See you in October

It´s that time of the year again. This blog will not be updated for a few weeks, probably not until October 4th. Thank you all for your patience!

See you in October!

:-)

Sandra

To You

Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams,

I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and

hands;

Even now, your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners,

troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you,

Your true Soul and Body appear before me,

They stand forth out of affairs--out of commerce, shops, law,

science, work, forms, clothes, the house, medicine, print,

buying, selling, eating, drinking, suffering, dying.

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem;

I whisper with my lips close to your ear,

I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.

O I have been dilatory and dumb;

I should have made my way straight to you long ago;

I should have blabb'd nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing

but you.

I will leave all, and come and make the hymns of you;

None have understood you, but I understand you;

None have done justice to you--you have not done justice to yourself;

None but have found you imperfect--I only find no imperfection in

you;

None but would subordinate you--I only am he who will never consent

to subordinate you;

I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God,

beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself.

Painters have painted their swarming groups, and the centre figure of

all;

From the head of the centre figure spreading a nimbus of gold-color'd

light;

But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of

gold-color'd light;

From my hand, from the brain of every man and woman it streams,

effulgently flowing forever.

Walt Whitman

An Incantation

Come with me, and we will blow

Lots of bubbles, as we go;

Bubbles bright as ever Hope

Drew from fancy -- or from soap;

Bright as e'er the South Sea sent

from its frothy element!

Come with me, and we will blow

Lots of bubbles, as we go.

Mix the lather, Johnny W--lks,

Thou, who rhym'st so well to bilks;

Mix the lather - who can be

Fitter for such task than thee,

Great M.P. for Sudsbury!

For the frothy charm is ripe,

Puffing Peter bring thy pipe, --

Thou, whom ancient Coventry,

Once so dearly lov'd, that she

Knew not which to her was sweeter,

Peeping Tom or Puffing Peter; --

Puff the bubbles high in air,

Puff thy best to keep them there.

Bravo, bravo, Peter M--re!

Now the rainbow humbugs soar,

Glitt'ring all with golden hues,

Such as haunt the dreams of Jews; --

Some reflecting mines that lie

Under Chili's glowing sky,

Some, those virgin pearls that sleep

Cloister'd in the southern deep;

Others, as if lent a ray

Form the streaming Milky Way,

Glist'ning o'er with curds and whey

From the cows of Alderney.

Now's the moment -- who shall first

Catch the buble, ere they burst?

Run, ye Squires, ye Viscounts, run,

Br-gd-n, T-ynh-m, P-lm-t-n; --

John W--lks junior runs beside ye!

Take the good the knaves provide ye!

See, with upturn'd eyes and hands,

Where the Shareman, Bri-gd-n, stands,

Gaping for the froth to fall

Down his gullet - lye and all.

See!---But hark my time is out --

Now, like some great water-spout,

Scaterr'd by the cannon's thunder,

Burst, ye bubbles, burst asunder!

Thomas Moore

Around The Sun

THE weazen planet Mercury,

Whose song is done,

— Rash heart that drew too near

His dazzling lord the Sun!—

Forgets that life was dear,

So shriveled now and sere

The goblin planet Mercury.

But Venus, thou mysterious, Enveilèd one,

Fairest of lights that fleet

Around the radiant Sun,

Do not thy pulses beat

To music blithe and sweet,

O Venus, veiled, mysterious?

And Earth, our shadow-haunted Earth,

Hast thou, too, won

The graces of a star

From the glory of the Sun?

Do poets dream afar

That here all lusters are,

Upon our blind, bewildered Earth?

We dream that mighty forms on Mars,

With wisdom spun

From subtler brain than man's,

Are hoarding snow and sun,

Wringing a few more spans

Of life, fierce artisans,

From their deep-grooved, worn planet Mars.

But thou, colossal Jupiter,

World just begun,

Wild globe of golden steam,

Chief nursling of the Sun,

Transcendest human dream,

That faints before the gleam

Of thy vast splendor, Jupiter.

And for what rare delight,

Or woes to shun,

Of races increate,

New lovers of the Sun,

Was Saturn ringed with great

Rivers illuminate,

Ethereal jewel of delight?

