The Giant Book of Poetry (2006)

by William H. Roetzheim

  and all our yesterdays have lighted fools

  the way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle!

  Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

  that struts and frets his hour upon the stage

  and then is heard no more: it is a tale

  told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

  signifying nothing.

  Thomas Campion (1567 – 1619)

  Integer Vitae1

  The man of life upright,

  whose guiltless heart is free

  from all dishonest deeds,

  or thought of vanity;

  the man whose silent days

  in harmless joys are spent,

  whom hopes cannot delude,

  nor sorrow discontent;

  that man needs neither towers

  nor armor for defense,

  nor secret vaults to fly

  from thunder’s violence:

  he only can behold

  with unaffrighted eyes

  the horrors of the deep

  and terrors of the skies.

  Thus, scorning all the cares

  that fate or fortune brings,

  he makes the heaven his book,

  his wisdom heavenly things;

  good thoughts his only friends,

  his wealth a well-spent age,

  the earth his sober inn

  and Quiet pilgrimage.

  Sir Henry Wotton (1568 – 1639)

  Upon the Death of Sir Albert Morton′s Wife1

  He first deceased; she for a little tried

  to live without him, liked it not, and died.

  John Donne (1572-1631)

  Community2

  Good we must love, and must hate ill,

  for ill is ill, and good good still,

  but there are things indifferent,

  which we may neither hate, nor love,

  but one, and then another prove,

  as we shall find our fancy bent.

  If then at first wise Nature had

  made women either good or bad,

  then some we might hate, and some choose,

  but since she did them so create,

  that we may neither love, nor hate,

  only this rests, All, all may use

  if they were good it would be seen,

  good is as visible as green,

  and to all eyes it self betrays:

  if they were bad, they could not last,

  bad doth it self, and others waste,

  so, they deserve nor blame, nor praise.

  But they are ours as fruits are ours,

  he that but tastes, he that devours,

  and he that leaves all, doth as well:

  changed loves are but changed sorts of meat,

  and when he hath the kernel eat,

  who doth not fling away the shell?

  Confined Love1

  Some man unworthy to be possessor

  of old or new love, himself being false or weak,

  thought his pain and shame would be lesser,

  if on womankind he might his anger wreak;

  and thence a law did grow,

  one might but one man know;

  but are other creatures so?

  Are sun, moon, or stars by law forbidden

  to smile where they list, or lend away their light?

  Are birds divorced or are they chidden

  if they leave their mate, or lie abroad a night?

  Beasts do no jointures lose

  though they new lovers choose;

  but we are made worse than those.

  Who e’er rigged fair ships to lie in harbors,

  and not to seek lands, or not to deal with all?

  Or built fair houses, set trees, and arbors,

  only to lock up, or else to let them fall?

  Good is not good, unless

  a thousand it possess,

  but doth waste with greediness.

  Death1

  Death be not proud, though some have callëd thee

  mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so,

  for, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,

  die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me;

  from rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

  much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

  and soonest our best men with thee do go,

  rest of their bones, and souls delivery.

  Thou’art slave to Fate, chance, kings,

  and desperate men,

  and dost with poison, war, and sicknesses dwell,

  and poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,

  and better then they stroke; why swell’st thou then?

  One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

  and death shall be no more. Death thou shalt die.

  The Computation2

  For the first twenty years, since yesterday,

  I scarce believed, thou couldst be gone away;

  for forty more, I fed on favors past,

  and forty on hopes that thou wouldst they might last;

  tears drowned one hundred, and sighs blew out two;

  a thousand, I did neither think nor do,

  or not divide, all being one thought of you;

  or in a thousand more, forgot that too.

  Yet call not this long life; but think that I

  am, by being dead, immortal; can ghosts die?

  The Curse1

  Whoever guesses, thinks, or dreams, he knows

  who is my mistress, wither by this curse;

  him, only for his purse

  may some dull whore to love dispose,

  and then yield unto all that are his foes;

  may he be scorned by one, whom all else scorn,

  forswear to others, what to her he hath sworn,

  with fear of missing, shame of getting, torn.

  Madness his sorrow, gout his cramp, may he

  make, by but thinking, who hath made him such;

  and may he feel no touch

  of conscience, but of fame, and be

  anguished, not that ’twas sin, but that ’twas she;

  In early and long scarceness may he rot

  for land which had been his, if he had not

  himself incestuously an heir begot.

