Chapter XIV: Part I: Poems of Youth and Age (10)

And still with favor singled out, Marred less than man by mortal fall, Her disposition is devout, Her countenance angelical: The best things that the best believe Are in her face so kindly writ The faithless, seeing her, conceive Not only heaven, but hope of it; No idle thought her instinct shrouds, But fancy chequers settled sense, Like alteration of the clouds On noonday's azure permanence.

Pure dignity, composure, ease, Declare affections nobly fixed, And impulse sprung from due degrees Of sense and spirit sweetly mixed. Her modesty, her chiefest grace, The cestus clasping Venus' side, How potent to deject the face Of him who would affront its pride!

Wrong dares not in her presence speak, Nor spotted thought its taint disclose Under the protest of a cheek Outbragging Nature's boast, the rose. In mind and manners how discreet; How artless in her very art; How candid in discourse; how sweet The concord of her lips and heart!

How simple and how circumspect; How subtle and how fancy-free; Though sacred to her love, how decked With unexclusive courtesy; How quick in talk to see from far The way to vanquish or evade; How able her persuasions are To prove, her reasons to persuade.

How (not to call true instinct's bent And woman's very nature, harm), How amiable and innocent Her pleasure in her power to charm; How humbly careful to attract, Though crowned with all the soul desires, Connubial aptitude exact, Diversity that never tires!

IV THE TRIBUTE

Boon Nature to the woman bows; She walks in earth's whole glory clad, And, chiefest far herself of shows, All others help her and are glad: No splendor 'neath the sky's proud dome But serves her for familiar wear; The far-fetched diamond finds its home Flashing and smouldering in her hair; For her the seas their pearls reveal; Art and strange lands her pomp supply With purple, chrome, and cochineal, Ochre, and lapis lazuli; The worm its golden woof presents; Whatever runs, flies, dives, or delves, All doff for her their ornaments, Which suit her better than themselves; And all, by this their power to give, Proving her right to take, proclaim Her beauty's clear prerogative To profit so by Eden's blame.

V NEAREST THE DEAREST

Till Eve was brought to Adam, he A solitary desert trod, Though in the great society Of nature, angels, and of God. If one slight column counterweighs The ocean, 'tis the Maker's law, Who deems obedience better praise Than sacrifice of erring awe.

VI THE FOREIGN LAND

A woman is a foreign land, Of which, though there he settle young, A man will ne'er quite understand The customs, politics, and tongue. The foolish hie them post-haste through, See fashions odd and prospects fair, Learn of the language, "How d'ye do," And go and brag they have been there. The most for leave to trade apply, For once, at Empire's seat, her heart, Then get what knowledge ear and eye Glean chancewise in the life-long mart. And certain others, few and fit, Attach them to the Court, and see The Country's best, its accent hit, And partly sound its polity.

Coventry Patmore [1823-1896]

A HEALTH

I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee Forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers; And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns,-- The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon-- Her health! and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name.

Edward Coote Pinkney [1802-1828]

OUR SISTER

Her face was very fair to see, So luminous with purity:-- It had no roses, but the hue Of lilies lustrous with their dew-- Her very soul seemed shining through!

Her quiet nature seemed to be Tuned to each season's harmony. The holy sky bent near to her; She saw a spirit in the stir Of solemn woods. The rills that beat Their mosses with voluptuous feet, Went dripping music through her thought. Sweet impulse came to her unsought From graceful things, and beauty took A sacred meaning in her look.

In the great Master's steps went she With patience and humility. The casual gazer could not guess Half of her veiled loveliness; Yet ah! what precious things lay hid Beneath her bosom's snowy lid:-- What tenderness and sympathy, What beauty of sincerity, What fancies chaste, and loves, that grew In heaven's own stainless light and dew!

True woman was she day by day In suffering, toil, and victory. Her life, made holy and serene By faith, was hid with things unseen. She knew what they alone can know Who live above but dwell below.

Horatio Nelson Powers [1826-1890]

FROM LIFE

Her thoughts are like a flock of butterflies. She has a merry love of little things, And a bright flutter of speech, whereto she brings A threefold eloquence--voice, hands and eyes. Yet under all a subtle silence lies As a bird's heart is hidden by its wings; And you shall search through many wanderings The fairyland of her realities.

She hides herself behind a busy brain-- A woman, with a child's laugh in her blood; A maid, wearing the shadow of motherhood-- Wise with the quiet memory of old pain, As the soft glamor of remembered rain Hallows the gladness of a sunlit wood.

Brian Hooker [1880-

THE ROSE OF THE WORLD

Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream? For these red lips, with all their mournful pride, Mournful that no new wonder may betide, Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam, And Usna's children died.

