The Fly

Busy, curious, thirsty fly!

Drink with me and drink as I:

Freely welcome to my cup,

Couldst thou sip and sip it up:

Make the most of life you may,

Life is short and wears away.

Both alike are mine and thine

Hastening quick to their decline:

Thine ’s a summer, mine ’s no more,

Though repeated to threescore.

Threescore summers, when they’re gone,

Will appear as short as one!

~ William Oldys

Fog

The fog comes on little cat feet. 

It sits looking over harbor and city 

On silent haunches and then moves on.

~ Carl Sandburg

Woodman, Spare That Tree!

Woodman, spare that tree! 

Touch not a single bough! 

In youth it sheltered me, 

And I ’ll protect it now. 

’T was my forefather’s hand 

That placed it near his cot; 

There, woodman, let it stand, 

Thy axe shall harm it not. 

That old familiar tree, 

Whose glory and renown 

Are spread o’er land and sea— 

And wouldst thou hew it down? 

Woodman, forbear thy stroke! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties; 

Oh, spare that aged oak 

Now towering to the skies! 

When but an idle boy, 

I sought its grateful shade; 

In all their gushing joy 

Here, too, my sisters played. 

My mother kissed me here; 

My father pressed my hand— 

Forgive this foolish tear, 

But let that old oak stand. 

My heart-strings round thee cling, 

Close as thy bark, old friend! 

Here shall the wild-bird sing, 

And still thy branches bend. 

Old tree! the storm still brave! 

And, woodman, leave the spot; 

While I ’ve a hand to save, 

Thy axe shall harm it not.

~ George P. Martin

Snow-Flakes

Out of the bosom of the Air, 

Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, 

Over the woodlands brown and bare, 

Over the harvest-fields forsaken, 

Silent, and soft, and slow 

Descends the snow. 

Even as our cloudy fancies take 

Suddenly shape in some divine expression, 

Even as the troubled heart doth make 

In the white countenance confession, 

The troubled sky reveals 

The grief it feels. 

This is the poem of the air, 

Slowly in silent syllables recorded; 

This is the secret of despair, 

Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, 

Now whispered and revealed 

To wood and field.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Snowstorm

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, 

Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, 

Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air 

Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, 

And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. 

The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet 

Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit 

Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed 

In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 

Come see the north wind's masonry. 

Out of an unseen quarry evermore 

Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer 

Curves his white bastions with projected roof 

Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. 

Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work 

So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he 

For number or proportion. Mockingly, 

On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; 

A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; 

Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, 

Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate, 

A tapering turret overtops the work. 

And when his hours are numbered, and the world 

Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, 

Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art 

To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, 

Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, 

The frolic architecture of the snow. 

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Winter

When icicles hang by the wall 

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail 

And Tom bears logs into the hall, 

And milk comes frozen home in pail, 

When Blood is nipped and ways be foul, 

Then nightly sings the staring owl, 

Tu-who; 

Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note, 

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

When all aloud the wind doth blow, 

And coughing drowns the parson's saw, 

And birds sit brooding in the snow, 

And Marian's nose looks red and raw 

When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, 

Then nightly sings the staring owl, 

Tu-who; 

Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note, 

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

~ William Shakespeare

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know. 

His house is in the village though; 

He will not see me stopping here 

To watch his woods fill up with snow. 

My little horse must think it queer 

To stop without a farmhouse near 

Between the woods and frozen lake 

The darkest evening of the year. 

He gives his harness bells a shake 

To ask if there is some mistake. 

The only other sound’s the sweep 

Of easy wind and downy flake. 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, 

But I have promises to keep, 

And miles to go before I sleep, 

And miles to go before I sleep.

~ Robert Frost

Fall, Leaves, Fall

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; 

Lengthen night and shorten day; 

Every leaf speaks bliss to me 

Fluttering from the autumn tree. 

I shall smile when wreaths of snow 

Blossom where the rose should grow; 

I shall sing when night’s decay 

Ushers in a drearier day.

~ Emily Bronte

To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 

Conspiring with him how to load and bless 

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; 

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, 

And still more, later flowers for the bees, 

Until they think warm days will never cease, 

For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 

Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: 

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 

Steady thy laden head across a brook; 

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, 

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. 

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they? 

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— 

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; 

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 

Among the river sallows, borne aloft 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft 

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; 

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

~ John Keats

Weathers

This is the weather the cuckoo likes, 

And so do I; 

When showers betumble the chestnut spikes, 

And nestlings fly; 

And the little brown nightingale bills his best, 

And they sit outside at 'The Traveller's Rest,' 

And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest, 

And citizens dream of the south and west, 

And so do I. 

This is the weather the shepherd shuns, 

And so do I; 

When beeches drip in browns and duns, 

And thresh and ply; 

And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe, 

And meadow rivulets overflow, 

And drops on gate bars hang in a row, 

And rooks in families homeward go, 

And so do I.

