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Forget not yet the tried intent Of such a truth as I have meant; My great travail so gladly spent, Forget not yet. Forget not yet when first began The weary life ye know, since whan The suit, the service, none tell can; Forget not yet. Forget not yet the great assays, The cruel wrong, the scornful ways; The painful patience in denays, Forget not yet. Forget not yet, forget not this, How long ago hath been and is The mind that never meant amiss; Forget not yet. Forget not then thine own approved, The which so long hath thee so loved, Whose steadfast faith yet never moved; Forget not this.

sadness

Renaissance

Love

Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm; The mystery, the sign, you must not touch, For 'tis my outward soul, Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone, Will leave this to control And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution. For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall Through every part Can tie those parts, and make me one of all, Those hairs which upward grew, and strength and art Have from a better brain, Can better do'it; except she meant that I By this should know my pain, As prisoners then are manacled, when they'are condemn'd to die. Whate'er she meant by'it, bury it with me, For since I am Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry, If into other hands these relics came; As 'twas humility To afford to it all that a soul can do, So, 'tis some bravery, That since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.

fear

Renaissance

Love

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers den? Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be. If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, twas but a dream of thee. And now good-morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear; For love, all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room an everywhere. Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone, Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown, Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one. My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest; Where can we find two better hemispheres, Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mixed equally; If our two loves be one, or, thou and I Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.

fear

Renaissance

Love

The heart and service to you proffer'd With right good will full honestly, Refuse it not, since it is offer'd, But take it to you gentlely. And though it be a small present, Yet good, consider graciously The thought, the mind, and the intent Of him that loves you faithfully. It were a thing of small effect To work my woe thus cruelly, For my good will to be abject: Therefore accept it lovingly. Pain or travel, to run or ride, I undertake it pleasantly; Bid ye me go, and straight I glide At your commandement humbly. Pain or pleasure, now may you plant Even which it please you steadfastly; Do which you list, I shall not want To be your servant secretly. And since so much I do desire To be your own assuredly, For all my service and my hire Reward your servant liberally.

sadness

Renaissance

Love

Show me dear Christ, thy spouse so bright and clear. What! is it she which on the other shore Goes richly painted? or which, robb'd and tore, Laments and mourns in Germany and here? Sleeps she a thousand, then peeps up one year? Is she self-truth, and errs? now new, now outwore? Doth she, and did she, and shall she evermore On one, on seven, or on no hill appear? Dwells she with us, or like adventuring knights First travel we to seek, and then make love? Betray, kind husband, thy spouse to our sights, And let mine amorous soul court thy mild Dove, Who is most true and pleasing to thee then When she'is embrac'd and open to most men.

sadness

Renaissance

Love

Since she whom I lov'd hath paid her last debt To nature, and to hers, and my good is dead, And her soul early into heaven ravished, Wholly in heavenly things my mind is set. Here the admiring her my mind did whet To seek thee, God; so streams do show the head; But though I have found thee, and thou my thirst hast fed, A holy thirsty dropsy melts me yet. But why should I beg more love, whenas thou Dost woo my soul, for hers off'ring all thine, And dost not only fear lest I allow My love to saints and angels, things divine, But in thy tender jealousy dost doubt Lest the world, flesh, yea devil put thee out.

fear

Renaissance

Love

I find no peace, and all my war is done. I fear and hope. I burn and freeze like ice. I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise; And nought I have, and all the world I season. That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison And holdeth me notyet can I scape no wise Nor letteth me live nor die at my device, And yet of death it giveth me occasion. Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain. I desire to perish, and yet I ask health. I love another, and thus I hate myself. I feed me in sorrow and laugh in all my pain; Likewise displeaseth me both life and death, And my delight is causer of this strife.

fear

Renaissance

Love

Unhappy verse, the witness of my unhappy state, Make thy self flutt'ring wings of thy fast flying Thought, and fly forth unto my love, wheresoever she be: Whether lying restless in heavy bed, or else Sitting so cheerless at the cheerful board, or else Playing alone careless on her heavenly virginals. If in bed, tell her, that my eyes can take no rest: If at board, tell her, that my mouth can eat no meat: If at her virginals, tell her, I can hear no mirth. Asked why? say: waking love suffereth no sleep: Say that raging love doth appal the weak stomach: Say, that lamenting love marreth the musical. Tell her, that her pleasures were wont to lull me asleep: Tell her, that her beauty was wont to feed mine eyes: Tell her, that her sweet tongue was wont to make me mirth. Now do I nightly waste, wanting my kindly rest: Now do I daily starve, wanting my lively food: Now do I always die, wanting thy timely mirth. And if I waste, who will bewail my heavy chance? And if I starve, who will record my cursed end? And if I die, who will say: "This was Immerito"?

sadness

Renaissance

Love

I can love both fair and brown, Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betrays, Her who loves loneness best, and her who masks and plays, Her whom the country formed, and whom the town, Her who believes, and her who tries, Her who still weeps with spongy eyes, And her who is dry cork, and never cries; I can love her, and her, and you, and you, I can love any, so she be not true. Will no other vice content you? Will it not serve your turn to do as did your mothers? Or have you all old vices spent, and now would find out others? Or doth a fear that men are true torment you? O we are not, be not you so; Let me, and do you, twenty know. Rob me, but bind me not, and let me go. Must I, who came to travail thorough you, Grow your fixed subject, because you are true? Venus heard me sigh this song, And by love's sweetest part, variety, she swore, She heard not this till now; and that it should be so no more. She went, examined, and returned ere long, And said, Alas! some two or three Poor heretics in love there be, Which think to stablish dangerous constancy. But I have told them, Since you will be true, You shall be true to them who are false to you.

sadness

Renaissance

Love

Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust; And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things; Grow rich in that which never taketh rust; Whatever fades but fading pleasure brings. Draw in thy beams and humble all thy might To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be; Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light, That both doth shine and give us sight to see. O take fast hold; let that light be thy guide In this small course which birth draws out to death, And think how evil becometh him to slide, Who seeketh heav'n, and comes of heav'nly breath. Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see: Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.

anger

Renaissance

Love

Stand still, and I will read to thee A lecture, love, in love's philosophy. These three hours that we have spent, Walking here, two shadows went Along with us, which we ourselves produc'd. But, now the sun is just above our head, We do those shadows tread, And to brave clearness all things are reduc'd. So whilst our infant loves did grow, Disguises did, and shadows, flow From us, and our cares; but now 'tis not so. That love has not attain'd the high'st degree, Which is still diligent lest others see. Except our loves at this noon stay, We shall new shadows make the other way. As the first were made to blind Others, these which come behind Will work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes. If our loves faint, and westwardly decline, To me thou, falsely, thine, And I to thee mine actions shall disguise. The morning shadows wear away, But these grow longer all the day; But oh, love's day is short, if love decay. Love is a growing, or full constant light, And his first minute, after noon, is night.