We and the laboring world are passing by: Amid men's souls, that waver and give place, Like the pale waters in their wintry race, Under the passing stars, foam of the sky, Lives on this lonely face.

Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode: Before you were, or any hearts to beat, Weary and kind one lingered by His seat; He made the world to be a grassy road Before her wandering feet.

William Butler Yeats [1865-

DAWN OF WOMANHOOD

Thus will I have the woman of my dream. Strong must she be and gentle, like a star Her soul burn whitely; nor its arrowy beam

May any cloud of superstition mar: True to the earth she is, patient and calm. Her tranquil eyes shall penetrate afar

Through centuries, and her maternal arm Enfold the generations yet unborn; Nor she, by passing glamor nor alarm,

Will from the steadfast way of life be drawn. Gray-eyed and fearless, I behold her gaze Outward into the furnace of the dawn.

Sacred shall be the purport of her days, Yet human; and the passion of the earth Shall be for her adornment and her praise.

She is most often joyous, with a mirth That rings true-tempered holy womanhood, She cannot fear the agonies of birth,

Nor sit in pallid lethargy and brood Upon the coming seasons of her pain: By her the mystery is understood

Of harvest, and fulfilment in the grain. Yea, she is wont to labor in the field, Delights to heap, at sunset, on the wain

Festoons and coronals of the golden yield. A triumph is the labor of her soul, Sublime along eternity revealed.

Lo, everlastingly in her control, Under the even measure of her breath, Like crested waves the onward centuries roll.

Nor to far heaven her spirit wandereth, Nor lifteth she her voice in barren prayer, Nor trembleth at appearances of death.

She, godlike in her womanhood, will fare Calm-visaged and heroic to the end. The homestead is her most especial care;

She loves the sacred hearth: she will defend Her gods from desecration of the vile. Fierce, like a wounded tigress, she can rend

Whatever may have entered to defile. I see her in the evening by the fire, And in her eyes, illumined from the pile

Of blazing logs, a motherly desire Glows like the moulded passion of a rose; Beautiful is her presence in the bower:

Her spirit is the spirit of repose. Mankind shall hold her motherhood in awe: Woman is she indeed, and not of those

That he with sacramental gold must draw Discreetly to his chamber in the night, Or bind to him with fetters of the law.

He holds her by a spiritual right. With diamond and with pearl he need not sue; Nor will she deck herself for his delight:

Beauty is the adornment of the true. She shall possess for ornament and gem A flower, the glowworm, or the drop of dew:

More innocently fair than all of them, It will not even shame her if she make A coronal of stars her diadem.

Though she is but a vision, I can take Courage from her. I feel her arrowy beam Already, for her spirit is awake,

And passes down the future like a gleam,-- Thus have I made the woman of my dream.

Harold Monro [1879-1932]

THE SHEPHERDESS

She walks--the lady of my delight-- A shepherdess of sheep. Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; She guards them from the steep. She feeds them on the fragrant height, And folds them in for sleep.

She roams maternal hills and bright, Dark valleys safe and deep. Into that tender breast at night The chastest stars may peep. She walks--the lady of my delight-- A shepherdess of sheep.

She holds her little thoughts in sight, Though gay they run and leap. She is so circumspect and right; She has her soul to keep. She walks--the lady of my delight-- A shepherdess of sheep.

Alice Meynell [1853-1922]

A PORTRAIT

Mother and maid and soldier, bearing best Her girl's lithe body under matron gray, And opening new eyes on each new day With faith concealed and courage unconfessed; Jealous to cloak a blessing in a jest, Clothe beauty carefully in disarray, And love absurdly, that no word betray The worship all her deeds make manifest:

Armored in smiles, a motley Britomart-- Her lance is high adventure, tipped with scorn; Her banner to the suns and winds unfurled, Washed white with laughter; and beneath her heart, Shrined in a garland of laborious thorn, Blooms the unchanging Rose of all the World.

Brian Hooker [1880-

THE WIFE

The little Dreams of Maidenhood-- I put them all away As tenderly as mother would The toys of yesterday, When little children grow to men Too over-wise for play.

The little dreams I put aside-- I loved them every one, And yet since moon-blown buds must hide Before the noon-day sun, I close them wistfully away And give the key to none.

O little Dreams of Maidenhood-- Lie quietly, nor care If some day in an idle mood I, searching unaware Through some closed corner of my heart, Should laugh to find you there.

Theodosia Garrison [1874-

"TRUSTY, DUSKY, VIVID, TRUE"

Trusty, dusky, vivid, true, With eyes of gold and bramble-dew, Steel true and blade straight The great Artificer made my mate.

Honor, anger, valor, fire, A love that life could never tire, Death quench, or evil stir, The mighty Master gave to her.

