Great poems by the masters

[Free Capitalist 0]

One of my most favorite poems is "Lochinvar", by Sir Walter Scott. I first heard about it from the 1942 movie, You'll Never Be Lovelier, starring Rita Hayworth, my most favorite actress of all time (). In the movie she played this gorgeous and extremely self-confident woman who rejected all suitors that tried to approach her. The reason for that is because in her youth, at the age of 15, she had read a poem about a man, and she set out to find the kind of man described in her poem; no one else was simply good enough. The knight's name was Lochinvar, and the poem she had read was the one under the same title, written by Sir Walter Scott. I was so impressed by (and in love with) her character that I had to find the poem and understand what it was she was looking for.

Lochinvar

O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,

Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;

And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,

He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayd not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,

He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;

But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late:

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,

Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers and all:

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)

"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied; --

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide --

And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,

To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.

There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,

That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up,

He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup.

She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,

With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, --

"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,

That never a hall such a gailiard did grace;

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;

And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'twere better by far

To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;

They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:

There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

- Sir Walter Scott

[Stephen Speicher 0]

One of my most favorite poems is "Lochinvar", by Sir Walter Scott. I first heard about it from the 1942 movie, You'll Never Be Lovelier, starring Rita Hayworth, my most favorite actress of all time (). In the movie she played this gorgeous and extremely self-confident woman who rejected all suitors that tried to approach her. The reason for that is because in her youth, at the age of 15, she had read a poem about a man, and she set out to find the kind of man described in her poem; no one else was simply good enough. The knight's name was Lochinvar, and the poem she had read was the one under the same title, written by Sir Walter Scott. I was so impressed by (and in love with) her character that I had to find the poem and understand what it was she was looking for.

Wow! You sure got me interested in the movie. I'll look for it. Thanks.

[Free Capitalist 0]

I should state for the record that the movie doesn't end as we'd like it to, so caveat emptor. But the experience of watching Rita Hayworth as an unapproachable queen of beauty, waiting for her stalwart prince to sweep her off her feet, was irreplaceable to me.

[B. Royce 0]

Here is what the great 19th century English poet Algernon Charles Swinburne considered his best poem.

Hertha

I am that which began;

Out of me the years roll;

Out of me god and man;

I am equal and Whole;

God changes, and man, and the form of

them bodily; I am the soul.

Before ever land was,

Before ever the sea,

Or soft hair of the grass,

Or fair limbs of the tree,

Or the flesh-colored fruit of my branches,

I was, and thy soul was in me.

First life on my sources

First drifted and swam;

Out of me are the forces

That save it and damn;

Out of me man and woman, and wild beast

and bird; before God was, I am.

Beside or above me

Nought is there to go;

Love or unlove me,

Unknow me or know,

I am that which unloves me and loves; I

am stricken, and I am the blow.

I the mark that is missed

And the arrows that miss,

I the mouth that is kissed

And the breath in the kiss,

The search, and the sought, and the seeker,

the soul and the body that is.

I am that thing which blesses

My spirit elate;

That which caresses

With hands uncreate

My limbs unbegotten that measure the

length of the measure of fate.

But what thing dost thou now,

Looking Godward to cry

"I am I, thou art thou,

I am low, thou art high"?

I am thou, whom thou seekest to find him;

find thou but thyself, thou art I.

I the grain and the furrow,

The plough-cloven clod

And the ploughshare drawn thorough,

The germ and the sod,

The deed and the doer, the seed and the

sower, the dust which is God.

Hast thou known how I fashioned thee,

Chid, underground?

Fire that impassioned thee,

Iron that bound,

Dim changes of water, what thing of all

these hast thou known of or found?

Canst thou say in thine heart

Thou hast seen with thine eyes

With what cunning of art

Thou wast wrought in what wise,

By what force of what stuff thou wast shap-

en, and shown on my breast to the skies?

Who hath given, who hath sold it thee,

Knowledge of me?

Hath the wilderness told it thee?

Hast thou learnt of the sea?

Hast thou communed in spirit with night?

have the winds taken counsel with thee?

Have I set such a star

To show light on thy brow

That thou sawest from afar

What I show to thee now?

Have ye spoken as brethren together, the

sun and the mountains and thou?

What is here, dost thou know it?

What was, hast thou known?

Prophet nor poet

Nor tripod nor throne

Nor spirit nor flesh can make answer, but

only thy mother alone.

Mother, not maker,

Born, and not made;

Though her children forsake her,

Allured or afraid,

Praying prayers to the God of their fashion,

she stirs not for all that have prayed.

A creed is a rod,

And a crown is of night;

But this thing is God,

To be man with thy might,

To grow straight in the strength of thy

spirit, and live out thy life as the light.

I am in thee to save thee,

As my soul in thee saith,

Give thou as I gave thee,

Thy life-blood and breath,

Green leaves of thy labor, white flowers of

thy thought, and red fruit of thy death.

Be the ways of thy giving

As mine were to thee;

The free life of thy living,

Be the gift of it free;

Not as servant to lord, nor as master to

slave, shalt thou give thee to me.

O children of banishment,

Souls overcast,

Were the lights ye see vanish meant

Alway to last,

Ye would know not the sun overshining the

shadows and stars overpast.

I that saw where ye trod

The dim paths of the night

Set the shadow called god

In your skies to give light;

But the morning of manhood is risen, and

the shadowless soul is in sight.

The tree many-rooted

That swells to the sky

With frondage red-fruited,

The life-tree am I;

In the buds of your lives is the sap of my

leaves: ye shall live and not die.

But the Gods of your fashion

That take and that give,

In their pity and passion

That scourge and forgive,

They are worms that are bred in the bark

that falls off: they shall die and not live.

My own blood is what stanches

The wounds in my bark:

Stars caught in my branches

Make day of the dark,

And are worshipped as suns till the sunrise

shall tread out their fires as a spark.

