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~ LG’s Poetry Compilation ~

Thou art indeed just, Lord


Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend
With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just.
Why do sinners' ways prosper? and why must
Disappointment all I endeavour end?

Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend,
How wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dost
Defeat, thwart me? Oh, the sots and thralls of lust
Do in spare hours more thrive than I that spend,

Sir, life upon thy cause. See, banks and brakes
Now, leavèd how thick! lacèd they are again
With fretty chervil, look, and fresh wind shakes

Them; birds build--but not I build; no, but strain,
Time's eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes.
Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain.

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:07:53 PM

God's Grandeur

THE world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs --
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:08:02 PM

Felix Randal

FELIX Randal the farrier, O is he dead then? my duty all ended,
Who have watched his mould of man, big-boned and hardy-handsome
Pining, pining, till time when reason rambled in it and some
Fatal four disorders, fleshed there, all contended?

Sickness broke him. Impatient, he cursed at first, but mended
Being anointed and all; though a heavenlier heart began some
Months earlier, since I had our sweet reprieve and ransom
Tendered to him. Ah well, God rest him all road ever he offended!

This seeing the sick endears them to us, us too it endears.
My tongue had taught thee comfort, touch had quenched thy tears,
Thy tears that touched my heart, child, Felix, poor Felix Randal;

How far from then forethought of, all thy more boisterous years,
When thou at the random grim forge, powerful amidst peers,
Didst fettle for the great grey drayhorse his bright and battering sandal!

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:08:11 PM

Binsley Poplars
FELLED 1879

MY aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled,
Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun,
All felled, felled, all are felled;
Of a fresh and following folded rank
             Not spared, not one
             That dandled a sandalled
   Shadow that swam or sank
On meadow and river and wind-wandering
weed-winding bank.

O if we knew but what we do
When we delve or hew--
Hack and rack the growing green!
Since country is so tender
To touch her, being so slender,
That, like this sleek and seeing ball
But a prick will make no eye at all,
Where we, even when we mean
      to mend her we end her,
When we hew or delve:
After-comers cannot guess the beauty been.
Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve
   Strokes of havoc unselve
The sweet especial scene,
Rural scene, a rural scene,
Sweet especial rural scene.

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:08:21 PM

Spring and Fall: To a Young Child

MARGARET, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie.
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:08:30 PM

The Child is Father to the Man

'THE child is father to the man.'
How can he be? The words are wild.
Suck any sense from that who can:
'The child is father to the man.'
No; what the poet did write ran,
'The man is father to the child.'
'The child is father to the man!'
How can he be? The words are wild

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:08:38 PM

May Magnificat

MAY is Mary's month, and I
Muse at that and wonder why:
Her feasts follow reason,
Dated due to season-

Candlemas, Lady Day;
But the Lady Month, May,
Why fasten that upon her,
With a feasting in her honour?

Is it only its being brighter
Than the most are must delight her?
Is it opportunest
And flowers finds soonest?

Ask of her, the mighty mother:
Her reply puts this other
Question: What is Spring?-
Growth in every thing-

Flesh and fleece, fur and feather,
Grass and greenworld all together;
Star-eyed strawberry-breasted
Throstle above her nested

Cluster of bugle blue eggs thin
Forms and warms the life within;
And bird and blossom swell
In sod or sheath or shell.

All things rising, all things sizing
Mary sees, sympathising
With that world of good,
Nature's motherhood.

Their magnifying of each its kind
With delight calls to mind
How she did in her stored
Magnify the Lord.

Well but there was more than this:
Spring's universal bliss
Much, had much to say
To offering Mary May.

When drop-of-blood-and-foam-dapple
Bloom lights the orchard-apple
And thicket and thorp are merry
With silver-surfed cherry

And azuring-over greybell makes
Wood banks and brakes wash wet like lakes
And magic cuckoocall
Caps, clears, and clinches all-

This ecstasy all through mothering earth
Tells Mary her mirth till Christ's birth
To remember and exultation
In God who was her salvation.

