We present this work in honor of the poet’s 350th birthday.
Ben Jonson
English
1572 – 1637
In all faith, we did our part: generated punctually, prepared adequately, ejected promptly, and swam in the approved manner in the appropriate direction; did all instinctive things well, even eagerly- an exemplary start. But then the barrier: unexpectedness unexpectedly. (They did not tell us this). To go back impossible, unnatural: so round; many times; we tired ourselves. Where were the promised homes, embedded in the soft wall? Or the anticipated achievement so momentous, fulfilling? So we died: what else was there to do? But in all faith, we did our part!
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 210th birthday.
Robert Browning
English
1812 – 1889
The rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me — she Too weak, for all her heart’s endeavour, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me for ever.
But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night’s gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipped me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria’s love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word!
We present this work in honor of the 455th anniversary of the poet’s death.
George Wither English 1588 – 1667
Hence away, thou siren, leave me, Pish! unclasp those wanton arms, Sugared words can ne’er deceive me Though thou prove a thousand charms. Fie, fie, forbear, no common snare Can ever my affection chain. Thy painted baits and poor deceits Are all bestowed on me in vain.
I’m no slave to such as you be, Neither shall that snowy breast, Rolling eye and lip of ruby, Ever rob me of my rest. Go, go, display thy beauty’s ray To some more soon enamoured swain, Those common wiles of sighs and smiles Are all bestowed on me in vain.
I have elsewhere vowed a duty, Turn away that tempting eye, Show me not a painted beauty, These impostures I defy. My spirit loathes where gaudy clothes And feigned oaths may love obtain. I love her so, whose looks swear no, That all your labours will be vain.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 130th birthday.
Vita Sackville-West
English
1892 – 1962
And so it ends, We who were lovers may be friends. I have some weeks in which to steel My heart and teach myself to feel Only a sober tenderness Where once was passion’s loveliness.
I had not thought that there would come Your touch to make our music dumb, Your meeting touch upon the string That still was vibrant, still could sing When I impatiently might wait Or parted from you at the gate.
You took me weak and unprepared. I had not thought that you who shared My days, my nights, my heart, my life, Would slash me with a naked knife And gently tell me not to bleed But to accept your crazy creed.
You speak of God, but you have cut The one last thread, as you have shut The one last door that open stood To show me still the way to God. If this be God, this pain, this evil, I’d sooner change and try the Devil.
Darling, I thought of nothing mean; I thought of killing straight and clean. You’re safe; that’s gone, that wild caprice, But tell me once before I cease, Which does your Church esteem the kinder role, To kill the body or destroy the soul?
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 115th birthday.
W.H. Auden
English
1907 – 1973
Lay your sleeping head, my love, Human on my faithless arm; Time and fevers burn away Individual beauty from Thoughtful children, and the grave Proves the child ephemeral: But in my arms till break of day Let the living creature lie, Mortal, guilty, but to me The entirely beautiful.
Soul and body have no bounds: To lovers as they lie upon Her tolerant enchanted slope In their ordinary swoon, Grave the vision Venus sends Of supernatural sympathy, Universal love and hope; While an abstract insight wakes Among the glaciers and the rocks The hermit’s carnal ecstasy.
Certainty, fidelity On the stroke of midnight pass Like vibrations of a bell, And fashionable madmen raise Their pedantic boring cry: Every farthing of the cost, All the dreaded cards foretell, Shall be paid, but from this night Not a whisper, not a thought, Not a kiss nor look be lost.
Beauty, midnight, vision dies: Let the winds of dawn that blow Softly round your dreaming head Such a day of welcome show Eye and knocking heart may bless, Find the mortal world enough; Noons of dryness find you fed By the involuntary powers, Nights of insult let you pass Watched by every human love.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 190th birthday.
Lewis Carroll
English
1832 – 1898
The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright — And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done — “It’s very rude of him,” she said, “To come and spoil the fun.”
The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying overhead — There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: “If this were only cleared away,” They said, “it would be grand!”
“If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose,” the Walrus said, That they could get it clear?” “I doubt it,” said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear.
“O Oysters, come and walk with us!” The Walrus did beseech. “A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach: We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each.”
The eldest Oyster looked at him, But never a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head — Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat — And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn’t any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more — All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row.
“The time has come,” the Walrus said, “To talk of many things: Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax — Of cabbages — and kings — And why the sea is boiling hot — And whether pigs have wings.”
“But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried, “Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!” “No hurry!” said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that.
“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said, “Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed — Now if you’re ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed.”
“But not on us!” the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. “After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!” “The night is fine,” the Walrus said. “Do you admire the view?”
“It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!” The Carpenter said nothing but “Cut us another slice: I wish you were not quite so deaf — I’ve had to ask you twice!”
“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said, To play them such a trick, After we’ve brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!” The Carpenter said nothing but “The butter’s spread too thick!”
“I weep for you,” the Walrus said: I deeply sympathize.” With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes.
“O Oysters,” said the Carpenter, “You’ve had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?” But answer came there none — And this was scarcely odd, because They’d eaten every one.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 450th birthday.
John Donne English 1572 – 1631
I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den? ‘Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be. If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, ‘twas but a dream of thee.
And now good-morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear; For love, all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room an everywhere. Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone, Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown, Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest; Where can we find two better hemispheres, Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mixed equally; If our two loves be one, or, thou and I Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.
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