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

What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, and Where, and Why

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, 

I have forgotten, and what arms have lain 

Under my head till morning; but the rain 

Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh 

Upon the glass and listen for reply, 

And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain 

For unremembered lads that not again 

Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. 

Thus in winter stands the lonely tree, 

Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, 

Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: 

I cannot say what loves have come and gone, 

I only know that summer sang in me 

A little while, that in me sings no more.

~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

Hearing Your Words and Not a Word Among Them

Hearing your words, and not a word among them 

Tuned to my liking, on a salty day 

When inland woods were pushed by winds that flung them 

Hissing to leeward like a ton of spray, 

I thought how off Matinicus the tide 

Came pounding in, came running though the Gut, 

While from the Rock the warning whistle cried, 

And children whimpered and the doors blew shut; 

There in the autumn when the men go forth, 

With slapping skirts the island women stand

In gardens stripped and scattered, peering north, 

With dahlia tubers dripping from the hand: 

The wind of their endurance, driving south, 

Flattened your words against your speaking mouth.

~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

Beloved, Thou Has Brought Me Many Flowers

Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers 

Plucked in the garden, all the summer through 

And winter, and it seemed as if they grew 

In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers, 

So, in the like name of that love of ours, 

Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too, 

And which on warm and cold days I withdrew 

From my heart’s ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers 

Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue, 

And wait thy weeding; yet here’s eglantine, 

Here’s ivy!— take them, as I used to do 

Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine. 

Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true, 

And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine. 

~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How Do I Love Thee?

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. 

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height 

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 

For the ends of being and ideal grace. 

I love thee to the level of every day’s 

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. 

I love thee freely, as men strive for right. 

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. 

I love thee with the passion put to use 

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith. 

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 

With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, 

Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, 

I shall but love thee better after death.

~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Billy Boy

Happy 4th Anniversary to this Blog!  :)

Oh, where have you been, Billy boy, Billy boy,

Oh, where have you been, charming Billy?

I have been to seek a wife, she’s the joy of my young life,

She’s a young thing and cannot leave her mother.

Did she ask you to come in, Billy boy, Billy boy,

Did she ask you to come in, charming Billy?

She did ask me to come in, with a dimple in her chin,

She’s a young thing and cannot leave her mother.

Did she ask you to sit down, Billy boy, Billy boy,

Did she ask you to sit down, charming Billy?

She did ask me to sit down, with a curtsey to the ground,

She’s a young thing and cannot leave her mother.

How old is she, Billy boy, Billy boy,

How old is she, charming Billy?

She’s three times six, four times seven, twenty-eight and eleven,

She’s a young thing and cannot leave her mother.

How tall is she, Billy boy, Billy boy,

How tall is she, charming Billy?

She’s as tall as any pine and as straight’s a pumpkin vine,

She’s a young thing and cannot leave her mother.

Can she make a cherry pie, Billy boy, Billy boy,

Can she make a cherry pie, charming Billy?

She can make a cherry pie, quick’s a cat can wink her eye,

She’s a young thing and cannot leave her mother.

Does she often go to church, Billy boy, Billy boy,

Does she often go to church, charming Billy?

Yes, she often goes to church, with her bonnet white as birch,

She’s a young thing and cannot leave her mother.

Can she make a pudding well, Billy boy, Billy boy,

Can she make a pudding well, charming Billy?

She can make a pudding well, I can tell it by the smell,

She’s a young thing and cannot leave her mother.

Can she make a feather-bed, Billy boy, Billy boy,

Can she make a feather-bed, charming Billy?

She can make a feather-bed, place the pillows at the head,

She’s a young thing and cannot leave her mother.

Can she card and can she spin, Billy boy, Billy boy,

Can she card and can she spin, charming Billy?

She can card and she can spin, she can do most anything,

She’s a young thing and cannot leave her mother.

~ Anonymous

She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night 

Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 

And all that’s best of dark and bright 

Meet in her aspect and her eyes; 

Thus mellowed to that tender light 

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 

Had half impaired the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress, 

Or softly lightens o’er her face; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express, 

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 

The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 

A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent!

