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http://www.bartleby.com/101/index1f.html

William Ernest Henley. 1849–1903


  


Invictus


  






OUT of the night that covers me,



  Black as the pit from pole to pole,



I thank whatever gods may be



  For my unconquerable soul.






In the fell clutch of circumstance



  I have not winced nor cried aloud.



Under the bludgeonings of chance



  My head is bloody, but unbow’d.






Beyond this place of wrath and tears



  Looms but the Horror of the shade,



And yet the menace of the years



  Finds and shall find me unafraid.






It matters not how strait the gate,



  How charged with punishments the scroll,



I am the master of my fate:



  I am the captain of my soul.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830–1894


  


A Birthday


  






MY heart is like a singing bird



  Whose nest is in a water’d shoot;



My heart is like an apple-tree



  Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;



My heart is like a rainbow shell



  That paddles in a halcyon sea;



My heart is gladder than all these,



  Because my love is come to me.






Raise me a daïs of silk and down;



  Hang it with vair and purple dyes;



Carve it in doves and pomegranates,



  And peacocks with a hundred eyes;



Work it in gold and silver grapes,



  In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;



Because the birthday of my life



  Is come, my love is come to me.

Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809–1892


  


Summer Night


  






NOW sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
 


Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
 


Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
 


The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.
 


 


  Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,



And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.
 


 


  Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,
 


And all thy heart lies open unto me.
 


 


  Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
 


A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.



 


  Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
 


And slips into the bosom of the lake:
 


So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
 


Into my bosom and be lost in me.

Walter Savage Landor. 1775–1864


  


The Maid’s Lament


  






I LOVED him not; and yet now he is gone,
 


        I feel I am alone.
 


I check’d him while he spoke; yet, could he speak,
 


        Alas! I would not check.
 


For reasons not to love him once I sought,



        And wearied all my thought
 


To vex myself and him; I now would give
 


        My love, could he but live
 


Who lately lived for me, and when he found
 


        ‘Twas vain, in holy ground



He hid his face amid the shades of death.
 


        I waste for him my breath
 


Who wasted his for me; but mine returns,
 


        And this lorn bosom burns
 


With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,



        And waking me to weep
 


Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years
 


        Wept he as bitter tears.
 


‘Merciful God!’ such was his latest prayer,
 


        ‘These may she never share!’



Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold
 


        Than daisies in the mould,
 


Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,
 


        His name and life’s brief date.
 


Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe’er you be,



        And, O, pray too for me!

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772–1834


  


Work without Hope


  






ALL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—
 


The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—
 


And Winter, slumbering in the open air,
 


Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
 


And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,



Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
 


 


Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,
 


Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.
 


Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,
 


For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!



With lips unbrighten’d, wreathless brow, I stroll:
 


And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
 


Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,
 


And Hope without an object cannot live.

Sir Walter Scott. 1771–1832


  


Proud Maisie


  






PROUD Maisie is in the wood,
 


  Walking so early;
 


Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
 


  Singing so rarely.
 


 


‘Tell me, thou bonny bird,



  When shall I marry me?’
 


—’When six braw gentlemen
 


  Kirkward shall carry ye.’
 


 


‘Who makes the bridal bed,
 


  Birdie, say truly?’



—’The grey-headed sexton
 


  That delves the grave duly.
 


 


‘The glow-worm o’er grave and stone
 


  Shall light thee steady;
 


The owl from the steeple sing



  Welcome, proud lady!’

William Wordsworth. 1770–1850


  


Daffodils


  






I WANDER’D lonely as a cloud
 


  That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
 


When all at once I saw a crowd,
 


  A host, of golden daffodils;
 


Beside the lake, beneath the trees,



Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
 


 


Continuous as the stars that shine
 


  And twinkle on the Milky Way,
 


They stretch’d in never-ending line
 


  Along the margin of a bay:



Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
 


Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
 


 


The waves beside them danced; but they
 


  Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
 


A poet could not but be gay,



  In such a jocund company:
 


I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
 


What wealth the show to me had brought:
 


 


For oft, when on my couch I lie
 


  In vacant or in pensive mood,



They flash upon that inward eye
 


  Which is the bliss of solitude;
 


And then my heart with pleasure fills,
 


And dances with the daffodils.

