Between the showers I went my way,
The glistening street was bright with flowers;
It seemed that March had turned to May
Between the showers.
Above the shining roofs and towers
The blue broke forth athwart the grey;
Birds carolled in their leafless bowers.
Hither and tither, swift and gay,
The people chased the changeful hours;
And you, you passed and smiled that day,
Between the showers.
We present this work in honor of the 85th anniversary of the poet’s death.
When first my way to fair I took
Few pence in purse had I,
And long I used to stand and look
At things I could not buy.
Now times are altered: if I care
To buy a thing, I can;
The pence are here and here’s the fair,
But where’s the lost young man?
—To think that two and two are four
And neither five nor three
The heart of man has long been sore
And long ’tis like to be.
We present this work in honor of the 405th anniversary of the poet’s death.
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 205th birthday.
Speak of the North! A lonely moor
Silent and dark and tractless swells,
The waves of some wild streamlet pour
Hurriedly through its ferny dells.
Profoundly still the twilight air,
Lifeless the landscape; so we deem
Till like a phantom gliding near
A stag bends down to drink the stream.
And far away a mountain zone,
A cold, white waste of snow-drifts lies,
And one star, large and soft and lone,
Silently lights the unclouded skies.
We present this work in honor of April Fool’s Day.
I
They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they went to sea:
In spite of all their friends could say,
On a winter’s morn, on a stormy day,
In a Sieve they went to sea!
And when the Sieve turned round and round,
And every one cried, ‘You’ll all be drowned!’
They called aloud, ‘Our Sieve ain’t big,
But we don’t care a button! we don’t care a fig!
In a Sieve we’ll go to sea!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
II
They sailed away in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they sailed so fast,
With only a beautiful pea-green veil
Tied with a riband by way of a sail,
To a small tobacco-pipe mast;
And every one said, who saw them go,
‘O won’t they be soon upset, you know!
For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,
And happen what may, it’s extremely wrong
In a Sieve to sail so fast!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
III
The water it soon came in, it did,
The water it soon came in;
So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
In a pinky paper all folded neat,
And they fastened it down with a pin.
And they passed the night in a crockery-jar,
And each of them said, ‘How wise we are!
Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,
Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,
While round in our Sieve we spin!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
IV
And all night long they sailed away;
And when the sun went down,
They whistled and warbled a moony song
To the echoing sound of a coppery gong,
In the shade of the mountains brown.
‘O Timballo! How happy we are,
When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar,
And all night long in the moonlight pale,
We sail away with a pea-green sail,
In the shade of the mountains brown!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
V
They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,
To a land all covered with trees,
And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart,
And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart,
And a hive of silvery Bees.
And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-daws,
And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws,
And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree,
And no end of Stilton Cheese.
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
VI
And in twenty years they all came back,
In twenty years or more,
And every one said, ‘How tall they’ve grown!’
For they’ve been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,
And the hills of the Chankly Bore;
And they drank their health, and gave them a feast
Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;
And everyone said, ‘If we only live,
We too will go to sea in a Sieve,—
To the hills of the Chankly Bore!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 400th birthday.
My love is of a birth as rare
As ’tis for object strange and high;
It was begotten by Despair
Upon Impossibility.
Magnanimous Despair alone
Could show me so divine a thing
Where feeble Hope could ne’er have flown,
But vainly flapp’d its tinsel wing.
And yet I quickly might arrive
Where my extended soul is fixt,
But Fate does iron wedges drive,
And always crowds itself betwixt.
For Fate with jealous eye does see
Two perfect loves, nor lets them close;
Their union would her ruin be,
And her tyrannic pow’r depose.
And therefore her decrees of steel
Us as the distant poles have plac’d,
(Though love’s whole world on us doth wheel)
Not by themselves to be embrac’d;
Unless the giddy heaven fall,
And earth some new convulsion tear;
And, us to join, the world should all
Be cramp’d into a planisphere.
As lines, so loves oblique may well
Themselves in every angle greet;
But ours so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.
Therefore the love which us doth bind,
But Fate so enviously debars,
Is the conjunction of the mind,
And opposition of the stars.
English
1816 – 1847
With sadden’d heart and tearful eye the mother went her way,
The Patriarch’s mandate had gone forth, and Hagar must not stay.
