Literary Works

From William Blake, "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell"

All Bibles or sacred codes have been the causes of the following Errors:
  1. That Man has two real existing principles: Viz: a Body & a Soul.
  2. That Energy, call'd Evil, is alone from the Body, &
 that Reason,
call'd Good, is alone from the Soul.
  3. That God will torment Man in Eternity for following his Energies.

But the following Contraries to these are True:
  1. Man has no Body distinct from his Soul; for that call'd Body is a
portion of Soul discern'd by the five Senses, the chief inlets of Soul
in this age.
  2. Energy is the only life and is from the Bod
y and Reason is the
bound or outward circumference of Energy.
  3. Energy is Eternal Delight.

Those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be
restrained; and the restrainer or Reason usurps its place & governs
the unwilling.
  And being restrain'd, it by degrees becomes passive, till it is only
the shadow of desire.
  The his
tory of this is written in Paradise Lost, & the Governor or
Reason is call'd Messiah....But in the Book of Job, Milton's Messiah
is call'd Satan.

For this history has been adopted by both parties.
  ...This is shewn in the Gospel, where [the Messiah] prays to the
Father to send the comforter, or Desire, that Reason may have Ideas to
build on, the Jehovah of the Bible being no other than he who d
wells
in flaming fire.

Know that after Christ's death, he became Jehovah.
  ...Note: The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels
& God, and at liberty when of Devils & Hell, is because he was a true
Poet and of the Devil's party without knowing it.

from Proverbs of Hell

He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence.
A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees.
He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.
Eternity is in love with the productions of time.
The most sublime act is 
to set another before you.
If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.
The eagle never lost so much time, as when he submitted to learn of the crow.
The fox provides for himself, but God provides for the lion.
He who has suffer'd you to i
mpose upon him knows you.
The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.
The weak in courage is strong in cunning.
As the plow follows words, so God rewards prayers.
Enough! or Too much!

The Prophets Isaiah and Ezekiel dined with me, and I asked them how
they dared so roundly to assert that God spoke to them; and whether
they did not think at the time that they would be misunderstood, & so
be the cause of imposition.

Isaiah answer'd: `I saw no God, nor heard any, in a finite organical
perception; but my senses discover'd the infinite in every thing, and
as I was perswaded, & remain confirm'd, that the voice of honest
indignation is the voice of God, I cared not for
 consequences, but
wrote.'

Then I asked: `does a firm persuasion that a thing is so, make it
so?'

He replied: `All poets believe that it does, & in ages of
imagination this firm perswasion removed mountains; but many are not
capable of a firm perswasion of any thing.'

...I then asked Ezekiel why he eat dung, & lay so long on his right
& left side? he answer'd, `the desire of raising other men into a
perception of the infinite...is he honest who resists his genius or
conscience only for the sake of present ease or gr
atification?'

Song

by William Blake a


Memory, hither come,
   And tune your merry notes;
And, while upon the wind 
   Your music floats,
I'll pore upon the stream,
Where sighing lovers dream,
And fish for fancies as they pass
Within the watery glass.

I'll drink of the clear stream,
   And hear the linnet's song;
And there I'll lie and dream
   The day along;
And, when night comes, I'll go
   To places fit for woe,
Walking along the darken'd valley
   With silent Melancholy.

The Fly

by William Blake 

Little Fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brush'd away.

Am not I 
A fly like thee?
Or art thou 
A man like me?

For I dance,
And drink, and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want 
Of thought is death;

Then am I 
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

A Poison Tree

William Blake (1757-1828)
from Songs of Innocence 

La traduction fran�aise suite.

I was angry with my friend,
I told my wrath, my wrath did end;
I was angry with my foe,
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

J'avais col�re � mon ami,
Je la lui dis, je ne l'eus plus ;
J'avais col�re � l'ennemi,
Ne le dis point, col�re cr�t.

And I water'd it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles,

Je l'arrosai de me angoisses,
Soir et matin, avec mes larmes ;
Je l'ensoleillai de sourires,
Et l'abusai de tendres charmes.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

Elle cr�t, le jour et la nuit,
A tant qu'elle porta son fruit ;
L'ennemi voit pomme qui brille
Et reconna�t qu'elle est mon bien ;

And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole:
In the morning I see
My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree.

Il s'est gliss� dans mon jardin
D�s que la nuit permit la fraude.
Quand au clair matin je regarde,
Je le vois �tendu sous l'arbre,
Mo
n ennemi.

traduction : Pierre Boutang

The gate of Hell

Dante Alighieri (1265--1321)
Inscription over the gate of Hell
from Inferno, iii, 1-9 

The English translation is below. 

``Per me si va nella citt� dolente;
per me si va nell' eterno dolore;
per me si va tra la perduta gente.

Giustiz
ia mosse il mio alto Fattore;
fecemi la divina Potestate,
la somma Sapienza e il primo Amore.

Dinanzi a me non fur cose create,
se non eterne, ed io eterno duro:
lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch' entrate.'' 

``Through me is the way into the doleful city;

through me the way into the eternal pain;
through me the way among the people lost. 

Justice moved my High Maker;
Divine Power made me,
Wisdom Supreme, and Primal Love. 

Before me were no things created,
but eternal; and eternal I endure;
abandon all ho
pe, ye that enter.''