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:09:08 PM

The New Birth

'TIS a new life;--thoughts move not as they did
With slow uncertain steps across my mind,
In thronging haste fast pressing on they bid
The portals open to the viewless wind
That comes not save when in the dust is laid
The crown of pride that gilds each mortal brow,
And from before man's vision melting fade
The heavens and earth;--their walls are falling now.--
Fast crowding on, each thought asks utterance strong;
Storm-lifted waves swift rushing to the shore,
On from the sea they send their shouts along,
Back through the cave-worn rocks their thunders roar;
And I a child of God by Christ made free
Start from death's slumbers to Eternity.

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:09:25 PM

Life

IT is not life upon Thy gifts to live,
But, to grow fixed with deeper roots in Thee;
And when the sun and shower their bounties give,
To send out thick-leaved limbs; a fruitful tree,
Whose green head meets the eye for many a mile,
Whose moss-grown arms their rigid branches rear,
And full-faced fruits their blushing welcome smile
As to its goodly shade our feet draw near;
Who tastes its gifts shall never hunger more,
For 'tis the Father spreads the pure repast,
Who, while we eat, renews the ready store,
Which at his bounteous board must ever last;
For none the bridegroom's supper shall attend,
Who will not hear and make his word their friend.

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:09:34 PM

Psyche

I SAW a worm, with many a fold;
It spun itself a sliken tomb;
And there in winter time enrolled,
It heeded not the cold or gloom.

Within a small, snug nook it lay,
Nor snow nor sleet could reach it there,
Nor wind was felt in gusty day,
Nor biting cold of frosty air.

Spring comes with bursting buds and grass,
Around him stirs a warmer breeze;
The chirping insects by him pass,
His hiding place not yet he leaves.

But summer came; its fervid breath
Was felt within the sleeper's cell;
And, waking from his sleep of death,
I saw him crawl from out his shell

Slow and with pain he first moved on,
And of the day he seemed to be;
A day passed by; the worm was gone,
It soared on golden pinions free!

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:09:45 PM

Soul-Sickness

HOW many of the body's health complain,
When they some deeper malady conceal;
Some unrest of the sould, some secret pain,
Which thus its presence doth to theem reveal.
Vain would we seek, by the physician's aid,
A name for this soul-sickness e'er to find;
A remedy for health and strength decayed,
Whose cause and cure are wholly of the mind
To higher nature is the soul allied,
And restless seeks its being's Source to know;
Finding not health nor strength in aught beside;
How often vainly sought in things below,
Whether in sunny clime, or sacred stream,
Or plant of wondrous powers of which we dream!

Jones Very

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:09:54 PM

The Evening Darkens Over

THE evening darkens over
After a day so bright,
The windcapt waves discover
That wild will be the night.
There's sound of distant thunder.

The latest sea-birds hover
Along the cliff's sheer height;
As in the memory wander
Last flutterings of delight,
White wings lost on the white.

There's not a ship in sight;
And as the sun goes under,
Thick clouds conspire to cover
The moon that should rise yonder.
Thou art alone, fond lover.

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:11:53 PM

My Delight and Thy Delight

MY delight and thy delight
Walking, like two angels white,
In the gardens of the night:

My desire and thy desire
Twinning to a tongue of fire,
Leaping live, and laughing higher;
Thro' the everlasting strife
In the mystery of life.

Love, from whom the world begun,
Hath the secret of the sun.

Love can tell and love alone,
Whence the million stars are strewn,
Why each atom knows its own,
How, in spite of woe and death,
Gay is life, and sweet is breath:

This he taught us, this we knew,
Happy in his science true,
Hand in hand as we stood
'Neath the shadows of the wood,
Heart to heart as we lay
In the dawning of the day.

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:12:03 PM

Nightingales

BEAUTIFUL must be the mountains whence ye come,
And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams wherefrom
    Ye learn your song:
Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,
Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air
    Bloom the year long!

Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:
Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,
    A throe of the heart,
Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,
No dying cadence, nor long sigh can sound,
    For all our art.

Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men
We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,
    As night is withdrawn
From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,
Dream, while the innumerable choir of day
    Welcome the dawn.

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:12:14 PM

Low Barometer

THE south-wind strengthens to a gale,
Across the moon the clouds fly fast,
The house is smitten as with a flail,
The chimney shudders to the blast.

On such a night, when air has loosed
Its guardian grasp on blood and brain,
Old terrors then of god or ghost
Creep from their caves to life again.

And reason kens he herits in
A haunted house. Tenants unknown
Assert their squalid lease of sin
With earlier title than his own.

Unbodied presences, the packed
Pollution and remorse of Time,
Slipped from oblivion reenact
The horrors of unhouseld crime.

Some men would quell the thing with prayer
Whose sightless footsteps pad the floor,
Whose fearful trespass mounts the stair
Or bursts the locked forbidden door.

Some have seen corpses long interred
Escape from hallowing control,
Pale charnel forms--nay ev'n have heard
The shrilling of a troubled soul,

That wanders till the dawn hath crossed
The dolorous dark, or Earth hath wound
Closer her storm-spread cloke, and thrust
The baleful phantoms underground.

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:12:22 PM

I Love All Beauteous Things

I LOVE all beauteous things,
I seek and adore them;
God hath no better praise,
And man in his hasty days
Is honoured for them.

I too will something make
And joy in the making!
Altho' tomorrow it seem'
Like the empty words of a dream
Remembered, on waking.

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:12:32 PM

London Snow

WHEN men were all asleep the snow came flying,
In large white flakes falling on the city brown,
Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,
Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town;
Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing;
Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:
Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing;
Hiding difference, making unevenness even,
Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.
All night it fell, and when full inches seven
It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness,
The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven;
And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness
Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare:
The eye marvelled--marvelled at the dazzling whiteness;
The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air;
No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling,
And the busy morning cries came thin and spare.
Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling,
They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze
Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing;
Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees;
Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder,
"O look at the trees!" they cried, "O look at the trees!"
With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder,
Following along the white deserted way,
A country company long dispersed asunder:
When now already the sun, in pale display
Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below
His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day.
For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow;
And trains of sombre men, past tale of number,
Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go:
But even for them awhile no cares encumber
Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken,
The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber
At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken.

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:12:41 PM

A Passer-By

WHITHER, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding,
Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West,
That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding,
Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?
Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest,
When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling,
Wilt thou glide on the blue Pacific, or rest
Ina summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.

I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest,
Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air:
I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest,
And anchor queen of the strange shipping there,
Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare;
Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capped, grandest
Peak, that is over the feathery palms more fair
Than thou, so upright, so stately, and still thou standest.

And yet, O splendid ship, unhailed and nameless,
I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine
That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless,
Thy port assured in a happier land than mine.
But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine,
As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding,
From the proud nostril curve of a prow's line
In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:12:53 PM

"For Beauty Being the Best of All We Know"

FOR beauty being the best of all we know
Sums up the unsearchable and secret aims
Of nature, and on joys whose earthly names
Were never told can form and sense bestow;
And man has sped his instinct to outgo
The step of science; and against her shames
Imagination stakes out heavenly claims,
Building a tower above the head of woe.
Nor is there fairer work for beauty found
Than that she win in nature her release
From all the woes that in the world abound;
Nay with his sorrow may his love increase,
If from man's greater need beauty redound,
And claim his tears for homage of his peace

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:13:04 PM

"I Have Loved Flowers That Fade"

I have loved flowers that fade,
Within whose magic tents
Rich hues have marriage made
With sweet unmemoried scents:
A honeymoon delight--
A joy of love at sight,
That ages in an hour--
My song be like a flower!

I have loved airs that die
Before their charm is writ
Along a liquid sky
Trembling to welcome it.
Notes, that with pulse of fire
Proclaim the spirit's desire,
Then die, and are nowhere--
My song be like an air!