fear

Renaissance

Love

The longe love that in my thought doth harbour And in mine hert doth keep his residence, Into my face presseth with bold pretence And therein campeth, spreading his banner. She that me learneth to love and suffer And will that my trust and lustes negligence Be rayned by reason, shame, and reverence, With his hardiness taketh displeasure. Wherewithall unto the hert's forest he fleeth, Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry, And there him hideth and not appeareth. What may I do when my master feareth But in the field with him to live and die? For good is the life ending faithfully.

anger

Renaissance

Love

Some that have deeper digg'd love's mine than I, Say, where his centric happiness doth lie; I have lov'd, and got, and told, But should I love, get, tell, till I were old, I should not find that hidden mystery. Oh, 'tis imposture all! And as no chemic yet th'elixir got, But glorifies his pregnant pot If by the way to him befall Some odoriferous thing, or medicinal, So, lovers dream a rich and long delight, But get a winter-seeming summer's night. Our ease, our thrift, our honour, and our day, Shall we for this vain bubble's shadow pay? Ends love in this, that my man Can be as happy'as I can, if he can Endure the short scorn of a bridegroom's play? That loving wretch that swears 'Tis not the bodies marry, but the minds, Which he in her angelic finds, Would swear as justly that he hears, In that day's rude hoarse minstrelsy, the spheres. Hope not for mind in women; at their best Sweetness and wit, they'are but mummy, possess'd.

sadness

Renaissance

Love

I long to talk with some old lover's ghost, Who died before the god of love was born. I cannot think that he, who then lov'd most, Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn. But since this god produc'd a destiny, And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be, I must love her, that loves not me. Sure, they which made him god, meant not so much, Nor he in his young godhead practis'd it. But when an even flame two hearts did touch, His office was indulgently to fit Actives to passives. Correspondency Only his subject was; it cannot be Love, till I love her, that loves me. But every modern god will now extend His vast prerogative as far as Jove. To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, All is the purlieu of the god of love. O! were we waken'd by this tyranny To ungod this child again, it could not be I should love her, who loves not me. Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I, As though I felt the worst that love could do? Love might make me leave loving, or might try A deeper plague, to make her love me too; Which, since she loves before, I'am loth to see. Falsehood is worse than hate; and that must be, If she whom I love, should love me.

anger

Renaissance

Love

If yet I have not all thy love, Dear, I shall never have it all; I cannot breathe one other sigh, to move, Nor can intreat one other tear to fall; And all my treasure, which should purchase thee Sighs, tears, and oaths, and lettersI have spent. Yet no more can be due to me, Than at the bargain made was meant; If then thy gift of love were partial, That some to me, some should to others fall, Dear, I shall never have thee all. Or if then thou gavest me all, All was but all, which thou hadst then; But if in thy heart, since, there be or shall New love created be, by other men, Which have their stocks entire, and can in tears, In sighs, in oaths, and letters, outbid me, This new love may beget new fears, For this love was not vow'd by thee. And yet it was, thy gift being general; The ground, thy heart, is mine; whatever shall Grow there, dear, I should have it all. Yet I would not have all yet, He that hath all can have no more; And since my love doth every day admit New growth, thou shouldst have new rewards in store; Thou canst not every day give me thy heart, If thou canst give it, then thou never gavest it; Love's riddles are, that though thy heart depart, It stays at home, and thou with losing savest it; But we will have a way

sadness

Renaissance

Love

Madam, withouten many words Once I am sure ye will or no ... And if ye will, then leave your bourds And use your wit and show it so, And with a beck ye shall me call; And if of one that burneth alway Ye have any pity at all, Answer him fair with & {.} or nay. If it be &, {.} I shall be fain; If it be nay, friends as before; Ye shall another man obtain, And I mine own and yours no more.

sadness

Renaissance

Love

My lute awake! perform the last Labour that thou and I shall waste, And end that I have now begun; For when this song is sung and past, My lute be still, for I have done. As to be heard where ear is none, As lead to grave in marble stone, My song may pierce her heart as soon; Should we then sigh or sing or moan? No, no, my lute, for I have done. The rocks do not so cruelly Repulse the waves continually, As she my suit and affection; So that I am past remedy, Whereby my lute and I have done. Proud of the spoil that thou hast got Of simple hearts thorough Love's shot, By whom, unkind, thou hast them won, Think not he hath his bow forgot, Although my lute and I have done. Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain That makest but game on earnest pain. Think not alone under the sun Unquit to cause thy lovers plain, Although my lute and I have done. Perchance thee lie wethered and old The winter nights that are so cold, Plaining in vain unto the moon; Thy wishes then dare not be told; Care then who list, for I have done. And then may chance thee to repent The time that thou hast lost and spent To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon; Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want as I have done. Now cease, my lute; this is the last Labour

sadness

Renaissance

Love

I now think Love is rather deaf than blind, For else it could not be That she, Whom I adore so much, should so slight me And cast my love behind. I'm sure my language to her was as sweet, And every close did meet In sentence of as subtle feet, As hath the youngest He That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree. O, but my conscious fears, That fly my thoughts between, Tell me that she hath seen My hundred of gray hairs, Told seven and forty years Read so much waste, as she cannot embrace My mountain belly and my rocky face; And all these through her eyes have stopp'd her ears.

fear

Renaissance

Love

When my grave is broke up again Some second guest to entertain, (For graves have learn'd that woman head, To be to more than one a bed) And he that digs it, spies A bracelet of bright hair about the bone, Will he not let'us alone, And think that there a loving couple lies, Who thought that this device might be some way To make their souls, at the last busy day, Meet at this grave, and make a little stay? If this fall in a time, or land, Where mis-devotion doth command, Then he, that digs us up, will bring Us to the bishop, and the king, To make us relics; then Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I A something else thereby; All women shall adore us, and some men; And since at such time miracles are sought, I would have that age by this paper taught What miracles we harmless lovers wrought. First, we lov'd well and faithfully, Yet knew not what we lov'd, nor why; Difference of sex no more we knew Than our guardian angels do; Coming and going, we Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals; Our hands ne'er touch'd the seals Which nature, injur'd by late law, s

sadness

Renaissance

Love

Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread; For Love is dead All love is dead, infected With plague of deep disdain; Worth, as nought worth, rejected, And Faith fair scorn doth gain. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us! Weep, neighbours, weep; do you not hear it said That Love is dead? His death-bed, peacock's folly; His winding-sheet is shame; His will, false-seeming holy; His sole exec'tor, blame. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us! Let dirge be sung and trentals rightly read, For Love is dead; Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth My mistress' marble heart, Which epitaph containeth, "Her eyes were once his dart." From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us! Alas, I lie, rage hath this error bred; Love is not dead; Love is not dead, but sleepeth In her unmatched mind, Where she his counsel keepeth, Till due desert she find. Therefore from so vile fancy, To call such wit a franzy, Who Love can temper thus, Good Lord, deliver us!

anger

Renaissance

Love

Rose-cheek'd Laura, come, Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's Silent music, either other Sweetly gracing. Lovely forms do flow From concent divinely framed; Heav'n is music, and thy beauty's Birth is heavenly. These dull notes we sing Discords need for helps to grace them; Only beauty purely loving Knows no discord, But still moves delight, Like clear springs renew'd by flowing, Ever perfect, ever in them- Selves eternal.

