Ye that pipe and ye that play, What though the radiance which was once so bright Though nothing can bring back the hour Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring In the faith that looks through death, ΧΙ And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the Brooks, which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they: The innocent brightness of a new-born Day Is lovely yet; The Clouds that gather round the setting sun That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; William Wordsworth (1770-1850] THE WOMAN WOMAN NOT she with traitorous kiss her Saviour stung, She, while apostles shrank, could dangers brave, Eaton Stannard Barrett [1786-1820] WOMAN THERE in the fane a beauteous creature stands, A full-orbed bosom and a weight of care; Whose teeth like pearls, whose lips like cherries, show, And fawn-like eyes still tremble as they glow. From the Sanskrit of Calidasa SIMPLEX MUNDITIS From "Epicone" STILL to be neat, still to be dressed As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed: Though art's hid causes are not found, Give me a look, give me a face, Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: Than all the adulteries of art; They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. Ben Jonson [1573?-1637] DELIGHT IN DISORDER A SWEET disorder in the dress An erring lace, which here and there A winning wave, deserving note, A careless shoe-string, in whose tie Do more bewitch me than when art Is too precise in every part. Robert Herrick [1591-1674] A PRAISE OF HIS LADY GIVE place, you ladies, and begone! The virtue of her lively looks I wish to have none other books In each of her two crystal eyes It would you all in heart suffice I think Nature hath lost the mould Where she her shape did take; Or else I doubt if Nature could A Praise of His Lady She may be well compared Unto the Phoenix kind, Whose like was never seen nor heard, In life she is Diana chaste, In truth Penelope; In word and eke in deed steadfast. If all the world were sought so far, Her roseal color comes and goes With such a comely grace, More ruddier, too, than doth the rose At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet, Nor at no wanton play, Nor gazing in an open street, The modest mirth that she doth use Is mixed with shamefastness; All vice she doth wholly refuse, And hateth idleness. O Lord! it is a world to see Truly she doth so far exceed 365 How might I do to get a graff For all the rest are plain but chaff, This gift alone I shall her give: John Heywood [1497?-1580?] ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT I KNOW a thing that's most uncommon; (Envy, be silent and attend!) I know a reasonable woman, Handsome and witty, yet a friend. Not warped by passion, awed by rumor; Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly; An equal mixture of good-humor And sensible soft melancholy. "Has she no faults then (Envy says), Sir?" Yes, she has one, I must aver: When all the world conspires to praise her, The woman's deaf, and does not hear. Alexander Pope [1688-1744] PERFECT WOMAN SHE was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; |