NEAREST THE DEAREST
Till Eve was brought to Adam, he A solitary desert trod, Though in the great society
Of nature, angels, and of God. If one slight column counterweighs The ocean, 'tis the Maker's law, Who deems obedience better praise Than sacrifice of erring awe.
THE FOREIGN LAND
A woman is a foreign land,
Of which, though there he settle young, A man will ne'er quite understand The customs, politics, and tongue. The foolish hie them post-haste through, See fashions odd and prospects fair, Learn of the language, "How d'ye do," And go and brag they have been there. The most for leave to trade apply,
For once, at Empire's seat, her heart, Then get what knowledge ear and eye Glean chancewise in the life-long mart.
And certain others, few and fit,
Attach them to the Court, and see
The Country's best, its accent hit,
And partly sound its polity.
Coventry Patmore [1823-1896]
I FILL this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven.
Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee Forth issue from the rose.
Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers; And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears
The image of themselves by turns,
The idol of past years!
Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain,
And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears,
When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers.
I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon—
Her health! and would on earth there stood
Some more of such a frame,
That life might be all poetry,
And weariness a name.
Edward Coate Pinkney [1802-1828]
HER face was very fair to see, So luminous with purity:- It had no roses, but the hue
Of lilies lustrous with their dew- Her very soul seemed shining through!
Her quiet nature seemed to be Tuned to each season's harmony. The holy sky bent near to her; She saw a spirit in the stir
Of solemn woods. The rills that beat Their mosses with voluptuous feet,
Went dripping music through her thought.
Sweet impulse came to her unsought From graceful things, and beauty took A sacred meaning in her look.
In the great Master's steps went she With patience and humility.
The casual gazer could not guess Half of her veiled loveliness;
Yet ah! what precious things lay hid
Beneath her bosom's snowy lid:- What tenderness and sympathy, What beauty of sincerity,
What fancies chaste, and loves, that grew In heaven's own stainless light and dew!
True woman was she day by day In suffering, toil, and victory. Her life, made holy and serene By faith, was hid with things unseen. She knew what they alone can know Who live above but dwell below.
Horatio Nelson Powers [1826-1890]
HER thoughts are like a flock of butterflies.
She has a merry love of little things,
And a bright flutter of speech, whereto she brings A threefold eloquence-voice, hands and eyes. Yet under all a subtle silence lies
As a bird's heart is hidden by its wings; And you shall seek through many wanderings The fairyland of her realities.
She hides herself behind a busy brain
A woman, with a child's laugh in her blood; A maid, wearing the shadow of motherhood- Wise with the quiet memory of old pain, As the soft glamor of remembered rain Hallows the gladness of a sunlit wood.
WHO dreamed that beauty passes like a dream? For these red lips, with all their mournful pride, Mournful that no new wonder may betide, Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam, And Usna's children died.
We and the laboring world are passing by: Amid men's souls, that waver and give place, Like the pale waters in their wintry race, Under the passing stars, foam of the sky, Lives on this lonely face.
Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode: Before you were, or any hearts to beat, Weary and kind one lingered by His seat; He made the world to be a grassy road Before her wandering feet.
William Butler Yeats [1865
THE SHEPHERDESS
SHE walks the lady of my delight- A shepherdess of sheep.
Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; She guards them from the steep.
She feeds them on the fragrant height,
And folds them in for sleep.
She roams maternal hills and bright, Dark valleys safe and deep. Into that tender breast at night
The chastest stars may peep. She walks-the lady of my delight— A shepherdess of sheep.
She holds her little thoughts in sight, Though gay they run and leap. She is so circumspect and right; She has her soul to keep.
She walks the lady of my delight-
A shepherdess of sheep.
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