On discontent

John Steinbeck
from Sweet Thursday 

Where does discontent start? You are warm enough, but you shiver. You are fed, yet
hunger gnaws you. You have loved, but your yearning wanders in new fields. And to
prod all these there's time, the basta
rd Time. The end of life is now not so terribly
far away---you can see it the way you see the finish line when you come into the
stretch---and your mind says, ``Have I worked enough? Have I eaten enough? Have I
loved enough?'' All of these, of course, are
 the foundations of man's greatest curse,
and perhaps his greatest glory. ``What has my life meant so far, and what can in mean
in the time left to me?'' And now we're coming to the wicked, poisoned dart: ``What
have I contributed in the Great Ledger? Wha
t am I worth?'' And this isn't vanity or
ambition. Men seem to be born with a debt they can never pay no matter how hard they
try. It piles up ahead of them. Man owes something to man. If he ignores the debt it
poisons him, and if he tries to make payment
s the debt only increases, and the
quality of his gift is the measure of the man.

D�claration des droits de 1789

D�claration des droits de l'homme et du citoyen du 26 ao�t 1789 

Le repr�sentants de peuple fran�ais, constitu�s en Assembl�e nationale, consid�rant
que l'ignorance, l'oubli ou le m�pris des droits de l'homme sont les seu
les causes
des malheurs publics et de la corruption des gouvernements, ont r�solu d'exposer,
dans une d�claration solennelle, les droits naturels, inali�nables et sacr�s de
l'homme, afin que cette d�claration, constamment pr�sente � tous les membres du co
rps
social, leur rappelle sans cesse leurs droits et leurs devoirs ; afin que les actes
du pouvoir l�gislatif et ceux du pouvoir ex�cutif, pouvant �tre a chaque instant
compar�s avec le but de toute institution politique, en soient plus respect�s ; afin
q
ue les r�clamations des citoyens, fond�es d�sormais sur des principes simples et
incontestables, tournent toujours au maintien de la Constitution et au bonheur de
tous. - En cons�quence, l'Assembl�e nationale reconna�t et d�clare, en pr�sence et
sous les 
auspices de l'�tre supr�me, les droits suivants de l'Homme et du Citoyen.

Article premier. - Les hommes naissent et demeurent libres et �gaux en droits. Les
distinctions sociales ne peuvent �tre fond�es que sur l'utilit� commune.

Article 2. - Le but de toute association politiques est la conservation des droits
naturels et imprescriptibles de l'homme. Ces droits sont la libert�, la propri�t�, la
s�ret� et la r�sistance � l'oppression.

Article 3. - Le principe de toute souverainet� r�side essentiellement dans la
Nation. Nul corps, nul individu ne peut exercer d'autorit� qui n'en �mane
express�ment.

Article 4. - La libert� consiste � pouvoir faire tout ce qui ne nuit pas � autrui :
ainsi, l'exercice des droits naturels de chaque homme n'a de bornes que celles qui
assurent aux autres membres de la soci�t� la jouissance de ces m�mes droits. Ces
bornes
 ne peuvent �tre d�termin�es que par la loi.

Article 5. - La loi n'a le droit de d�fendre que les actions nuisibles � la
soci�t�. Tout ce qui n'est pas d�fendu par la loi ne peut �tre emp�ch�, et nul ne
peut �tre contraint � faire ce quelle n'ordonne pas.

Article 6. - La loi est l'expression de la volont� g�n�rale. Tous les citoyens ont
droit de concourir personnellement, ou par leurs repr�sentants � sa formation. Elle
droit �tre la m�me pour tous, soit qu'elle prot�ge, soit qu'elle punisse. Tous les
cito
yens, �tant �gaux � ses yeux, sont �galement admissibles � toutes dignit�s,
places et emplois publics, selon leur capacit� et sans autre distinction que celle de
leurs vertus et de leurs talents.

Article 7. - Nul homme ne peut �tre accus�, arr�t� ni d�tendu que dans les cas
d�termin�s par la loi et selon les formes qu'elle a prescrites. Ceux qui sollicitent,
exp�dient, ex�cutent ou font ex�cuter des ordres arbitraires doivent �tre punis ;
mais to
ut citoyen appel� ou saisi en vertu de la loi doit ob�ir � l'instant : il se
rend coupable par la r�sistance.

Article 8. - La loi ne doit �tablir que des peines strictement et �videmment
n�cessaires, et nul ne peut �tre puni qu'en vertu d'une loi �tablie et promulgu�e
ant�rieurement de d�lit, et l�galement appliqu�e.

Article 9. - Tout homme �tant pr�sum� innocent jusqu'� ce qu'il ait �t� d�clar�
coupable, s'il est jug� indispensable de l'arr�ter, toute rigueur qui ne serait pas
n�cessaire pour s'assurer de sa personne doit �tre s�v�rement r�prim�e par la loi.

Article 10. - Nul ne doit �tre inqui�t� pour ses opinions, m�me religieuses, pourvu
que leur manifestation ne trouble pas l'ordre public �tabli par la loi.

Article 11. - La libre communication de pens�es et des opinions est un des droits
le plus pr�cieux de l'homme ; tout citoyen peut donc parler, �crire, imprimer
librement, sauf � r�pondre de l'abus de cette libert� dans les cas d�termin�s par la
loi.

