There are only two things in the world – The storm in the air and the stretch of green leaves; The flesh of the forest that quivers and heaves As the blast on its bosom is hurled. Above is the whip of the wind That scourges the cowering forest beneath: The Storm spits the hiss of the hail from his teeth, And leaves the world writhing behind! Like a beast that is bound in a cage When the keeper’s lash lights and the keeper’s goad stings, Each tree his great limbs to his torturer flings In a groaning and impotent rage. As the leaves to a fiercer gust lean The wind throws their undersides upward to sight, And the foam of the forest-sea flashes to white Out over full fathoms of green.
Sweet, sacred hill! on whose fair brow My Saviour sate, shall I allow Language to love, And idolize some shade, or grove, Neglecting thee? such ill-plac’d wit, Conceit, or call it what you please, Is the brain’s fit, And mere disease.
Cotswold and Cooper’s both have met With learnèd swains, and echo yet Their pipes and wit; But thou sleep’st in a deep neglect, Untouch’d by any; and what need The sheep bleat thee a silly lay, That heard’st both reed And sheepward play?
Yet if poets mind thee well, They shall find thou art their hill, And fountain too. Their Lord with thee had most to do; He wept once, walk’d whole nights on thee: And from thence—His suff’rings ended— Unto glory Was attended.
Being there, this spacious ball Is but His narrow footstool all; And what we think Unsearchable, now with one wink He doth comprise; but in this air When He did stay to bear our ill And sin, this hill Was then His Chair.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 190th birthday.
The moonlight fades from flower and rose And the stars dim one by one; The tale is told, the song is sung, And the Fairy feast is done. The night-wind rocks the sleeping flowers, And sings to them, soft and low. The early birds erelong will wake: ‘T is time for the Elves to go.
O’er the sleeping earth we silently pass, Unseen by mortal eye, And send sweet dreams, as we lightly float Through the quiet moonlit sky;– For the stars’ soft eyes alone may see, And the flowers alone may know, The feasts we hold, the tales we tell; So’t is time for the Elves to go.
From bird, and blossom, and bee, We learn the lessons they teach; And seek, by kindly deeds, to win A loving friend in each. And though unseen on earth we dwell, Sweet voices whisper low, And gentle hearts most joyously greet The Elves where’er they go.
When next we meet in the Fairy dell, May the silver moon’s soft light Shine then on faces gay as now, And Elfin hearts as light. Now spread each wing, for the eastern sky With sunlight soon shall glow. The morning star shall light us home: Farewell! for the Elves must go.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 115th birthday.
He who has destroyed all the creeds With fire from his burning breast, He who quits the temple, mosque and church A drunken heretic, unblest, Who sees the snares, and now comes running From Pandit’s, Priest’s and Mullah’s cunning, He, and he only, shall today Be in my House, a welcome Guest.
We present this work in honor of the 75th anniversary of the poet’s death.
I love to go down into the town at the hour when the sky lies close against the horizon like a vast whale. It sinks down into the heart of the street like a worker into his ditch. The bell has swung before the windows and the panes are lit up. It is as though all the eyes of the evening were filled with tears. In an opal the lamps and the day wrestle gently with each other. The advertising signs write to each other, spreading themselves in letters of lava across the face of the buildings. The rope dancers stride over the abyss. A great long legged spider spins its web from the hooks of a bush full of flowers. An acrobat climbs up and throws himself down. Shipwrecked sailors signal foreign vessels. The houses advance like the prows of galleys with all their portholes blazing. Man runs between their golden flames like a waif in a harbor.
Dark and streaming the autos arrive from everywhere, like sharks to the quarry of a great shipwreck, blind to the fulgurant signals of men.