joy

Renaissance

Love

Since so ye please to hear me plain, And that ye do rejoice my smart, Me list no lenger to remain To such as be so overthwart. But cursed be that cruel heart Which hath procurd a careless mind For me and mine unfeigned smart, And forceth me such faults to find. More than too much I am assured Of thine intent, whereto to trust; A speedless proof I have endured, And now I leave it to them that lust.

anger

Renaissance

Love

My true-love hath my heart and I have his, By just exchange one for the other given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss; There never was a bargain better driven. His heart in me keeps me and him in one; My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own; I cherish his because in me it bides. His heart his wound received from my sight; My heart was wounded with his wounded heart; For as from me on him his hurt did light, So still, methought, in me his hurt did smart: Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss, My true love hath my heart and I have his.

sadness

Renaissance

Love

O Mistress mine where are you roaming? O stay and hear, your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low. Trip no further pretty sweeting. Journeys end in lovers' meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. What is love, 'tis not hereafter, Present mirth, hath present laughter: What's to come, is still unsure. In delay there lies no plenty, Then come kiss me sweet and twenty: Youth's a stuff will not endure.

joy

Renaissance

Love

Sweetest love, I do not go, For weariness of thee, Nor in hope the world can show A fitter love for me; But since that I Must die at last, 'tis best To use myself in jest Thus by feign'd deaths to die. Yesternight the sun went hence, And yet is here today; He hath no desire nor sense, Nor half so short a way: Then fear not me, But believe that I shall make Speedier journeys, since I take More wings and spurs than he. O how feeble is man's power, That if good fortune fall, Cannot add another hour, Nor a lost hour recall! But come bad chance, And we join to'it our strength, And we teach it art and length, Itself o'er us to'advance. When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind, But sigh'st my soul away; When thou weep'st, unkindly kind, My life's blood doth decay. It cannot be That thou lov'st me, as thou say'st, If in thine my life thou waste, That art the best of me. Let not thy divining heart Forethink me any ill; Destiny may take thy part, And may thy fears fulfil; But think that we Are but turn'd aside to sleep; They who one another k

sadness

Renaissance

Love

Take, oh take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn, And those eyes: the breake of day, Lights that do mislead the Morn; But my kisses bring again, bring again, Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain.

sadness

Renaissance

Love

Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And Ill not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Joves nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee As giving it a hope, that there It could not withered be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sentst it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee.

sadness

Renaissance

Love

When I consider everything that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment, That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheered and check'd even by the selfsame sky, Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their brave state out of memory; Then the conceit of this inconstant stay Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay To change your day of youth to sullied night; And all in war with Time for love of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

sadness

Renaissance

Love

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, And burn the long-liv'd Phoenix in her blood; Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets, And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, To the wide world and all her fading sweets; But I forbid thee one more heinous crime: O, carve not with the hours my love's fair brow, Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen! Him in thy course untainted do allow For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. Yet do thy worst, old Time! Despite thy wrong My love shall in my verse ever live young.

anger

Renaissance

Love

Let those who are in favour with their stars Of public honour and proud titles boast, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread But as the marigold at the sun's eye, And in themselves their pride lies buried, For at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior famoused for fight, After a thousand victories once foil'd, Is from the book of honour razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd: Then happy I, that love and am beloved Where I may not remove nor be removed.

sadness

Renaissance

Love

When, in disgrace with fortune and mens eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this mans art and that mans scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth) sings hymns at heavens gate; For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

sadness

Renaissance

Love

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, And moan th' expense of many a vanish'd sight; Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restor'd, and sorrows end.

sadness

Renaissance

Love

If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Compare them with the bettering of the time, And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Exceeded by the height of happier men. O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought: "Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age A dearer birth than this his love had brought, To march in ranks of better equipage: But since he died and poets better prove, Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love."

anger

Renaissance

Love

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd The rich proud cost of outworn buried age; When sometime lofty towers I see down-ras'd And brass eternal slave to mortal rage; When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, And the firm soil win of the wat'ry main, Increasing store with loss and loss with store; When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded to decay; Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate, That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

anger

Renaissance

Love

Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry, As, to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill. Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

joy

Renaissance

Love

No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell; Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it; for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you woe. O, if (I say) you look upon this verse, When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse, But let your love even with my life decay, Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me after I am gone.

sadness

Renaissance

Love

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, Can yet the lease of my true love control, Suppos'd as forfeit to a confin'd doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd And the sad augurs mock their own presage; Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now with the drops of this most balmy time My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes, Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes; And thou in this shalt find thy monument, When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.

sadness

Renaissance

Love

Alas, 'tis true I have gone here and there And made myself a motley to the view, Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear, Made old offences of affections new. Most true it is that I have look'd on truth Askance and strangely: but, by all above, These blenches gave my heart another youth, And worse essays prov'd thee my best of love. Now all is done, have what shall have no end! Mine appetite, I never more will grind On newer proof, to try an older friend, A god in love, to whom I am confin'd. Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best, Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.

anger

Renaissance

Love

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

fear

Renaissance

Love

Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action; and till action, lust Is perjured, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust, Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight, Past reason hunted; and, no sooner had Past reason hated as a swallowed bait On purpose laid to make the taker mad; Mad in pursuit and in possession so, Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme; A bliss in proof and proved, a very woe; Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream. All this the world well knows; yet none knows well To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

anger

Renaissance

Love

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

disgust

Renaissance

Love

Still to be neat, still to be dressed, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed; Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free; Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all th'adulteries of art. They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

neutral

Renaissance

Love

Busy old fool, unruly sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late school boys and sour prentices, Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride, Call country ants to harvest offices, Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time. Thy beams, so reverend and strong Why shouldst thou think? I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, But that I would not lose her sight so long; If her eyes have not blinded thine, Look, and tomorrow late, tell me, Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me. Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay. She's all states, and all princes, I, Nothing else is. Princes do but play us; compared to this, All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy. Thou, sun, art half as happy as we, In that the world's contracted thus. Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be

sadness

Renaissance

Love

There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies grow; A heav'nly paradise is that place Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow. There cherries grow which none may buy, Till "Cherry ripe" themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow; Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy, Till "Cherry ripe" themselves do cry. Her eyes like angels watch them still, Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill All that attempt with eye or hand Those sacred cherries to come nigh, Till "Cherry ripe" themselves do cry.

sadness

Renaissance

Love

They flee from me that sometime did me seek With naked foot, stalking in my chamber. I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek, That now are wild and do not remember That sometime they put themself in danger To take bread at my hand; and now they range, Busily seeking with a continual change. Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise Twenty times better; but once in special, In thin array after a pleasant guise, When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall, And she me caught in her arms long and small; Therewithall sweetly did me kiss And softly said, Dear heart, how like you this? It was no dream: I lay broad waking. But all is turned thorough my gentleness Into a strange fashion of forsaking; And I have leave to go of her goodness, And she also, to use newfangleness. But since that I so kindly am served I would fain know what she hath deserved.

