The Giant Book of Poetry (2006)

by William H. Roetzheim

  The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,

  each glow-worm winks her spark,

  let us get home before the night grows dark;

  for clouds may gather even

  though this is summer weather,

  put out the lights and drench us through;

  then if we lost our way what should we do?”

  Laura turned cold as stone

  to find her sister heard that cry alone,

  that goblin cry,

  “Come buy our fruits, come buy.”

  Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?

  Must she no more such succous pasture find,

  gone deaf and blind?

  Her tree of life drooped from the root:

  she said not one word in her heart’s sore ache;

  but peering thro’ the dimness, naught discerning,

  trudged home, her pitcher dripping all the way;

  so crept to bed, and lay

  silent ’til Lizzie slept;

  then sat up in a passionate yearning,

  and gnashed her teeth for balked desire, and wept

  as if her heart would break.

  Day after day, night after night,

  Laura kept watch in vain,

  In sullen silence of exceeding pain.

  She never caught again the goblin cry:

  “Come buy, come buy,”

  she never spied the goblin men

  hawking their fruits along the glen:

  but when the noon waxed bright

  her hair grew thin and gray;

  she dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn

  to swift decay, and burn

  her fire away.

  One day remembering her kernel-stone

  she set it by a wall that faced the south;

  dewed it with tears, hoped for a root,

  watched for a waxing shoot,

  but there came none;

  it never saw the sun,

  it never felt the trickling moisture run:

  while with sunk eyes and faded mouth

  she dreamed of melons, as a traveler sees

  false waves in desert drouth

  with shade of leaf-crowned trees,

  and burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.

  She no more swept the house,

  tended the fowls or cows,

  fetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,

  brought water from the brook:

  but sat down listless in the chimney-nook

  and would not eat.

  Tender Lizzie could not bear

  to watch her sister’s cankerous care,

  yet not to share.

  She night and morning

  caught the goblins’ cry:

  “Come buy our orchard fruits,

  come buy, come buy.”

  Beside the brook, along the glen

  she heard the tramp of goblin men,

  the voice and stir

  poor Laura could not hear;

  longed to buy fruit to comfort her,

  but feared to pay too dear,

  she thought of Jeanie in her grave,

  who should have been a bride;

  but who for joys brides hope to have

  fell sick and died

  in her gay prime,

  in earliest winter-time,

  with the first glazing rime,

  with the first snow-fall of crisp winter-time.

  Till Laura, dwindling,

  seemed knocking at Death’s door:

  then Lizzie weighed no more

  better and worse,

  but put a silver penny in her purse,

  kissed Laura, crossed the heath with clumps of furze

  at twilight, halted by the brook,

  and for the first time in her life

  began to listen and look.

  Laughed every goblin

  when they spied her peeping:

  came towards her hobbling,

  flying, running, leaping,

  puffing and blowing,

  chuckling, clapping, crowing,

  clucking and gobbling,

  mopping and mowing,

  full of airs and graces,

  pulling wry faces,

  demure grimaces,

  cat-like and rat-like,

  ratel and wombat-like,

  snail-paced in a hurry,

  parrot-voiced and whistler,

  helter-skelter, hurry-skurry,

  chattering like magpies,

  fluttering like pigeons,

  gliding like fishes,—

  hugged her and kissed her;

  squeezed and caressed her;

  stretched up their dishes,

  panniers and plates:

  “Look at our apples

  russet and dun,

  bob at our cherries

  bite at our peaches,

  citrons and dates,

  grapes for the asking,

  pears red with basking

  out in the sun,

  plums on their twigs;

  pluck them and suck them,

  pomegranates, figs.”

  “Good folk,” said Lizzie,

  mindful of Jeanie,

  “Give me much and many”;—

  held out her apron,

  tossed them her penny.

  “Nay, take a seat with us,

  honor and eat with us,”

  they answered grinning;

  “Our feast is but beginning.

  night yet is early,

  warm and dew-pearly,

  wakeful and starry:

  such fruits as these

  no man can carry;

  half their bloom would fly,

  half their dew would dry,

  half their flavor would pass by.

  Sit down and feast with us,

  be welcome guest with us,

  cheer you and rest with us.”

  “Thank you,” said Lizzie; “but one waits

  at home alone for me:

  so, without further parleying,

  if you will not sell me any

  of your fruits though much and many,

  give me back my silver penny

  I tossed you for a fee.”