Teacher, tender comrade, wife, A fellow-farer true through life, Heart-whole and soul-free, The August Father gave to me.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

THE SHRINE

There is a shrine whose golden gate Was opened by the Hand of God; It stands serene, inviolate, Though millions have its pavement trod; As fresh, as when the first sunrise Awoke the lark in Paradise.

'Tis compassed with the dust and toil Of common days, yet should there fall A single speck, a single soil Upon the whiteness of its wall, The angels' tears in tender rain Would make the temple theirs again.

Without, the world is tired and old, But, once within the enchanted door, The mists of time are backward rolled, And creeds and ages are no more; But all the human-hearted meet In one communion vast and sweet.

I enter--all is simply fair, Nor incense-clouds, nor carven throne; But in the fragrant morning air A gentle lady sits alone; My mother--ah! whom should I see Within, save ever only thee?

Digby Mackworth Dolben [1848-1867]

THE VOICE

As I went down the hill I heard The laughter of the countryside; For, rain being past, the whole land stirred With new emotion, like a bride. I scarce had left the grassy lane, When something made me catch my breath: A woman called, and called again, Elizabeth! Elizabeth!

It was my mother's name. A part Of wounded memory sprang to tears, And the few violets of my heart Shook in the wind of happier years. Quicker than magic came the face That once was sun and moon for me; The garden shawl, the cap of lace, The collie's head against her knee.

Mother, who findest out a way To pass the sentinels, and stand Behind my chair at close of day, To touch me--almost--with thy hand, Deep in my breast, how sure, how clear, The lamp of love burns on till death!-- How trembles if I chance to hear Elizabeth! Elizabeth!

Norman Gale [1862-

MOTHER

I have praised many loved ones in my song, And yet I stand Before her shrine, to whom all things belong, With empty hand.

Perhaps the ripening future holds a time For things unsaid; Not now; men do not celebrate in rhyme Their daily bread.

Theresa Helburn [1888-

AD MATREM

Oft in the after days, when thou and I Have fallen from the scope of human view, When, both together, under the sweet sky, We sleep beneath the daisies and the dew, Men will recall thy gracious presence bland, Conning the pictured sweetness of thy face; Will pore o'er paintings by thy plastic hand, And vaunt thy skill and tell thy deeds of grace. Oh, may they then, who crown thee with true bays, Saying, "What love unto her son she bore!" Make this addition to thy perfect praise, "Nor ever yet was mother worshipped more!" So shall I live with Thee, and thy dear fame Shall link my love unto thine honored name.

Julian Fane [1827-1870]

C. L. M.

In the dark womb where I began, My mother's life made me a man. Through all the months of human birth Her beauty fed my common earth. I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir, But through the death of some of her.

Down in the darkness of the grave She cannot see the life she gave. For all her love, she cannot tell Whether I use it ill or well, Nor knock at dusty doors to find Her beauty dusty in the mind.

If the grave's gates could be undone, She would not know her little son, I am so grown. If we should meet, She would pass by me in the street, Unless my soul's face let her see My sense of what she did for me.

What have I done to keep in mind My debt to her and womankind? What woman's happier life repays Her for those months of wretched days? For all my mouthless body leeched Ere Birth's releasing hell was reached?

What have I done, or tried, or said In thanks to that dear woman dead? Men triumph over women still, Men trample women's rights at will, And man's lust roves the world untamed... O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed.

John Masefield [1878-

STEPPING WESTWARD

STEPPING WESTWARD

"What, you are stepping westward?"--"Yea." --'Twould be a wildish destiny, If we, who thus together roam In a strange Land, and far from home, Were in this place the guests of Chance: Yet who would stop, or fear to advance Though home or shelter he had none, With such a sky to lead him on?

The dewy ground was dark and cold; Behind, all gloomy to behold; And stepping westward seemed to be A kind of heavenly destiny: I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound Of something without place or bound; And seemed to give me spiritual right To travel through that region bright.

The voice was soft, and she who spake Was walking by her native lake: The salutation had to me The very sound of courtesy: Its power was felt; and while my eye Was fixed upon the glowing Sky, The echo of the voice enwrought A human sweetness with the thought Of travelling through the world that lay Before me in my endless way.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

A FAREWELL TO ARMS (To Queen Elizabeth)

His golden locks Time hath to silver turned; O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing! His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurned, But spurned in vain; youth waneth by increasing: Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen; Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees; And lovers' sonnets turned to holy psalms, A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees, And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms: But though from court to cottage he depart, His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.

And when he saddest sits in homely cell, He'll teach his swains this carol for a song,-- "Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well, Curst be the souls that think her any wrong." Goddess, allow this aged man his right To be your beadsman now that was your knight.

George Peele [1558?-1597?]

