BEST LOVED POEMS
Page 18
There’s tempest in yon hornëd moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
But hark the music, mariners!
The wind is piping loud;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashes free,—
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM
I’LL TELL YOU HOW
THE SUN ROSE I’ll tell you how the sun rose,—
A ribbon at a time.
The steeples swam in amethyst,
The news like squirrels ran.
The hills untied their bonnets,
The bobolinks begun.
Then I said softly to myself,
“That must have been the sun!”
But how he set, I know not.
There seemed a purple stile
Which little yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while,
Till when they reached the other side,
A dominie in gray
Put gently up the evening bars,
And led the flock away.
EMILY DICKINSON
BISHOP DOANE ON HIS DOG I am quite sure he thinks that I am God—
Since he is God on whom each one depends
For life, and all things that His bounty sends—
My dear old dog, most constant of all friends;
Not quick to mind, but quicker far than
I To Him whom God I know and own; his eye,
Deep brown and liquid, watches for my nod;
He is more patient underneath the rod
Than I, when God His wise corrections sends.
He looks love at me, deep as words e’er spake;
And from me never crumb nor sup will take
But he wags thanks with his most vocal tail;
And when some crashing noise wakes all his fear,
He is content and quiet, if I am near,
Secure that my protection will prevail.
So, faithful, mindful, thankful, trustful, he
Tells me what I unto my God should be.
GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE
A LITTLE WORK A little work, a little play
To keep us going—and so, good-day!
A little warmth, a little light
Of love’s bestowing—and so, good-night!
A little fun, to match the sorrow
Of each day’s growing—and so, good-morrow!
A little trust that when we die
We reap our sowing! And so—good-bye!
GEORGE DU MAURIER
RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM
(Selections) Wake! for the Sun who scattered into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heaven, and strikes
The Sultan’s Turret with a Shaft of Light.
Before the phantom of false morning died,
Methought a voice within the Tavern cried,
”When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy worshiper outside?”
Come fill the cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter—and the bird is on the wing.
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness—
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
Some for the Glories of this World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet’s Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
Look to the blowing Rose about us—
“Lo, Laughing,” she says, “into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.”
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon.
Turns Ashes—or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two—was gone.
Think, in this battered caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropped in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
Ah, my Beloved, fill the cup that clears
To-day of past Regret and future Fears:
To-morrow!—Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday’s Seven thousand Years.
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath pressed,
Have drunk their cup a round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
And we that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend—ourselves to make a Couch—for whom?
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End!
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discussed
Of the two Worlds so wisely—they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to scorn
Are scattered, and their Mouths are stopped with Dust.
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reaped—
“I came like Water, and like Wind I go.”
I sent my Soul through the Invisible
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul returned to me,
And answered, “I Myself am Heaven and Hell.”
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it
Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits—and then
Remould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!
Yon rising Moon that looks for us again—
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
How oft hereafter rising look for us
Through this same Garden—and for one in vain!
And when like her, O Saki, you shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scattered on the Grass,
And in your joyous errand reach the spot
Where I made One—turn down an empty Glass!
EDWARD FITZGERALD
OUT IN THE FIELDS The little cares that fretted me,
I lost them yesterday
Among the fields above the sea,
Among the winds at play;
Among the lowing of the herds,
The rustling of the trees,
Among the singing of the birds,
The humming of the bees.
The foolish fears of what might happen,—
I cast them all away
Among the clover-scented grass,
Among the new-mown hay;
Among the husking of the corn,
Where drowsy poppies nod,
Where ill thoughts die and good are born,
Out in the fields with God.
Attributed to LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY
TO THE VIRGINS Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles to
day
Tomorrow 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.
The 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 forever tarry.
ROBERT HERRICK
OCTOBER’S BRIGHT
BLUE WEATHER O suns and skies and clouds of June,
And flowers of June together,
Ye cannot rival for one hour
October’s bright blue weather.
When loud the bumblebee makes haste,
Belated, thriftless vagrant,
And Golden Rod is dying fast,
And lanes with grapes are fragrant;
When Gentians roll their fringes tight,
To save them for the morning,
And chestnuts fall from satin burrs
Without a sound of warning;
When on the ground red apples lie
In piles like jewels shining,
And redder still on old stone walls
Are leaves of woodbine twining;
When all the lovely wayside things
Their white-winged seeds are sowing,
And in the fields, still green and fair,
Late aftermaths are growing;
When springs run low, and on the brooks,
In idle golden freighting,
Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush
Of woods, for winter waiting;
When comrades seek sweet country haunts,
By twos and twos together,
And count like misers, hour by hour,
October’s bright blue weather.