Andrew Marvell. 1621–1678


  


To His Coy Mistress


  






HAD we but world enough, and time,
 


This coyness, Lady, were no crime
 


We would sit down and think which way
 


To walk and pass our long love’s day.
 


Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side



Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
 


Of Humber would complain. I would
 


Love you ten years before the Flood,
 


And you should, if you please, refuse
 


Till the conversion of the Jews.



My vegetable love should grow
 


Vaster than empires, and more slow;
 


An hundred years should go to praise
 


Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
 


Two hundred to adore each breast,



But thirty thousand to the rest;
 


An age at least to every part,
 


And the last age should show your heart.
 


For, Lady, you deserve this state,
 


Nor would I love at lower rate.



  But at my back I always hear
 


Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
 


And yonder all before us lie
 


Deserts of vast eternity.
 


Thy beauty shall no more be found,



Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
 


My echoing song: then worms shall try
 


That long preserved virginity,
 


And your quaint honour turn to dust,
 


And into ashes all my lust:



The grave ‘s a fine and private place,
 


But none, I think, do there embrace.
 


  Now therefore, while the youthful hue
 


Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
 


And while thy willing soul transpires



At every pore with instant fires,
 


Now let us sport us while we may,
 


And now, like amorous birds of prey,
 


Rather at once our time devour
 


Than languish in his slow-chapt power.



Let us roll all our strength and all
 


Our sweetness up into one ball,
 


And tear our pleasures with rough strife
 


Thorough the iron gates of life:
 


Thus, though we cannot make our sun



Stand still, yet we will make him run.

William Watson. b. 1858


  


Ode in May


  






LET me go forth, and share
 


  The overflowing Sun
 


  With one wise friend, or one
 


Better than wise, being fair,
 


Where the pewit wheels and dips



  On heights of bracken and ling,
 


And Earth, unto her leaflet tips,
 


  Tingles with the Spring.
 


 


What is so sweet and dear
 


  As a prosperous morn in May,



  The confident prime of the day,
 


And the dauntless youth of the year,
 


When nothing that asks for bliss,
 


  Asking aright, is denied,
 


And half of the world a bridegroom is,



  And half of the world a bride?
 


 


The Song of Mingling flows,
 


  Grave, ceremonial, pure,
 


  As once, from lips that endure,
 


The cosmic descant rose,



When the temporal lord of life,
 


  Going his golden way,
 


Had taken a wondrous maid to wife
 


  That long had said him nay.
 


 


For of old the Sun, our sire,



  Came wooing the mother of men,
 


  Earth, that was virginal then,
 


Vestal fire to his fire.
 


Silent her bosom and coy,
 


  But the strong god sued and press’d;



And born of their starry nuptial joy
 


  Are all that drink of her breast.
 


 


And the triumph of him that begot,
 


  And the travail of her that bore,
 


  Behold they are evermore



As warp and weft in our lot.
 


We are children of splendour and flame,
 


  Of shuddering, also, and tears.
 


Magnificent out of the dust we came,
 


  And abject from the Spheres.



 


O bright irresistible lord!
 


  We are fruit of Earth’s womb, each one,
 


  And fruit of thy loins, O Sun,
 


Whence first was the seed outpour’d.
 


To thee as our Father we bow,



  Forbidden thy Father to see,
 


Who is older and greater than thou, as thou
 


  Art greater and older than we.
 


 


Thou art but as a word of his speech;
 


  Thou art but as a wave of his hand;



  Thou art brief as a glitter of sand
 


‘Twixt tide and tide on his beach;
 


Thou art less than a spark of his fire,
 


  Or a moment’s mood of his soul:
 


Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choir



  That chant the chant of the Whole.