Where dead ages hide under

The live roots of the tree,

In my darkness the thunder

Makes utterance of me;

In the clash of my boughs with each other

ye hear the waves sound of the sea.

That noise is of Time,

As his feathers are spread

And his feet set to climb

Through the boughs overhead,

And my foliage rings round him and rustles,

and branches are bent with his tread.

The storm-winds of ages

Blow through me and cease,

The war-wind that rages,

The spring-wind of peace,

Ere the breath of them roughen my tresses,

ere one of my blossoms increase.

All sounds of all changes,

All shadows and lights

On the world's mountain-ranges

And stream-riven heights,

Whose tongue is the wind's tongue and lan-

guage of storm-clouds on earth-shaking nights;

All forms of all faces,

All works of all hands

In unsearchable places

Of time-stricken lands,

All death and all life, and all reigns and all

ruins, drop through me as sands.

Though sore be my burden

And more than ye know,

And my growth have no guerdon

But only to grow,

Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings

above me or deathworms below.

These too have their part in me,

As I too in these;

Such fire is at heart in me,

Such sap is this tree's,

Which hath in it all sounds and all secrets

of infinite lands and of seas.

In the spring-colored hours

When my mind was as May's,

There brake forth of me flowers

By centuries of days,

Strong blossoms with perfume of manhood,

shot out of my spirit as rays.

And the sound of them springing

And smell of their shoots

Were as warmth and sweet singing

And strength to my roots;

And the lives of my children made perfect

with freedom of soul were my fruits.

I bid you but be;

I have need not of prayer;

I have need of you free

As your mouths of mine air;

That my heart may be greater within me,

beholding the fruits of me fair.

More fair than strange fruit is

Of faiths ye espouse;

In me only the root is

That blooms in your boughs;

Behold now your God that ye made you,

to feed him with faith of your vows.

In the darkening and whitening

Abysses adored,

With dayspring and lightning

For lamp and for sword,

God thunders in heaven, and his angels

are red with the wrath of the Lord.

O my sons, O too dutiful

Toward Gods not of me,

Was not I enough beautiful?

Was it hard to be free?

For behold, I am with you, am in you and

of you; look forth now and see.

Lo, winged with world's wonders,

With miracles shod,

With the fires of his thunders

For raiment and rod,

God trembles in heaven, and his angels are

white with the terror of God.

For his twilight is come on him,

His anguish is here;

And his spirits gaze dumb on him,

Grown grey from his fear;

And his hour taketh hold on him stricken,

the last of his infinite year.

Thought made him and breaks him,

Truth slays and forgives;

But to you, as time takes him,

This new thing it gives,

Even love, the beloved Republic, that feeds

upon freedom and lives.

For truth only is living,

Truth only is whole,

And the love of his giving

Man's polestar and pole;

Man, pulse of my center, and fruit of my

body, and seed of my soul.

One birth of my bosom;

One beam of mine eye;

One topmost blossom

That scales the sky;

Man, equal and one with me, man that is

made of me, man that is I.

[Rose Lake 0]

If anyone is looking for the film, its name is You Were Never Lovelier (1942). It's a musical with Fred Astaire and Rita Hayworth.

[B. Royce 0]

Swinburne wrote many lovely lyrics for, or about , children. Here is one of my favorites.

A Child's Future

What will it please you, my darling, hereafter to be?

Fame upon land will you look for, or glory by sea?

Gallant your life will be always, and all of it free.

Free as the wind when the heart of the twilight is stirred

Eastward, and the sounds of the springs of the sunrise are heard:

Free---and we know not another as infinite word.

Darkness or twilight or sunlight may compass us round,

Hate may arise up against us, or hope may confound;

Love may forsake us; yet may not the spirit be bound.

Free in oppression of grief as in ardor of joy

Still may the soul be, and each to her strength as a toy:

Free in the glance of the man as the smile of the boy.

Freedom alone is the salt and the spirit that gives

Life, and without her is nothing that verily lives:

Death cannot slay her: she laughs upon death and forgives.

Brightest and hardiest of roses anear and afar

Glitters the blithe little face of you, round as a star:

Liberty bless you and keep you to be as you are.

England and liberty bless you and keep you to be

Worthy the name of their child and the sight of their sea:

Fear not at all; for a slave, if he fears not, is free.

_______________________________________________________

And then there is this:

In A Garden

Baby, see the flowers!

----Baby sees

Fairer things than these,

Fairer though they be than dreams of ours.

Baby, hear the birds!

----Baby knows

Better songs than those,

Sweeter though they sound than sweetest words.

Baby, see the moon!

----Baby's eyes

Laugh to watch it rise,

Answering light with love and night with noon.

Baby, hear the sea!

----Baby's face

Takes a graver grace,

Touched with wonder what the sound may be.

Baby, see the star!

----Baby's hand

Opens, warm and bland,

Calm in claim of all fair things that are.

Baby, hear the bells!

----Baby's head

Bows, as ripe for bed,

Now the flowers curl round and close their cells.

Baby, flower of light,

Sleep, and see

Brighter dreams than we,

Till good day shall smile away good night.

________________________________________

And fitting here, though not written especially with children in mind,

Song

Love laid his sleepless head

On a thorny rosy bed;

And his eyes with tears were red,

And pale his lips as the dead.

And fear and sorrow and scorn

Kept watch by his head forlorn.

Till the night was overworn

And the world was merry with morn.

And Joy came up with the day

And kissed Love's lips as he lay,

And the watchers ghostly and gray

Sped from his pillow away.

And his eyes as the dawn grew bright,

And his lips waxed ruddy as light:

Sorrow may reign for a night,

But day shall bring back delight.

________________________________

And from the last of his Roundels,

Envoi

Fly, white butterflies, out to sea,

Frail pale wings for the winds to try,

Small white wings that we scarce can see,

Fly.