THE WORLD

The World's a bubble, and the life of Man Less than a span: In his conception wretched,--from the womb, So to the tomb; Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years With cares and fears. Who then to frail mortality shall trust, But limns on water, or but writes in dust.

Yet whilst with sorrow here we live oppressed, What life is best? Courts are but only superficial schools To dandle fools: The rural parts are turned into a den Of savage men; And where's a city from foul vice so free, But may be termed the worst of all the three?

Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, Or pains his head: Those that live single, take it for a curse, Or do things worse: Some would have children; those that have them moan Or wish them gone: What is it, then, to have, or have no wife, But single thraldom, or a double strife?

Our own affections still at home to please Is a disease; To cross the seas to any foreign soil, Peril and toil; Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease, We are worse in peace: --What then remains, but that we still should cry For being born, or, being born, to die?

Francis Bacon [1561-1626]

"WHEN THAT I WAS AND A LITTLE TINY BOY" From "Twelfth Night"

When that I was and a little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, A foolish thing was but a toy, For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came to man's estate, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate, For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came, alas! to wive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came unto my beds, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, With toss-pots still had drunken heads; For the rain it raineth every day.

A great while ago the world begun, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, But that's all one, our play is done, And we'll strive to please you every day.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

OF THE LAST VERSES IN THE BOOK

When we for age could neither read nor write, The subject made us able to indite; The soul, with nobler resolutions decked, The body stooping does herself erect. No mortal parts are requisite to raise Her that, unbodied, can her Maker praise.

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more. For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost. Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Conceal that emptiness which age descries.

The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made: Stronger by weakness, wiser, men become As they draw near to their eternal home. Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.

Edmund Waller [1606-1687]

A LAMENT The Night Before His Execution

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares; My feast of joy is but a dish of pain; My crop of corn is but a field of tares; And all my good is but vain hope of gain; The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun; And now I live, and now my life is done!

The spring is past, and yet it is not sprung; The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves be green; My youth is gone, and yet I am but young; I saw the world, and yet I was not seen; My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun; And now I live, and now my life is done!

I sought my death, and found it in my womb; I looked for life, and saw it was a shade; I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb; And now I die, and now I am but made; The glass is full, and now my glass is run; And now I live, and now my life is done!

Chidiock Tichborne [1558?-1586]

TOMORROW

In the down-hill of life, when I find I'm declining, May my fate no less fortunate be Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining, And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea; With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn, While I carol away idle sorrow, And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn, Look forward with hope for Tomorrow.

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, As the sunshine or rain may prevail, And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, With a barn for the use of the flail: A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game, And a purse when a friend wants to borrow; I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame, Nor what honors may wait him Tomorrow.

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely Secured by a neighboring hill; And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly By the sound of a murmuring rill. And while peace and plenty I find at my board, With a heart free from sickness and sorrow, With my friends may I share what Today may afford, And let them spread the table Tomorrow.

And when I at last must throw off this frail covering, Which I've worn for three-score years and ten, On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering, Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again; But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey, And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow; And this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare Today, May become everlasting Tomorrow.

John Collins [1742?-1808]

LATE WISDOM

We've trod the maze of error round, Long wandering in the winding glade; And now the torch of truth is found, It only shows us where we strayed: By long experience taught, we know-- Can rightly judge of friends and foes; Can all the worth of these allow, And all the faults discern in those.

Now, 'tis our boast that we can quell The wildest passions in their rage, Can their destructive force repel, And their impetuous wrath assuage.-- Ah, Virtue! dost thou arm when now This bold rebellious race are fled? When all these tyrants rest, and thou Art warring with the mighty dead?

George Crabbe [1754-1832]

YOUTH AND AGE

Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, Where Hope clung feeding like a bee,-- Both were mine! Life went a-maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy When I was young!

When I was young?--Ah, woful When! Ah, for the change 'twixt Now and Then! This breathing house not built with hands, This body that does me grievous wrong, O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, How lightly then it flashed along:-- Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar, That fear no spite of wind or tide! Naught cared this body for wind or weather When Youth and I lived in't together.

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; Friendship is a sheltering tree; Oh! the joys that came down shower-like, Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty Ere I was old!

Ere I was old? Ah, woful Ere, Which tells me, Youth's no longer here! O Youth! for years so many and sweet, 'Tis known that Thou and I were one. I'll think it but a fond conceit-- It cannot be that Thou art gone! Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled:-- And thou wert aye a masker bold! What strange disguise hast now put on To make believe that thou art gone? I see these locks in silvery slips, This drooping gait, this altered size: But Springtide blossoms on thy lips, And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! Life is but thought: so think I will That Youth and I are house-mates still.

