CROSSING THE BAR SUNSET and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, 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, When I embark; 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 EDWARD FITZGERALD [1809-1883] THE LOQUACIOUS VESSELS As under cover of departing Day Once more within the Potter's house alone 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 Then said a Second-"Ne'er a peevish Boy 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- "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, [From THE RUBÁIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM.] ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING Go from me. [1806-1861] SONNETS Yet I feel that I shall stand Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore Without the sense of that which I forbore Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land IF I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. [From SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE.] ROBERT BROWNING [1812-1889] TWO SONGS I HEAP cassia, sandal-buds and stripes Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, And strew faint sweetness from some old II The year's at the spring The hill-side's dew-pearled; God's in his heaven All's right with the world! [From PIPPA PASSES.] 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 While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, The buttercups, the little children's dower |