Poetry quotes

The smiling chemist tapped his brow. “Rob,” he replied, “this throbbing brain Still worked and hankered after gain. By day and night, to work my will, It pounded like a powder mill; And marking how the world went round A theory of theft it found.

Here is the key to right and wrong:

Steal little but steal all day long; And this invaluable plan Marks what is called the Honest Man. When first I served with Doctor Pill, My hand was ever in the till.

By day and night, to work my will, It pounded like a powder mill; And marking how the world went round A theory of theft it found. Here is the key to right and wrong:

Steal little but steal all day long;

And this invaluable plan Marks what is called the Honest Man. When first I served with Doctor Pill, My hand was ever in the till. Now that I am myself a master My gains come softer still and faster. As thus:

To where the roads on either hand Lead onward into fairyland, Where all the children dine at five, And all the playthings come alive.

Whenever the moon and stars are set,

Whenever the wind is high, All night long in the dark and wet, A man goes riding by. Late in the night when the fires are out, Why does he gallop and gallop about?

Whenever the moon and stars are set, Whenever the wind is high, All night long in the dark and wet,

A man goes riding by.

Late in the night when the fires are out, Why does he gallop and gallop about?

Whenever the moon and stars are set,

Whenever the wind is high,

All night long in the dark and wet, A man goes riding by. Late in the night when the fires are out, Why does he gallop and gallop about?

Whenever the moon and stars are set, Whenever the wind is high,

All night long in the dark and wet,

A man goes riding by. Late in the night when the fires are out, Why does he gallop and gallop about?

Whenever the trees are crying aloud, And ships are tossed at sea, By, on the highway, low and loud, By at the gallop goes he. By at the gallop he goes, and then By he comes back at the gallop again.

I should like to rise and go

Where the golden apples grow;— Where below another sky Parrot islands anchored lie, And, watched by cockatoos and goats, Lonely Crusoes building boats;— Where in sunshine reaching out Eastern cities, miles about, Are with mosque and minaret Among sandy gardens set, And the rich goods …

I should like to rise and go

Where the golden apples grow;

— Where below another sky Parrot islands anchored lie, And, watched by cockatoos and goats, Lonely Crusoes building boats;— Where in sunshine reaching out Eastern cities, miles about, Are with mosque and minaret Among sandy gardens set, And the rich goods from near and far …

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets All up and down among the sheets; Or brought my trees and houses out, And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still

That sits upon the pillow-hill, And sees before him, dale and plain, The pleasant land of counterpane.

I was the giant great and still That sits upon the pillow-hill, And sees before him, dale and plain,

The pleasant land of counterpane.

From breakfast on all through the day At home among my friends I stay; But every night I go abroad Afar into the land of Nod.

I was the giant great and still

That sits upon the pillow-hill,

And sees before him, dale and plain, The pleasant land of counterpane.

I was the giant great and still That sits upon the pillow-hill,

And sees before him, dale and plain,

The pleasant land of counterpane.

Try as I like to find the way, I never can get back by day, Nor can remember plain and clear The curious music that I hear.

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.

He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

And blown by all the winds that pass, And wet with all the showers, She walks among the meadow grass And eats the meadow flowers.

The world is so full of a number of things,

I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.

The world is so full of a number of things,

I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.

I saw you toss the kites on high And blow the birds about the sky; And all around I heard you pass, Like ladies’ skirts across the grass— O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!

A birdie with a yellow bill Hopped upon the window sill, Cocked his shining eye and said: “Ain’t you ’shamed, you sleepy-head?”

Smooth it slides upon its travel,

Here a wimple, there a gleam— O the clean gravel! O the smooth stream!

Come up here, O dusty feet! Here is fairy bread to eat. Here in my retiring room, Children, you may dine On the golden smell of broom And the shade of pine; And when you have eaten well, Fairy stories hear and tell.

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,

Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches; And charging along like troops in a battle, All through the meadows the horses and cattle: All of the sights of the hill and the plain Fly as thick as driving rain;

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,

Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;

And charging along like troops in a battle, All through the meadows the horses and cattle: All of the sights of the hill and the plain Fly as thick as driving rain; And ever again, in the wink of an eye, Painted stations whistle by.