Dewdrops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve! Where no hope is, life's a warning That only serves to make us grieve When we are old:

That only serves to make us grieve With oft and tedious taking-leave, Like some poor nigh-related guest, That may not rudely be dismissed, Yet hath outstayed his welcome while, And tells the jest without the smile.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]

THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS And How He Gained Them

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried; "The few locks which are left you are gray; You are hale, Father William,--a hearty old man: Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied, "I remembered that youth would fly fast, And abused not my health and my vigor at first, That I never might need them at last."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "And pleasures with youth pass away; And yet you lament not the days that are gone: Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied, "I remembered that youth could not last; I thought of the future, whatever I did, That I never might grieve for the past."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "And life must be hastening away; You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death: Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied; "Let the cause thy attention engage; In the days of my youth, I remembered my God, And He hath not forgotten my age."

Robert Southey [1774-1843]

TO AGE

Welcome, old friend! These many years Have we lived door by door: The Fates have laid aside their shears Perhaps for some few more.

I was indocile at an age When better boys were taught, But thou at length hast made me sage, If I am sage in aught.

Little I know from other men, Too little they from me, But thou hast pointed well the pen That writes these lines to thee.

Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope, One vile, the other vain; One's scourge, the other's telescope, I shall not see again:

Rather what lies before my feet My notice shall engage.-- He who hath braved Youth's dizzy heat Dreads not the frost of Age.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

LATE LEAVES

The leaves are falling; so am I; The few late flowers have moisture in the eye; So have I too. Scarcely on any bough is heard Joyous, or even unjoyous, bird The whole wood through.

Winter may come: he brings but nigher His circle (yearly narrowing) to the fire Where old friends meet. Let him; now heaven is overcast, And spring and summer both are past, And all things sweet.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

YEARS

Years, many parti-colored years, Some have crept on, and some have flown Since first before me fell those tears I never could see fall alone.

Years, not so many, are to come, Years not so varied, when from you One more will fall: when, carried home, I see it not, nor hear Adieu.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

THE RIVER OF LIFE

The more we live, more brief appear Our life's succeeding stages: A day to childhood seems a year, And years like passing ages.

The gladsome current of our youth, Ere passion yet disorders, Steals, lingering like a river smooth Along its grassy borders.

But as the careworn cheek grows wan, And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, Ye Stars, that measure life to man, Why seem your courses quicker?

When joys have lost their bloom and breath, And life itself is vapid, Why, as we reach the Falls of Death, Feel we its tide more rapid?

It may be strange--yet who would change Time's course to slower speeding, When one by one our friends have gone And left our bosoms bleeding?

Heaven gives our years of fading strength Indemnifying fleetness; And those of youth, a seeming length, Proportioned to their sweetness.

Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]

"LONG TIME A CHILD"

Long time a child, and still a child, when years Had painted manhood on my check, was I,-- For yet I lived like one not born to die; A thriftless prodigal of smiles and tears, No hope I needed, and I knew no fears. But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep; and waking, I waked to sleep no more; at once o'ertaking The vanguard of my age, with all arrears Of duty on my back. Nor child, nor man, Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is gray, For I have lost the race I never ran: A rathe December blights my lagging May; And still I am a child, though I be old: Time is my debtor for my years untold.

Hartley Coleridge [1796-1849]

THE WORLD I AM PASSING THROUGH

Few, in the days of early youth, Trusted like me in love and truth. I've learned sad lessons from the years; But slowly, and with many tears; For God made me to kindly view The world that I was passing through.

How little did I once believe That friendly tones could e'er deceive! That kindness, and forbearance long, Might meet ingratitude and wrong! I could not help but kindly view The world that I was passing through.

And though I've learned some souls are base, I would not, therefore, hate the race; I still would bless my fellow men, And trust them, though deceived again. God help me still to kindly view The world that I am passing through!

Through weary conflicts I have passed, And struggled into rest at last; Such rest as when the rack has broke A joint, or nerve, at every stroke. The wish survives to kindly view The world that I am passing through.

From all that fate has brought to me I strive to learn humility, And trust in Him who rules above, Whose universal law is love. Thus only can I kindly view The world that I am passing through.

When I approach the setting sun, And feel my journey nearly done, May earth be veiled in genial light, And her last smile to me seem bright! Help me till then to kindly view The world that I am passing through!

And all who tempt a trusting heart From faith and hope to drift apart,-- May they themselves be spared the pain Of losing power to trust again! God help us all to kindly view The world that we are passing through!