Die, song, die like a breath,
And wither as a bloom;
Fear not a flowery death,
Dread not an airy tomb!
Fly with delight, fly hence!
'Twas thine love's tender sense
To feast; now on thy bier
Beauty shall shed a tear.

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:13:12 PM

North Wind in October

IN the golden glade the chestnuts are fallen all;
From the sered boughs of the oak the acorns fall:
The beech scatters her ruddy fire;
The lime hath stripped to the cold,
And standeth naked above her yellow attire:
The larch thinneth her spire
To lay the ways of the wood with cloth of gold.

Out of the golden-green and white
Of the brake the fir-trees stand upright
In the forest of flame, and wave aloft
To the blue of heaven their blue-green tuftings soft.

But swiftly in shuddering gloom the splendours fail,
As the harrying North-wind beareth
A cloud of skirmishing hail
The grieved woodland to smite:
In a hurricane through the trees he teareth,
Raking the boughs and the leaves rending,
And whistleth to the descending
Blows of his icy flail.
Gold and snow he mixeth in spite,
And whirleth afar; as away on his winnowing flight
He passeth, and all again for ahile is bright.

Posted on 6/6/2007 10:13:22 PM


Posted on 6/6/2007 10:31:36 PM

THE LANDING.
   ``Just the place for a Snark!'' the Bellman cried,
        As he landed his crew with care;
   Supporting each man on the top of the tide
        By a finger entwined in his hair.

   ``Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:
        That alone should encourage the crew.
   Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice:
        What I tell you three times is true.''

   The crew was complete: it included a Boots---
        A maker of Bonnets and Hoods---
   A Barrister, brought to arrange their disputes---
        And a Broker, to value their goods.

   A Billiard-marker, whose skill was immense,
        Might perhaps have won more than his share---
   But a Banker, engaged at enourmous expense,
        Had the whole of their cash in his care.

   There was also a Beaver, that paced on the deck,
        Or would sit making lace in the bow:
   And had often (the Bellman said) saved them from wreck,
        Though none of the sailors knew how.

   There was one who was famed for the number of things
        He forgot when he entered the ship:
   His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings,
        And the clothes he had bought for the trip.

   He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed,
        With his name painted clearly on each:
   But, since he omitted to mention the fact,
        They were all left behind on the beach.

   The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because
        He had seven coats on when he came,
   With three pairs of boots---but the worst of it was,
        He had wholly forgotten his name.

   He would answer to ``Hi!'' or to any loud cry,
        Such as ``Fry me!'' or ``Fritter my wig!''
   To ``What-you-may-call-um!'' or ``What-was-his-name!''
        But especially ``Thing-um-a-jig!''

   While, for those who preferred a more forcible word,
        He had different names from these:
   His intimate friends called him ``Candle-ends'',
        And his enemies ``Toasted-cheese''.

   ``His form is ungainly---his intellect small---''
        (So the Bellman would often remark)
   ``But his courage is perfect! And that, after all,
        Is the thing that one needs with a Snark.''

   He would joke with hyaenas, returning their stare,
        With an impudent wag of the head:
   And he once went a walk, paw-in-paw, with a bear,
        ``Just to keep up its spirits'', he said.

   He came as a Baker: but owned, when too late---
        And it drove the poor Bellman half-mad---
   He could only bake Bridecake---for which, I may state,
        No materials were to be had.

   The last of the crew needs especial remark,
        Though he looked an incredible dunce:
   He had just one idea---but, that one being ``Snark'',
        The good Bellman engaged him at once.

   He came as a Butcher: but gravely declared,
        When the ship had been sailing a week,
   He could only kill Beavers. The Bellman looked scared,
        And was almost too frightened to speak:

   But at length he explained, in a tremulous tone,
        There was only one Beaver on board;
   And that was a tame one he had of his own,
        Whose death would be deeply deplored.