fear

Renaissance

Love

Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air, Thrice sit thou mute in this enchanted chair, Then thrice three times tie up this true love's knot, And murmur soft "She will, or she will not." Go burn these pois'nous weeds in yon blue fire, These screech-owl's feathers and this prickling briar, This cypress gathered at a dead man's grave, That all my fears and cares an end may have. Then come, you fairies! dance with me a round; Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound. In vain are all the charms I can devise: She hath an art to break them with her eyes.

fear

Renaissance

Love

Unstable dream, according to the place, Be steadfast once, or else at least be true. By tasted sweetness make me not to rue The sudden loss of thy false feigned grace. By good respect in such a dangerous case Thou broughtest not her into this tossing mew But madest my sprite live, my care to renew, My body in tempest her succour to embrace. The body dead, the sprite had his desire, Painless was th'one, th'other in delight. Why then, alas, did it not keep it right, Returning, to leap into the fire? And where it was at wish, it could not remain, Such mocks of dreams they turn to deadly pain.

sadness

Renaissance

Love

As virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go, Whilst some of their sad friends do say The breath goes now, and some say, No: So let us melt, and make no noise, No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move; 'Twere profanation of our joys To tell the laity our love. Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears, Men reckon what it did, and meant; But trepidation of the spheres, Though greater far, is innocent. Dull sublunary lovers' love (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove Those things which elemented it. But we by a love so much refined, That our selves know not what it is, Inter-assured of the mind, Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss. Our two souls therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat. If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two; Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if the other do. And though it in the center sit, Yet when the other far doth roam, It leans and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home. Such wilt thou be to me, who must, Like th' other foot, obliquely run; Thy firmness makes my ci

sadness

Renaissance

Love

Let me pour forth My tears before thy face, whilst I stay here, For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear, And by this mintage they are something worth, For thus they be Pregnant of thee; Fruits of much grief they are, emblems of more, When a tear falls, that thou falls which it bore, So thou and I are nothing then, when on a diverse shore. On a round ball A workman that hath copies by, can lay An Europe, Afric, and an Asia, And quickly make that, which was nothing, all; So doth each tear Which thee doth wear, A globe, yea world, by that impression grow, Till thy tears mix'd with mine do overflow This world; by waters sent from thee, my heaven dissolved so. O more than moon, Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere, Weep me not dead, in thine arms, but forbear To teach the sea what it may do too soon; Let not the wind Example find, To do me more harm than it purposeth; Since thou and I sigh one another's breath, Whoe'er sighs most is cruellest, and hastes the other's death.

sadness

Renaissance

Love

What needeth these threnning words and wasted wind? All this cannot make me restore my prey. To rob your good, iwis, is not my mind, Nor causeless your fair hand did I display. Let love be judge or else whom next we meet That may both hear what you and I can say: She took from me an heart, and I a glove from her. Let us see now if th'one be worth th'other.

anger

Renaissance

Love

What should I say, Since faith is dead, And truth away From you is fled? Should I be led With doubleness? Nay, nay, mistress! I promised you, And you promised me, To be as true As I would be. But since I see Your double heart, Farewell my part! Though for to take It is not my mind, But to forsake [One so unkind] And as I find, So will I trust: Farewell, unjust! Can ye say nay? But you said That I alway Should be obeyed? And thus betrayed Or that I wiste Farewell, unkissed.

anger

Renaissance

Love

When thou must home to shades of underground, And there arriv'd, a new admired guest, The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest, To hear the stories of thy finish'd love From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move; Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights, Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make, Of tourneys and great challenges of knights, And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake: When thou hast told these honours done to thee, Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me.

joy

Renaissance

Love

Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind, But as for me, helas, I may no more. The vain travail hath wearied me so sore, I am of them that farthest cometh behind. Yet may I by no means my wearied mind Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore, Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind. Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt, As well as I may spend his time in vain. And graven with diamonds in letters plain There is written, her fair neck round about: Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am, And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.

sadness

Renaissance

Love

Ye old mule that think yourself so fair, Leave off with craft your beauty to repair, For it is true, without any fable, No man setteth more by riding in your saddle. Too much travail so do your train appair. Ye old mule With false savour though you deceive th'air, Whoso taste you shall well perceive your lair Savoureth somewhat of a Kappurs stable. Ye old mule Ye must now serve to market and to fair, All for the burden, for panniers a pair. For since gray hairs been powdered in your sable, The thing ye seek for, you must yourself enable To purchase it by payment and by prayer, Ye old mule.

neutral

Renaissance

Love

I leaned against the mantel, sick, sick, Thinking of my failure, looking into the abysm, Weak from the noon-day heat. A church bell sounded mournfully far away, I heard the cry of a baby, And the coughing of John Yarnell, Bed-ridden, feverish, feverish, dying, Then the violent voice of my wife: "Watch out, the potatoes are burning!" I smelled them ... then there was irresistible disgust. I pulled the trigger ... blackness ... light ... Unspeakable regret ... fumbling for the world again. Too late! Thus I came here, With lungs for breathing ... one cannot breathe here with lungs, Though one must breathe Of what use is it To rid one's self of the world, When no soul may ever escape the eternal destiny of life?

sadness

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

I was the first fruits of the battle of Missionary Ridge. When I felt the bullet enter my heart I wished I had staid at home and gone to jail For stealing the hogs of Curl Trenary, Instead of running away and joining the army. Rather a thousand times the county jail Than to lie under this marble figure with wings, And this granite pedestal Bearing the words, Pro Patria. What do they mean, anyway?

sadness

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

I was only eight years old; And before I grew up and knew what it meant I had no words for it, except That I was frightened and told my Mother; And that my Father got a pistol And would have killed Charlie, who was a big boy, Fifteen years old, except for his Mother. Nevertheless the story clung to me. But the man who married me, a widower of thirty-five, Was a newcomer and never heard it Till two years after we were married. Then he considered himself cheated, And the village agreed that I was not really a virgin. Well, he deserted me, and I died The following winter.

fear

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

I have heard that hysterical women say They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow, Of poets that are always gay, For everybody knows or else should know That if nothing drastic is done Aeroplane and Zeppelin will come out, Pitch like King Billy bomb-balls in Until the town lie beaten flat. All perform their tragic play, There struts Hamlet, there is Lear, That's Ophelia, that Cordelia; Yet they, should the last scene be there, The great stage curtain about to drop, If worthy their prominent part in the play, Do not break up their lines to weep. They know that Hamlet and Lear are gay; Gaiety transfiguring all that dread. All men have aimed at, found and lost; Black out; Heaven blazing into the head: Tragedy wrought to its uttermost. Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages, And all the drop scenes drop at once Upon a hundred thousand stages, It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce. On their own feet they came, or on shipboard, Camel-back, horse-back, ass-back, mule-back, Old civilisations put to the sword. Then they and their wisdom went to rack: No handiwork of Callimachus Who handled marble as if it were bronze, Made draperies that seemed to rise When sea-wind swept the corner, stands; His long lamp chimney shaped like the stem Of a slender palm, stood but a day; All things fall an

fear

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this, Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