Far from his fellows, Uranus

Doth lonely run

In his appointed ways

Around the sovereign Sun, —

Wide journeys that amaze

Our weak and toiling gaze,

Searching the path of Uranus.

But on the awful verge

Of voids that stun

The spirit, Neptune keeps

The frontier of the Sun.

Over the deeps on deeps

He glows, a torch that sweeps

The circle of that shuddering verge.

On each bright planet waits

Oblivion,

Who casts beneath her feet

Ashes of star and sun,

But when all ruby heat.

Is frost, a Heart shall beat,

Where God, within the darkness, waits.

Katharine Lee Bates

Birds Sing I Love You, Love

Birds sing "I love you, love" the whole day through,

And not another song can they sing right;

But, singing done with, loving's done with quite,

The autumn sunders every twittering two.

And I'd not have love make too much ado

With sweet parades of fondness and delight,

Lest iterant wont should make caresses trite,

Love-names mere cuckoo ousters of the true.

Oh heart can hear heart's sense in senseless nought,

And heart that's sure of heart has little speech.

What shall it tell? The other knows its thought.

What shall one doubt or question or beseech

Who is assured and knows and, unbesought,

Possesses the dear trust that each gives each.

Augusta Davies Webster

Daylight and Moonlight

In broad daylight, and at noon,

Yesterday I saw the moon

Sailing high, but faint and white,

As a schoolboy's paper kite.

In broad daylight, yesterday,

I read a poet's mystic lay;

And it seemed to me at most

As a phantom, or a ghost.

But at length the feverish day

Like a passion died away,

And the night, serene and still,

Fell on village, vale, and hill.

Then the moon, in all her pride,

Like a spirit glorified,

Filled and overflowed the night

With revelations of her light.

And the Poet's song again

Passed like music through my brain;

Night interpreted to me

All its grace and mystery.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Mary Ambree

When captaines couragious, whom death cold not daunte,

Did march to the siege of the citty of Gaunt,

They mustred their souldiers by two and by three,

And the formost in battle was Mary Ambree.

When [the] brave sergeant-major was slaine in her sight,

Who was her true lover, her joy, and delight,

Because he was slaine most treacherouslie

Then vowd to revenge him Mary Ambree.

She clothed herselfe from the top to the toe

In buffe of the bravest, most seemelye to showe;

A faire shirt of male then slipped on shee:

Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

A helmett of proofe shee strait did provide,

A stronge arminge-sword shee girt by her side,

On her hand a goodly faire gauntlett put shee:

Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

Then tooke shee her sworde and her targett in hand,

Bidding all such, as wold, [to] bee of her band;

To wayte on her person came thousand and three:

Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

'My soldiers,' she saith, 'soe valliant and bold,

Nowe followe your captaine, whom you doe beholde;

Still formost in battell myselfe will I bee:'

Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

Then cryed out her souldiers, and loude they did say,

'Soe well thou becomest this gallant array,

Thy harte and thy weapons so well do agree,

No mayden was ever like Mary Ambree.'

She cheared her souldiers, that foughten for life,

With ancyent and standard, with drum and with fife,

With brave clanging trumpetts, that sounded so free;

Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

'Before I will see the worst of you all

To come into danger of death or of thrall,

This hand and this life I will venture so free:'

Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

Shee ledd upp her souldiers in battaile array,

Gainst three times theyr number by breake of the daye;

Seven howers in skirmish continued shee:

Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

She filled the skyes with the smoke of her shott,

And her enemyes bodyes with bulletts so hott;

For one of her own men a score killed shee:

Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

And when her false gunner, to spoyle her intent,

Away all her pellets and powder had sent,

Straight with her keen weapon she slasht him in three:

Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

Being falselye betrayed for lucre of hyre,

At length she was forced to make a retyre;

Then her souldiers into a strong castle drew shee:

Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?

Her foes they besett her on everye side,

As thinking close siege shee cold never abide;

To beate down the walles they all did decree:

But stoutlye deffyd them brave Mary Ambree.

Then tooke shee her sword and her targett in hand,

And mounting the walls all undaunted did stand,

There daring their captaines to match any three:

O what a brave captaine was Mary Ambree!

'Now saye, English captaine, what woldest thou give

To ransome thy selfe, which else must not live?

Come yield thy selfe quicklye, or slaine thou must bee:'

Then smiled sweetlye brave Mary Ambree.

