We present this work in honor of the 430th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Robert Greene English 1558 – 1592
Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content; The quiet mind is richer than a crown; Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent; The poor estate scorns fortune’s angry frown: Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.
The homely house that harbours quiet rest; The cottage that affords no pride nor care; The mean that ‘grees with country music best; The sweet consort of mirth and music’s fare; Obscured life sets down a type of bliss: A mind content both crown and kingdom is.
We present this work in honor of Women’s Equality Day.
Amy Levy English 1861 – 1889
Swept into limbo is the host Of heavenly angels, row on row; The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Pale and defeated, rise and go. The great Jehovah is laid low, Vanished his burning bush and rod— Say, are we doomed to deeper woe? Shall marriage go the way of God?
Monogamous, still at our post, Reluctantly we undergo Domestic round of boiled and roast, Yet deem the whole proceeding slow. Daily the secret murmurs grow; We are no more content to plod Along the beaten paths—and so Marriage must go the way of God.
Soon, before all men, each shall toast The seven strings unto his bow, Like beacon fires along the coast, The flame of love shall glance and glow. Nor let nor hindrance man shall know, From natal bath to funeral sod; Perennial shall his pleasures flow When marriage goes the way of God.
Grant, in a million years at most, Folk shall be neither pairs nor odd— Alas! we sha’n’t be there to boast “Marriage has gone the way of God!”
We present this work in honor of National Aviation Day.
Robert Graves English 1895 – 1985
The butterfly, the cabbage white, (His honest idiocy of flight) Will never now, it is too late, Master the art of flying straight, Yet has – who knows so well as I? – A just sense of how not to fly: He lurches here and here by guess And God and hope and hopelessness. Even the aerobatic swift Has not his flying-crooked gift.
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.
Poets Corner 