anger

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

I GLOOM! An October like November; August a hundred thousand hours, And all September, A hundred thousand, dragging sunlit days, And half October like a thousand years . . . And doom! That then was Antwerp. . . In the name of God, How could they do it? Those souls that usually dived Into the dirty caverns of mines; Who usually hived In whitened hovels; under ragged poplars; Who dragged muddy shovels, over the grassy mud, Lumbering to work over the greasy sods. . . Those men there, with the appearance of clods Were the bravest men that a usually listless priest of God Ever shrived. . . And it is not for us to make them an anthem. If we found words there would come no wind that would fan them To a tune that the trumpets might blow it, Shrill through the heaven that's ours or yet Allah's, Or the wide halls of any Valhallas. We can make no such anthem. So that all that is ours For inditing in sonnets, pantoums, elegiacs, or lays Is this: In the name of God, how could they do it? II For there is no new thing under the sun, Only this uncomely man with a smoking gun In the gloom. . . What the devil will he gain by it? Digging a hole in the mud and standing all day in the rain by it Wa

fear

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

As I went up by Ovillers In mud and water cold to the knee, There went three jeering, fleering spectres, That walked abreast and talked of me. The first said, Heres a right brave soldier That walks the dark unfearingly; Soon hell come back on a fine stretcher, And laughing for a nice Blighty. The second, Read his face, old comrade, No kind of lucky chance I see; One day hell freeze in mud to the marrow, Then look his last on Picardie. Though bitter the word of these first twain Curses the third spat venomously; Hell stay untouched till the wars last dawning Then live one hour of agony. Liars the first two were. Behold me At sloping arms by one two three; Waiting the time I shall discover Whether the third spake verity.

fear

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

She was a village Of lovely knowledge The high roads left her aside, she was forlorn, a maid Water ran there, dusk hid her, she climbed four-wayed. Brown-gold windows showed last folk not yet asleep; Water ran, was a centre of silence deep, Fathomless deeps of pricked sky, almost fathomless Hallowed an upward gaze in pale satin of blue. And I was happy indeed, of mind, soul, body even Having got given A sign undoubtful of a dear England few Doubt, not many have seen, That Will Squele he knew and was so shriven. Home of Twelfth Night Edward Thomas by Arras fallen, Borrow and Hardy, Sussex tales out of Roman heights callen. No madrigals or field-songs to my all reverent whim; Till I got back I was dumb.

fear

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

If it were not for England, who would bear This heavy servitude one moment more? To keep a brothel, sweep and wash the floor Of filthiest hovels were noble to compare With this brass-cleaning life. Now here, now there Harried in foolishness, scanned curiously o'er By fools made brazen by conceit, and store Of antique witticisms thin and bare. Only the love of comrades sweetens all, Whose laughing spirit will not be outdone. As night-watching men wait for the sun To hearten them, so wait I on such boys As neither brass nor Hell-fire may appal, Nor guns, nor sergeant-major's bluster and noise.

disgust

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

Only the wanderer Knows England's graces, Or can anew see clear Familiar faces. And who loves joy as he That dwells in shadows? Do not forget me quite, O Severn meadows.

sadness

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

Little did I dream, England, that you bore me Under the Cotswold hills beside the water meadows, To do you dreadful service, here, beyond your borders And your enfolding seas. I was a dreamer ever, and bound to your dear service, Meditating deep, I thought on your secret beauty, As through a child's face one may see the clear spirit Miraculously shining. Your hills not only hills, but friends of mine and kindly, Your tiny knolls and orchards hidden beside the river Muddy and strongly flowing, with shy and tiny streamlets Safe in its bosom. Now these are memories only, and your skies and rushy sky-pools Fragile mirrors easily broken by moving airs ... But deep in my heart for ever goes on your daily being, And uses consecrate. Think on me too, O Mother, who wrest my soul to serve you In strange and fearful ways beyond your encircling waters; None but you can know my heart, its tears and sacrifice; None, but you, repay.

fear

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

He's gone, and all our plans Are useless indeed. We'll walk no more on Cotswold Where the sheep feed Quietly and take no heed. His body that was so quick Is not as you Knew it, on Severn river Under the blue Driving our small boat through. You would not know him now ... But still he died Nobly, so cover him over With violets of pride Purple from Severn side. Cover him, cover him soon! And with thick-set Masses of memoried flowers Hide that red wet Thing I must somehow forget.

sadness

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

Now, youth, the hour of thy dread passion comes; Thy lovely things must all be laid away; And thou, as others, must face the riven day Unstirred by rattle of the rolling drums, Or bugles' strident cry. When mere noise numbs The sense of being, the sick soul doth sway, Remember thy great craft's honour, that they may say Nothing in shame of poets. Then the crumbs Of praise the little versemen joyed to take Shall be forgotten; then they must know we are, For all our skill in words, equal in might And strong of mettle as those we honoured; make The name of poet terrible in just war, And like a crown of honour upon the fight.

fear

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

When I remember plain heroic strength And shining virtue shown by Ypres pools, Then read the blither written by knaves for fools In praise of English soldiers lying at length, Who purely dream what England shall be made Gloriously new, free of the old stains By us, who pay the price that must be paid, Will freeze all winter over Ypres plains. Our silly dreams of peace you put aside And brotherhood of man, for you will see An armed mistress, braggart of the tide, Her children slaves, under your mastery. We'll have a word there too, and forge a knife, Will cut the cancer threatens England's life.

neutral

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

An open door says, “Come in.” A shut door says, “Who are you?” Shadows and ghosts go through shut doors. If ??a door is shut and you want it shut, why open it? If ??a door is open and you want it open, why shut it? Doors forget but only doors know what it is doors forget.

surprise

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

And then went down to the ship, Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly sea, and We set up mast and sail on that swart ship, Bore sheep aboard her, and our bodies also Heavy with weeping, and winds from sternward Bore us out onward with bellying canvas, Circe’s this craft, the trim-coifed goddess. Then sat we amidships, wind jamming the tiller, Thus with stretched sail, we went over sea till day’s end. Sun to his slumber, shadows o’er all the ocean, Came we then to the bounds of deepest water, To the Kimmerian lands, and peopled cities Covered with close-webbed mist, unpierced ever With glitter of sun-rays Nor with stars stretched, nor looking back from heaven Swartest night stretched over wretched men there. The ocean flowing backward, came we then to the place Aforesaid by Circe. Here did they rites, Perimedes and Eurylochus, And drawing sword from my hip I dug the ell-square pitkin; Poured we libations unto each the dead, First mead and then sweet wine, water mixed with white flour. Then prayed I many a prayer to the sickly death’s-heads; As set in Ithaca, sterile bulls of the best For sacrifice, heaping the pyre with goods, A sheep to Tiresias only, black and a bell-sheep. Dark blood flowed in the fosse, Souls out of Erebus, cadaverous dead, of brides Of youths and of the ol