  They began to scratch their pates,

  no longer wagging, purring,

  but visibly demurring,

  grunting and snarling.

  one called her proud,

  cross-grained, uncivil;

  their tones waxed loud,

  their looks were evil.

  Lashing their tails

  they trod and hustled her,

  elbowed and jostled her,

  clawed with their nails,

  barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,

  tore her gown and soiled her stocking,

  twitched her hair out by the roots,

  stamped upon her tender feet,

  held her hands and squeezed their fruits

  against her mouth to make her eat.

  White and golden Lizzie stood,

  like a lily in a flood,

  like a rock of blue-veined stone

  lashed by tides obstreperously,—

  like a beacon left alone

  in a hoary roaring sea,

  sending up a golden fire,—

  like a fruit-crowned orange-tree

  white with blossoms honey-sweet

  sore beset by wasp and bee,—

  like a royal virgin town

  topped with gilded dome and spire

  close beleaguered by a fleet

  mad to tear her standard down.

  One may lead a horse to water,

  twenty cannot make him drink.

  Though the goblins cuffed and caught her,

  coaxed and fought her,

  bullied and besought her,

  scratched her, pinched her black as ink,

  kicked and knocked her,

  mauled and mocked her,

  Lizzie uttered not a word;

  would not o
pen lip from lip

  lest they should cram a mouthful in;

  but laughed in heart to feel the drip

  of juice that syruped all her face,

  and lodged in dimples of her chin,

  and streaked her neck which quaked like curd.

  At last the evil people,

  worn out by her resistance,

  flung back her penny, kicked their fruit

  along whichever road they took,

  not leaving root or stone or shoot.

  Some writhed into the ground,

  some dived into the brook

  with ring and ripple.

  Some scudded on the gale without a sound,

  some vanished in the distance.

  In a smart, ache, tingle,

  Lizzie went her way;

  knew not was it night or day;

  sprang up the bank, tore through the furze,

  threaded copse and dingle,

  and heard her penny jingle

  bouncing in her purse,—

  its bounce was music to her ear.

  she ran and ran

  as if she feared some goblin man

  dogged her with gibe or curse

  or something worse:

  but not one goblin scurried after,

  nor was she pricked by fear;

  the kind heart made her windy-paced

  that urged her home quite out of breath with haste

  and inward laughter.

  She cried “Laura,” up the garden,

  “Did you miss me?

  come and kiss me.

  never mind my bruises,

  hug me, kiss me, suck my juices

  squeezed from goblin fruits for you,

  goblin pulp and goblin dew.

  Eat me, drink me, love me;

  Laura, make much of me:

  for your sake I have braved the glen

  and had to do with goblin merchant men.”

  Laura started from her chair,

  flung her arms up in the air,

  clutched her hair:

  “Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted

  for my sake the fruit forbidden?

  must your light like mine be hidden,

  your young life like mine be wasted,

  undone in mine undoing,

  and ruined in my ruin;

  thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?”

  She clung about her sister,

  kissed and kissed and kissed her:

  tears once again

  refreshed her shrunken eyes,

  dropping like rain

  after long sultry drouth;

  shaking with aguish fear, and pain,

  she kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth.

  Her lips began to scorch,

  that juice was wormwood to her tongue,

  she loathed the feast:

  writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung,

  rent all her robe, and wrung

  her hands in lamentable haste,

  and beat her breast.

  her locks streamed like the torch

  borne by a racer at full speed,

  or like the mane of horses in their flight,

  or like an eagle when she stems the light

  straight toward the sun,

  or like a caged thing freed,

  or like a flying flag when armies run.

  Swift fire spread through her veins,

  knocked at her heart,

  met the fire smouldering there

  and overbore its lesser flame,

  she gorged on bitterness without a name:

  ah! fool, to choose such part

  of soul-consuming care!

  Sense failed in the mortal strife:

  like the watch-tower of a town

  which an earthquake shatters down,

  like a lightning-stricken mast,

  like a wind-uprooted tree

  spun about,

  like a foam-topped water-spout

  cast down headlong in the sea,

  she fell at last;

  pleasure past and anguish past,

  is it death or is it life?

  Life out of death.

  That night long Lizzie watched by her,

  counted her pulse’s flagging stir,

  felt for her breath,

  held water to her lips, and cooled her face

  with tears and fanning leaves:

  but when the first birds chirped about their eaves,

  and early reapers plodded to the place

  of golden sheaves,

  and dew-wet grass

  bowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass,

  and new buds with new day

  opened of cup-like lilies on the stream,

  Laura awoke as from a dream,

  laughed in the innocent old way,

  hugged Lizzie but not twice or thrice;

  her gleaming locks showed not one thread of gray,

  her breath was sweet as May,

  and light danced in her eyes.