'Ye captaines couragious, of valour so bold,

Whom thinke you before you now you doe behold?

'A knight, sir, of England, and captaine soe free,

Who shortlye with us a prisoner must bee.'

'No captaine of England; behold in your sight

Two brests in my bosome, and therefore no knight:

Noe knight, sirs, of England, nor captaine you see,

But a poor simple mayden called Mary Ambree.'

'But art thou a woman, as thou dost declare,

Whose valor hath proved so undaunted in warre?

If England doth yield such brave maydens as thee,

Full well mey they conquer, faire Mary Ambree.'

The Prince of Great Parma heard of her renowne,

Who long had advanced for England's fair crowne;

Hee wooed her and sued her his mistress to bee,

And offered rich presents to Mary Ambree.

But this virtuous mayden despised them all:

''Ile nere sell my honour for purple nor pall;

A maiden of England, sir, never will bee

The wench of a monarcke,' quoth Mary Ambree.

Then to her owne country shee back did returne,

Still holding the foes of rare England in scorne!

Therfore English captaines of every degree

Sing forth the brave valours of Mary Ambree.

Andrew Lang

The Quarrel

Our quarrel seemed a giant thing,

It made the room feel mean and small,

The books, the lamp, the furniture,

The very pictures on the wall--

Crowded upon us as we sat

Pale and terrified, face to face.

"Why do you stay?" she said, "my room

Can never be your resting place."

"Katinka, ere we part for life,

I pray you walk once more with me."

So down the dark, familiar road

We paced together, silently.

The sky--it seemed on fire with stars!

I said:--"Katinka dear, look up!"

Like thirsty children, both of us

Drank from the giant loving cup.

"Who were those dolls?" Katinka said

"What were their stupid, vague alarms?"

And suddenly we turned and laughed

And rushed into each other's arms.

Katherine Mansfield

The Lover And Birds

Within a budding grove,

In April's ear sang every bird his best,

But not a song to pleasure my unrest,

Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love;

Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in jest.

To every word

Of every bird

I listen'd, and replied as it behove.

Scream'd Chaffinch, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet!

Pretty lovey, come and meet me here!'

'Chaffinch,' quoth I, 'be dumb awhile, in fear

Thy darling prove no better than a cheat,

And never come, or fly when wintry days appear.'

Yet from a twig,

With voice so big,

The little fowl his utterance did repeat.

Then I, 'The man forlorn

Hears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft.'

'And what'll he do? What'll he do?' scoff'd

The Blackbird, standing, in an ancient thorn,

Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the croft

With cackling laugh;

Whom I, being half

Enraged, called after, giving back his scorn.

Worse mock'd the Thrush, 'Die! die!

Oh, could he do it? could he do it? Nay!

Be quick! be quick! Here, here, here!' (went his lay.)

'Take heed! take heed!' then 'Why? why? why? why? why?

See-ee now! see-ee now!' (he drawl'd) 'Back! back! back! R-r-r-run away!'

O Thrush, be still!

Or at thy will,

Seek some less sad interpreter than I.

'Air, air! blue air and white!

Whither I flee, whither, O whither, O whither I flee!'

(Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea)

'Hills, countries, many waters glittering bright,

Whither I see, whither I see! deeper, deeper, deeper, whither I see, see,

see!'

'Gay Lark,' I said,

'The song that's bred

In happy nest may well to heaven make flight.'

'There's something, something sad,

I half remember'-piped a broken strain.

Well sung, sweet Robin! Robin sung again.

'Spring's opening cheerily, cheerily! be we glad!'

Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad,

Till now, grown meek,

With wetted cheek,

Most comforting and gentle thoughts I had.

William Allingham

To the Evening Star

Thou fair-haired angel of the evening,

Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light

Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown

Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!

Smile on our loves, and while thou drawest the

Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew

On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes

In timely sleep. Let thy west wing sleep on

The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,

And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,

Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,

And the lion glares through the dun forest.

The fleeces of our flocks are covered with

Thy sacred dew; protect with them with thine influence.