Article 12. - La garantie des droits de l'homme et du citoyen n�cessite une force
publique ; cette force est donc institu�e pour l'avantage de tous, et non pour
l'utilit� particuli�re de ceux � qui elle est confi�e.

Article 13. - Pour l'entretien de la force publique, et pour les d�penses
d'administration, une contribution commune est indispensable ; elle doit �tre
�galement r�partie entre tous les citoyens, en raison de leurs facult�s.

Article 14. - Les citoyens ont le droit de constater, par eux-m�mes ou par leurs
repr�sentants, la n�cessit� de la contribution publique, de la consentir librement,
d'en suivre l'emploi, et d'en d�terminer la quotit�, l'assiette, le recouvrement, et
la d
ur�e.

Article 15. - La soci�t� a le droit de demander compte � tout agent public de son
administration.

Article 16. - Toute soci�t� dans laquelle la garantie des droits n'est pas assur�e,
ni la s�paration des pouvoirs d�termin�e, n'a point de constitution.

Article 17. - La propri�t� �tant un droit inviolable et sacr�, nul ne peut en �tre
priv�, si ce n'est lorsque la n�cessit� publique, l�galement constat�e, l'exige
�videmment, et sous la condition d'une juste et pr�alable indemnit�.

Sylvia Plath

I Am Vertical 

 
But I would rather be horizontal.
I am not a tree with my root in the soil
Sucking up minerals and motherly love
So that each March I may gleam into leaf, 
Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
Attracting my share of Ahs and
 spectacularly painted, 
Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a tree is immortal
And a flower-head not tall, but more startling, 
And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.

Tonight, in the infinitesimallight of the stars, 
The tre
es and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping 
I must most perfectly resemble them--
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the  s
ky and I are in open conversation, 
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.

Sylvia Plath

Lady Lazarus 

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it_____

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade, 
My right foot

A paperweight, 
My featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?-------

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh 
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The Peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand in foot ------
The big strip tease.
Gentleman , ladies

These are my hands 
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant 
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart---
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair on my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus, 
I am your valuable, 
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap, 
A wedding ring, 
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair      
And I eat men like air.

Fever 103

by Sylvia Plath

Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as the triple

Tongues of dull, fat Cerberus
Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable
Of licking clean

The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tinder cries.
The indelible smell

Of a snuffed candle!
Love, love, the low smokes roll
From me like Isadora's scarves, I'm in a fright

One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.
Such yellow sullen smokes
Make their own element. They will not rise,

But trundle round the globe
Choking the aged and the meek,
The weak

Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging its hanging garden in the air,

Devilish leopard!
Radiation turned it white
And killed it in an hour.

Greasing the bodies of adulterers
Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.
The sin. The sin.

Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.

Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken
Water, water make me retch.

I am too pure for you or anyone.
Your body
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern--

My head a moon
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.

Does not my heat astound you. And my light.
All by myself I am a huge camellia
Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.

I think I am going up,
I think I may rise--
The beads of hot metal fly, and I, love, I

Am a pure acetylene
Virgin
Attended by roses,

By kisses, by cherubim,
By whatever these pink things mean.
Not you, nor him

Not him, nor him
(My selves dissolving, old whore petticoats)--
To Paradise.

You're

by Sylvia Plath

Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from 
the Fourth
Of July to All Fool's Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.

Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our travelled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean
 slate, with your own face on.

"somewhere i have never
 travelled, gladly
beyond
any experience, your
                                                                        eyes have their
                                                                        silence: 
             
                                                           in your most frail
                                                                        gesture are things
                                                                        which enclose 
me,
                                                                        or which i cannot touch
                                                                        because they are too
                                                              
          near 

                                                                        your slightest look
                                                                        easily will unclose me 
                                                  
                      though i have closed
                                                                        myself as fingers, 
                                                                        you open always petal
by petal myself as Spring 
opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose 

or if your wish be to close me, i and 
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines 
the snow carefully everywhere descending; 

nothing which we are to 
perceive in this world equals 
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture 
compels me with the colour of its countries, 
rendering death and forever with each breathing 

(i do not know what it is about you that closes 
and opens; only something i
n me understands 
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands" 

by ee cummings

John Keats

Ode to Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 
       Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
       With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; 
To bend with apples the mossed c
ottage-trees, 
       And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 
              To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
       With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, 
And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
Until they think warm days wil
l never cease, 
       For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 
       Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 
       Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, 
       Drowsed with the f
ume of poppies, while thy hook 
              Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
       Steady thy laden head across a brook; 
       Or by a cider-press, with patient look, 
              Thou w
atchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? 
       Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -- 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 
       And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; 
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn 

       Among the river sallows, borne aloft 
              Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 
       Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft 
       The redbreast whistles from a garden-cro
ft, 
              And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

To Solitude

O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, 
       Let it not be among the jumbled heap 
       Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep, -- 
Nature's observatory -- whence the dell, 
Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, 
       May
 seem a span; let me thy vigils keep 
       'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap 
Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell. 
But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee, 
       Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, 
 
      Whose words are images of thoughts refin'd, 
Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be 
       Almost the highest bliss of human-kind, 
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.