~ Thomas Hardy

Spring and Fall: To a Young Child

Márgarét, áre you gríeving 

Over Goldengrove unleaving? 

Leáves like the things of man, you

With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? 

Ah! ás the heart grows older 

It will come to such sights colder 

By and by, nor spare a sigh 

Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie; 

And yet you wíll weep and know why. 

Now no matter, child, the name: 

Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same. 

Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed 

What heart heard of, ghost guessed: 

It ís the blight man was born for, 

It is Margaret you mourn for. 

~ Gerard Manley Hopkins

'Tis the Last Rose of Summer

'Tis the last rose of summer, 

Left blooming alone ; 

All her lovely companions 

Are faded and gone ; 

No flower of her kindred, 

No rose-bud is nigh, 

To reflect back her blushes, 

Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! 

To pine on the stem ; 

Since the lovely are sleeping, 

Go sleep thou with them. 

Thus kindly I scatter 

Thy leaves o'er the bed, 

Where thy mates of the garden 

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow, 

When friendships decay, 

And from Love's shining circle 

The gems drop away. 

When true hearts lie wither'd, 

And fond ones are flown, 

Oh ! who would inhabit 

This bleak world alone ?

~ Thomas Moore

To Daffodils

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see 

You haste away so soon; 

As yet the early-rising sun 

Has not attain'd his noon. 

Stay, stay, 

Until the hasting day 

Has run 

But to the even-song; 

And, having pray'd together, we 

Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay, as you, 

We have as short a spring; 

As quick a growth to meet decay, 

As you, or anything. 

We die 

As your hours do, and dry 

Away, 

Like to the summer's rain; 

Or as the pearls of morning's dew, 

Ne'er to be found again.

~ Robert Herrick

Serenade

Stars of the summer night! 

Far in yon azure deeps, 

Hide, hide your golden light! 

She sleeps! 

My lady sleeps! 

Sleeps! 

Moon of the summer night! 

Far down yon western steeps, 

Sink, sink in silver light! 

She sleeps! 

My lady sleeps! 

Sleeps! 

Wind of the summer night! 

Where yonder woodbine creeps, 

Fold, fold thy pinions light! 

She sleeps! 

My lady sleeps! 

Sleeps! 

Dreams of the summer night! 

Tell her, her lover keeps 

Watch! while in slumbers light 

She sleeps! 

My lady sleeps! 

Sleeps!

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Loveliest of Trees

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now 

Is hung with bloom along the bough, 

And stands about the woodland ride 

Wearing white for Eastertide. 

Now, of my threescore years and ten,

Twenty will not come again, 

And take from seventy springs a score, 

It only leaves me fifty more. 

And since to look at things in bloom 

Fifty springs are little room,

About the woodlands I will go 

To see the cherry hung with snow.

~ A.E. Housman

Spring

When daisies pied, and violets blue, 

And lady-smocks all silver-white, 

And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue 

Do paint the meadows with delight, 

The cuckoo then, on every tree, 

Mocks married men, for thus sings he: 

'Cuckoo! 

Cuckoo, cuckoo!' O word of fear, 

Unpleasing to a married ear.

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, 

And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks, 

When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws, 

And maidens bleach their summer smocks, 

The cuckoo then, on every tree, 

Mocks married men, for thus sings he: 

'Cuckoo! 

Cuckoo, cuckoo!' O word of fear, 

Unpleasing to a married ear.

~ William Shakespeare

The Year's at the Spring

The year's at the spring 

And day's at the morn; 

Morning's at seven; 

The hillside's dew-pearled; 

The lark's on the wing; 

The snail's on the thorn: 

God's in His heaven— 

All's right with the world!

 ~ Robert Browning

I Wandered Lonely as A Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden daffodils; 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 

And twinkle on the milky way, 

They stretched in never-ending line 

Along the margin of a bay: 

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced; but they 

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: 

A poet could not but be gay, 

In such a jocund company: 

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought: 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 

In vacant or in pensive mood, 

They flash upon that inward eye 

Which is the bliss of solitude; 

And then my heart with pleasure fills, 

And dances with the daffodils. 

~ William Wordsworth

Nature

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, 

Leads by the hand her little child to bed, 

Half willing, half reluctant to be led, 

And leave his broken playthings on the floor, 

Still gazing at them through the open door, 

Nor wholly reassured and comforted 

By promises of others in their stead, 

Which, though more splendid, may not please him more; 

So Nature deals with us, and takes away 

Our playthings one by one, and by the hand 

Leads us to rest so gently, that we go 

Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, 

Being too full of sleep to understand 

How far the unknown transcends the what we know. 