Here or there may a chance-caught eye

Note in a score of you twain or three

Brighter or darker of mould or dye.

Some fly light as a laugh of glee,

Some fly soft as a low long sigh:

All to the haven where each would be,

Fly.

[B. Royce 0]

Here is Swinburne's

A Match

If love were what the rose is,

And I were like the leaf,

Our lives would grow together

In sad or singing weather,

Blown fields or flowerful closes,

Green pleasure or grey grief;

If love were what the rose is,

And I were like the leaf.

If I were what the words are,

And love were like the tune,

With double sound and single

Delight our lips would mingle,

With kisses glad as birds are

That get sweet rain at noon;

If I were what the words are

And love were like the tune.

If you were life, my darling,

And I your love were death,

We'd shine and snow together

Ere march made sweet the weather

With daffodil and starling

And hours of fruitful breath;

If you were life, my darling,

And I your love were death.

If you were thrall to sorrow,

And I were page to joy,

We'd play for lives and seasons

With loving looks and treasons

And tears of night and morrow

And laughs of maid and boy;

If you were thrall to sorrow,

And I were page to joy.

If you were April's lady,

And I were lord in May,

We'd throw with leaves for hours

And draw for days with flowers,

Till day like night were shady

And night were bright like day;

If you were April's lady,

And I were lord in may.

If you were queen of pleasure,

And I were king of pain,

We'd hunt down love together,

Pluck out his flying feather,

And teach his feet a measure,

And find his mouth a reign;

If you were queen of pleasure,

And I were king of pain.

__________________________________

And here is one by Richard Lovelace. Though he misses a couple rhymes in the first stanza, the exquisite last stanza makes amends (or, did he miss on purpose?)

To Amarantha (1647)

Amarantha, sweet and fair,

Ah, braid no more that shining hair!

As my curious hand or eye

Hovering round thee, let it fly.

Let it fly as unconfined

As its ravisher, the wind,

Who has left his darling East,

To wanton o'er this spicy nest.

Every tress must be confessed

But neatly tangled at the best,

Like a clue of golden thread

Most excellently ravell-ed.

Do not, then, wind up that light

In ribands, and o'ercloud in night:

Like the sun in's early ray,

But shake your head and scatter day.

____________________________________

And from 1605 Thomas Heywood leaps forth!

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day!

With night we banish sorrow.

Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft,

To 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-morrow,

Notes from them all I'll borrow.

Wake from thy rest, robin-redbreast;

Sing, birds, in every furrow!

And from each bill let music shrill

Give my fair love good-morrow!

Blackbird and thrush in every bush,

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow,

You pretty elves, amongst yourselves

Sing my fair love good-morrow!

To give my love good-morrow,

Sing, birds, in every furrow!

________________________________

And from 1602 Joshua Sylvester still shines through.

Were I as base as is the lowly plain,

And you, my love, as high as heaven above,

Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain,

Ascend to heaven in honour of my love.

Were I as high as heaven above the plain,

And you, my love, as humble and as low

As are the deepest bottoms of the main,

Whatsoe'er you were, with you my love should go.

Were you the earth, dear love, and I the skies,

My love should shine on you, like to the sun,

And look upon you with ten thousand eyes,

Till heaven waxed blind and till the world were done.

Wheresoe'er I am----below or else above you----

Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.

________________________________________________

[Stephen Speicher 0]

This is one of my favorites by Berton Braley.

A Little Further

The reason I never can quit the road

Is a reason that's plain and clear.

It's because no matter where I may stop

And whether it's far or near

Ther's a place beyond the place I am,

Wherever I may be at,

And then beyond is a place beyond

And the world beyond all that!

And as long as a man has eyes to see

And a brain that wants to know,

I figure ther's things he's bound to miss

If he doesn't go on and go;

For there's always a place beyond the place

I happen to hang my hat,

And another place beyond that place

And the world beyond all that!

There's some folks stay in a single spot

Or a town of which they're fond,

And never worry a little bit

At the thought of a place beyond;

But the place beyond the place beyond

Won't never let me rest

For there's a sort of a kind of urge

That's burnin' within my breast--

To go an' go till the end of life,

An' when I've left it flat,

Go on beyond the place beyond;

And the universe after that!

[B. Royce 0]

Thanks for posting that one, Stephen; really light-heartedly great! Where did you find it?

[Stephen Speicher 0]

Thanks for posting that one, Stephen; really light-heartedly great!  Where did you find it?

←

We have a few books of his poems (as well as his compilation of the world's 1000 greatest poems), but I took this directly from the Berton Braley Website. This is a lovely website for fans of Berton Braley. It was originally published in 1916 in Things As They Are: Ballads, George H. Doran Company.

[B. Royce 0]

We have a few books of his poems (as well as his compilation of the world's 1000 greatest poems), but I took this directly from the Berton Braley Website. This is a lovely website for fans of Berton Braley. It was originally published in 1916 in Things As They Are: Ballads, George H. Doran Company.

←

Thank you for the site.

[Stephen Speicher 0]

Thank you for the site.

←

You're welcome, but better to thank the owner for that site. Quite a bit of dedication to what he values.

[Betsy Speicher 0]

I took this directly from the Berton Braley Website. This is a lovely website for fans of Berton Braley.

Giving credit where credit is due, the Berton Braley website is a labor of love of FORUM member PaperDetective.

[Charles 0]

If - by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;

If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with triumph and disaster

And treat those two imposters just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breath a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

[Betsy Speicher 0]

If - by Rudyard Kipling

←

The great thing about a poem like this is that the rhythm of the verse and the eloquence of the words helps fix them in my mind and, when a poem is as chockfull of valuable insights as this one is, it is personally meaningful and useful.

In particular, the following have come to mind when I most needed them:

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

...

Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,

...

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;

...

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

...

