SUNSET and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar.
EDWARD FITZGERALD [1809-1883]
As under cover of departing Day Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazán away,
Once more within the Potter's house alone I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.
Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small, That stood along the floor and by the wall; And some loquacious Vessels were; and some Listen'd perhaps, but never talk'd at all.
Said one among them-"Surely not in vain My substance of the common Earth was ta'en And to this Figure moulded, to be broke, Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again."
Then said a Second-"Ne'er a peevish Boy Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy; And He that with his hand the Vessel made Will surely not in after Wrath destroy."
After a momentary silence spake Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make;
"They sneer at me for leaning all awry: What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"
Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot— I think a Súfi pipkin-waxing hot-
"All this of Pot and Potter-Tell me then, Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"
"Why," said another, "Some there are who tell Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell
The luckless Pots he marr'd in making-Pish! He's a Good Fellow, and 't will all be well."
"Well," murmur'd one, "Let whoso make or buy, My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry:
But fill me with the old familiar Juice, Methinks I might recover by and by."
So while the Vessels one by one were speaking, The little Moon look'd in that all were seeking: And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother! Now for the Porter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!"
[From THE RUBÁIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM.]
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING [1806-1861]
Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore Alone upon the threshold of my door Of individual life, I shall command The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forbore- Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine With pulses that beat double. What I do And what I dream include thee, as the wine Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue God for myself, He hears that name of thine, And sees within my eyes the tears of two.
IF I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange And be all to me? Shall I never miss Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange, When I look up, to drop on a new range Of walls and floors, another home than this? Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change? That's hardest. If to conquer love, has tried, To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove; For grief indeed is love and grief beside. Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love. Yet love me-wilt thou? Open thine heart wide, And fold within the wet wings of thy dove.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace, I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,-I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
[From SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE.]
ROBERT BROWNING [1812-1889]
HEAP cassia, sandal-buds and stripes Of labdanum, and aloe-balls,
Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes From out her hair: such balsam falls Down sea-side mountain pedestals,
From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, Spent with the vast and howling main, To treasure half their island-gain.
And strew faint sweetness from some old Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud Which breaks to dust when once unrolled; Or shredded perfume, like a cloud From closet long to quiet vowed, With mothed and dropping arras hung, Mouldering her lute and books among, As when a queen, long dead, was young. [From PARACELSUS.]
The year's at the spring And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn:
All's right with the world!
HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD
Он, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England-now!
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops-at the bent spray's edge- That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower -Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
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