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Patterns

I walk down the garden paths, 

And all the daffodils 

Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. 

I walk down the patterned garden paths 

In my stiff, brocaded gown. 

With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, 

I too am a rare 

Pattern. As I wander down 

The garden paths. 

My dress is richly figured, 

And the train 

Makes a pink and silver stain 

On the gravel, and the thrift 

Of the borders. 

Just a plate of current fashion, 

Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. 

Not a softness anywhere about me, 

Only whale-bone and brocade. 

And I sink on a seat in the shade 

Of a lime tree. For my passion 

Wars against the stiff brocade. 

The daffodils and squills 

Flutter in the breeze 

As they please. 

And I weep; 

For the lime tree is in blossom 

And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom. 

And the splashing of waterdrops 

In the marble fountain 

Comes down the garden paths. 

The dripping never stops. 

Underneath my stiffened gown 

Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, 

A basin in the midst of hedges grown 

So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, 

But she guesses he is near, 

And the sliding of the water 

Seems the stroking of a dear 

Hand upon her. 

What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! 

I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. 

All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground. 

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, 

And he would stumble after, 

Bewildered by my laughter. 

I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes. 

I would choose 

To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, 

A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, 

Till he caught me in the shade, 

And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, 

Aching, melting, unafraid. 

With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, 

And the plopping of the waterdrops, 

All about us in the open afternoon 

I am very like to swoon 

With the weight of this brocade, 

For the sun sifts through the shade. 

Underneath the fallen blossom 

In my bosom, 

Is a letter I have hid. 

It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke. 

“Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell 

Died in action Thursday sen’night.” 

As I read it in the white, morning sunlight, 

The letters squirmed like snakes. 

“Any answer, Madam,” said my footman. 

“No,” l told him. 

“See that the messenger takes some refreshment. 

No, no answer.” 

And I walked into the garden, 

Up and down the patterned paths, 

In my stiff, correct brocade. 

The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, 

Each one. 

I stood upright too, 

Held rigid to the pattern 

By the stiffness of my gown. 

Up and down I walked, 

Up and down. 

In a month he would have been my husband. 

In a month, here, underneath this lime, 

We would have broke the pattern; 

He for me, and I for him, 

He as Colonel, I as Lady, 

On this shady seat. 

He had a whim 

That sunlight carried blessing. 

And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.” 

Now he is dead. 

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk 

Up and down 

The patterned garden paths 

In my stiff, brocaded gown. 

The squills and daffodils 

Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow. 

I shall go 

Up and down, 

In my gown. 

Gorgeously arrayed, 

Boned and stayed. 

And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace 

By each button, hook, and lace. 

For the man who should loose me is dead, 

Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, 

In a pattern called a war. 

Christ! What are patterns for?

~ Amy Lowell

Love's Philosophy

The fountains mingle with the river 

And the rivers with the ocean, 

The winds of heaven mix for ever 

With a sweet emotion; 

Nothing in the world is single; 

All things by a law divine

In one spirit meet and mingle. 

Why not I with thine?— 

See the mountains kiss high heaven 

And the waves clasp one another; 

No sister-flower would be forgiven 

If it disdained its brother; 

And the sunlight clasps the earth 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea: 

What is all this sweet work worth 

If thou kiss not me?

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley

The Sands of Dee

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,

 And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home

Across the sands of Dee";

The western wind was wild and dank with foam,

And all alone went she.

 The western tide crept up along the sand,

 And o'er and o'er the sand,

 And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see.

 The rolling mist came down and hid the land:

 And never home came she.

"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair--

 A tress of golden hair,

 A drownèd maiden's hair

 Above the nets at sea?

 Was never salmon yet that shone so fair

 Among the stakes on Dee."

 They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

 The cruel crawling foam,

 The cruel hungry foam,

 To her grave beside the sea:

 But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home

 Across the sands of Dee. 

~ Charles Kingsley

Down in the Valley

Down in the valley,

Valley so low,

Hang your head over,

Hear the train blow.

Hear the train blow, love,

Hear the train blow,

Hang your head over,

Hear the train blow.

If you don't love me,

Love whom you please,

But throw your arms round me,

Give my heart ease.

Step right up to me,

Before it's too late.

Throw your arms round me,

Feel my heart break.

I'll write you a letter,

Only three lines:

"Answer my question,

Will you be mine?'

Go build me a castle,

Forty feet high,

So I can see you,

As you pass by.

Roses of sunshine,

Violets of dew,

Angels of heaven

Know I love you.

Bird in a cage, love,

Bird in a cage,

Dying for freedom,

But forever a slave.

Write me a letter,

Write it out plain,

And send it me care of

The Barbourville Jail.

Barbourville Jail, love,

Barbourville Jail,

And send it me care of

The Barbourville Jail.

~ Anonymous