But as some lone, wood-wandering child Brings home with him at evening mild The thorns and flowers of all the wild, From your whole life, O fair and true, Your flowers and thorns you bring with you!

Under the wide and starry sky,

Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will.

Under the wide and starry sky,

Dig the grave and let me lie.

Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from sea,

And the hunter home from the hill.

If I have faltered more or less In my great task of happiness; If I have moved among my race And shown no glorious morning face; If beams from happy human eyes Have moved me not;

This be the verse you grave for me:

Here he lies where he longed to be;

Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill.

This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be;

Home is the sailor, home from sea,

And the hunter home from the hill.

If I have moved among my race And shown no glorious morning face; If beams from happy human eyes Have moved me not; if morning skies, Books, and my food, and summer rain Knocked on my sullen heart in vain:—

Lord, Thy most pointed pleasure take

And stab my spirit broad awake; Or, Lord, if too obdurate I, Choose Thou, before that spirit die, A piercing pain, a killing sin, And to my dead heart run them in!

If beams from happy human eyes Have moved me not; if morning skies, Books, and my food, and summer rain Knocked on my sullen heart in vain:— Lord, Thy most pointed pleasure take

And stab my spirit broad awake;

Or, Lord, if too obdurate I, Choose Thou, before that spirit die, A piercing pain, a killing sin, And to my dead heart run them in!

Whom the clear eyes solicit still To some bold output of the will, While fairy Fancy far before And musing Memory-Hold-the-door Now to heroic death invite And now uncurtain fresh delight: O, little boots it thus to dwell On the remote unneighboured hill!

O to be up and doing, O

Unfearing and unshamed to go In all the uproar and the press About my human business! My undissuaded heart I hear Whisper courage in my ear. With voiceless calls, the ancient earth Summons me to a daily birth.

O to be up and doing, O

Unfearing and unshamed to go

In all the uproar and the press About my human business! My undissuaded heart I hear Whisper courage in my ear. With voiceless calls, the ancient earth Summons me to a daily birth.

My undissuaded heart I hear Whisper courage in my ear. With voiceless calls, the ancient earth Summons me to a daily birth. Thou, O my love, ye, O my friends— The gist of life, the end of ends—

To laugh, to love, to live, to die,

Ye call me by the ear and eye!

With voiceless calls, the ancient earth Summons me to a daily birth. Thou, O my love, ye, O my friends— The gist of life, the end of ends— To laugh, to love, to live, to die,

Ye call me by the ear and eye!

Forth from the casemate, on the plain Where honour has the world to gain, Pour forth and bravely do your part, O knights of the unshielded heart!

But ye?—O ye who linger still Here in your fortress on the hill, With placid face, with tranquil breath, The unsought volunteers of death, Our cheerful General on high With careless looks may pass you by.

Not yet, my soul, these friendly fields desert,

Where thou with grass, and rivers, and the breeze, And the bright face of day, thy dalliance hadst; Where to thine ear first sang the enraptured birds; Where love and thou that lasting bargain made.

… fro, And when the night begins to fall Throw down my bed and sleep, while all The building hums with wakefulness— Even as a child of savages When evening takes her on her way (She having roamed a summer’s day Along the mountain-sides and scalp),

Sleeps in an antre of that alp:⁠—

Which is so broad and high that there, As in the topless fields of air, My fancy soars like to a kite And faints in the blue infinite:— Which is so strong, my strongest throes And the rough world’s besieging blows Not break it, and …

Ye left me a widow alone? —Behold, the whole of your race consumes, sinew and bone And torturing flesh together: man, mother, and maid Heaped in a common shambles; and already, borne by the trade, The smoke of your dissolution darkens the stars of night.”

Thus she spoke, and her stature grew in the people’s sight.

Rahéro was there in the hall asleep: beside him his wife, Comely, a mirthful woman, one that delighted in life; And a girl that was ripe for marriage, shy and sly as a mouse; And a boy, a climber of trees:

Round half my tender body, that none shall clasp but you, For a crest and a fair adornment go dainty lines of blue.

Love, love, beloved Rua, love levels all degrees,

And the well-tattooed Taheia clings panting to your knees.”

And ever he thought as he ran, and caught at his gasping breath, “O the fool of a Rua, Rua that runs to his death! But the right is the right,” thought Rua, and ran like the wind on the foam, “

The right is the right forever, and home forever home.