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run

←

[bignosedcopperking 0]

Song

Love laid his sleepless head

On a thorny rosy bed;

And his eyes with tears were red,

And pale his lips as the dead.

And fear and sorrow and scorn

Kept watch by his head forlorn.

Till the night was overworn

And the world was merry with morn.

And Joy came up with the day

And kissed Love's lips as he lay,

And the watchers ghostly and gray

Sped from his pillow away.

And his eyes as the dawn grew bright,

And his lips waxed ruddy as light:

Sorrow may reign for a night,

But day shall bring back delight.

________________________________

←

"Song" was very nice. Very much thanks for posting it. I can learn a lot from this poem. And it did affect me pleasantly. Wow!

Cyrano D'Anconia

(Bignosecopperking).

[B. Royce 0]

Here is my favorite medieval lyric.

Cuckoo Song (author unknown, 1200?)

Sumer is icumen in,

Lhude sing cuccu!

Groweth sed and bloweth med

And springth the wode nu.

Sing cuccu!

Awe bleteth after lomb

Lhouth after calve cu,

Bulloc sterteth, bucke verteth.

Murie sing cuccu!

Cuccu, cuccu,

Wel singes thu, cuccu.

Ne swik thu naver nu!

Sing cuccu nu, Sing cuccu!

Sing cuccu, Sing cuccu nu!

_____________________________

Then there is this great-spirited voice from the 7th(?) century:

The Youth (from The Seafarer; anglo-saxon)

Oh, wildly my heart

Beats in my bosom and bids me to try

The tumble and surge of seas tumultuous,

Breeze and brine and the breakers' roar.

Daily, hourly, drives me my spirit

Outward to sail, far countries to see.

Liveth no man so large in his soul,

So gracious in giving, so gay in his youth,

In deeds so daring, so dear to his lord,

But frets his soul for his sea adventure,

Fain to try what fortune shall send.

Harping he needs not, nor hoarding of treasure;

Nor woman can win him, nor joys of the world.

Nothing does please but the plunging billows;

Ever he longs, who is lured by the sea.

Woods are abloom, the wide world awakens;

Gay are the mansions, the meadows most fair;

These are but warnings, that haste on his journey

Him whose heart is hungry to taste

The perils and pleasures of the pathless deep.

Sudden my soul starts from her prison-house,

Soareth afar o'er the sounding main;

Hovers on high, o'er the home of the whale;

Back to me darts the bird sprite and beckons,

Winging her way o'er woodland and plain,

Hungry to roam, and bring me where glisten

Glorious tracts of glimmering foam.

This life on land is lingering death to me,

Give me the gale of the glad live sea!

_____________________________________

Now here is a 14th century lyric the "music" of which so well represents the subject. This is the essence of verse art---to make the sounds and flow of speech represent that which is spoken of.

The Blacksmiths

Swart, sweaty smiths, smutched with smoke,

Drive me to death with din of their dints.

Such noise a-nights heard a man never:

What criminal cries, what clatter and clanging!

The cursed cow-carpenters cry after "Coal! coal!"

And blow their bellows till their brains burst.

"Huff puff," says the one, "Hoff poff," the other.

They spit and sprawl and spell many spells;

They gnaw and gnash, they groan together,

And hold hot at it with hard hammers.

Of a bull's hide is their bellies' covering;

Their shanks are shackled for the spattering sparks;

Heavy hammers they have, that are handled hard.

Stark strokes they strike on a steel-stock

And batter out a burden: "Loos boos! las das!"

Such damnable din is due only the devil.

The master lays into the links, lashing with his hammer,

Twists them together, and taps out a treble:

"Tic tock, hic hock, tiket taket, tic tock---

Loos boos, las das!" This is the life they lead,

These mare-clothers. Christ give them curses!

Not a man these nights can have his rest!

__________________________________________

This strikes me as good-humored anger; he loves the work---if only it was done quietly! as he sleeps.

_________________________________________

Here is on old favorite of mine,

A Sea-Song, by Allan Cunningham

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail

And bends the gallant mast;

And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves

Old England on the lee.

"O for a soft and gentle wind!"

I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze

And white waves heaving high;

And white waves heaving high, my lads,

The good ship tight and free,---

The world of waters is our home,

And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned 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.

____________________________________

[B. Royce 0]

Here's a good Irish poem by that ubiquitous master, Anonymous.

My Grief On The Sea

My grief on the sea,

How the waves of it roll!

For they heave between me

And the love of my soul!

Abandoned, forsaken,

To grief and to care,

Will the sea ever waken

Relief from despair?

My grief and my trouble!

Would he and I were

In the province of Leinster

Or the county of Clare.

Were I and my darling----

Oh, heart-bitter wound!----

On board of the ship

For America bound.

On a green bed of rushes

All last night I lay,

And I flung it abroad

With the heat of the day.

And my love came behind me----

He came from the south;

His breast to my bosom,

His mouth to my mouth.

________________________________

And at a much younger age Anonymous's

Pangur Ban ( late 8th century)

I and Pangur Ban, my cat,

'Tis a like task we are at;

Hunting mice is his delight,

Hunting words I sit all night.

Better far than praise of men

'Tis to sit with book and pen;

Pangur bears me no ill will,

He too plies his simple skill.

'Tis a merry thing to see

At our tasks how glad are we,

When at home we sit and find

Entertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will stray

In the hero Pangur's way;

Oftentimes my keen thought set

Takes a meaning in its net.

'Gainst the wall he sets his eye

Full and fierce and sharp and sly;

'Gainst the wall of knowledge I

All my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den,

O how glad is Pangur then!

O what gladness do I prove

When I solve the doubts I love!

So in peace our tasks we ply,

Pangur ban, my cat, and I;

In our arts we find our bliss,

I have mine and he has his.

Practice every day has made

Pangur perfect in his trade;

I get wisdom day and night

Turning darkness into light.