William Blake

November 1st

How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright

The effluence from yon distant mountain's head,

which, strewn with snow smooth as the sky can shed,

Shines like another sun--on mortal sight

Uprisen, as if to check approaching Night,

And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread,

If so he might, yon mountain's glittering head--

Terrestrial, but a surface, by the flight

Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing,

Unswept, unstained? Nor shall the aerial Powers

Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure,

White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure,

Through all vicissitudes, till genial Spring

Has filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

Hobgoblin

"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

First thoughts

"First thoughts are not always the best."

Vittorio Alfieri

Not it

I've had a perfectly wonderful evening. But this wasn't it.

Groucho Marx

Quotable

It is better to be quotable than to be honest.

Tom Stoppard

Awake

Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones; and when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace. God is awake.

Victor Hugo

Longest

The love that lasts longest is the love that is never returned.

W. Somerset Maugham

Life

Life is divided into three terms - that which was, which is, and which will be. Let us learn from the past to profit by the present, and from the present to live better in the future.

William Wordsworth

Dreams

"Dreams permit each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives."

William Dement

Rage

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

Ode to Psyche

O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung

By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,

And pardon that thy secrets should be sung

Even into thine own soft-conched ear:

Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see

The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?

I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,

And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,

Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side

In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof

Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran

A brooklet, scarce espied:

Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,

Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,

They lay calm-breathing, on the bedded grass;

Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;

Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu,

As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,

And ready still past kisses to outnumber

At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:

The winged boy I knew;

But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?

His Psyche true!

O latest born and loveliest vision far

Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!

Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star,

Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;

Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,

Nor altar heap'd with flowers;

Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan

Upon the midnight hours;

No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet

From chain-swung censer teeming;

No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat

Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

O brightest! though too late for antique vows,

Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,

When holy were the haunted forest boughs,

Holy the air, the water, and the fire;

Yet even in these days so far retir'd

From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,

Fluttering among the faint Olympians,

I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir'd.

So let me be thy choir, and make a moan

Upon the midnight hours;

Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet

From swinged censer teeming;

Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat

Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane

In some untrodden region of my mind,

Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,

Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:

Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees

Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;

And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,

The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep;

And in the midst of this wide quietness

A rosy sanctuary will I dress

With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,

With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,

With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,

Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:

And there shall be for thee all soft delight

That shadowy thought can win,

A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,

To let the warm Love in!

John Keats

A Child Asleep

How he sleepeth! having drunken

Weary childhood's mandragore,

From his pretty eyes have sunken

Pleasures, to make room for more -

Sleeping near the withered nosegay, which he pulled the day before.

Nosegays! leave them for the waking:

Throw them earthward where they grew.

Dim are such, beside the breaking

Amaranths he looks unto -

Folded eyes see brighter colours than the open ever do.

Heaven-flowers, rayed by shadows golden

From the paths they sprang beneath,

Now perhaps divinely holden,

Swing against him in a wreath -

We may think so from the quickening of his bloom and of his breath.

Vision unto vision calleth,

While the young child dreameth on.

Fair, O dreamer, thee befalleth

With the glory thou hast won!

Darker wert thou in the garden, yestermorn, by summer sun.

We should see the spirits ringing

Round thee, - were the clouds away.

'Tis the child-heart draws them, singing

In the silent-seeming clay -

Singing!-Stars that seem the mutest, go in music all the way.

As the moths around a taper,

As the bees around a rose,

As the gnats around a vapour, -

So the Spirits group and close

Round about a holy childhood, as if drinking its repose.

Shapes of brightness overlean thee, -

Flash their diadems of youth

On the ringlets which half screen thee, -

While thou smilest, . . . not in sooth

Thy smile . . . but the overfair one, dropt from some aethereal mouth.

Haply it is angels' duty,

During slumber, shade by shade:

To fine down this childish beauty

To the thing it must be made,

Ere the world shall bring it praises, or the tomb shall see it fade.

Softly, softly! make no noises!

Now he lieth dead and dumb -

Now he hears the angels' voices

Folding silence in the room -

Now he muses deep the meaning of the Heaven-words as they come.

Speak not! he is consecrated -

Breathe no breath across his eyes.

Lifted up and separated,

On the hand of God he lies,

In a sweetness beyond touching-held in cloistral sanctities.

Could ye bless him-father-mother ?

Bless the dimple in his cheek?

Dare ye look at one another,

And the benediction speak?

