneath the random bieldO' clod or stane,Adorns the histie stibble-field,Unseen, alane.There, in thy scanty mantle clad,Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,Thou lifts thy unassuming headIn humble guise;But now the share uptears thy bed,And low thou lies!
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,Thou's met me in an evil hour;For I maun crush amang the stoureThy slender stem:To spare thee now is past my pow'r,Thou bonnie gem.
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,The bonnie lark, companion meet!Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,Wi' spreckled breast,When upward springing, blythe, to greetThe purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting northUpon thy early, humble birth;Yet cheerfully thou glinted forthAmid the storm,Scarce reared above the parent earthThy tender form.
The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;But thou, beneath the random bieldO' clod or stane,Adorns the histie stibble-field,Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,Thou lifts thy unassuming headIn humble guise;But now the share uptears thy bed,And low thou lies!
Robert Burns.
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,The sun has left the lea,The orange flower perfumes the bower,The breeze is on the sea.The lark, his lay who trilled all day,Sits hushed his partner nigh;Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour—But where is County Guy?The village maid steals through the shade,Her shepherd's suit to hear;To beauty shy, by lattice high,Sings highborn Cavalier.The star of Love, all stars above,Now reigns o'er earth and sky;And high and low the influence know—But where is County Guy?
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,The sun has left the lea,The orange flower perfumes the bower,The breeze is on the sea.The lark, his lay who trilled all day,Sits hushed his partner nigh;Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour—But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade,Her shepherd's suit to hear;To beauty shy, by lattice high,Sings highborn Cavalier.The star of Love, all stars above,Now reigns o'er earth and sky;And high and low the influence know—But where is County Guy?
Sir Walter Scott.