Four Poems by THOMAS HOOD  1789-1845

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I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER 

I remember, I remember 

The house where I was born, 

The little window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn; 

He never came a wink too soon 

Nor brought too long a day; 

But now, I often wish the night 

Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember 

The roses red and white, 

The violets and the lily cups -

Those flowers made of light! 

The lilacs where the robin built, 

And where my brother set 

The laburnum on his birthday,

The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing, 

And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing; 

My spirit flew in feathers then 

That is so heavy now, 

The summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow.

I remember, I remember 

The fir-trees dark and high; 

I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky: 

It was a childish ignorance, 

But now 'tis little joy 

To know I'm farther off from Heaven 

Than when I was a boy.

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NO!

No sun - no moon!
No morn - no noon!
No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--
No sky--no earthly view--
No distance looking blue--

No road--no street--
No "t'other side the way"--
No end to any Row--
No indications where the Crescents go--

No top to any steeple--
No recognitions of familiar people--
No courtesies for showing 'em--
No knowing 'em!

No mail--no post--
No news from any foreign coast--
No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility--
No company--no nobility--

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member--
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!

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SILENCE

There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave - under the deep, deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
No voice is hush’d - no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox or wild hyæna calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan -
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.

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FLOWERS

I will not have the mad Clytie*,
Whose head is turned by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly queen,
Whom, therefore, I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun; -
But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of everyone.

The pea is but a wanton witch,
In too much haste to wed,
And clasps her rings on every hand
The wolfsbane I should dread; -
Nor will I dreary rosemary
That always mourns the dead; -
But I will woo the dainty rose,
With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And so is no mate for me -
And the daisy's cheek is tipped with blush,
She is of such low degree;
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,
And the broom's betrothed to the bee; -
But I will plight with the dainty rose,
For fairest of all is she.

*In Greek mythology Clytie was a nymph was who was turned into a sunflower.

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A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM

Edgar Allan Poe 1809-49

Take this kiss upon the brow!

          And, in parting from you now,

          Thus much let me avow -

          You are not wrong, who deem

          That my days have been a dream;

          Yet if hope has flown away

          In a night, or in a day,

          In a vision, or in none,

          Is it therefore the less gone?

          All that we see or seem

          Is but a dream within a dream.

          I stand amid the roar

          Of a surf-tormented shore,

          And I hold within my hand

          Grains of the golden sand -

          How few! Yet how they creep

          Through my fingers to the deep,

          While I weep - while I weep!

          O God! Can I not grasp

          Them with a tighter clasp?

          O God! Can I not save

          One from the pitiless wave?

          Is all that we see or seem

          But a dream within a dream?

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INTERLUDE

Amy Lowell  1874-1925

When I have baked white cakes

And grated green almonds to spread upon them;

When I have picked the green crowns from the strawberries

And piled them, cone-pointed, in a blue and yellow platter;

When I have smoothed the seam of the linen I have been working;

What then?

To-morrow it will be the same:

Cakes and strawberries,

And needles in and out of cloth.

If the sun is beautiful on bricks and pewter,

How much more beautiful is the moon,

Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree;

The moon,

Wavering across a bed of tulips;

The moon,

Still,

Upon your face.

You shine, Beloved,

You and the moon.

But which is the reflection?

The clock is striking eleven.

I think, when we have shut and barred the door,

The night will be dark

Outside.

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LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

John Keats  1795-1821

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,

Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,

So haggard and so woe-begone,

The squirrel's granary is full

And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow

With anguish moist and fever dew,

And on thy cheek a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful, a faery's child:

Her hair was long, her foot was ligh,

And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long;

For sideways would she lean, and sing

A faery's song.

I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She looked at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna dew,

And sure in language strange she said,

"I love thee true!"

She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she gazed and sighed deep,

And there I shut her wild, sad eyes -

So kissed to sleep.

And there we slumbered on the moss,

And there I dreamed, ah! woe betide,

The latest dream I ever dreamed

On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

Who cried - "La belle Dame sans merci

Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

With horrid warning gaped wide,

And I awoke and found me here,

On the cold hill side.