Would ye not break out in weeping, and confess yourselves too weak?

He is harmless-ye are sinful, -

Ye are troubled-he, at ease:

From his slumber, virtue winful

Floweth outward with increase -

Dare not bless him! but be blessed by his peace-and go in peace.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

To Summer

O thou who passest thro' our valleys in

Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat

That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,

Oft pitched'st here thy goldent tent, and oft

Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld

With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard

Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car

Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our springs

Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on

Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy

Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:

Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.

Our bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire:

Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:

Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:

We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,

Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,

Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.

William Blake

The Little Dell

Doleful was the land,

Dull on, every side,

Neither soft n'or grand,

Barren, bleak, and wide;

Nothing look'd with love;

All was dingy brown;

The very skies above

Seem'd to sulk and frown.

Plodding sick and sad,

Weary day on day;

Searching, never glad,

Many a miry way;

Poor existence lagg'd

In this barren place;

While the seasons dragg'd

Slowly o'er its face.

Spring, to sky and ground,

Came before I guess'd;

Then one day I found

A valley, like a nest!

Guarded with a spell

Sure it must have been,

This little fairy dell

Which I had never seen.

Open to the blue,

Green banks hemm'd it round

A rillet wander'd through

With a tinkling sound;

Briars among the rocks

Tangled arbours made;

Primroses in flocks

Grew beneath their shade.

Merry birds a few,

Creatures wildly tame,

Perch'd and sung and flew;

Timid field-mice came;

Beetles in the moss

Journey'd here and there;

Butterflies across

Danced through sunlit air.

There I often read,

Sung alone, or dream'd;

Blossoms overhead,

Where the west wind stream'd;

Small horizon-line,

Smoothly lifted up,

Held this world of mine

In a grassy cup.

The barren land to-day

Hears my last adieu:

Not an hour I stay;

Earth is wide and new.

Yet, farewell, farewell!

May the sun and show'rs

Bless that Little Dell

Of safe and tranquil hours!

William Allingham

The Opal Dream Cave

In an opal dream cave I found a fairy:

Her wings were frailer than flower petals,

Frailer far than snowflakes.

She was not frightened, but poised on my finger,

Then delicately walked into my hand.

I shut the two palms of my hands together

And held her prisoner.

I carried her out of the opal cave,

Then opened my hands.

First she became thistledown,

Then a mote in a sunbeam,

Then--nothing at all.

Empty now is my opal dream cave.

Katherine Mansfield

Love Gregor; Or, The Lass Of Lochroyan

'O wha will shoe my fu' fair foot?

And wha will glove my hand?

And wha will lace my middle jimp,

Wi' the new-made London band?

'And wha will kaim my yellow hair,

Wi' the new made silver kaim?

And wha will father my young son,

Till Love Gregor come hame?'

'Your father will shoe your fu' fair foot,

Your mother will glove your hand;

Your sister will lace your middle jimp

Wi' the new-made London band.

'Your brother will kaim your yellow hair,

Wi' the new made silver kaim;

And the king of heaven will father your bairn,

Till Love Gregor come haim.'

'But I will get a bonny boat,

And I will sail the sea,

For I maun gang to Love Gregor,

Since he canno come hame to me.'

O she has gotten a bonny boat,

And sailld the sa't sea fame;

She langd to see her ain true-love,

Since he could no come hame.

'O row your boat, my mariners,

And bring me to the land,

For yonder I see my love's castle,

Close by the sa't sea strand.'

She has ta'en her young son in her arms,

And to the door she's gone,

And lang she's knocked and sair she ca'd,

But answer got she none.

'O open the door, Love Gregor,' she says,

'O open, and let me in;

For the wind blaws thro' my yellow hair,

And the rain draps o'er my chin.'

'Awa, awa, ye ill woman,

You'r nae come here for good;

You'r but some witch, or wile warlock,

Or mer-maid of the flood.'

'I am neither a witch nor a wile warlock,

Nor mer-maid of the sea,

I am Fair Annie of Rough Royal;

O open the door to me.'

'Gin ye be Annie of Rough Royal--

And I trust ye are not she--

Now tell me some of the love-tokens

That past between you and me.'

'O dinna you mind now, Love Gregor,

When we sat at the wine,

How we changed the rings frae our fingers?