  May he dream treason, and believe that he

  meant to perform it, and confesses, and die,

  and no record tell why;

  his sons, which none of his may be,

  inherit nothing but his infamy;

  or may he so long parasites have fed,

  that he would fain be theirs whom he hath bred,

  and at the last be circumcised for bread.

  The venom of all step dames, gamesters’ gall,

  what tyrants and their subjects interwish,

  what plants, mine, beasts, fowl, fish,

  can contribute, all ill, which all

  prophets or poets spake, and all which shall

  be annexed in schedules unto this by me,

  fall on that man; For if it be a she

  nature beforehand hath out-cursëd me.

  William Drummond (1585 – 1649)

  Life1

  This Life, which seems so fair,

  is like a bubble blown up in the air

  by sporting children’s breath,

  who chase it everywhere

  and strive who can most motion it beQueath.

  And though it sometimes seem of its own might

  like to an eye of gold to be fixed there,

  and firm to hover in that empty height,

  that only is because it is so light.

  But in that pomp it doth not long appear;

  for when ’tis most admired, in a thought,

  because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.

  Robert Herrick (1591 – 1674)

  To the Virgins2

  Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

  old time is still a-flying:

/>   and this same flower that smiles to-day

  to-morrow will be dying.

  The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,

  the higher he’s a-getting,

  the sooner will his race be run,

  and nearer he’s to setting.

  That age is best which is the first,

  when youth and blood are warmer;

  but being spent, the worse, and worst

  times still succeed the former.

  Then be not coy, but use your time,

  and while ye may go marry:

  for having lost but once your prime

  you may for ever tarry.

  Upon Julia’s Clothes1

  Whenas in silks my Julia goes,

  then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows

  that liquefaction of her clothes.

  Next, when I cast mine eyes and see

  that brave vibration each way free;

  O how that glittering taketh me!

  Thomas Carew (1595 – 1639)

  Ingrateful Beauty Threatened2

  Know, Celia, since thou art so proud,

  ‘twas I that gave thee thy renown;

  thou had’st in the forgotten crowd

  of common beauties lived unknown,

  had not my verse exhaled thy name,

  and with it imped the wings of Fame.

  That killing power is none of thine:

  I gave it to thy voice and eyes;

  thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine;

  thou art my star, shin’st in my skies:

  then dart not from thy borrowed sphere

  lightning on him that fixed thee there.

  Tempt me with such affrights no more,

  lest what I made I uncreate;

  let fools thy mystic forms adore,

  I’ll know thee in thy mortal state:

  wise poets that wrappëd Truth in tales,

  knew her themselves through all her veils.

  John Milton (1608 – 1674)

  On His Blindness1

  When I consider how my light is spent

  ere half my days in this dark world and wide,

  and that one talent which is death to hide,

  lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

  to serve therewith my Maker, and present

  my true account, lest He returning chide,

  ‘Doth God exact day labor, light denied?’

  I fondly ask. But Patience to prevent

  that murmur, soon replies, ’God doth not need

  either man’s work or his own gifts. Who best

  bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state

  is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,

  and post o’er land and ocean without rest;

  they also serve who only stand and wait.’

  Sir John Suckling (1609 – 1642)

  Song: Why so pale and wan, fond lover?2

  Why so pale and wan fond lover?

  Prithee why so pale?

  Will, when looking well can’t move her,

  looking ill prevail?

  Prithee why so pale?

  Why so dull and mute young sinner?

  Prithee why so mute?

  Will, when speaking well can’t win her,

  saying nothing do’t?

  Prithee why so mute?

  Quit, Quit for shame, this will not move,

  this cannot take her;

  if of herself she will not love,

  nothing can make her;

  the devil take her.

  Abraham Cowley (1618 – 1667)

  Drinking1

  The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,

  and drinks and gapes for drink again;

  the plants suck in the earth, and are

  with constant drinking fresh and fair;

  the sea itself (which one would think

  should have but little need of drink)

  drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,

  so filled that they o’erflow the cup.