________________________

Modern translation by Robin Flower

______________________________________

Smith's Song, by George Sigerson late 1800's

Ding dong didero,

Blow big bellows,

Ding dong didero,

Black coal yellows,

Ding dong didero,

Blue steel mellows,

Ding dong didero,

Strike!----good fellows.

Up with the hammers,

Down with the sledges,

Hark to the clamours,

Pound now the edges,

Work it and watch it,

Round, flat, or square O,

Spade, hook, or hatchet----

Sword for a hero.

Ding dong didero,

Ding dong didero,

Spade for a labourer,

Sword for a hero,

Hammer it, stout smith,

Rightly, lightly,

Hammer it, hammer it,

Hammer at it brightly.

___________________________

[Charles 0]

RE: If by Rudyard Kipling

The great thing about a poem like this is that the rhythm of the verse and the eloquence of the words helps fix them in my mind and, when a poem is as chockfull of valuable insights as this one is, it is personally meaningful and useful.

That poem is probably the first resolutely positive & inspiring picture of manhood I encountered growing up. Then I met Howard Roark

[B. Royce 0]

For the young in spirit here is

If I Had Youth, by Edgar A. Guest (1919)

If I had youth, I'd bid the world to try me;

I'd answer every challenge to my will;

And though the silent mountains should defy me,

I'd try to make them subject to my skill.

I'd keep my dreams and follow where they led me;

I'd glory in the hazards which abound;

I'd eat the simple fare privations fed me,

And gladly make my couch upon the ground.

If I had youth, I'd ask no odds of distance,

Nor wish to tread the known and level ways,

I'd want to meet and master strong resistance,

And in a worth-while struggle spend my days.

I'd see the task which calls for full endeavor;

I'd feel the thrill of battle in my veins,

I'd bear my burden gallantly, and never

Desert the hills to walk on common plains.

If I had youth, no thought of failure lurking

Beyond to-morrow's dawn should fright my soul.

Let failure strike----it still would find me working

With faith that I should some day reach my goal.

I'd dice with danger----aye!----and glory in it;

I'd make high stakes the purpose of my throw.

I'd risk for much, and should I fail to win it,

I would never even whimper at the blow.

If I had youth, no chains of fear should bind me;

I'd brave the heights which older men must shun.

I'd leave the well-worn lanes of life behind me,

And seek to do what men have never done.

Rich prizes wait for those who do not waver;

The world needs men to battle for the truth.

It calls each hour for stronger hearts and braver.

This is the age for those who still have youth!

[B. Royce 0]

Here is the first section of part I, The Sailing of the Swallow, from Swinburne's lyric narrative, "Tristram of Lyonesse". One may tire of the couplets of Pope, but not of those of Swinburne. He is the Master.

The Sailing Of The Swallow

About the middle music of the spring

Came from the castled shore of Ireland's king

A fair ship stoutly sailing, eastward bound

And south by Wales and all its wonders round

To the loud rocks and ringing reaches home

That take the wild wrath of the Cornish foam,

Past Lyonesse unswallowed of the tides

And high Carlion that now the steep sea hides

To the wind-hollowed heights and gusty bays

Of sheer Tintagel, fair with famous days.

Above the stem a gilded swallow shone,

Wrought with straight wings and eyes of glittering stone

As flying sunward oversea, to bear

Green summer with it through the singing air.

And on the deck between the rowers at dawn,

As the bright sail with brightening wind was drawn,

Sat with full face against the strengthening light

Iseult, more fair than foam or dawn was white.

Her gaze was glad past love's own singing of,

And her face lovely past desire of love.

Past thought and speech her maiden motions were,

And a more golden sunrise was her hair.

The very veil of her bright flesh was made

As of light woven and moonbeam-coloured shade

More fine than moonbeams; white her eyelids shone

As snow sun-stricken that endures the sun,

And through their curled and coloured clouds of deep

Luminous lashes thick as dreams in sleep

Shone as the sea's depth swallowing up the sky's

The springs of unimaginable eyes.

As the wave's subtler emerald is pierced through

With the utmost heaven's inextricable blue,

And both are woven and molten in one sleight

Of amorous colour and implicated light

Under the golden guard and gaze of noon,

So glowed their awless amorous plenilune,

Azure and gold and ardent grey, made strange

With fiery difference and deep interchange

Inexplicable of glories multiform;

Now as the sullen sapphire swells toward storm

Foamless, their bitter beauty grew acold,

And now afire with ardour of fine gold.

Her flower-soft lips were meek and passionate,

For love upon them like a shadow sate

Patient, a foreseen vision of sweet things,

A dream with eyes fast shut and plumeless wings

That knew not what man's love or life should be,

Nor had it sight nor heart to hope or see

What thing should come, but childlike satisfied

Watched out its virgin vigil in soft pride

And unkissed expectation; and the glad

Clear cheeks and throat and tender temples had

Such maiden heat as if a rose's blood

Beat in the live heart of a lily-bud.

Between the small round breasts a white way led

Heavenward, and from slight foot to slender head

The whole fair body flower-like swayed and shone

Moving, and what her light hand leant upon

Grew blossom-scented: her warm arms began

To round and ripen for delight of man

That they should clasp and circle: her fresh hands,

Like regent lilies of reflowering lands

Whose vassal firstlings, crown and star and plume,

Bow down to the empire of that sovereign bloom,

Shone sceptreless, and from her face there went

A silent light as of a God content;

Save when, more swift and keen than love or shame,

Some flash of blood, ligh as the laugh of flame,

Broke it with sudden beam and shining speech,

As dream by dream shot through her eyes, and each

Outshone the last that lightened, and not one

Showed her such things as should be borne and done,

Though hard against her shone the sunlike face

That in all change and wreck of time and place

Should be the star of her sweet living soul.