For what though the oven smoke? And what though I die ere morn? There was I nourished and tended, and there was Taheia born.”

… In the land of the naked knee, Between the eagles that fly in the lift And the herrings that swim in the sea, And now that I am a captain-man With a braw cockade in my hat— Many a name have I heard,” he thought,

“But never a name like that.”

There fell a war in a woody place, Lay far across the sea, A war of the march in the mirk midnight And the shot from behind the tree, The shaven head and the painted face, The silent foot in the wood, In the land …

“Life is dear to the aged,

And honour a little thing;

I would gladly sell the secret,” Quoth the Pict to the king. His voice was small as a sparrow’s, And shrill and wonderful clear; “I would gladly sell my secret, Only my son I fear.

“For life is a little matter, And death is nought to the young; And I dare not sell my honour Under the eye of my son.

Take him, O king, and bind him,

And cast him far in the deep: And it’s I will tell the secret, That I have sworn to keep.”

“For life is a little matter, And death is nought to the young; And I dare not sell my honour Under the eye of my son. Take him, O king, and bind him,

And cast him far in the deep:

And it’s I will tell the secret, That I have sworn to keep.”

“True was the word I told you: Only my son I feared; For I doubt the sapling courage That goes without the beard. But now in vain is the torture, Fire shall never avail;

Here dies in my bosom

The secret of Heather Ale.”

“True was the word I told you: Only my son I feared; For I doubt the sapling courage That goes without the beard. But now in vain is the torture, Fire shall never avail; Here dies in my bosom The secret of Heather Ale.”

The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;

The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand; The wind was a nor’-wester, blowing squally off the sea; And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.

The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;

The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand;

The wind was a nor’-wester, blowing squally off the sea; And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me, Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;

And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,

To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessèd Christmas Day.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me, Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea; And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,

To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessèd Christmas Day.

They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall. “All hands to loose topgallant sails,” I heard the captain call. “By the Lord, she’ll never stand it,” our first mate, Jackson, cried. … “It’s the one way or the other, Mr.

But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold, Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.

Give to me the life I love,

Let the lave go by me, Give the jolly heaven above And the byway nigh me. Bed in the bush with stars to see, Bread I dip in the river— There’s the life for a man like me, There’s the life forever.

Give to me the life I love,

Let the lave go by me,

Give the jolly heaven above And the byway nigh me. Bed in the bush with stars to see, Bread I dip in the river— There’s the life for a man like me, There’s the life forever.

Come ill or well, the cross, the crown, The rainbow or the thunder, I fling my soul and body down For God to plough them under.

To the heart of youth the world is a highwayside.

Passing forever, he fares; and on either hand, Deep in the gardens golden pavilions hide, Nestle in orchard bloom, and far on the level land Call him with lighted lamp in the eventide.

To the heart of youth the world is a highwayside.

Passing forever, he fares; and on either hand,

Deep in the gardens golden pavilions hide, Nestle in orchard bloom, and far on the level land Call him with lighted lamp in the eventide.

Our lives, and every day and hour, One symphony appear: One road, one garden—every flower And every bramble dear.

I will make you brooches and toys for your delight

Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. I will make a palace fit for you and me Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

I will make you brooches and toys for your delight

Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.

I will make a palace fit for you and me Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

Infant bridegroom, uncrowned king, unanointed priest, Soldier, lover, explorer, I see you nuzzle the breast. You that grope in my bosom shall load the ladies with rings, You, that came forth through the doors, shall burst the doors of kings.

Bright is the ring of words

When the right man rings them, Fair the fall of songs When the singer sings them.

Bright is the ring of words

When the right man rings them,

Fair the fall of songs When the singer sings them.

Bright is the ring of words When the right man rings them,

Fair the fall of songs

When the singer sings them.

Bright is the ring of words When the right man rings them, Fair the fall of songs

When the singer sings them.

Still they are carolled and said— On wings they are carried— After the singer is dead And the maker buried.

O to dream, O to awake and wander There, and with delight to take and render, Through the trance of silence, Quiet breath; Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses, Only the mightier movement sounds and passes; Only winds and rivers, Life and death.

Home no more home to me, whither must I wander?

Hunger my driver, I go where I must. Cold blows the winter wind over hill and heather; Thick drives the rain, and my roof is in the dust.