Lydia Maria Child [1802-1880]

TERMINUS

It is time to be old, To take in sail:-- The god of bounds, Who sets to seas a shore, Came to me in his fatal rounds, And said: "No more! No farther shoot Thy broad ambitious branches, and thy root. Fancy departs: no more invent; Contract thy firmament To compass of a tent. There's not enough for this and that, Make thy option which of two; Economize the failing river, Not the less revere the Giver, Leave the many and hold the few. Timely wise accept the terms, Soften the fall with wary foot; A little while Still plan and smile, And,--fault of novel germs,-- Mature the unfallen fruit. Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires, Bad husbands of their fires, Who, when they gave thee breath, Failed to bequeath The needful sinew stark as once, The Baresark marrow to thy bones, But left a legacy of ebbing veins, Inconstant heat and nerveless reins,-- Amid the Muses, left thee deaf and dumb, Amid the Gladiators, halt and numb."

As the bird trims her to the gale, I trim myself to the storm of time, I man the rudder, reef the sail, Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime: "Lowly faithful, banish fear, Right onward drive unharmed; The port, well worth the cruise, is near, And every wave is charmed."

Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882]

RABBI BEN EZRA

Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made: Our times are in his hand Who saith "A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"

Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall?" Not that, admiring stars, It yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars; Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!"

Not for such hopes and fears Annulling youth's brief years, Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! Rather I prize the doubt Low kinds exist without. Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.

Poor vaunt of life indeed, Were man but formed to feed On joy, to solely seek and find and feast: Such feasting ended, then As sure an end to men; Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?

Rejoice we are allied To that which doth provide And not partake, effect and not receive! A spark disturbs our clod; Nearer we hold of God Who gives, than of his tribes that take, I must believe.

Then, welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! Be our joys three-parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!

For thence,--a paradox Which comforts while it mocks,-- Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: What I aspired to be, And was not, comforts me: A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale.

What is he but a brute Whose flesh has soul to suit, Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? To man, propose this test-- Thy body at its best, How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?

Yet gifts should prove their use: I own the Past profuse Of power each side, perfection every turn: Eyes, ears took in their dole, Brain treasured up the whole: Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn"?

Not once beat "Praise be thine! I see the whole design, I, who saw power, see now Love perfect too: Perfect I call thy plan: Thanks that I was a man! Maker, remake, complete,--I trust what thou shalt do!"

For pleasant is this flesh; Our soul, in its rose-mesh Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest: Would we some prize might hold To match those manifold Possessions of the brute,--gain most, as we did best!

Let us not always say, "Spite of this flesh to-day I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!" As the bird wings and sings; Let us cry, "All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!"

Therefore I summon age To grant youth's heritage, Life's struggle having so far reached its term: Thence shall I pass, approved A man, for aye removed From the developed brute; a God though in the germ.

And I shall thereupon Take rest, ere I be gone Once more on my adventure brave and new: Fearless and unperplexed, When I wage battle next, What weapons to select, what armor to indue.

Youth ended, I shall try My gain or loss thereby; Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold: And I shall weigh the same, Give life its praise or blame: Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.

For note, when evening shuts, A certain moment cuts The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: A whisper from the west Shoots--"Add this to the rest, Take it and try its worth: here dies another day."

So, still within this life, Though lifted o'er its strife, Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, "This rage was right i' the main, That acquiescence vain: The Future I may face now I have proved the Past."

For more is not reserved To man, with soul just nerved To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: Here, work enough to watch The Master work, and catch Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play.

As it was better, youth Should strive, through acts uncouth, Toward making, than repose on aught found made: So, better, age, exempt From strife, should know, than tempt Further. Thou waitedest age: wait death nor be afraid!

Enough now, if the Right And Good and Infinite Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, With knowledge absolute, Subject to no dispute From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone.

Be there, for once and all, Severed great minds from small, Announced to each his station in the Past! Was I, the world arraigned, Were they, my soul disdained, Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last!

Now, who shall arbitrate? Ten men love what I hate, Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; Ten, who in ears and eyes Match me: we all surmise, They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe?

Not on the vulgar mass Called "work," must sentence pass, Things done, that took the eye and had the price; O'er which, from level stand, The low world laid its hand, Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice:

But all, the world's coarse thumb And finger failed to plumb, So passed in making up the main account; All instincts immature, All purposes unsure, That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount:

Thoughts hardly to be packed Into a narrow act, Fancies that broke through language and escaped; All I could never be, All, men ignored in me, This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.

Ay, note that Potter's wheel, That metaphor! and feel Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,-- Thou, to whom fools propound, When the wine makes its round, "Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day?"

Fool! All that is, at all, Lasts ever, past recall; Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure: What entered into thee, That was, is, and shall be: Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure.

He fixed thee 'mid this dance Of plastic circumstance, This Present, thou, forsooth, would fain arrest: Machinery just meant To give thy soul its bent, Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed.

What though the earlier grooves Which ran the laughing loves Around thy base, no longer pause and press? What though, about thy rim, Scull-things in order grim Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress?

Look not thou down but up! To uses of a cup, The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, The new wine's foaming flow, The Master's lips a-glow! Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needest thou with earth's wheel?