Nor had love made it as his written scroll

For evil will and good to read in yet;

But smooth and mighty, without scar or fret,

Fresh and high-lifted was the helmless brow

As the oak-tree flower that tops the top-most bough,

Ere it drop off before the perfect leaf;

And nothing save his name he had of grief,

The name his mother, dying as he was born,

Made out of sorrow in very sorrow'as scorn,

And set it on him smiling in her sight,

Tristram; who now, clothed with sweet youth and might,

As a glad witness wore that bitter name,

The second symbol of the world for fame.

_____________________________________

Later, Tristram sings to her.

The breath between my lips of lips not mine,

Like spirit in sense that makes pure sense divine,

Is as life in them from the living sky

That entering fills my heart with blood of thine

And thee with me, while day shall live and die.

Thy soul is shed into me with thy breath,

And in my heart each heartbeat of thee saith

How in thy life the lifesprings of me lie,

Even one life to be gathered of one death

In me and thee, though day may live and die.

Ah, who knows now if in my veins it be

My blood that feels life sweet, or blood of thee,

And this thine eyesight kindled in mine eye

That shows me in thy flesh the soul of me,

For thine made mine, while day may live and die?

Ah, who knows yet if one be twain or one,

And sunlight separable again from sun,

And I from thee with all my lifesprings dry,

And thou from me with all thine heartbeats done,

Dead separate souls while day shall live and die?

I see my soul within thine eyes, and hear

My spirit in all thy pulses thrill with fear,

And in my lips the passion of thee sigh,

And music of me made in mine own ear;

Am I not thou while day shall live and die?

Art thou not I as I thy love am thou?

So let all things pass from us; we are now,

For all that was and will be, who knows why?

And all that is and is not, who knows how?

Who knows? God knows why day should live and die.

_____________________________________________

[B. Royce 0]

In 1871 Swinburne's "Songs Before Sunrise" was published. Here is the noble Prelude to that volume which expresses his passionate love of freedom.

Prelude

Between the green bud and the red

Youth sat and sang by Time, and shed

From eyes and tresses flowers and tears,

From heart and spirit hopes and fears,

Upon the hollow stream whose bed

Is channelled by the foamless years;

And with the white the gold-haired head

Mixed running locks, and in Time's ears

Youth's dreams hung singing, and Time's truth

Was half not harsh in the ears of Youth.

Between the bud and the blown flower

Youth talked with joy and grief an hour,

With footless joy and wingless grief

And twin-born faith and disbelief

Who share the seasons to devour;

And long ere these made up their sheaf

Felt the winds round him shake and shower

The rose-red and the blood-red leaf,

Delight whose germ grew never grain,

And passion dyed in its own pain.

Then he stood up, and trod to dust

Fear and desire, mistrust and trust,

And dreams of bitter sleep and sweet,

And bound for sandals on his feet

Knowledge and patience of what must

And what things may be, in the heat

And cold of years that rot and rust

And alter; and his spirit's meat

Was freedom, and his staff was wrought

Of strength, and his cloak woven of thought.

For what has he whose will sees clear

To do with doubt and faith and fear,

Swift hopes and slow despondencies?

His heart is equal with the sea's

And with the sea-wind's, and his ear

Is level to the speech of these,

And his soul communes and takes cheer

With the actual earth's equalities,

Air, light, and night, hills winds, and streams,

And seeks not strength from strengthless dreams.

His soul is even with the sun

Whose spirit and whose eyes are one,

Who seeks not stars by day nor light

And heavy heat of day ny night.

Him can no God cast down, whom none

Can lift in hope beyond the height

Of fate and nature and things done

By the calm rule of might and right

That bids men be and bear and do,

And die beneath blind skies or blue.

To him the lights of even and morn

Speak no vain things of love or scorn,

Fancies and passions miscreate

By man in things dispassionate.

Nor holds he fellowship forlorn

With souls that pray and hope and hate,

And doubt they had better not been born,

And fain would lure or scare off fate

And charm their doomsman from their doom

And make fear dig its own false tomb.

He builds not half of doubts and half

Of dreams his own soul's cenotaph

Whence hopes and fears with helpless eyes,

Wrapt loose in cast-off cerecloths, rise

And dance and wring their hands and laugh,

And weep thin tears and sigh light sighs,

And without living lips would quaff

The living spring in man that lies,

And drain his soul of faith and strength

It might have lived on a life's length.

He hath given himself and hath not sold

To God for heaven or man for gold,

Or grief for comfort that it gives,

Or joy for grief's restoratives,

He hath given himself to time, whose fold

Shuts in the mortal flock that lives

On its plain pasture's heat and cold

And the equal year's alternatives.

Earth, heaven, and time, death, life, and he,

Endure while they shall be to be.

"Yet between death and life are hours

To flush with love and hide in flowers;

What profit save in these?" men cry:

"Ah, see, between soft earth and sky,

What only good things here are ours!"

They say, "What better wouldst thou try,

What sweeter sing of? or what powers

Serve, that will give thee ere thou die

More joy to sing and be less sad,

More heart to play and grow more glad?"

Play then and sing; we too have played,

We likewise, in that subtle shade.

We too have twisted throughour hair

Such tendrils as the wild Loves wear,

And heard what mirth the Maenads made,

Till the wind blew our garlands bare

And left their roses disarrayed,

And smote the summer with strange air,

And disengirdled and discrowned

The limbs and locks that vine-wreaths bound.

We too have tracked by star-proof trees

The tempest of the Thyiades

Scare the loud night on hills that hid

The blood-feasts of the Bassarid,

Heard their song's iron cadences

Fright the wolf hungering from the kid,

Outroar the lion-throated seas,

Outchide the north-wind if it chid,

And hush the torrent-tongued ravines

With thunders of their tambourines.

But the fierce flute whose notes acclaim

Dim goddesses of fiery fame,

Cymbal and clamorous kettledrum,

Timbrels and tabrets, all are dumb

That turned the high chill air to flame;

The singing tongues of fire are numb

That called on Cotys by her name

Edonian, till they felt her come

And maddened, and her mystic face

Lightened along the streams of Thrace.