Home no more home to me, whither must I wander?

Hunger my driver, I go where I must.

Cold blows the winter wind over hill and heather; Thick drives the rain, and my roof is in the dust.

To thrill with the joy of girded men,

To go on forever and fail and go on again,

And be mauled to the earth and arise, And contend for the shade of a word and a thing not seen with the eyes:

To thrill with the joy of girded men, To go on forever and fail and go on again,

And be mauled to the earth and arise,

And contend for the shade of a word and a thing not seen with the eyes: With the half of a broken hope for a pillow at night That somehow the right is the right And the smooth shall bloom from the rough:

Tantira, Tahiti, Nov. 5, 1888.

The Silver Ship, my King⁠—that was her name

In the bright islands whence your fathers came— The Silver Ship, at rest from winds and tides, Below your palace in your harbour rides: And the seafarers, sitting safe on shore, Like eager merchants count their treasures o’er.

So, as in darkness, from the magic lamp, The momentary pictures gleam and fade And perish, and the night resurges—these Shall I remember, and then all forget.

The tropics vanish, and meseems that I,

From Halkerside, from topmost Allermuir, Or steep Caerketton, dreaming gaze again. Far set in fields and woods, the town I see Spring gallant from the shallows of her smoke, Cragged, spired, and turreted, her virgin fort Beflagged.

You struck, and my cabin quailed; the roof of it roared like a bell. You spoke, and at once the mountain shouted and shook with brooks. You ceased, and the day returned, rosy, with virgin looks.

And methought that beauty and terror are only one, not two;

And the world has room for love, and death, and thunder, and dew; And all the sinews of hell slumber in summer air; And the face of God is a rock, but the face of the rock is fair.

And methought that beauty and terror are only one, not two; And the world has room for love, and death, and thunder, and dew; And all the sinews of hell slumber in summer air;

And the face of God is a rock, but the face of the rock is fair.

Beneficent streams of tears flow at the finger of pain; And out of the cloud that smites, beneficent rivers of rain.

And the world has room for love, and death, and thunder, and dew; And all the sinews of hell slumber in summer air; And the face of God is a rock, but the face of the rock is fair.

Beneficent streams of tears flow at the finger of pain;

And out of the cloud that smites, beneficent rivers of rain.

And all the sinews of hell slumber in summer air; And the face of God is a rock, but the face of the rock is fair. Beneficent streams of tears flow at the finger of pain;

And out of the cloud that smites, beneficent rivers of rain.

Let now your soul in this substantial world Some anchor strike. Be here the body moored;— This spectacle immutably from now The picture in your eye;

One, perchance, One ultimate survivor lingers on, And smiles, and to his ancient heart recalls The long forgotten. Ere the morrow die, He too, returning, through the curtain comes, And the new age forgets us and goes on.

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,

Say, could that lad be I? Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye. Mull was astern, Rum on the port, Eigg on the starboard bow; Glory of youth glowed in his soul: Where is that glory now?

Glory of youth glowed in his soul: Where is that glory now? Sing me a song of a lad that is gone, Say, could that lad be I? Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye.

Give me again all that was there,

Give me the sun that shone! Give me the eyes, give me the soul, Give me the lad that’s gone! Sing me a song of a lad that is gone, Say, could that lad be I?

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,

Say, could that lad be I?

Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye. Mull was astern, Rum on the port, Eigg on the starboard bow; Glory of youth glowed in his soul: Where is that glory now?

Where is that glory now? Sing me a song of a lad that is gone, Say, could that lad be I? Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye. Give me again all that was there,

Give me the sun that shone!

Give me the eyes, give me the soul, Give me the lad that’s gone! Sing me a song of a lad that is gone, Say, could that lad be I? Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye.

Be it granted me to behold you again in dying, Hills of home! and to hear again the call; Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,

And hear no more at all.

The embers of the day are red Beyond the murky hill. The kitchen smokes: the bed In the darkling house is spread: The great sky darkens overhead, And the great woods are shrill. So far have I been led, Lord, by Thy will:

Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,

Hills of home! and to hear again the call;

Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying, And hear no more at all.

Be it granted me to behold you again in dying, Hills of home! and to hear again the call;

Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,

And hear no more at all.

This is his country’s guardian, The outmost sentry of peace. This is the man, Who gives up all that is lovely in living For the means to live.