Ode on Melancholy

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist 
       Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; 
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed 
       By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; 
Make not your rosary of yew-berries, 
      
 Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be 
              Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; 
       For shade to shade will come too drowsily, 
              And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall 
       Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, 
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, 
       And hides the green hill in an April shroud; 
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, 
       Or on the rainbow of
 the salt sand-wave, 
              Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, 
       Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, 
              And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty -- Beauty that must die; 
       And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips 
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, 
       Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips; 
Ay, in the very temple of delight 
       Veiled Melancholy has
 her sovran shrine, 
              Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
       Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; 
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, 
              And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

Hymn To Apollo

God of the golden bow, 
       And of the golden lyre, 
And of the golden hair, 
       And of the golden fire, 
              Charioteer 
              Of the patient year,
       Where -- where slept thine ire, 
When like a blank idiot 
I put on thy wreath, 
       Thy laurel, thy glory, 
       The light of thy story, 
Or was I a worm -- too low crawling for death? 
       O Delphic Apollo!

The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd, 
       The Thunderer frown'd and frown'd; 
The eagle's feathery mane 
       For wrath became stiffen'd -- the sound 
              Of breeding thunder 
              Went drowsily under,
       Muttering to be unbound
. 
O why didst thou pity, and beg for a worm? 
       Why touch thy soft lute 
       Till the thunder was mute, 
Why was I not crush'd -- such a pitiful germ? 
       O Delphic Apollo!

The Pleiades were up, 
       Watching the silent air; 
The seeds and roots in Earth 
       Were swelling for summer fare; 
              The Ocean, its neighbor, 
              Was at his old labor,
       When, who -- who did dare 
To tie for a moment
, thy plant round his brow, 
       And grin and look proudly, 
       And blaspheme so loudly, 
And live for that honor, to stoop to thee now? 
       O Delphic Apollo!

To Mrs. Reynolds's Cat

Cat! who hast pass'd thy grand climacteric, 
       How many mice and rats hast in thy days 
       Destroy'd? -- How many tidbits stolen? Gaze 
With those bright languid segments green, and prick 
Those velvet ears -- but pr'ythe
e do not stick 
       Thy latent talons in me -- and upraise 
       Thy gentle mew -- and tell me all thy frays 
Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick. 
Nay, look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists -- 
       For all the wheezy asthma, -- and fo
r all 
Thy tail's tip is nick'd off -- and though the fists 
       Of many a maid have given thee many a maul, 
Still is that fur as soft as when the lists 
       In youth thou enter'dst on glass-bottled wall.

William Wordstworth

Untitled

My heart leaps up when I behold 
       A rainbow in the sky: 
So was it when my life began; 
So is it now I am a man; 
So be it when I shall grow old, 
       Or let me die! 
The Child is father of the Man; 
And I could wi
sh my day to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety.

The Green Linnet

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed 
Their snow-white blossoms on my head, 
With brightest sunshine round me spread 
       Of spring's unclouded weather, 
In this sequestered nook how sweet 
To sit upon my orchard-seat!

And birds and flowers once more to greet, 
       My last year's friends together.

One have I marked, the happiest guest 
In all this covert of the blest: 
Hail to Thee, far above the rest 
       In joy of voice and pinion! 
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array, 
Presiding Spirit here today, 
Dost lead the revels of the May; 
       And 
this is thy dominion.

While bird, and butterflies, and flowers, 
Make all one band of paramours, 
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, 
       Art sole in thy employment:

My dazzled sight he oft deceives, 
A Brother of the dancing leaves; 
Then flits, and from the cottage eaves 
       Pours forth his song in gushes; 
As if by that exulting strain 
He mocked and treated with disdain 
The voiceless Form he chose to feign,
 
       While fluttering in the bushes.The Green Linnet

Sonnet XIII

While not a leaf seems faded; while the fields,
With ripening harvest prodigally fair,
In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air,
Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields
His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields
Of bitter change, and 
bids the flowers beware;
And whispers to the silent birds, "Prepare
Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields."
For me, who under kindlier laws belong
To Nature's tuneful choir, this rustling dry
Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky,

Announce a season potent to renew,
Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song,
And nobler cares than listless summer knew.

Sonnet XIV

How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright
The effluence from yon distant mountain's head,
Which, strewn with snow smooth as the sky can shed,
Shines like another sun -- on mortal sight
Uprisen, as if to check approaching Night,
And all her
 twinkling stars. Who now would tread,
If so he might, yon mountain's glittering head -- 
Terrestrial, but a surface, by the flight
Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing,
Unswept, unstained? Nor shall the aerial Powers
Dissolve that beauty, destined to e
ndure,
White, radiant, exquisitely pure,
Through all vicissitudes, till genial Spring
Has filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers.

The Longest Day

Let us quit the leafy arbor,
And the torrent murmuring by;
For the sun is in his harbor,
Weary of the open sky.

Evening now unbinds the fetters
Fashioned by the glowing light;
All that breathe are thankful debtors
To the harbinger of night.

Yet by some grave thoughts attended
Eve renews her calm career;
For the day that now is ended,
Is the longest of the year.

Dora! sport, as now thou sportest,
On this platform, light and free;
Take thy bliss, while longest, shortest,
Are indifferent to thee!

Who would check the happy feeling
That inspires the linnet's song?
Who would stop the swallow, wheeling
On her pinions swift and strong?

Yet at this impressive season,
Words which tenderness can speak
From the truths of homely reason,
Might exalt the loveliest cheek;

And, while shades to shades succeeding
Steal the landscape from the sight,
I would urge this moral pleading,
Last forerunner of "Good night!"