sadness

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

I sat on the Dogana’s steps For the gondolas cost too much, that year, And there were not “those girls”, there was one face, And the Buccentoro twenty yards off, howling, “Stretti”, And the lit cross-beams, that year, in the Morosini, And peacocks in Koré’s house, or there may have been. Gods float in the azure air, Bright gods and Tuscan, back before dew was shed. Light: and the first light, before ever dew was fallen. Panisks, and from the oak, dryas, And from the apple, mælid, Through all the wood, and the leaves are full of voices, A-whisper, and the clouds bowe over the lake, And there are gods upon them, And in the water, the almond-white swimmers, The silvery water glazes the upturned nipple, As Poggio has remarked. Green veins in the turquoise, Or, the gray steps lead up under the cedars. My Cid rode up to Burgos, Up to the studded gate between two towers, Beat with his lance butt, and the child came out, Una niña de nueve años, To the little gallery over the gate, between the towers, Reading the writ, voce tinnula: That no man speak to, feed, help Ruy Diaz, On pain to have his heart out, set on a pike spike And both his eyes torn out, and all his goods sequestered, “And here, Myo Cid, are the seals, The big seal and the writing.” And he ca

fear

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

Palace in smoky light, Troy but a heap of smouldering boundary stones, ANAXIFORMINGES! Aurunculeia! Hear me. Cadmus of Golden Prows! The silver mirrors catch the bright stones and flare, Dawn, to our waking, drifts in the green cool light; Dew-haze blurs, in the grass, pale ankles moving. Beat, beat, whirr, thud, in the soft turf under the apple trees, Choros nympharum, goat-foot, with the pale foot alternate; Crescent of blue-shot waters, green-gold in the shallows, A black cock crows in the sea-foam; And by the curved, carved foot of the couch, claw-foot and lion head, an old man seated Speaking in the low drone…: Ityn! Et ter flebiliter, Ityn, Ityn! And she went toward the window and cast her down, “All the while, the while, swallows crying: Ityn! “It is Cabestan’s heart in the dish.” “It is Cabestan’s heart in the dish?” “No other taste shall change this.” And she went toward the window, the slim white stone bar Making a double arch; Firm even fingers held to the firm pale stone; Swung for a moment, and the wind out of Rhodez Caught in the full of her sleeve. . . . the swallows crying: ‘Tis. ‘Tis.

fear

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

Zeus lies in Ceres’ bosom Taishan is attended of loves under Cythera, before sunrise And he said: “Hay aquí mucho catolicismo—(sounded catolithismo y muy poco reliHion.” and he said: “Yo creo que los reyes desparecen” (Kings will, I think, disappear) This was Padre José Elizondo in 1906 and in 1917 or about 1917 and Dolores said: “Come pan, niño,” eat bread, me lad Sargent had painted her before he descended (i.e. if he descended but in those days he did thumb sketches, impressions of the Velázquez in the Museo del Prado and books cost a peseta, brass candlesticks in proportion, hot wind came from the marshes and death-chill from the mountains. And later Bowers wrote: “but such hatred, I have never conceived such” and the London reds wouldn’t show up his friends (i.e. friends of Franco working in London) and in Alcázar forty years gone, they said: go back to the station to eat you can sleep here for a peseta” goat bells tinkled all night and the hostess grinned: Eso es lut

sadness

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

With Usura With usura hath no man a house of good stone each block cut smooth and well fitting that design might cover their face, with usura hath no man a painted paradise on his church wall harpes et luz or where virgin receiveth message and halo projects from incision, with usura seeth no man Gonzaga his heirs and his concubines no picture is made to endure nor to live with but it is made to sell and sell quickly with usura, sin against nature, is thy bread ever more of stale rags is thy bread dry as paper, with no mountain wheat, no strong flour with usura the line grows thick with usura is no clear demarcation and no man can find site for his dwelling. Stonecutter is kept from his stone weaver is kept from his loom WITH USURA wool comes not to market sheep bringeth no gain with usura Usura is a murrain, usura blunteth the needle in the maid’s hand and stoppeth the spinner’s cunning. Pietro Lombardo came not by usura Duccio came not by usura nor Pier della Francesca; Zuan Bellin’ not by usura nor was ‘La Calunnia’ painted. Came not by usura Angelico; came not Ambrogio Praedis, Came no church of cut stone signed: Adamo me fecit. Not by usura St. Trophime Not by usura Saint Hilaire, Usura rusteth the chisel It rusteth the craft and the craftsman It gnaweth the thread in the l

sadness

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

A Lady asks me I speak in season She seeks reason for an affect, wild often That is so proud he hath Love for a name Who denys it can hear the truth now Wherefore I speak to the present knowers Having no hope that low-hearted Can bring sight to such reason Be there not natural demonstration I have no will to try proof-bringing Or say where it hath birth What is its virtu and power Its being and every moving Or delight whereby ‘tis called “to love” Or if man can show it to sight. Where memory liveth, it takes its state Formed like a diafan from light on shade Which shadow cometh of Mars and remaineth Created, having a name sensate, Custom of the soul, will from the heart; Cometh from a seen form which being understood Taketh locus and remaining in the intellect possible Wherein hath he neither weight nor still-standing, Descendeth not by quality but shineth out Himself his own effect unendingly Not in delight but in the being aware Nor can he leave his true likeness otherwhere. He is not vertu but cometh of that perfection Which is so postulate not by the reason But ‘tis felt, I say. Beyond salvation, holdeth his judging force Deeming intention to be reason’s peer and mate, Poor in discernment, being thu

sadness

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

So in Pieria, from the wedded bliss Of Time and Memory, the Muses came To be the means of rich oblivion, And rest from cares. And when the Thunderer Took heaven, then the Titans warred on him For pity of mankind. But the great law, Which is the law of music, not of bread, Set Atlas for a pillar, manacled His brother to the rocks of the Scythia, And under Aetna fixed the furious Typhon. So should thought rule, not force. And Amphion, Pursuing justice, entered Thebes and slew His mother's spouse; but when he would make sure And fortify the city, then he took The lyre that Hermes gave, and played, and watched The stones move and assemble, till a wall Engirded Thebes and kept the citadel Beyond the reach of arrows and of fire. What other power but harmony can build A city, and what gift so magical As that by which a city lifts its walls? So men, in years to come, shall feel the power Of this man moving through the high-ranged thought Which plans for beauty, builds for larger life. The stones shall rise in towers to answer him.

anger

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

My bands of silk and miniver Momently grew heavier; The black gauze was beggarly thin; The ermine muffled mouth and chin; I could not suck the moonlight in. Harlequin in lozenges Of love and hate, I walked in these Striped and ragged rigmaroles; Along the pavement my footsoles Trod warily on living coals. Shouldering the thoughts I loathed, In their corrupt disguises clothed, Morality I could not tear From my ribs, to leave them bare Ivory in silver air. There I walked, and there I raged; The spiritual savage caged Within my skeleton, raged afresh To feel, behind a carnal mesh, The clean bones crying in the flesh.