For Pleasure slumberless and pale,

And Passion with rejected veil,

Pass, and the tempest-footed throng

Of hours that follow them with song

Till their feet flag and voices fail,

And lips that were so loud so long

Learn silence, or a wearier wail;

So keen is change, and time so strong,

To weave the robes of life and rend

And weave again till life have end.

But weak is change, but strengthless time,

To take the light fro heaven or climb

The hills of heaven with wasting feet.

Songs they can stop that earth found meet,

But the stars keep their ageless rhyme:

Flowers they can slay that spring though sweet,

But the stars keep their spring sublime;

Passions and pleasures can defeat,

Actions and agonies control,

And life and death, but not the soul.

Because man's soul is man's God still,

What wind soever waft his will

Across the waves of day and night

To port or shipwreck, left or right,

By shores and shoals of good and ill;

And still its flame at mainmast height

Through the rent air that foam-flakes fill

Sustains the indomitable light

Whence only man hath strength to steer

Or helm to handle without fear.

Save his own soul's light overhead,

None leads him, and none ever led,

Across birth's hidden harbor bar,

Past youth where shoreward shallows are,

Through age that drives on toward the red

Vast void of sunset hailed from far,

To the equal waters of the dead;

Save his own soul he hath no star,

And sinks, except his own soul guide,

Helmless in middle turn of tide.

No blast of air or fire of sun

Puts out the light whereby we run

With girdled loins our lamplit race,

And each from each takes heart of grace

And spirit till his turn be done,

And light of face from each man's face

In whom the light of trust is one;

Since only souls that keep their place

By their own light, and watch things roll,

And stand, have light for any soul.

A little time we gain from time

To set our seasons in some chime,

For harsh or sweet or loud or low,

With seasons played out long ago

And souls that in their time and prime

Took part with summer or with snow,

Lived abject lives out or sublime,

And had their chance of seed to sow

For service or disservice done

To those days dead and this their son.

A little time that we may fill

Or with such good works or such ill

As loose the bonds or make them strong

Wherein all manhood suffers wrong.

By rose-hung river and light-foot rill

There are who rest not; who think long

Till they discern as from a hill

At the sun's hour of morning song,

Known of souls only, and those souls free,

The sacred spaces of the sea.

________________________________________

[B. Royce 0]

Born in 1875, Angela Morgan later wrote the following poem published in her book of poems titled "Hail Man!" I have taken the liberty of removing the religious terms, replacing "God" with "Man", "Maker" with "genius", "Spirit" with "thinker" and "Master" with"human". THe poem is a splendid expression of the value and meaning of work.

Work, a Song of Triumph

Work!

Thank Man for the might of it,

The ardor, the urge, the delight of it---

Work that springs from the heart's desire,

Setting the brain and the soul on fire---

Oh, what is so good as the heat of it,

And what is so glad as the beat of it,

And what is so kind as the stern command,

Challenging brain and heart and hand?

Work!

Thank Man for the pride of it,

For the beautiful, conquering tide of it,

Sweeping the life in its furious flood,

Thrilling the arteries, cleansing the blood,

Mastering stupor and dull despair,

Moving the dreamer to do and dare.

Oh, what is so good as the urge of it,

And what is so glad as the surge of it,

And what is so strong as the summons deep,

Rousing the torpid soul from sleep?

Work!

Thank Man for the pace of it,

For the terrible, keen, swift race of it;

Fiery steeds in full control,

Nostrils aquiver to meet the goal.

Work, the power that drives behind,

Guiding the purposes, taming the mind,

Holding the runaway wishes back,

Reining the will to one steady track,

Speeding the energies faster, faster,

Triumphing over disaster.

Oh, what is so good as the pain of it,

And what is so grweat as the gain of it?

And what is so kind as the cruel goad,

Forcing us on through the rugged road?

Work!

Thank Man for the swing of it,

For the clamoring, hammering ring of it,

Passion of labor daily hurled

On the mighty anvils of the world.

Oh, what is so fierce as the flame of it?

And what is so huge as the aim of it?

Thundering on through dearth and doubt,

Calling the plan of the genius out.

Work, the Titan; Work, the friend,

Shaping the earth to a glorious end,

Draining the swamps and blasting the hills,

Doing whatever the thinker wills---

Rending a continent apart,

To answer the dream of the human heart.

Thank Man for a world where none may shirk---

Thank Man for the splendor of work!

_____________________________________________

Nothing is known of John Stoltze but that he graduated from Princeton in 1917.

Across Illinois, by John Stoltze

The feel of the friendly prairies, the softening shadows of night

That covers the flattened landscape to the distant gleam of a light.

The even swing of the trainload over the singing rails

Between the flowing fences that border the straight steel trails.

The light of a locomotive adown the level track,

A straight white line of brightness cutting the blanket of black.

The roar of the whistling steam, a flickering lighted train;

Once more the soft black silence and the hum of the rails again.

And through the velvet darkness, keener than sense or sight,

The feel of the friendly prairies, the shadow of Western night.

____________________________________________________

Florence Kiper Frank wrote poems and plays in Chicago in the early 20th century.

The Movies

She knows a cheap release

From worry and from pain----

The cowboys spur their horses

Over the unending plain.

The tenement halls are small;

Their walls press on the brain.

Oh, the dip of the galloping horses

On the limitless, wind-swept plain!

___________________________________

Of the writer of the following, nothing is known but his name.

The Cowboy's Life, by James Barton Adams

The bawl of a steer,

To a cowboy's ear,

Is music of sweetest strain;

And the yelping notes

Of the grey coyotes

To him are a glad refrain.

And his jolly song

Speeds him along,

As he thinks of the little gal

With golden hair

Who is waiting there

At the bars of the home corral.