Summer ebbs; -- each day that follows
Is a reflux from on high,
Tending to the darksome hollows
Where the frosts of winter lie.

He who governs the creation,
In his providence, assigned
Such a gradual declination
To the life of human kind.

Yet we mark it not; -- fruits redden,
Fresh flowers blow, as flowers have blown,
And the heart is loth to deaden
Hopes that she so long hath known.

Be thou wiser, youthful Maiden!
And when thy decline shall come,
Let not dowers, or boughs fruit-laden,
Hide the knowledge of thy doom.

Now, even now, ere wrapped in slumber,
Fix thine eyes upon the sea
That absorbs time, space, and number;
Look thou to Eternity!

Follow thou the flowing river
On whose breast are thither borne
All deceived, and each deceiver,
Through the gates of night and morn;

Through the year's successive portals;
Through the bounds which many a star
Marks, not mindless of frail mortals,
When his light returns from far.

Thus when thou with Time hast travelled
Toward the mighty gulf of things,
And the mazy stream unravelled
With thy best imaginings;

Think, if thou on beauty leanest,
Think how pitiful that stay,
Did not virtue give the meanest
Charms superior to decay.

Duty, like a strict preceptor,
Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown;
Choose her thistle for thy sceptre,
While youth's roses are thy crown.

Grasp it, -- if thou shrink and tremble,
Fairest damsel of the green,
Thou wilt lack the only symbol
That proclaims a genuine queen;

And ensures those palms of honor
Which selected spirits wear,
Bending low before the Donor,
Lord of heaven's unchanging year!

Sonnet XXII

Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour
Not dull art Thou as undiscerning Night;
But studious only to remove from sight
Day's mutable distinctions. -- Ancient Power!

Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower,
To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest
Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest
On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower

Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen
The self-same Vision which we now behold,
At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power! brought forth;
These mighty barriers, and the gulf between;
The flood, the stars, -- a spectacle as old
As the beginning of th
e heavens and earth!

The Seven Sisters

Or, The Solitude Of Binnorie

Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald, 
All children of one mother: 
You could not say in one short day 
What love they bore each other. 
A garland, of seven lilies, wrought! 
Seven sisters that together dwel
l; 
But he, bold Knight as ever fought, 
Their Father, took of them no thought, 
He loved the wars so well. 
       Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, 
       The solitude of Binnorie!

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, 
And from the shores of Erin, 
Across the wave, a Rover brave 
To Binnorie is steering: 
Right onward to the Scottish strand 
The gallant ship is borne; 
The warriors leap upon the land, 
And hark! the Leader of the
 band 
Hath blown his bugle horn. 
       Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, 
       The solitude of Binnorie!

Beside a grotto of their own, 
With boughs above them closing, 
The Seven are laid, and in the shade 
They lie like fawns reposing. 
But now, upstarting with affright 
At noise of man and steed, 
Away they fly to left, to right -- 
Of your fair househol
d, Father-knight, 
Methinks you take small heed! 
       Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, 
       The solitude of Binnorie!

Away the even fair Campbells fly, 
And, over hill and hollow, 
With menace proud, and insult loud, 
The youthful Rovers follow. 
Cried they, "Your Father loves to roam: 
Enough for him to find 
The empty house when he comes home; 
For us your yellow rin
glets comb, 
For us be fair and kind!" 
       Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, 
       The solitude of Binnorie!

Some close behind, some side to side, 
Like clouds in stormy weather; 
They run, and cry, "Nay, let us die, 
And let us die together." 
A lake was near; the shore was steep; 
There never foot had been; 
They ran, and with a desperate leap 
Together plun
ged into the deep, 
Nor ever more were seen. 
       Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, 
       The solitude of Binnorie!

The stream that flows out of the lake, 
As through the glen it rambles, 
Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone, 
For those seven lovely Campbells. 
Seven little Islands, green and bare, 
Have risen from out the deep: 
The fishers say, those sisters fair, 

By faeries all are buried there, 
And there together sleep. 
       Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, 
       The solitude of Binnorie!

Sonnet XXIII

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky,
"How silently, and with how wan a face!"
Where art thou? Thou so often seen on high
Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race!

Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh
Which they would stifle, move at such a pace!
The northern Wind, to call thee to the chase,
Must blow tonight his bugle horn. Had I

The power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be:
And all the stars, fast as the clouds were riven,
Should sally forth, to keep thee company,

Hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue heaven;
But, Cynthia! should to thee the palm be given,
Queen both for beauty and for majesty.

Lines Written In Early Spring

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure: -- 
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

Thoughts On The Seasons

Flattered with promise of escape 
       From every hurtful blast, 
Spring takes, O sprightly May! thy shape, 
       Her loveliest and her last.

hello hallo yo haro

Less fair is summer riding high 
       In fierce solstitial power, 
Less fair than when a lenient sky 
       Brings on her parting hour.

When earth repays with golden sheaves 
       The labors of the plough, 
And ripening fruits and forest leaves 
       All brighten on the bough;

What pensive beauty autumn shows, 
       Before she hears the sound 
Of winter rushing in, to close 
       The emblematic round!

Such be our Spring, our Summer such; 
       So may our Autumn blend 
With hoary Winter, and Life touch, 
       Through heaven-born hope, her end!