   The Beaver, who happened to hear the remark,
        Protested, with tears in its eyes,
   That not even the rapture of hunting the Snark
        Could atone for that dismal surprise!

   It strongly advised that the Butcher should be
        Conveyed in a separate ship:
   But the Bellman declared that would never agree
        With the plans he had made for the trip:

   Navigation was always a difficult art,
        Though with only one ship and one bell:
   And he feared he must really decline, for his part,
        Undertaking another as well.

   The Beaver's best course was, no doubt, to procure,
        A second-hand dagger-proof coat---
   So the Baker advised it---and next, to insure
        Its life in some Office of note:

   This the Banker suggested, and offered for hire
        (On moderate terms), or for sale,
   Two excellent Policies, one Against Fire,
        And one Against Damage From Hail.

   Yet still, ever after that sorrowful day,
        Whenever the Butcher was by,
   The Beaver kept looking the opposite way,
        And appeared unaccountably shy.


Posted on 6/7/2007 2:53:57 PM

THE BELLMAN'S SPEECH.
   The Bellman himself they all praised to the skies---
        Such a carriage, such ease and such grace!
   Such solemnity, too! One could see he was wise,
        The moment one looked in his face!

   He had bought a large map representing the sea,
        Without the least vestige of land:
   And the crew were much pleased when they found it to be
        A map they could all understand.

   ``What's the good of Mercator's North Poles and Equators,
        Tropics, Zones, and Meridian Lines?''
   So the Bellman would cry: and the crew would reply
        ``They are merely conventional signs!

   ``Other maps are such shapes, with their islands and capes!
        But we've got our brave Bellman to thank''
   (So the crew would protest) ``that he's bought us the best---
        A perfect and absolute blank!''

   This was charming, no doubt: but they shortly found out
        That the Captain they trusted so well
   Had only one notion for crossing the ocean,
        And that was to tingle his bell.

   He was thoughtful and grave---but the orders he gave
        Were enough to bewilder a crew.
   When he cried ``Steer to starboard, but keep her head larboard!''
        What on earth was the helmsman to do?

   Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes:
        A thing, as the Bellman remarked,
   That frequently happens in tropical climes,
        When a vessel is, so to speak, ``snarked''.

   But the principal failing occurred in the sailing,
        And the Bellman, perplexed and distressed,
   Said he _had_ hoped, at least, when the wind blew due East,
        That the ship would _not_ travel due West!

   But the danger was past---they had landed at least,
        With their boxes, portmanteaus, and bags:
   Yet at first sight the crew were not pleased with the view,
        Which consisted of chasms and crags.

   The Bellman pereived that their spirits were low,
        And repeated in musical tone,
   Some jokes he had kept for a season of woe---
        But the crew would do nothing but groan.

   He served out some grog with a liberal hand,
        And bade them sit down on the beach:
   And they could not but own that their Captain looked grand,
        As he stood and delivered his speech.

   ``Friends, Romans, and countrymen, lend me your ears!''
        (They were all of them fond of quotations:
   So they drank to his health, and they gave him three cheers,
        While he served out additional rations.)

   ``We have sailed many months, we have sailed many weeks,
        (Four weeks to the month you may mark),
   But never as yet ('tis your Captain who speaks)
        Have we caught the least glimpse of a Snark!

   ``We have sailed many weeks, we have sailed many days,
        (Seven days to the week I allow),
   But a Snark, on the which we might lovingly gaze,
        We have never beheld till now!

   ``Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again,
        The five unmistakable marks
   By which you may know, wheresoever you go,
        The warranted genuine Snarks.

   ``Let us take them in order. The first is the taste,
        Which is meagre and hollow, but crisp:
   Like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist,
        With a flavour of Will-o-the-wisp.

   ``Its habit of getting up late you'll agree
        That it carries too far, when I say
   That it frequently breakfasts at five-o'clock tea,
        And dines on the following day.

   ``The third is its slowness in taking a jest.
        Should you happen to venture on one,
   It will sigh like a thing that is deeply distressed:
        And it always looks grave at a pun.