For a kingly crown

In the noisy town

His saddle he wouldn't change;

No life so free

As the life we see

'Way out on the Yaso range.

His eyes are bright

And his heart is light

As the smoke of his cigarette;

There's never a care

For his soul to bear,

No trouble to make him fret.

The rapid beat

Of his broncho's feet

On the sod as he speeds along,

Keeps living time

To the ringing rhyme

Of his rollicking cowboy song.

Hike it, cowboys,

For the range away

On the back of a bronc of steel,

With a careless flirt

Of the rawhide quirt

And the dig of a roweled heel!

The winds may blow

And the thunder growl

Or the breezes may safely moan;---

A cowboy's life

Is the royal life,

His saddle his kingly throne.

Saddle up, boys,

For the work is play

When love's in the cowboy's eyes,---

When his heart is light

As the clouds of white

That swim in the summer skies.

______________________________

Born in London in 1859, Samuel T. Clover became a newspaperman after a trip around the world in 1880. He wrote novels and poems of Western life.

Cadences, by Samuel T. Clover

I am riding, riding, riding, on the hard dirt road,

And my horse's ears are pointed, and my horse's neck is bowed.

For in his veins pulsating is the ichor of the spring,

And I catch the lilt of music his dancing hoofbeats ring:

It's "Good-to-be-alive! Good-to-be-alive! Good-to-be-alive today!

What fun it is! What fun it is!" they seem to me to say;

And in the saddle, marking time, I fervently repeat,

"I-love-it-too! I-love-it-too!" with every rhythmic beat.

Thus on we go together, my eager horse and I,

In tune with one another and a California sky!

Intoxication's in the air, for blossoming orchards shed

The fragrance of their subtleties about the rider's head.

Clippity-clip! Clippity-clip! the hoofbeats strike the ground,

But more than that the message I gather from the sound;

I get from it the thrill of joy so bounteously bestowed,

When I am in the saddle on the hard dirt road.

_________________________________________________

Princess Tekahionwake lived from 1862 to 1913. She was the daughter of a chief of the Mohawk tribe in Ontario. Her poems are collected in "Flint and Feather", with an introduction by Theodore Watts-Dunton, the man who rescued Swinburne from a reckless London life. The Princess, as Pauline Johnson, recited her poems widely throughout the U.S. I haven't seen the book; the biographical note I have says that her poems and prose were "sympathetic with nature and human nature".

The Song My Paddle Sings, by E. Pauline Johnson

West wind, blow from your prairie nest,

Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.

The sail is idle, the sailor too;

O wind of the west, we wait for you!

Blow, blow!

I have wooed you so,

But never a favor you bestow.

You rock your cradle the hills between,

But scorn to notice my white lateen.

I stow the sail, unship the mast;

I wooed thee long, but my wooing's past;

My paddle will lull you into rest.

O drowsy wind of the drowsy west,

Sleep, sleep,

By your mountain steep,

Or down where the prairie grasses sweep.

Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,

For soft is the song my paddle sings.

August is laughing across the sky,

Laughing while paddle, canoe, and I

Drift, drift,

Where the hills uplift

On either side of the current swift.

The river rolls in its rocky bed;

My paddle is plying its way ahead;

Dip, dip,

When the waters flip

In foam as over their breast we slip.

And oh, the river runs swifter now;

The eddies circle about my bow!

Swirl, swirl!

How the ripples curl

In many a dangerous pool awhirl!

And forward far the rapids roar,

Fretting their margin for evermore;

Dash, dash,

With a mighty crash,

They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.

Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!

The reckless waves you must plunge into.

Reel, reel,

On your trembling keel---

But never a fear my craft will feel.

We've raced the rapid; we're far ahead!

The river slips through its silent bed.

Sway, sway,

As the bubbles spray

And fall in tinkling tunes away.

And up on the hills against the sky,

A fir tree rocking its lullaby,

Swings, swings,

Its emerald wings,

Swelling the song that my paddle sings.

[bignosedcopperking 0]

TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE-By William Wordsworth

TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men!

Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough

Within thy hearing, or thy head be now

Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den;--

O miserable Chieftain! where and when

Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou

Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:

Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,

Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind

Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;

There's not a breathing of the common wind

That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;

Thy friends are exultations, agonies,

And love, and man's unconquerable mind.

[B. Royce 0]

Upon Julia's Clothes, by Robert Herrick (1648)

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!

__________________________________

On A Girdle, by Edmund Waller (1645)

That which her slender waist confined

Shall now my joyful temples bind:

No monarch but would give his crown,

His arms might do what this has done.

It was my heaven's extremest sphere,

The pale which held that lovely deer:

My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,

Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass, and yet there

Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair:

Give me but what this ribband bound,

Take all the rest the sun goes round!

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The Lark Now Leaves His Wat'ry Nest, by Sir William Davenant (1651)

The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest,

And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings;

He takes this window for the east,

And to implore your light he sings.

Awake, awake! the Morn will never rise

Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,

The ploughman from the sun his season takes;

But still the lover wonders what they are

Who look for day before his mistress wakes.

Awake, awake! break through your veils of lawn,

Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn.

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Spring, The Sweet Spring, by Thomas Nash (1593)

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king:

Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring;

Cold doth not sting; the pretty birds do sing,

"Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and may make country houses gay;

Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day;

And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:

"Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-wittta-woo!"

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet;

Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit;

In every street these tunes our ears do greet:

"Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!"

Spring, the sweet Spring!

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Song By Apelles, by John Lyly (1581)

Cupid and my Campaspe played

At cards for kisses; Cupid paid.

He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,

His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;

Loses them too. Then down he throws

The coral of his lip, the rose

Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);

With these, the crystal of his brow,

And then the dimple of his chin:

All these did my Campaspe win.

At last he set her both his eyes;

She won, and Cupid blind did rise.

O Love, has she done this to thee?

What shall, alas! become of me?

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