A Night Thought

Lo! where the Moon along the sky 
Sail with her happy destiny; 
Oft is she hid from mortal eye 
       Or dimly seen, 
But when the cloud asunder fly 
       How bright her mien!

Far different we -- a froward race, 
Thousands though rich in Fortune's grace 
With cherished sullenness of pace 
       Their way pursue, 
Ingrates who wear a smileless face 
       The whole year through.

If kindred humors e'er would make 
My spirit droop for drooping's sake, 
From Fancy following in thy wake, 
       Bright ship of heaven! 
A counter impulse let me take 
       And be forgiven.

To May

Though many suns have risen and set 
       Since thou, blithe May, wert born, 
And Bards, who hailed thee, may forget 
       Thy gift, thy beauty scorn; 
There are who to a birthday strain 
       Confine not harp and voice, 
But evermore throu
ghout thy reign 
       Are grateful and rejoice!

Delicious odor! music sweet, 
       Too sweet to pass away! 
Oh for a deathless song to meet 
       The soul's desire -- a lay 
That, when a thousand year are told, 
       Should praise thee, genial Power! 
Through summer heat, autumnal cold, 
      
 And winter's dreariest hour.

Earth, sea, thy presence feel -- nor less, 
       If yon ethereal blue 
With its soft smile the truth express, 
       The heavens have felt it too. 
The inmost heart of man if glad 
       Partakes a livelier cheer; 
And eye that cannot but be sad 
  
     Let fall a brightened tear.

Since thy return, through days and weeks 
       Of hope that grew by stealth, 
How many wan and faded cheeks 
       Have kindled into health! 
The Old, by thee revived, have said, 
       "Another year is ours;" 
And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, 
  
     Have smiled upon thy flowers.

Who tripping lisps a merry song 
       Amid his playful peers? 
The tender Infant who was long 
       A prisoner of fond fears; 
But now, when every sharp-edged blast 
       Is quiet in its sheath, 
His Mother leaves him free to taste 
       Earth's
 sweetness in thy breath.

Thy help is with the weed that creeps 
       Along the humblest ground; 
No cliff so bare but on its steeps 
       Thy favors may be found; 
But most on some peculiar nook 
       That our own hands have drest, 
Thou and thy train are proud to look, 

       And seem to love it best.

And yet how pleased we wander forth 
       When May is whispering, "Come! 
Choose from the bowers of virgin earth 
       The happiest for your home; 
Heaven's bounteous love through me is spread 
       From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves, 
Drops on t
he mouldering turret's head, 
       And on your turf-clad graves!"

Such greeting heard, away with sighs 
       For lilies that must fade, 
Or 'the rathe primrose as it dies 
       Forsaken' in the shade! 
Vernal fruitions and desires 
       Are linked in endless chase; 
While, as one kindly growth retires, 
       A
nother takes its place.

And what if thou, sweet May, hast known 
       Mishap by worm and blight; 
If expectations newly blown 
       Have perished in thy sight; 
If loves and joys, while up they sprung, 
       Were caught as in a snare; 
Such is the lot of all the young, 

       However bright and fair.

Lo! Streams that April could not check 
       Are patient of thy rule; 
Gurgling in foamy water-break, 
       Loitering in glassy pool: 
By thee, thee only, could be sent 
       Such gentle mists as glide, 
Curling with unconfirmed intent, 
       On
 that green mountain's side.

How delicate the leafy veil 
       Through which yon house of God 
Gleams 'mid the peace of this deep dale 
       By few but shepherds trod! 
And lowly huts, near beaten ways, 
       No sooner stand attired 
In thy fresh wreaths, than they for praise
 
       Peep forth, and are admired.

Season of fancy and of hope, 
       Permit not for one hour, 
A blossom from thy crown to drop, 
       Nor add to it a flower! 
Keep, lovely May, as if by touch 
       Of self restraining art, 
This modest charm of not too much, 
       Part seen, im
agined part!

Emily Dickinson

Index of First Lines (or skip index)

Success is counted sweetest
Our share of night to bear
Soul, wilt thou toss again?
'Tis so much joy! 'Tis so much joy!
If I can stop one heart from breaking
Within my reach!

The heart asks pleasure first
A precious, mouldering pleasure 'tis
Much madness is divinest sense
Some things that fly there be, -- 
To fight aloud is very brave
When night is almost done

Pain has an element of blank;
He ate and drank the precious words,
I had no time to hate, because
I'm nobody! Who are you?
I bring an unaccustomed wine
Hope is the thing with feathers

I never hear the word "escape"
For each ecstatic instant
Except the heaven had come so near,
A shady friend for torrid days
Mine enemy is growing old, -- 
To learn the transport by the pain

escape

Hope is a subtle glutton
A word is dead
My life closed twice before its close
There is no frigate like a book
Who has not found the heaven below
Is bliss, then, such abyss

Nature, the gentlest mother,
The robin is the one
From cocoon forth a butterfly
To hear an oriole sing
I dreaded that first robin so
I started early, took my dog
The wind tapped like a tired man

Nature rarer uses yellow
How happy is the little stone
South winds jostle them,
New feet within my garden go
Some keep the Sabbath going to church
The grass so little has to do, --

As children bid the guest good-night
The morns are meeker than they were
The sky is low, the clouds are mean
A light exists in spring
The moon was but a chin of gold
I hide myself within my flower
Come slowly, Eden!