Poetry cunningly gilds

The life of the Light-Keeper, Held on high in the blackness In the burning kernel of night. The seaman sees and blesses him; The Poet, deep in a sonnet, Numbers his inky fingers Fitly to praise him:

Poetry cunningly gilds

The life of the Light-Keeper,

Held on high in the blackness In the burning kernel of night. The seaman sees and blesses him; The Poet, deep in a sonnet, Numbers his inky fingers Fitly to praise him: Only we behold him, Sitting, patient and stolid, Martyr to a salary.

Here in this seaboard land of old renown, In meadow grass go wading to the knees; Bathe your whole soul a while in simple ease;

There is no sorrow but the sea can drown;

Far have you come, my lady, from the town.

The woods are spoiled and hoar, The ways are full of mire;

We’ll walk the woods no more,

But stay beside the fire. We loved, in days of yore, Love, laughter, and the lyre. Ah God, but death is dire, And death is at the door— We’ll walk the woods no more.

Nous n’irons plus au bois We’ll walk the woods no more,

But stay beside the fire,

To weep for old desire And things that are no more.

The woods are spoiled and hoar, The ways are full of mire; We’ll walk the woods no more, But stay beside the fire. We loved, in days of yore, Love, laughter, and the lyre.

Ah God, but death is dire,

And death is at the door— We’ll walk the woods no more.

The woods are spoiled and hoar, The ways are full of mire; We’ll walk the woods no more, But stay beside the fire. We loved, in days of yore, Love, laughter, and the lyre. Ah God, but death is dire,

And death is at the door⁠—

We’ll walk the woods no more.

I follow gaily to the fife, Leave Wisdom bowed above a chart, And Prudence brawing in the mart, And dare Misfortune to the knife,

Since I am sworn to live my life

.

Since I am sworn to live my life

And not to keep an easy heart,

Some men may sit and drink apart, I bear a banner in the strife.

Now I know right from wrong, Now I know pay and pray,

I who was young so long,

Young and alert and gay.

I who was young so long,

Young and alert and gay,

Now that my hair is grey, Begin to change my song.

Shut in a kind of damned Hotel, Discountenanced by God and man; The food?—Sir, you would do as well

To cram your belly full of bran.

The company? Alas, the day That I should dwell with such a crew, With devil anything to say, Nor any one to say it to!

Shut in a kind of damned Hotel, Discountenanced by God and man;

The food?⁠—Sir, you would do as well

To cram your belly full of bran.

The company? Alas, the day That I should dwell with such a crew,

With devil anything to say,

Nor any one to say it to!

The company? Alas, the day That I should dwell with such a crew, With devil anything to say,

Nor any one to say it to!

The place? Although they call it Platz, I will be bold and state my view; It’s not a place at all—and that’s The bottom verity, my Dew.

The place? Although they call it Platz,

I will be bold and state my view;

It’s not a place at all—and that’s The bottom verity, my Dew.

Away with funeral music—set The pipe to powerful lips—

The cup of life’s for him that drinks And not for him that sips.

Not thine where marble-still and white Old statues share the tempered light And mock the uneven modern flight, But in the stream Of daily sorrow and delight To seek a theme.

Let love go, if go she will. Seek not, O fool, her wanton flight to stay. Of all she gives and takes away The best remains behind her still.

The best remains behind; in vain Joy she may give and take again,

Joy she may take and leave us pain, If yet she leave behind The constant mind To meet all fortunes nobly, to endure All things with a good heart, and still be pure, Still to be foremost in the foremost cause, And still be worthy …

Joy she may give and take again, Joy she may take and leave us pain. O Love, and what care we? For one thing thou hast given, O Love, one thing Is ours that nothing can remove;

And as the King discrowned is still a King, The unhappy lover still preserves his love.

I do not fear to own me kin To the glad clods in which spring flowers begin; Or to my brothers, the great trees, That speak with pleasant voices in the breeze, Loud talkers with the winds that pass;

And my heart springs up anew, Bright and confident and true, And my old love comes to meet me in the dawning and the dew.

Love⁠—what is love? A great and aching heart; Wrung hands; and silence; and a long despair.

Life—what is life? Upon a moorland bare To see love coming and see love depart.