   ``The fourth is its fondness for bathing-machines,
        Which it constantly carries about,
   And belives that they add to the beauty of scenes---
        A sentiment open to doubt.

   ``The fifth is ambition. It next will be right
        To describe each particular batch:
   Distinguishing those that have feathers, and bite,
        From those that have whiskers, and scratch.

   ``For, although common Snarks do no manner of harm,
        Yet I feel it my duty to say,
   Some are Boojums---'' The Bellman broke off in alarm,
        For the Baker had fainted away.


Posted on 6/7/2007 2:54:10 PM

THE BAKER'S TALE.
   They roused him with muffins---they roused him with ice---
        They roused him with mustard and cress---
   The roused him with jam and judicious advice---
        They set him conundrums to guess.

   When at length he sat up and was able to speak,
        His sad story he offered to tell;
   And the Bellman cried ``Silence! Not even a shriek!''
        And excitedly tingled his bell.

   There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream,
        Scarcely even a howl or a groan,
   As the man they called ``Ho!'' told his story of woe
        In an antediluvian tone.

   ``My father and mother were honest, though poor---''
        ``Skip all that!'' cried the Bellman in haste.
   ``If it once becomes dark, there's no chance of a Snark---
        We have hardly a minute to waste!''

   ``I skip forty years'', said the Baker, in tears,
        ``And proceed without further remark
   To the day when you took me aboard of your ship
        To help you in hunting the Snark.

   ``A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named)
        Remarked, when I bade him farewell---''
   ``Oh, skip your dear uncle!'' the Bellman exclaimed,
        As he angrily tingled his bell.

   ``He remarked to me then'', said that mildest of men,
        `` `If your Snark be a Snark, that is right:
   Fetch it home by all means---you may serve it with greens,
        And it's handy for striking a light.

   `` `You may seek it with thimbles---and seek it with care;
        You may hunt it with forks and hope;
   You may threaten its life with a railway-share;
        You may charm it with smiles and soap---' ''

   (``That's exactly the method'', the Bellman bold
        In a haste parenthesis cried,
   ``That's exactly the way I have always been told
        That the capture of Snarks should be tried!'')

   `` `But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day,
        If your Snark be a Boojum! For then
   You will softly and suddenly vanish away,
        And never be met with again!'

   ``It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul,
        When I think of my uncle's last words:
   And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl
        Brimming over with quivering curds!

   ``It is this, it is this---'' ``We have had that before!''
        The Bellman indignantly said.
   And the Baker replied ``Let me say it once more.
        It is this, it is this that I dread!

   ``I engage with the Snark---every night after dark---
        In a dreamy delirious fight:
   I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes,
        And I use it for striking a light:

   ``But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day,
        In a moment (of this I am sure),
   I shall softly and suddenly vanish away---
        And the notion I cannot endure!''


Posted on 6/7/2007 2:54:22 PM

THE HUNTING.
   The Bellman looked uffish, and wrinkled his brow.
        ``If only you'd spoken before!
   It's excessively awkward to mention it now,
        With the Snark, so to speak, at the door!

   ``We should all of us grieve, as you well may believe,
        If you never were met with again---
   But surely, my man, when the voyage began,
        You might have suggested it then?

   ``It's excessively awkward to mention it now---
        As I think I've already remarked.''
   And the man they called ``Hi!'' replied, with a sigh,
        ``I informed you the day we embarked.

   ``You may charge me with murder---or want of sense---
        (We are all of us weak at times):
   But the slightest approach to a false pretence
        Was never among my crimes!

   ``I said it in Hebrew---I said it in Dutch---
        I said it in German and Greek:
   But I wholly forgot (and it vexes me much)
        That English is what you speak!''

   ``'Tis a pitiful tale,'', said the Bellman, whose face
        Had grown longer at every word:
   ``But, now that you've stated the whole of your case,
        More debate would be simply absurd.