disgust

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

I Behoild Pelides with his yellow hair, Proud child of Thetis, hero loved of Jove; Above the frowning of his brows of wove A crown of gold, well combed, with Spartan care. Who might have seen him, sullen, great, and fair, As with the wrongful world he proudly strove, And by high deeds his wilder passion shrove, Mastering love, resentment, and despair. He knew his end, and Phoebus arrow sure He braved for fame immortal and a friend, Despising life; and we, who know our end, Know that in our decay he shall endure And all our childrens hearts to grief inure, With whose first bitter battles his shall blend. II Who brought thee forth, immortal vision, who In Phthia or in Tempe brought thee forth? Out of the sunlight and the sapful earth What god the simples of thy spirit drew? A goddess rose from the green waves, and threw Her arms about a king, to give thee birth; A centaur, patron of thy boyish mirth, Over the meadows in thy footsteps flew. Now Thessaly forgets thee, and the deep Thy keeled bark furrowed answers not thy prayer; But far away new generations keep Thy laurels fresh; where branching Isis hems The lawns of Oxford round about, or where Enchanted Eton sits by pleasant

sadness

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

To me, one silly task is like another. I bare the shambling tricks of lust and pride. This flesh will never give a child its mother,— Song, like a wing, tears through my breast, my side, And madness chooses out my voice again, Again. I am the chosen no hand saves: The shrieking heaven lifted over men, Not the dumb earth, wherein they set their graves.

anger

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

You can shuffle and scuffle and scold, You can rattle the knockers and knobs, Or batter the doorsteps with buckets of gold Till the Deputy-Governor sobs. You can sneak up a suitable plank In a frantic endeavor to see— But what do they do in the Commonwealth Bank When the Big Door bangs at Three? Listen in the cellars, listen in the vaults, Can’t you hear the tellers turning somersaults? Can’t you hear the spectres of inspectors and directors Dancing with the phantoms in a Dead Man’s Waltz? Some are ghosts of nabobs, poverty and stray bobs, Midas and his mistress, Mammon and his wife; Other ones are sentries, guarding double entries, Long-forgotten, double-dealing, troubled double-life. Down among the pass-books, money lent and spent, Down among the forests of the Four Per Cent., Where the ledgers meet and moulder, and the overdrafts grow older, And the phantoms shrug a shoulder when you ask ’em for the rent. They are bogies of Grandfather’s cheques, They are spectres of buried accounts, They are crinoline sweethearts with pearls on their necks, Demanding enormous amounts. They are payment for suppers and flowers, For diamonds to banish a tear, For sweet, pretty ladies in opulent hours . . . And tombstones . . . and bailiffs . . . and beer . . . Down in

fear

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

I had come to the house, in a cave of trees, Facing a sheer sky. Everything moved,a bell hung ready to strike, Sun and reflection wheeled by. When the bare eyes were before me And the hissing hair, Held up at a window, seen through a door. The stiff bald eyes, the serpents on the forehead Formed in the air. This is a dead scene forever now. Nothing will ever stir. The end will never brighten it more than this, Nor the rain blur. The water will always fall, and will not fall, And the tipped bell make no sound. The grass will always be growing for hay Deep on the ground. And I shall stand here like a shadow Under the great balanced day, My eyes on the yellow dust, that was lifting in the wind, And does not drift away.

fear

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

There may be chaos still around the world, This little world that in my thinking lies; For mine own bosom is the paradise Where all my lifes fair visions are unfurled. Within my natures shell I slumber curled, Unmindful of the changing outer skies, Where now, perchance, some new-born Eros flies, Or some old Cronos from his throne is hurled. I heed them not; or if the subtle night Haunt me with deities I never saw, I soon mine eyelids drowsy curtain draw To hide their myriad faces from my sight. They threat in vain; the whirlwind cannot awe A happy snow-flake dancing in the flaw.

fear

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

Another's a half-cracked fellowJohn Heydon, Worker of miracles, dealer in levitation, In thoughts upon pure form, in alchemy, Seer of pretty visions ("servant of God and secretary of nature"); Full of plaintive charm, like Botticelli's, With half-transparent forms, lacking the vigor of gods. Thus Heydon, in a trance, at Bulverton, Had such a sight: Decked all in green, with sleeves of yellow silk Slit to the elbow, slashed with various purples. Her eyes were green as glass, her foot was leaf-like. She was adorned with choicest emeralds, And promised him the way of holy wisdom. "Pretty green bank," began the half-lost poem. Take the old way, say I met John Heydon, Sought out the place, Lay on the bank, was "plunged deep in swevyn;" And saw the companyLayamon, Chaucer Pass each in his appropriate robes; Conversed with each, observed the varying fashion. And then comes Heydon. "I have seen John Heydon." Let us hear John Heydon! "Omniformis Omnis intellectus est"thus he begins, by spouting half of Psellus. (Then comes a note, my assiduous commentator: Not Psellus De Daemonibus, but Porphyry's Chances, In the thirteenth chapter, that "every intellect is omni-form.") Magnifico Lorenzo used the dodge, Sa

disgust

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

Often beneath the wave, wide from this ledge The dice of drowned men's bones he saw bequeath An embassy. Their numbers as he watched, Beat on the dusty shore and were obscured. And wrecks passed without sound of bells, The calyx of death's bounty giving back A scattered chapter, livid hieroglyph, The portent wound in corridors of shells. Then in the circuit calm of one vast coil, Its lashings charmed and malice reconciled, Frosted eyes there were that lifted altars; And silent answers crept across the stars. Compass, quadrant and sextant contrive No farther tides... High in the azure steeps Monody shall not wake the mariner. This fabulous shadow only the sea keeps.

anger

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

My love looks like a girl to-night, But she is old. The plaits that lie along her pillow Are not gold, But threaded with filigree silver, And uncanny cold. She looks like a young maiden, since her brow Is smooth and fair, Her cheeks are very smooth, her eyes are closed. She sleeps a rare Still winsome sleep, so still, and so composed. Nay, but she sleeps like a bride, and dreams her dreams Of perfect things. She lies at last, the darling, in the shape of her dream, And her dead mouth sings By its shape, like the thrushes in clear evenings.

neutral

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

I The mind has shown itself at times Too much the baked and labeled dough Divided by accepted multitudes. Across the stacked partitions of the day Across the memoranda, baseball scores, The stenographic smiles and stock quotations Smutty wings flash out equivocations. The mind is brushed by sparrow wings; Numbers, rebuffed by asphalt, crowd The margins of the day, accent the curbs, Convoying divers dawns on every corner To druggist, barber and tobacconist, Until the graduate opacities of evening Take them away as suddenly to somewhere Virginal perhaps, less fragmentary, cool. There is the world dimensional for those untwisted by the love of things irreconcilable ... And yet, suppose some evening I forgot The fare and transfer, yet got by that way Without recall,lost yet poised in traffic. Then I might find your eyes across an aisle, Still flickering with those prefigurations Prodigal, yet uncontested now, Half-riant before the jerky window frame. There is some way, I think, to touch Those hands of yours that count the nights Stippled with pink and green advertisements. And now, before its arteries turn dark I would have you meet this bartered blood. Imminent in his dream, none better knows The white wafer cheek of l