And that is why I sojourn here,

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing. 

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Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802
William Wordsworth  1770-1850

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

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UNDER A SPREADING CHESTNUT TREE

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-82

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Under a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought.

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MINSTREL MAN

Langston Hughes 1902-67

Because my mouth

Is wide with laughter

And my throat

Is deep with song,

You do not think

I suffer after

I have held my pain

So long?

Because my mouth

Is wide with laughter,

You do not hear

My inner cry?

Because my feet

Are gay with dancing,

You do not know

I die?

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Untitled

Rabindranath Tagore 1861-1941

I want to give you something, my child,

for we are drifting in the stream of the world.

Our lives will be carried apart,

and our love forgotten.

But I am not so foolish as to hope that

I could buy your heart with my gifts.

Young is your life, your path long, and

you drink the love we bring you at one draught

and turn and run away from us.

You have your play and your playmates.

What harm is there if you have no time

or thought for us.

We, indeed, have leisure enough in old age

to count the days that are past,

to cherish in our hearts what our

hands have lost for ever.

The river runs swift with a song,

breaking through all barriers.

But the mountain stays and remembers,

and follows her with his love.

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HAPPY THE MAN

John Dryden 1631-1700

Happy the man, and happy he alone,

He who can call today his own;

He who, secure within, can say,

Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

Be fair or foul or rain or shine

The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.

Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,

But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

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WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY

Oliver Goldsmith 1728-74

When lovely woman stoops to folly

And finds too late that men betray,

What charm can soothe her melancholy,

What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt can cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,

To give repentance to her lover

And wring his bosom is - to die.

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DRAKE’S DRUM

 Henry Newbolt 1862-1938

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,    

    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)    

Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,    

    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.    

Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships,             

    Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,    

An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin'    

    He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.    

  

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,    

    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),      

Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,    

    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe,    

"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,    

    Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;    

If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,      

    An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."     

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,    

    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),    

Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,    

    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.      

Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,    

    Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;    

Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin',    

    They shall find him, ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago.    

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ODE TO AUTUMN
John Keats 1795-1821 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

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GOLDEN SLUMBERS

Thomas Dekker 1572-1632

Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, 

Smiles awake you when you rise ; 

Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, 

And I will sing a lullaby, 

Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 

Care is heavy, therefore sleep you, 

You are care, and care must keep you ; 

Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, 

And I will sing a lullaby, 

Rock them, rock them, lullaby.   

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SEA FEVER
John Masefield 1878-1967

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking,

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

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THE RUINED MAID
Thomas Hardy 1840-1928

"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?
And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?"
"O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she.

 "You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,
Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;
And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!"
"Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she.

"At home in the barton you said thee and thou,
And thik oon, and theäs oon, and t'other; but now
Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!"
"Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she.

"Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak
But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek,
And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!"
"We never do work when we're ruined," said she.

"You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream,
And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem
To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!"
"True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she.

"I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,
And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!"
"My dear a raw country girl, such as you be,
Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined," said she.

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SUNSET
Florence Peacock (dates not known)

"The setting sun of old age ever gilds with rosy tints the days gone by."

The setting sun of life gilds with its rays
The unforgotten but far distant days,
The days when youth and hope walked hand in hand.

It sheds around the past a rosy glow,
That past which never was a present, though
On looking back o'er life it seems to stand

Bathed in a crimson glory,--and old age
Lingers with loving fondness o'er the page
Thus lighted up by memory's golden rays.

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SPEAKING TRUTH

Jesa MacBeth (dates not known)

It is possible to speak truth in anger.

When so done, people tend to hear the anger and not the truth.

It is possible to speak truth in arrogance.

When so done, people tend to hear the arrogance

and not the truth.

It is possible to speak truth in deceitful ways.

When so done, people tend to sense the deceit and take the truth for more deceit
It is possible to speak truth in loving kindness.

When so done, people tend to hear the love and the truth.

Or so it seems in my experience.

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