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] 274 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, 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, So while the Vessels one by one were speaking, [From THE RUBÁLYÁT OF Omar Khayyam.] 27 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING Go from me. [1806-1861] SONNETS Yet I feel that I shall stand Without the sense of that which I forbore Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land And what I dream include thee, as the wine And when I sue God for myself, He hears that name of thine, And sees within my eyes the tears of two. Must taste of its own grapes. IF I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange Alas, I have grieved so I Yet love me-wilt thou? Open thine heart wide, And fold within the wet wings of thy dove. 97 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 In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. [From SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE.] 2.98 ROBERT BROWNING [1812-1889] TWO SONGS I HEAP cassia, sandal-buds and stripes Of labdanum, and aloe-balls, Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, And strew faint sweetness from some old 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 |