neutral

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

Aulder than mammoth or than mastodon Deep i’ the herts o’ a’ men lurk scaut-heid Skrymmorie monsters few daur look upon. Brides sometimes catch their wild een, scansin’ reid, Beekin’ abune the herts they thocht to lo’e And horror-stricken ken that i’ themselves A like beast stan’s, and lookin’ love thro’ and thro’ Meets the reid een wi’ een like seevun hells. ... Nearer the twa beasts draw, and, couplin’, brak The bubbles o’ twa sauls and the haill warld gangs black. Yet wha has heard the beasts’ wild matin’-call To ither music syne can gi’e nae ear. The nameless lo’enotes haud him in a thrall. Forgot are guid and ill, and joy and fear. ... My bluid sail thraw a dark hood owre my een And I sail venture deep into the hills Whaur, scaddows on the skyline, can be seen —Twinin’ the sun’s brent broo wi’ plaited horns As gin they crooned it wi’ a croon o’ thorns— The beasts in wha’s wild cries a’ Scotland’s destiny thrills. The lo’es o’ single herts are strays; but there The herds that draw the generations are, And whasae hears them roarin’, evermair Is yin wi’ a’ that gangs to mak’ or mar The spirit o’ the race, and leads it still Whither it can be led, ’yont a’ desire and will. I Wergeland, I mind o’ thee—for thy bluid tae Kent the rouch

fear

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

The unfathomable came, rose from the earth, flaring up in moonlight. She wore the old shard in her hair, her hip leaned on night. No smoke of sacrifice, the universe

fear

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

I will grow myself quiet leaves in the difficult silence of chastity. I will hide in the immense namelessness though each tree murmurs to him my name. I am the bed of leaves he can never scorch, not even with his eyes of fire. I am the naked face of the flower; a cross. He cannot escape by reaching me. The god and the goal; the lover and the loved; the pursuit and the flight, entwined. Though a god, he will die in the depths of my barl I will glisten his face on my leaves. Every eagle will have his eyelids. Every event—his speed. Each one of the thousand suns will pursue me as he has chased. Each one of the symbols of silence will learn his name I refuse to bear. I am he: the sun, its immense bowl pouring out selves as from a fount of chastity. He is I: the ever-green song in flight, the sun forever pursuing me.

disgust

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

This woman came out of sea-foam, Covered her nakedness with her hand, And got lost in a mortal crowd. A sweaty baker was breathing over his bags of flour, A sweaty carpenter was fitting a board to a board, Two barbers were looking out their window sadly. This woman came out of sea-foam And got lost in the crowd. Behind the city walls flies were devouring dung. An old woman with a crutch was running away from death. An infant was keeping porridge behind his cheek. This woman came out of sea-foam And got lost in the crowd. On the way back from the fields, people recognized her, Bowed to her and invited her in And, pressing their cheeks to their infants, whispered: "This woman came out of sea-foam, And she is filled with a will That brings ease wherever she goes."

disgust

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

Protector of sheep, goats and cattle, Pillar of strength, personified phallus, Herald of gods, arrant pilferer, Patron of travellers, indefatigable runner, Flyer like a breath of wind Over the watery sea and the vast earth, Leader of the souls of Penelope's slain suitors As they flew rustling like bats To the welcoming fields of asphodel, Where the ghosts of those who are no longer dwell, What can you do to help us in this hell Of perpetual wars that we inhabit? Teach us with your cunning, bit by bit, To learn to live as ghosts with ghosts On the world's unbearably barren coasts.

fear

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

September—the beech trees wrote. In the park the teacher a-b-c'ed when suddenly the stranger appeared, clanking. Because the teacher grew pale, the children shrieked. Mars walked through the city multiplying the flags; he accepted the toast. (He especially liked the little word "just") A barber trimmed him for nothing, for nothing a smith shod him. Mars took quarters in the city hall, he was enthusiastic about towers and above all, he appreciated card indexes. He collected ragpickers and bums, and made them knight and adviser. Hidden in a fold of his garment the locust lurked. "Strictest blackout!" he commanded and gnashed his teeth at the moon when she followed his order only now and then.

disgust

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

I am the virgin the woman the prostitute I am the salt the mercury the sulphur I am heaven and hell I am the earth you see me illuminated maternal Don't trust me I can consign you to darkness.

fear

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

Shall I be punished more severely than Actaeon he only gazed on the Goddess from afar in the wood hie dea silvarum venatu fessa solebat virgineos artus liquido perfundere rore her maiden limbs in the crystal water while I in my ardor pursued her into the shower laving with impious (and soapy) hands the breasts of the celestial as the warm rain upon them circumfus— aeque Dianam corporibus texere suis the nymphs thronging about her weaving a screen with their bodies Actaeon was torn to pieces by his own dogs what fate now awaits me?

sadness

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

Halt God with the clubfoot, stop mocking our weal With the steel of your heart always forging woe You know what we want is ploughshares Why encourage that stupid rival of yours —Ares of rifle and sword— Prometheus is chained on the peak Foothills of Caucasus swarming With Scythian tanks and guns All you do is to chuckle And go on shaping new weapons It is no use listening to you And our hireling rulers...

anger

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

Once, when I was a boy, Apollo summoned me To be apprenticed to the endless summer of light and consciousness, And thus to become and be what poets often have been, A shepherd of being, a riding master of being, holding the sun-god's horses, leading his sheep, training his eagles Directing the constellations to their stations, and to each grace of place. But the goat-god, piping and dancing, speaking an unknown tongue or the language of the magician, Sang from the darkness or rose from the underground, whence arise Love and love's drunkenness, love and birth, love and death, death and rebirth Which are the beginning of the phoenix festivals, the tragic plays in celebration of Dionysus, And in mourning for his drunken and fallen princes, the singers and sinners,fallen because they are, in the end, Drunken with pride, blinded by joy. And I followed Dionysus, forgetting Apollo. I followed him far too long until I was wrong and chanted: "One cannot serve both gods. One must choose to win and lose." But I was wrong and when I knew how I was wrong I knew What, in a way, I had known all along: This was the new world, here I belonged, here I was wrong because Here every tragedy has a happy ending, and any error may be A fabulous discovery of America, of the opulence hidden in the dark d

sadness

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

I moved him, and he moved in me by power, knowing the pulse and the refrain of blood that pumped a spring into the veins of dance along the water's edge and in its hour. The rhythm in a sparrow and a bud left everything to art, to art and chance.

neutral

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

Sleep filled him with dreams of fruit and leaves; wakefulness kept him from picking even a mulberry. And the two together divided his limbs among the Bacchae

sadness

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

O Eros, silently smiling one, hear me. Let the shadow of thy wings brush me. Let thy presence enfold me, as if darkness were swandown. Let me see that darkness lamp in hand, this country become the other country sacred to desire. Drowsy god, slow the wheels of my thought so that I listen only to the snowfall hush of thy circling. Close my beloved with me in the smoke ring of thy power, that we may be, each to the other, figures of flame, figures of smoke, figures of flesh newly seen in the dusk

fear

Modern

Mythology & Folklore

Pan is dead. Great Pan is dead. Ah! bow your heads, ye maidens all, And weave ye him his coronal. There is no summer in the leaves, And withered are the sedges; How shall we weave a coronal, Or gather floral pledges? That I may not say, Ladies. Death was ever a churl. That I may not say, Ladies. How should he show a reason, That he has taken our Lord away Upon such hollow season?

sadness

Modern

Mythology & Folklore