  The busy Sun (and one would guess

  by’s drunken fiery face no less)

  drinks up the sea, and when he’s done,

  the Moon and Stars drink up the Sun:

  they drink and dance by their own light,

  they drink and revel all the night:

  nothing in Nature’s sober found,

  but an eternal health goes round.

  Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high,

  fill all the glasses there—for why

  should every creature drink but I?

  Why, man of morals, tell me why?

  Richard Lovelace (1618 – 1658)

  To Lucasta, On Going to the Wars1

  Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,

  that from the nunnery

  of thy chaste breast and Quiet mind

  to war and arms I fly.

  True, a new mistress now I chase,

  the first foe in the field;

  and with a stronger faith embrace

  a sword, a horse, a shield.

  Yet this inconstancy is such

  as thou, too, shalt adore;

  I could not love thee, Dear, so much,

  loved I not Honor more.

  William Walsh (1663 – 1708)

  Love and Jealousy2

  How much are they deceived who vainly strive,

  by jealous fears, to keep our flames alive?

  Love’s like a torch, which if secured from blasts,

  will faintlier burn; but then it longer lasts.

  Exposed to storms of jealousy and doubt,

  the blaze grows greater, but ’tis sooner out.

  William Congreve (1670 – 1729)

  False though she be to me and love1

  False though she be to me and love,

  I’ll ne’er pursue revenge;

  for still the charmer I approve

  though I deplore her change.

  In hours of bliss we oft have met:

  they could not always last;

  and though the present I regret,

  I’m grateful for the past.

  Ryusui (1691 – 1758)

  A lost child crying2

  Translated from the Japanese by Peter Beilenson

  A lost child crying

  stumbling over the dark fields …

  catching fireflies

  Jokun (circa 1700)

  Ah! I intended3

  Translated from the Japanese by Peter Beilenson

  Ah! I intended

  never never to grow old …

  Listen: New Year’s Bell!

  William Blake (1757 – 1827)

  The Garden of Love1

  I laid me down upon a bank,

  where Love lay sleeping;

  I heard among the rushes dank

  weeping, weeping.

  Then I went to the heath and the wild,

  to the thistles and thorns of the waste;

  and they told me how they were beguiled,

  driven out, and compelled to the chaste.

  I went to the Garden of Love,

  and saw what I never had seen;

  a Chapel was built in the midst,

  where I used to play on the green.

  And the gates of this Chapel were shut

  and “Thou shalt not,” writ over the door;

  so I turned to the Garden of Love

  that so many sweet flowers bore.

  And I saw it was filled with graves,

  and tombstones where flowers should be;

  and priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,

  and binding with briars my joys and desires.

  The Sick Rose1

  O Rose, thou art sick!

  The Invisible worm,

  that flies in the night,

  in the howling storm,

  has found out thy bed

  of Crimson joy;

  and his dark secret love

  does thy life destroy.

  The Tiger2

&nb
sp; Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright,

  in the forests of the night,

  what immortal hand or eye

  could frame thy fearful symmetry?

  In what distant deeps or skies

  burnt the fire of thine eyes?

  On what wings dare he aspire?

  What the hand dare seize the fire?

  And what shoulder, and what art,

  could twist the sinews of thy heart?

  And when thy heart began to beat,

  what dread hand? And what dread feet?

  What the hammer? What the chain?

  In what furnace was thy brain?

  What the anvil? What dread grasp

  dare its deadly terrors clasp?

  When the stars threw down their spears,

  and watered heaven with their tears,

  did he smile his work to see?

  Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

  Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright

  in the forests of the night,

  what immortal hand or eye

  dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

  To See a World in a Grain of Sand1

  To see a world in a grain of sand

  and a heaven in a wild flower,

  hold infinity in the palm of your hand

  and eternity in an hour.

  Robert Burns (1759 1796)

  Epitaph for James Smith2

  Lament him, Mauchline husbands a’,

  he aften did assist ye;

  for had ye staid hale weeks awa,

  your wives they ne’er had miss’d ye.

  Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press

  to school in bands thegither,

  O tread ye lightly on his grass—

  perhaps he was your father!

  Epitaph on a Henpecked SQuire1

  As father Adam first was fooled,

  (a case that’s still too common,)

  here lies a man a woman ruled,

  the devil ruled the woman.

  Epitaph on William Muir2

  An honest man here lies at rest