Bury me low in valleys green And where the milder breeze Blows fresh along the stream, Sings roundly in the trees— Bury me low and let me lie Under the wide and starry sky.

Joying to live, I joyed to die, Bury me low and let me lie.

What man may learn, what man may do, Of right or wrong of false or true, While, skipper-like, his course he steers Through nine and twenty mingled years, Half misconceived and half forgot, So much I know and practise not.

For me, for you, for all, to close the date, Pass now the ev’ning sponge across the slate; And to that spirit of forgiveness keep Which is the parent and the child of sleep.

So live, so love, so use that fragile hour,

That when the dark hand of the shining power Shall one from other, wife or husband, take, The poor survivor may not weep and wake.

Believe me, granny, altogether Yours, though perhaps to your surprise. Oft have you spruced my wounded feather, Oft brought a light into my eyes— For notice still the writer cries.

In any civil age or nation, The book that is not talked of dies.

So that shall be my termination: Whether in praise or execration, Still, if you love me, criticise!

Love on high in the flute-like And tender notes Sounds as from April meadows And hillside cotes; But the deep wood wind in the chimney Utters the slogan of death.

I love to be warm by the red fireside, I love to be wet with rain: I love to be welcome at lamplit doors, And leave the doors again.

At last she comes, O never more In this dear patience of my pain To leave me lonely as before, Or leave my soul alone again.

Meanwhile, my Eve, with flower and grass Our perishable days we pass; Far more the thorn observe—and see How our enormous sins go free— Nor less admire, beside the rose,

How far a little virtue goes.

The angler rose, he took his rod, He kneeled and made his prayers to God. The living God sat overhead: The angler tripped, the eels were fed

Say, love, do you hear me, Hear my sonnets ring? Over the high, brown mountain I sound the song of spring, I throw the flowers of spring. Do you hear the song of spring? Hear you the songs of spring?

Light as the linnet on my way I start, For all my pack I bear a chartered heart.

Forth on the world without a guide or chart, Content to know, through all man’s varying fates, The eternal woman by the wayside waits.

Now neither lives unto himself, alas! And the good suns we see, that flash and pass And perish; and the bell that knells them cries: “Another gone: O when will ye arise?”

Wouldst thou be free? I think it not, indeed;

But if thou wouldst, attend this simple rede: When quite contented Thou shall be free when thou canst dine at home And drink a small wine of the march of Rome;

She can hear the cinders dropping, The cat that purrs in its sleep— The foolish fisher woman!

Her heart is on the deep.

Link your arm in mine, my lad— You and I together, You and I and all the rest Shall face the winter weather.

Fortune kicks us here and there, Small our role in life, lad.

Better paltry peace, howe’er, Than hero-laurelled strife, lad.

While there’s liquor to be had, Deeply drain the bickers. Ocean plays at marbles, lad, With men of war for knickers.

Who will ever hear of me? Who will hear of you, lad?

Devil take posterity And present people too, lad!

I have work enough to do, Strength enough to do it— I have work and so have you, So put your shoulder to it!

Do you envy this whiskered absurdity, With pince-nez and clerical tie?

Poor fellow, he’s blind of a sympathy! I’d rather be blind of an eye.

In autumn when the woods are red And skies are gray and clear, The sportsmen seek the wild fowls’ bed Or follow down the deer; And Cupid hunts by haugh and head, By riverside and mere.

The bugle sounds the muster roll, The blacksmith blows the roaring coal;

The look of Death is both severe and mild, And all the words of Death are grave and sweet.

Her name is as a word of old romance That thrills a careless reader out of sleep.

Light as last year’s snow, Where is my love? I do not know; Life is a pitiful stuff, Out with it—out with the snuff! This is the sum of all I know, Light as my heart was long ago.

Gather ye roses while ye may, Old time is still a-flying;

A world where beauty fleets away Is no world for denying. Come lads and lasses, fall to play Lose no more time in sighing.

I follow gaily to the fife, Leave wisdom bowed above a chart And prudence brawling in the mart, And dare misfortune to the knife, Since I am sworn to live my life.

Whether we like it, or don’t, There’s a sort of bond in the fact

That we all by one master were taught, By one master were bullied and whackt. And now all the more when we see Our class in so shrunken a state And we, who were seventy-two, Diminished to seven or eight.