But I need, now as then, Thee, God, who mouldest men; And since, not even while the whirl was worst, Did I--to the wheel of life With shapes and colors rife, Bound dizzily,--mistake my end, to slake thy thirst:

So, take and use thy work: Amend what flaws may lurk, What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! My times be in thy hand! Perfect the cup as planned! Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

HUMAN LIFE

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, Crumbling away beneath our very feet; Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing, In current unperceived because so fleet; Sad are our hopes for they were sweet in sowing, But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat; Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing; And still, O still, their dying breath is sweet: And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us Of that which made our childhood sweeter still; And sweet our life's decline, for it hath left us A nearer Good to cure an older Ill: And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them.

Aubrey Thomas de Vere [1814-1902]

YOUNG AND OLD From "The Water Babies"

When all the world is young, lad, And all the trees are green; And every goose a swan, lad, And every lass a queen; Then hey for boot and horse, lad, And round the world away; Young blood must have its course, lad, And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad, And all the trees are brown; And all the sport is stale, lad, And all the wheels run down: Creep home, and take your place there, The spent and maimed among: God grant you find one face there You loved when all was young.

Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]

THE ISLE OF THE LONG AGO

Oh, a wonderful stream is the River Time, As it flows through the realm of Tears, With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, And a broader sweep and a surge sublime As it blends with the ocean of Years.

How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow! And the summers like buds between; And the year in the sheaf--so they come and they go On the River's breast with its ebb and flow, As they glide in the shadow and sheen.

There's a magical Isle up the River Time Where the softest of airs are playing; There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a voice as sweet as a vesper chime, And the Junes with the roses are staying.

And the name of this Isle is the Long Ago, And we bury our treasures there; There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow-- They are heaps of dust, but we loved them so! There are trinkets and tresses of hair.

There are fragments of song that nobody sings, And a part of an infant's prayer, There's a harp unswept and a lute without strings, There are broken vows and pieces of rings, And the garments that she used to wear.

There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore By the mirage is lifted in air; And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, When the wind down the River is fair.

Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed Isle All the day of our life till night, And when evening comes with its beautiful smile, And our eyes are closing in slumber awhile, May that "Greenwood" of soul be in sight.

Benjamin Franklin Taylor [1819-1887]

GROWING OLD

What is it to grow old? Is it to lose the glory of the form, The lustre of the eye? Is it for beauty to forego her wealth? --Yes, but not this alone.

Is it to feel our strength-- Not our bloom only, but our strength--decay? Is it to feel each limb Grow stiffer, every function less exact, Each nerve more loosely strung?

Yes, this, and more; but not-- Ah, 'tis not what in youth we dreamed 'twould be! 'Tis not to have our life Mellowed and softened as with sunset glow, A golden day's decline.

'Tis not to see the world As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes, And heart profoundly stirred; And weep, and feel the fulness of the past, The years that are no more.

It is to spend long days And not once feel that we were ever young; It is to add, immured In the hot prison of the present, month To month with weary pain.

It is to suffer this, And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel. Deep in our hidden heart Festers the dull remembrance of a change, But no emotion--none.

It is!--last stage of all-- When we are frozen up within, and quite The phantom of ourselves, To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost Which blessed the living man.

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]

PAST

The clocks are chiming in my heart Their cobweb chime; Old murmurings of days that die, The sob of things a-drifting by. The clocks are chiming in my heart!

The stars have twinkled, and gone out-- Fair candles blown! The hot desires burn low, and wan Those ashy fires, that flamed anon. The stars have twinkled, and gone out!

John Galsworthy [1867-1933]

TWILIGHT

When I was young the twilight seemed too long. How often on the western window-seat I leaned my book against the misty pane And spelled the last enchanting lines again, The while my mother hummed an ancient song, Or sighed a little and said: "The hour is sweet!" When I, rebellious, clamored for the light.

But now I love the soft approach of night, And now with folded hands I sit and dream While all too fleet the hours of twilight seem; And thus I know that I am growing old.

O granaries of Age! O manifold And royal harvest of the common years! There are in all thy treasure-house no ways But lead by soft descent and gradual slope To memories more exquisite than hope. Thine is the Iris born of olden tears, And thrice more happy are the happy days That live divinely in the lingering rays.

A. Mary F. Robinson [1857-

YOUTH AND AGE

Youth hath many charms,-- Hath many joys, and much delight; Even its doubts, and vague alarms, By contrast make it bright: And yet--and yet--forsooth, I love Age as well as Youth!

Well, since I love them both, The good of both I will combine,-- In women, I will look for Youth, And look for Age, in wine: And then--and then--I'll bless This twain that gives me happiness!