   ``The rest of my speech'' (he explained to his men)
        ``You shall hear when I've leisure to speak it.
   But the Snark is at hand, let me tell you again!
        'Tis your glorious duty to seek it!

   ``To seek it with thimbles, to seek it with care;
        To pursue it with forks and hope;
   To threaten its life with a railway-share;
        To charm it with smiles and soap!

   ``For the Snark's a peculiar creature, that won't
        Be caught in a commonplace way.
   Do all that you know, and try all that you don't:
        Not a chance must be wasted to-day!

   ``For England expects---I forbear to proceed:
        'Tis a maxim tremendous, but trite:
   And you'd best be unpacking the things that you need
        To rig yourselves out for the fight.''

   Then the Banker endorsed a blank cheque (which he crossed),
        And changed his loose silver for notes.
   The Baker with care combed his whiskers and hair,
        And shook the dust out of his coats.

   The Boots and the Broker were sharpening a spade---
        Each working the grindstone in turn:
   But the Beaver went on making lace, and displayed
        No interest in the concern:

   Thought the Barrister tried to appeal to its pride,
        And vainly proceeded to cite
   A number of cases, in which making laces
        Had been proved an infringement of right.

   The maker of Bonnets ferociously planned
        A novel arrangement of bows:
   While the Billiard-marker with quivering hand
        Was chalking the tip of his nose.

   But the Butcher turned nervous, and dressed himself fine,
        With yellow kid gloves and a ruff---
   Said he felt it exactly like going to dine,
        Which the Bellman declared was all ``stuff''.

   ``Introduce me, now there's a good fellow,'', he said,
        ``If we happen to meet it together!''
   And the Bellman, sagaciously nodding his head,
        Said ``That must depend on the weather.''.

   The Beaver went simply galumphing about,
        At seeing the Butcher so shy:
   And even the Baker, though stupid and stout,
        Made an effort to wink with one eye.

   ``Be a man!'' said the Bellman in wrath, as he heard
        The Butcher beginning to sob.
   ``Should we meet with a Jubjub, that desperate bird,
        We shall need all our strength for the job!''

Posted on 6/7/2007 2:54:34 PM

Sea Fever

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 gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray 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

Posted on 6/7/2007 2:54:58 PM

Cargoes

QUINQUIREME of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amythysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rails, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

Posted on 6/7/2007 2:55:06 PM

A Wanderer's Song

A WIND'S in the heart of me, a fire's in my heels,
I am tired of brick and stone and rumbling wagon-wheels;
I hunger for the sea's edge, the limit of the land,
Where the wild old Atlantic is shouting on the sand.

Oh I'll be going, leaving the noises of the street,
To where a lifting foresail-foot is yanking at the sheet;
To a windy, tossing anchorage where yawls and ketches ride,
Oh I'l be going, going, until I meet the tide.

And first I'll hear the sea-wind, the mewing of the gulls,
The clucking, sucking of the sea about the rusty hulls,
The songs at the capstan at the hooker warping out,
And then the heart of me'll know I'm there or thereabout.

Oh I am sick of brick and stone, the heart of me is sick,
For windy green, unquiet sea, the realm of Moby Dick;
And I'll be going, going, from the roaring of the wheels,
For a wind's in the heart of me, a fire's in my heels.

Posted on 6/7/2007 2:55:14 PM

The West Wind

IT'S a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries;
I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.
For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills.
And April's in the west wind, and daffodils.

It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,
Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's like wine.
There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest,
And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.

"Will ye not come home brother? ye have been long away,
It's April, and blossom time, and white is the may;
And bright is the sun brother, and warm is the rain,--
Will ye not come home, brother, home to us again?

"The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run.
It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.
It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's brain,
To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.

"Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat,
So will ye not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?
I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,"
Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.

It's the white road westwards is the road I must tread
To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head,
To the violets, and the warm hearts, and the thrushes' song,
In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.

Posted on 6/7/2007 2:55:26 PM