SIN Lord, with what care hast Thou begirt us round! Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin, Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness, Yet all these fences and their whole array George Herbert RENOUNCEMENT I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong, The thought of thee — and in the blue Heaven's height, And in the sweetest passage of a song. Oh, just beyond the fairest thoughts that throng This breast, the thought of thee waits, hidden yet bright; But it must never, never come in sight; I must stop short of thee the whole day long. But when sleep comes to close each difficult day, Must doff my will as raiment laid away, With the first dream that comes with the first sleep Alice Meynell THE TIGER Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, In what distant deeps or skies And what shoulder, and what art, What the hammer? what the chain? When the stars threw down their spears, Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, William Blake TO A WATERFOWL Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. William Cullen Bryant THE VALLEY OF UNREST Once it smiled a silent dell Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven Over the violets there that lie And weep above a nameless grave! They wave:- from out their fragrant tops They weep: Edgar Allan Poe SEVEN TIMES ONE There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, I've said my "seven times over and over, – I am old, so old I can write a letter; The lambs play always, — they know no better; O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing You were bright — ah, bright — but your light is failing; You are nothing now but a bow. You Moon! have you done something wrong in heaven, That God has hidden your face? I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven, O velvet Bee! you're a dusty fellow, O Columbine! open your folded wrapper, And show me your nest, with the young ones I will not steal them away: I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet! Jean Ingelow |