As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street, And sin no more, as we have done, by staying, There's not a budding boy or girl, this day, And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: Many a kiss, both odd and even: From out the eye, love's firmament: Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks picked: yet we're not a Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. Sports and Pastimes Our life is short, and our days run A fable, song, or fleeting shade, Lies drowned with us in endless night. Jog On, Jog On* Jog on, jog on the foot path-way, Your paltry money-bags of gold— Then cast away care, let sorrow cease, Let's laugh and sing, or, if you please We'll frolic with sweet Dolly. From The Winter's Tale. *First stanza by William Shakespeare. Last two stanzas by unknown author in "Antidote Against Melancholy,” 1661. A Vagabond Song Sports and There is something in the Autumn that is native Pastimes to my blood Touch of manner, hint of mood; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry And my lonely spirit thrills To see the frosty asters like smoke upon the hills. There is something in October sets the gipsy blood astir; We must rise and follow her, When from every hill of flame She calls and calls each vagabond by name. BLISS CARMAN. Swimming And mightier grew the joy to meet full-faced taste The rapture of its rolling strength, and cross Sports Like plumes in battle's blithest charge, and thence and To match the next with yet more strenuous sense; Pastimes Till on his eyes the light beat hard and bade His face turn west and shoreward through the glad Swift revel of the waters golden-clad, And back with light reluctant heart he bore ALGERNON C. SWINBURne. From "Tristram of Lyonesse." Swimming How many a time have I Cloven, with arm still lustier, breast more daring. The long suspended breath, again I spurned From "The Two Foscari." Sports and Pastimes The Angler's Reveille* What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night, And all the drowsy little stars have fallen asleep in light; "Tis then a wandering wind awakes, and runs from tree to tree, And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille. This is the carol the Robin throws Over the edge of the valley; Listen how boldly it flows, Sally on sally: Tirra-lirra, All a-quiver. Day is near, * From "The Toiling of Felix." By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons. |