~ Lord Byron (George Gordon)

My Luve's Like a Red, Red Rose

O my Luve is like a red, red rose 

That’s newly sprung in June; 

O my Luve is like the melody 

That’s sweetly played in tune. 

So fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I; 

And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a’ the seas gang dry. 

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, 

And the rocks melt wi’ the sun; 

I will love thee still, my dear, 

While the sands o’ life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only luve! 

And fare thee weel awhile! 

And I will come again, my luve, 

Though it were ten thousand mile.

~ Robert Burns

My Mistress' Eyes

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.

~ William Shakespeare

Shall I Compare Thee

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? 

Thou art more lovely and more temperate. 

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date. 

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 

And often is his gold complexion dimmed; 

And every fair from fair sometime declines, 

By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed; 

But thy eternal summer shall not fade, 

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st, 

Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade, 

When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st. 

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, 

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

~ William Shakespeare

To His Coy Mistress

Had we but world enough and time, 

This coyness, lady, were no crime. 

We would sit down, and think which way 

To walk, and pass our long love’s day. 

Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side 

Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide 

Of Humber would complain. I would 

Love you ten years before the flood, 

And you should, if you please, refuse 

Till the conversion of the Jews. 

My vegetable love should grow 

Vaster than empires and more slow; 

An hundred years should go to praise 

Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; 

Two hundred to adore each breast, 

But thirty thousand to the rest; 

An age at least to every part, 

And the last age should show your heart. 

For, lady, you deserve this state, 

Nor would I love at lower rate. 

But at my back I always hear 

Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near; 

And yonder all before us lie 

Deserts of vast eternity. 

Thy beauty shall no more be found; 

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound 

My echoing song; then worms shall try 

That long-preserved virginity, 

And your quaint honour turn to dust, 

And into ashes all my lust; 

The grave’s a fine and private place, 

But none, I think, do there embrace. 

Now therefore, while the youthful hue 

Sits on thy skin like morning dew, 

And while thy willing soul transpires 

At every pore with instant fires, 

Now let us sport us while we may, 

And now, like amorous birds of prey, 

Rather at once our time devour 

Than languish in his slow-chapped power. 

Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball, 

And tear our pleasures with rough strife 

Through the iron gates of life: 

Thus, though we cannot make our sun 

Stand still, yet we will make him run.

~ Andrew Marvell

Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, 

Which I gaze on so fondly today, 

Were to change by tomorrow, and fleet in my arms, 

Like fairy-gifts fading away, 

Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,

Let thy loveliness fade as it will, 

And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart 

Would entwine itself verdantly still. 

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, 

And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,

That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, 

To which time will but make thee more dear; 

No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, 

But as truly loves on to the close, 

As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets, 

The same look which she turned when he rose.

~ Thomas Moore

Careless Love

Love, O love, O careless love,

You see what careless love can do.

When I wore my apron low,

Couldn't keep you from my door,

Fare you well, fare you well.

Now I wear my apron high.

Scarce see you passin' by,

Fare you well, fare you well.

~ Anonymous

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old Time is still a-flying;

And this same flower that smiles today

Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, 

The higher he’s a-getting,

The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;

But being spent, the worse, and worst

Times still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time,

And while ye may, go marry;

For having lost but once your prime,

You may forever tarry.

~ Robert Herrick

On Bundling

Since in bed, a maid

May bundle and be chaste.

It doth no good to burn up wood.

It is a needless waste.

~ Anonymous

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

Come live with me and be my love, 

And we will all the pleasures prove, 

That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields, 

Woods, or steepy mountain yields. 

And we will sit upon the Rocks, 

Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks, 

By shallow Rivers to whose falls 

Melodious birds sing Madrigals. 

And I will make thee beds of Roses 

And a thousand fragrant posies, 

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 

Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle; 

A gown made of the finest wool 

Which from our pretty Lambs we pull; 

Fair lined slippers for the cold, 

With buckles of the purest gold; 

A belt of straw and Ivy buds, 

With Coral clasps and Amber studs: 

And if these pleasures may thee move, 

Come live with me, and be my love. 

The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing 

For thy delight each May-morning: 

If these delights thy mind may move, 

Then live with me, and be my love.

~ Christopher Marlowe