DE SHEEPFOL' De massa ob de sheepfol', Den de massa ob de sheepfol', Goes down in de gloomerin' meadows, So he le' down de ba's ob de sheepfol', Callin' sof', "Come in. Callin' sof', "Come in. Come in." Come in." Den up t'ro de gloomerin' meadows, Sarah Pratt McLean Greene FROM "THE SONG OF MYSELF Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me, Afar down I see the huge first Nothing; I know I was even there; I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic mist, And took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon. Long I was hugged close — long and long. Immense have been the preparations for me, Faithful and friendly the arms that have helped me. Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen, For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings, They sent influences to look after what was to hold me. Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me, My embryo has never been torpid, nothing could overlay it. For it the nebula cohered to an orb, The long slow strata piled to rest it on, Vast vegetables gave it sustenance. Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and deposited it with care. All forces have been steadily employed to complete and delight me, Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul. Walt Whitman QUA CURSUM VENTUS As ships, becalm'd at eve, that lay When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, E'en so -- but why the tale reveal Of those, whom year by year unchanged, Brief absence join'd anew to feel, Astounded, soul from soul estranged? - At dead of night their sails were fill'd, To veer, how vain! On, onward strain, But O blithe breeze! and O great seas, One port, methought, alike they sought, Arthur Hugh Clough TO HIS CONSCIENCE Can I not sin, but thou wilt be Gifts blind the wise, and bribes do please And wilt not thou with gold be tied, Robert Herrick WHERE ARE SIGHS? Unless my senses are more dull Where are they all? these many years Walter Savage Landor MELANCHOLY Hence, all you vain delights, Welcome, folded arms, and fixèd eyes, A look that's fasten'd to the ground, Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley; John Fletcher |