And I can show thee thine.

'O yours was good, and good enough,

But ay the best was mine;

For yours was o' the good red goud,

But mine o' the diamonds fine.

'But open the door now, Love Gregor,

O open the door I pray,

For your young son that is in my arms

Will be dead ere it be day.'

'Awa, awa, ye ill woman,

For here ye shanno win in;

Gae drown ye in the raging sea,

Or hang on the gallows-pin.'

When the cock had crawn, and day did dawn,

And the sun began to peep,

Then up he rose him, Love Gregor,

And sair, sair did he weep.

'O I dreamd a dream, my mother dear,

The thoughts o' it gars me greet,

That Fair Annie of Rough Royal

Lay cauld dead at my feet.'

'Gin it be for Annie of Rough Royal

That ye make a' this din,

She stood a' last night at this door,

But I trow she wan no in.'

'O wae betide ye, ill woman,

An ill dead may ye die!

That ye woudno open the door to her,

Nor yet woud waken me.'

O he has gone down to yon shore-side,

As fast as he could fare;

He saw Fair Annie in her boat,

But the wind it tossd her sair.

And 'Hey, Annie!' and 'How, Annie!

O Annie, winna ye bide?'

But ay the mair that he cried 'Annie,'

The braider grew the tide.

And 'Hey, Annie!' and 'How, Annie!

Dear Annie, speak to me!'

But ay the louder he cried 'Annie,'

The louder roard the sea.

The wind blew loud, the sea grew rough,

And dashd the boat on shore;

Fair Annie floats on the raging sea,

But her young son rose no more.

Love Gregor tare his yellow hair,

And made a heavy moan;

Fair Annie's corpse lay at his feet,

But his bonny young son was gone.

O cherry, cherry was her cheek,

And gowden was her hair,

But clay cold were her rosey lips,

Nae spark of life was there,

And first he's kissd her cherry cheek,

And neist he's kissed her chin;

And saftly pressd her rosey lips,

But there was nae breath within.

'O wae betide my cruel mother,

And an ill dead may she die!

For she turnd my true-love frae my door,

When she came sae far to me.'

Andrew Lang

Daybreak. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)

A wind came up out of the sea,

And said, 'O mists, make room for me.'

It hailed the ships, and cried, 'Sail on,

Ye mariners, the night is gone.'

And hurried landward far away,

Crying, 'Awake! it is the day.'

It said unto the forest, 'Shout!

Hang all your leafy banners out!'

It touched the wood-bird's folded wing,

And said, 'O bird, awake and sing.'

And o'er the farms, 'O chanticleer,

Your clarion blow; the day is near.'

It whispered to the fields of corn,

'Bow down, and hail the coming morn.'

It shouted through the belfry-tower,

'Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.'

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,

And said, 'Not yet! in quiet lie.'

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Beyond The Shadow

SOME quick kind tears, some easy sorrow,

And then 'tis past.

'Twas sad; yet sadness has its morrow;

Blue skies succeed skies overcast:

Why should grief last?

Something that's passing, something dying.

Well, weep one's fill,

Spend grief's sweet courtesy, go sighing;

But violets break from snow-time's chill:

Who can mourn still?

Aye, let me pass. No life will miss me

Save few first days.

A shudder, stooping down to kiss me,

A little love and tardy praise;

Then the old ways.

Augusta Davies Webster

April in September

WHAT song is in the sap of this brave oak-tree

That to the north-star faces,

Ravened each June by caterpillar masses

Till all its leaves are laces,

Poor shreds whose very shadow grieves the grasses?

I leave it then, but roses and the smoke-tree

Look from the lawn below it

And watch for that gold witch, Midsummer Weather,

With magic breath to blow it

Free of its foes, whose wings make mirth together.

Vital as Igdrasil, immortal folk-tree,

When I return, its losses

Are all restored, its fresh, soft foliage gleaming

With peach and citron glosses,

A Druid that is never done with dreaming.

Katharine Lee Bates

An Argument

I've oft been told by learned friars,

That wishing and the crime are one,

And Heaven punishes desires

As much as if the deed were done.

If wishing damns us, you and I

Are damned to all our heart's content;

Come, then, at least we may enjoy

Some pleasure for our punishment!

Thomas Moore