George Arnold [1834-1865]

FORTY YEARS ON

Forty years on, when afar and asunder Parted are those who are singing today, When you look back, and forgetfully wonder What you were like in your work and your play; Then, it may be, there will often come o'er you Glimpses of notes like the catch of a song-- Visions of boyhood shall float them before you, Echoes of dreamland shall bear them along. Follow up! Follow up! Follow up! Follow up! Till the field ring again and again, With the tramp of the twenty-two men, Follow up! Follow up!

Routs and discomfitures, rushes and rallies, Bases attempted, and rescued, and won, Strife without anger, and art without malice,-- How will it seem to you forty years on? Then, you will say, not a feverish minute Strained the weak heart, and the wavering knee, Never the battle raged hottest, but in it Neither the last nor the faintest were we! Follow up! Follow up!

O the great days, in the distance enchanted, Days of fresh air, in the rain and the sun, How we rejoiced as we struggled and panted-- Hardly believable forty years on! How we discoursed of them, one with another, Auguring triumph, or balancing fate, Loved the ally with the heart of a brother, Hated the foe with a playing at hate! Follow up! Follow up!

Forty years on, growing older and older, Shorter in wind, and in memory long, Feeble of foot and rheumatic of shoulder, What will it help you that once you were strong? God gives us bases to guard or beleaguer, Games to play out, whether earnest or fun, Fights for the fearless, and goals for the eager, Twenty, and thirty, and forty years on! Follow up! Follow up!

Edward Ernest Bowen [1836-1901]

DREGS

The fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof, (This is the end of every song man sings!) The golden wine is drunk, the dregs remain, Bitter as wormwood and as salt as pain; And health and hope have gone the way of love Into the drear oblivion of lost things. Ghosts go along with us until the end; This was a mistress, this, perhaps, a friend. With pale, indifferent eyes, we sit and wait For the dropped curtain and the closing gate: This is the end of all the songs man sings.

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]

THE PARADOX OF TIME A Variation On Ronsard

"Le temps s'en va, le temps s'en va, ma dame! Las! le temps non: mais nous nous en allons!"

Time goes, you say? Ah no! Alas, Time stays, we go; Or else, were this not so, What need to chain the hours, For Youth were always ours? Time goes, you say?--ah no!

Ours is the eyes' deceit Of men whose flying feet Lead through some landscape low; We pass, and think we see The earth's fixed surface flee:-- Alas, Time stays--we go!

Once in the days of old, Your locks were curling gold, And mine had shamed the crow. Now, in the self-same stage, We've reached the silver age; Time goes, you say?--ah no!

Once, when my voice was strong, I filled the woods with song To praise your "rose" and "snow"; My bird, that sang, is dead; Where are your roses fled? Alas, Time stays--we go!

See, in what traversed ways, What backward Fate delays The hopes we used to know; Where are our old desires?-- Ah, where those vanished fires? Time goes, you say?--ah no!

How far, how far, O sweet, The past behind our feet Lies in the even-glow! Now, on the forward way, Let us fold hands, and pray; Alas, Time stays,--we go!

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]

AGE

Snow and stars, the same as ever In the days when I was young,-- But their silver song, ah never, Never now is sung!

Cold the stars are, cold the earth is, Everything is grim and cold! Strange and drear the sound of mirth is-- Life and I are old!

William Winter [1836-1917]

OMNIA SOMNIA

Dawn drives the dreams away, yet some abide. Once, in a tide of pale and sunless weather, I dreamed I wandered on a bare hillside, When suddenly the birds sang all together.

Still it was Winter, even in the dream; There was no leaf nor bud nor young grass springing; The skies shone cold above the frost-bound stream: It was not Spring, and yet the birds were singing.

Blackbird and thrush and plaintive willow-wren, Chaffinch and lark and linnet, all were calling; A golden web of music held me then, Innumerable voices, rising, falling.

O, never do the birds of April sing More sweet than in that dream I still remember: Perchance the heart may keep its songs of Spring Even through the wintry dream of life's December.

Rosamund Marriott Watson [1863-1911]

THE YEAR'S END

Full happy is the man who comes at last Into the safe completion of his year; Weathered the perils of his spring, that blast How many blossoms promising and dear! And of his summer, with dread passions fraught That oft, like fire through the ripening corn, Blight all with mocking death and leave distraught Loved ones to mourn the ruined waste forlorn. But now, though autumn gave but harvest slight, Oh, grateful is he to the powers above For winter's sunshine, and the lengthened night By hearth-side genial with the warmth of love. Through silvered days of vistas gold and green Contentedly he glides away, serene.

Timothy Cole [1852-1931]

AN OLD MAN'S SONG

Ye are young, ye are young, I am old, I am old; And the song has been sung And the story been told.