O suns and skies and flowers of June,
Count all your boasts together,
Love loveth best of all the year
October’s bright blue weather.
HELEN HUNT JACKSON
WHO LOVES A GARDEN Who loves a garden
Finds within his soul
Life’s whole;
He hears the anthem of the soil
While ingrates toil;
And sees beyond his little sphere
The waving fronds of heaven clear.
LOUISE SEYMOUR JONES
SONNET To one who has been long in city pent,
’Tis very sweet to look into the fair
And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer
Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with heart content,
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
And gentle tale of love and languishment?
Returning home at evening, with an ear
Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye
Watching the sailing cloudlet’s bright career,
He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
E’er like the passage of an angel’s tear
That falls through the clear ether silently.
JOHN KEATS
TRUST Better trust all and be deceived,
And weep that trust and that deceiving,
Than doubt one heart, that if believed
Had blessed one’s life with true believing.
Oh, in this mocking world too fast
The doubting fiend o’ertakes our youth;
Better be cheated to the last
Than lose the blessed hope of truth.
FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE
TREES (For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden)
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
JOYCE KILMER
THE OLD SONG When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green;
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen;
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away!
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day.
When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down;
Creep home, and take your place there
The spent and maim’d among;
God grant you find one face there
You loved when all was young!
CHARLES KINGSLEY
THE VAMPIRE A fool there was and he made his prayer
(Even as you and I!)
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair,
(We called her the woman who did not care),
But the fool he called her his lady fair—
(Even as you and I!)
Oh, the years we waste and the tears we waste,
And the work of our head and hand
Belong to the woman who did not know
(And now we know that she never could know)
And did not understand!
A fool there was and his goods he spent,
(Even as you and I!)
Honour and faith and a sure intent
(And it wasn’t the least what the lady meant),
But a fool must follow his natural bent
(Even as you and I!)
Oh, the toil we lost and the spoil we lost
And the excellent things we planned
Belong to the woman who didn’t know why
(And now we know that she never knew why)
And did not understand!
The fool was stripped to his foolish hide,
(Even as you and I!)
Which she might have seen when she threw him aside—
(But it isn’t on record the lady tried)
So some of him lived but the most of him died—
(Even as you and I!)
“And it isn’t the shame and it isn’t the blame
That stings life a white-hot brand—
It’s coming to know that she never knew why
(Seeing, at last, she could never know why)
And never could understand!”
RUDYARD KIPLING
A WOMAN’S ANSWER TO THE VAMPIRE A fool there was, and she lowered her pride,
(Even as you and I),
To a bunch of conceit in a masculine hide—
We saw the faults that could not be denied,
But the fool saw only his manly side,
(Even as you and I).
Oh, the love she laid on her own heart’s grave,
With care of her head and hand,
Belongs to the man who did not know,
(And now she knows that he never could know),
And did not understand.
A fool there was and her best she gave,
(Even as you and I),
Of noble thoughts, of gay and grave,
(And all were accepted as due to the knave),
But the fool would never her folly save—
(Even as you and I).
Oh, the stabs she hid, which the Lord forbid,
Had ever been really planned,
She took from the man who didn’t know why,
(And now she knows he never knew why),
And did not understand.
The fool was loved wh
ile the game was new
(Even as you and I),
And when it was played, she took her cue,
(Plodding along as most of us do),
Trying to keep his faults from view
(Even as you and I).
And it isn’t the ache of the heart, or its break
That stings like a white-hot brand—
It’s learning to know that she raised the rod,
And bent her head to kiss the rod
For one who could not understand.
FELICIA BLAKE
DRIFTING SANDS AND A CARAVAN Drifting sands and a caravan, the desert’s endless space.
Lustrous eyes ’neath Eastern skies, and a woman’s veilèd face.
Brigands bold on their Arab steeds, trampling all in their wake,
From out of the mystic Eastern lore one page from the book we take.
The sands of time move slowly in the hourglass of life,
But not on the desert’s drifting sands, where bloodshed is and strife.
Out from the cruel, lashing sang of the world’s merciless hate,
The soul of a man to the desert came to grapple its chance with Fate.
Ruthless, daring, brutal and suave the outer husk became,
But deep down in his innermost heart the man was just the same.
So the drama unfolded for you is set where in days of old
Eastern kings of culture and wealth lay buried in tombs of gold.
Drifting sands and a caravan, the desert’s endless space.
Lustrous eyes ’neath Eastern skies, and a woman’s veilèd face.
YOLANDE LANGWORTHY
THE DAY IS DONE The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.