Wild nights! Wild nights!
Heart, we will forget him!
Not with a club the heart is broken
I like a look of agony
The bustle in a house

child

Because I could not stop for Death
No rack can torture me
I noticed people disappeared
We learn in the retreating
As far from pity as complaint
On this wondrous sea

Index of Poetry at Richard's Library

William Blake 
       The Clod and the Pebble 
       Mad Song 
       The Tyger 
       Piping Down the Valleys Wild 
       To Spring 
       Hear the Voice of the Bard 
       Sleep! Sleep! Beauty Bright 
       N
ight 
       The Wild Flower's Song 
       The Echoing Green 
       Silent, Silent Night 
       To Summer 
       To Autumn 
       The Schoolboy 
       Song 
       The Land of Dreams

Elizabeth Barrett Browning 
       Minstrelsy 
       To ____________ 
       The Autumn 
       The Deserted Garden 
       To Flush, My Dog 
       Change Upon Change 
       A Musical Instrument

Cry of the Children 
A Child Asleep 
A Sea-Side Walk 
The Poet and the Bird 
The House of Clouds 
A Dead Rose 
The Lady's Yes 
A Curse For A Nation 
gerald

Robert Browning 
       A Woman's Last Word 
       Love Among The Ruins 
       Two In The Campagna 
       The Confessional [Spain] 
       Rabbi Ben Ezra

William Cullen Bryant 
       An Indian At The Burial Place Of His Fathers 
       Autumn Woods 
       November 
       The Gladness Of Nature 
       The New Moon 
       October 
       Midsummer 
       The West Wind 
       The Evening Wind

Seventy-Six 
       Earth's Children Cleave To Earth 
       The Waning Moon 
       The Voice Of Autumn 
       The Snow-Shower 
       The Return Of The Birds 
       A Song For New-Year's Eve 
       The Death Of Slavery 
       The Wind And Str
eam 
       May Evening

Lord Byron 
       To Caroline 
       On A Distant View Of Harrow 
       To Mary, On Receiving Her Picture 
       The Tear 
       To Romance

To M_________ 
       To M. S. G. 
       Love's Last Adieu 
       To A Lady 
       Stanzas To Jessy 
       Farewell To The Muse 
       And Wilt Thou Weep When I Am Low? 
       Stanzas To A Lady, On Leaving England 

anneke

Remind Me Not, Remind Me Not 
       Sonnet---to Genevra 
       There Was A Time, I Need Not Name 
       Stanzas Composed During A Thunderstorm 
       To Time 
       Remember Him, Whom Passion's Power

She Walks In Beauty 
       I Saw Thee Weep 
       When We Two Parted 
       Stanzas For Music 
       Stanzas To The Po 
       Ode To Napoleon Buonaparte

Emily Dickinson 
       Life 
       Nature 
       Love 
       Time and Eternity

John Donne 
       The Good-Morrow 
       Song 
       The Undertaking 
       A Nocturnal upon Saint Lucy's Day 
       Song 
       Death, Be Not Proud 
       The Bait 
       The Message 
       The Primrose 
       The Legacy 
       Elegy: Chang
e 
       Elegy: Going to Bed 
       Love's Deity

John Keats 
       Ode to Autumn 
       To Solitude 
       Ode on Melancholy 
       Hymn To Apollo 
       To Mrs. Reynolds's Cat 
       Meg Merrilies

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
       Snow-Flakes 
       Birds Of Passage 
       Fata Morgana 
       Children 
       Changed 
       The Sound Of The Sea 
       Autumn Within 
       Loss And Gain

Harriet Monroe 
       Mother Earth 
       Mountain Song 
       A Lady Of The Snows 
       In March 
       A Farewell 
       O Little Earth 
       The Inner Silence 
       Myself 
       New-Born 
       Deserted 
       Ten Years Old (An a
utobiographical episode) 
 capricorn

Christina Rossetti 
       Gone For Ever 
       Winter Rain 
       A Year's Windfalls 
       Twilight Calm 
       Maiden May 
       De Profundis 
       An October Garden 
       A Hope Carol 
       Dream Land 
       Grown And Flown 
       By The
 Sea 
       Spring Quiet 
       A Birthday 
       Spring 
       Summer 
       Autumn 

the world over

Winter: My Secret 
       Once For All 
       A Dirge 
       Child's Talk In April 
       A Summer Wish 
       Another Spring 
       Venus's Looking-Glass 
       Bird Raptures 
       Three Seasons 
       The First Spring Day 
       In The
 Willow Shade 
       Bitter For Sweet

The Boy Who Went to the North Wind

A Scandinavian Tale

Adapted by Amy Friedman



Once upon a time, an old widow sent her only son out
to the barn to fetch some meal. Just as the lad was
walking out of the barn with it, the North Wind blew
up fierce an
d wild. Huffing and puffing, the North
Wind caught up the meal from the lad's arms, and off
it blew, far, far away.

The lad, who was a hearty boy and never worried much,
turned around and walked back into the barn. Once more
he walked outside, carrying his bowl of fresh meal.
Again the North Wind came along, and with a huff and a
puff, it carried off the second bowlfu
l.

The lad shrugged and returned to the barn a third
time. Once more the North Wind made off with the meal.

Now, the lad stomped his feet and his face grew bright
red. He looked up into the sky, for he had grown angry
with the North Wind for his tricks.