  Days, weeks, months, years

  afterwards, when both were wives

  with children of their own;

  their mother-hearts beset with fears,

  their lives bound up in tender lives;

  Laura would call the little ones

  and tell them of her early prime,

  those pleasant days long gone

  of not-returning time:

  would talk about the haunted glen,

  the wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men,

  their fruits like honey to the throat,

  but poison in the blood;

  (men sell not such in any town;)

  would tell them how her sister stood

  in deadly peril to do her good,

  and win the fiery antidote:

  then joining hands to little hands

  would bid them cling together,

  “For there is no friend like a sister,

  in calm or stormy weather,

  to cheer one on the tedious way,

  to fetch one if one goes astray,

  to lift one if one totters down,

  to strengthen whilst one stands.”

  Remember1

  Remember me when I am gone away,

  gone far away into the silent land;

  when you can no more hold me by the hand,

  nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.

  Remember me when no more day by day

  you tell me of our future that you planned:

  only remember me; you understand

  it will be late to counsel then or pray.

  Yet if you should forget me for a while

  and afterwards remember, do not grieve:

  for if the darkness and corruption leave

  a vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

  better by far you should forget and smile

  than that you should remember and be sad.

  Song1

  When I am dead, my dearest,

  sing no sad songs for me;

  plant thou no roses at my head,

  nor shady cypress tree:

  be the green grass above me

  with showers and dewdrops wet;

  and if thou wilt, remember,

  and if thou wilt, forget.

  I shall not see the shadows,

  I shall not feel the rain;

  I shall not hear the nightingale

  sing on, as if in pain;

  and dreaming through the twilight

  that doth not rise nor set,

  haply I may remember,

  and haply may forget.

  The First Day1

  I wish I could remember the first day,

  first hour, first moments of your meeting me;

  if bright or dim the season, it might be.

  Summer or Winter for aught I can say.

  so unrecorded did it slip away.

  So blind was I to see and to foresee,

  so dull to mark the budding of
my tree,

  that would not blossom for many a May.

  If only I could recollect it!

  Such a day of days!

  Let it come and go

  as traceless as a thaw of bygone snow.

  It seemed to mean so little, meant so much!

  If only now I could recall that touch,

  first touch of hand in hand!—Did one but know!

  Lewis Carroll (1832 – 1898)

  The Walrus and the Carpenter2

  The sun was shining on the sea,

  shining with all his might:

  he did his very best to make

  the billows smooth and bright—

  and this was odd, because it was

  the middle of the night.

  The moon was shining sulkily,

  because she thought the sun

  had got no business to be there

  after the day was done—

  “It’s very rude of him,” she said,

  “to come and spoil the fun!”

  The sea was wet as wet could be,

  the sands were dry as dry.

  You could not see a cloud, because

  no cloud was in the sky:

  no birds were flying overhead—

  there were no birds to fly.

  The Walrus and the Carpenter

  were walking close at hand;

  they wept like anything to see

  such quantities of sand:

  “If this were only cleared away,”

  they said, “it would be grand!”

  “If seven maids with seven mops

  swept it for half a year,

  do you suppose,” the Walrus said,

  “that they could get it clear?”

  “I doubt it,” said the Carpenter,

  and shed a bitter tear.

  “O Oysters, come and walk with us!”

  The Walrus did beseech.

  “A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,

  along the briny beach:

  we cannot do with more than four,

  to give a hand to each.”

  The eldest Oyster looked at him,

  but never a word he said:

  the eldest Oyster winked his eye,

  and shook his heavy head—

  meaning to say he did not choose

  to leave the oyster-bed.

  But four young Oysters hurried up,

  all eager for the treat:

  their coats were brushed, their faces washed,

  their shoes were clean and neat—

  and this was odd, because, you know,

  they hadn’t any feet.

  Four other Oysters followed them,

  and yet another four;

  and thick and fast they came at last,

  and more, and more, and more—

  all hopping through the frothy waves,

  and scrambling to the shore.

  The Walrus and the Carpenter

  walked on a mile or so,

  and then they rested on a rock

  conveniently low:

  and all the little Oysters stood

  and waited in a row.