"I'll go off and speak to him about his thievery," he
said to himself. And so he did.

The way to the North Wind's home was long and
wearying. The lad walked and walked, and finally,
after the sun had set and the moon began to rise, he
came to the house of the North Wind.

"Good evening, North Wind," he said.

"Good evening," heaved the North Wind. "What do you
want?"

The lad politely asked the North Wind if he might
return the stolen meal. He explained that his poor
mother was very weak and ill, and that the family was
very poor. The North Wind remained very still,
listening hard. The boy went on, "If you take away o
ur
meal," he said, "we will surely starve, for we have no
money to buy more."

At last, the North Wind answered the lad. "I do not
have your meal," said he, "but since you seem to be in
need and you have traveled so far, I will reward you
for your trouble. I shall give you a cloth that will
fetch you any food you wish. All you have
 to do is
say, 'Cloth, spread yourself,' and the cloth will
serve up delicious dishes to eat."

The lad was well pleased with this gift. He thanked
the North Wind and set off for his long journey home.
At last he grew weary, and spotted an inn at the side
of the road. "I shall rest here tonight," he said, and
walked inside.

He arrived just as the guests were sitting down to eat
their supper. "Welcome," said the innkeeper, "but I'm
afraid we do not have enough food to share with you."

"Never mind that," said the lad, "and he lay his cloth
on the table and grinned. "Cloth, spread yourself." A
moment later, the table was filled with such a feast
as you have never seen before. Everyone clapped and
cheered and praised the lad.

But that night, when everyone was fast asleep, the
innkeeper sneaked into the boy's room and stole the
magical cloth. He replaced it with an ordinary cloth.

Next morning the lad set off, carrying with him his
cloth. When he returned home, he told his mother all
about his meeting with the generous North Wind. Then
he spread out the cloth and said, "Cloth, spread
yourself."

Nothing happened.

The lad's mother just shook her head, but the boy
smiled and said, "I must return to the North Wind and
discover what has happened to the cloth. I am sure he
did not mean to cheat us." And off he went.

He arrived at the North Wind's house late in the day.
"Please, North Wind," said the lad, "this cloth is
worth nothing, for it worked only once. I'd like my
meal back."

The North Wind blew. "I told you, I have no meal. But
I see that you have again traveled far," he said
kindly. "For your trouble, I shall give you the ram
that stands over there in the pen. This is a special
ram. He produces gold coins from his mouth as 
soon as
you say, 'Ram, make money.' "

stedelijk museum

The boy was pleased with this. Off he went once more,
leading the ram behind him.

He grew very tired. Once again he stopped at the inn
at the side of the road. When the boy saw all the
people gathered there, he could not help but show off
his good fortu
ne.

The people stared and gasped as they watched the ram
produce gold coins. They clapped and cheered the young
lad and his magical ram.

That night the innkeeper once more sneaked into the
lad's room. This time, he exchanged an ordinary ram
for the ram that made the gold coins.

In the morning, the lad hastened home to his mother,
leading the ram behind him.

"Watch this, mother," he said delightedly. "Ram, make
money," he cried. The ram stood very still and stared
at the lad. "Ram, make money," the boy repeated. Alas,
the ram produced nothing at all.

And so again the lad hastened to the home of the North
Wind. This time, he demanded his meal.

"I do not have any meal," sighed the North Wind, "and
all I have to give you now is this old wooden stick.
Now, if you say to this stick, 'Stick, lay on,' it
will flap and flail and fly after anyone you wish, and
it will not stop until you say, 'Stop, st
ick, stop
now'."

The lad went off carrying his magical stick. Once
again, he stopped at the inn. When he saw the
innkeeper, he squinted his eyes, for you see, by this
time he had grown suspicious.

That night, the lad lay in his bed, but he did not
fall asleep. Instead, he closed his eyes and pretended
to snore. Now, the landlord had spied the stick and he
thought it must be magical as the cloth and the ram
had been. And so, when he heard the lad b
egin to
snore, he sneaked into his room. He tiptoed to the
corner and reached for the stick, but just as he was
about to take it, the boy sat up on his bed and cried,
"Stick, lay on."

The stick began to flail and fly about the ears of the
startled innkeeper. Now the stick began to chase the
man around the table, under the bed, beneath tables
and chairs. The stick flew after, twirling and
twisting, moving faster and faster.

"Your stick means to hurt me," cried the innkeeper.
"Make it stop."

But the boy sat very still upon his bed and watched as
the stick chased the innkeeper. He moved very fast,
but the stick chased him still.

"Stop your stick," cried the innkeeper, who was
huffing and puffing.

"What will you do for me?" asked the lad.

escher escher

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escher escher

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Niet alles staat er in,
                                    maar wel een heleboel dat
                                    eindelijk maar eens
                                    onthuld moest worden.
                                   
 Welk een leven, het
                                    mijne! Soms huiver ik als
                                    ik er aan terugdenk.

Gelukkig is Het Boek Van
                                    Violet En Dood niet
                                    duur, terwijl overal om
                                    ons heen de prijzen de
                   
                 pan uit rijzen. Rust en
                                    stilte had ik nodig, en
                                    twee jaren tijds. Mijn
                                    horoskoop stond al die
                                    
tijd optimaal: de meeste
                                    planeten in het Achtste
                                    Huis.