Oh! who can tell the emotions deep that pressed on Abra’am’s heart —
As thus, obedient to his God, from Ismael called to part!
But God had spoken, and he knew His word was changeless truth,
He could not doubt His blessing would protect the friendless youth;
He bade him go, nor would he heed the anguish of his soul;
He turned aside, — a father’s woe in silence to control.
Now hand in hand they wend their way, o’er hills and vale and wild;
The mother’s heart was full of grief, but smiled in glee her child:
Fearless and free, he felt restraint would never gall him now —
And hail’d with joy the fresh’ning breeze that fann’d his fair young brow.
His mother’s heart was desolate, and tears swell’d in her eye;
Scarce to his artless words of love her quiv’ring lips reply.
She only saw the future as a lone and dreary wild:
The present stood before the lad in joyance undefil’d.
She knew, alas! his boyish strength too soon would droop and fade;
And who was, in that lonely scene, to give them food and aid?
With trembling gaze she oft would mark the flushing of his cheek,
And list in terror, lest he should ‘gin falteringly to speak!
Fatigue she felt not for herself, nor heeded care nor pain —
But nearer, nearer to her breast her boy at times she’d strain;
Beersheba’s wilderness they see before them dark and wide;
Oh, who across its scorching sand their wandering steps will guide?
The flush departed from the cheek which she so oft has kiss’d;
To his glad tones of childish glee no longer may she list;
A pallor as of death is spread o’er those sweet features now —
She sees him droop before the blast that fann’d his aching brow.
“Oh, mother lay me down,” he cried, “I know not what I feel,
But something cold and rushing seems thro’ all my limbs to steal —
Oh kiss me, mother dear, and then ah, lay me down to sleep —
Nay, do not look upon me thus — kiss me and do not weep!”
Scarce could her feeble arms support her child, and lay him where
Some clustering shrubs might shield him from the heavy scorching air;
His drooping eyelids closed; his breath came painfully and slow —
She bent her head on his a while in wild yet speechless woe.
Then from his side she hurried, as impelled she knew not why,
Save that she could not linger there — she could not see him die —
She lifted up her voice and wept — and o’er the lonely wild
“Let me not see his death!” was borne, “my Ismael, my child!”
And silence came upon her then, her stricken soul to calm;
And suddenly and strange there fell a soft and soothing balm —
And then a voice came stealing, on the still and fragrant air —
A still small voice that would be heard, tho’ solitude was there.
“What aileth thee, oh Hagar?” thus it spoke: fear not, for God hath heard
The lad’s voice where he is, — and thou, trust in thy Maker’s word!
Awake! arise! lift up the lad and hold him in thine hand —
I will of him a nation make, before Me, he shall stand.”
It ceased, that voice; and silence now, as strangely soft and still,
The boundless desert once again with eloquence would fill —
And strength returned to Hagar’s frame, for God hath oped her eyes —
And lo! amid the arid sands a well of water lies!
Quick to her boy, with beating heart, the anxious mother flies,
And to his lips, and hands, and brow, the cooling draught applies —
He wakes! he breathes! the flush of life is mantling on his cheek —
He smiles! he speaks! oh those quick tears his mother’s joy shall speak!
She held him to her throbbing breast, she gazed upon his face —
The beaming features, one by one, in silent love to trace
She bade him kneel to bless the Hand that saved him in the wild —
But oh! few words her lips could speak, save these — “My child, my child!”
We present this work in honor of the 50th anniversary of the poet’s death.
English
1902 – 1971
The nearly right
And yet not quite
In love is wholly evil
And every heart
That loves in part
Is mortgaged to the devil
I loved or thought
I loved in sort
Was this to love akin?
To take the best
And leave the rest
And let the devil in?
O lovers true
And others too
Whose best is only better
Take my advice
Shun compromise
Forget him and forget her
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 215th birthday.
English
1806 – 1861
If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love’s sake only. Do not say
‘I love her for her smile—her look—her way
Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day’—
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry,—
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love’s sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love’s eternity.
English
1771 – 1825
Beside the parson’s dusky bow’r
Why strays a troubl’d sprite,
That dimly shines in lonely hour
Thro’ curtains of the night?
Why steals along yon slimy bank
An hov’ring fire so blue,
That lights a spot both drear and dank,
Where falls nor rain nor dew?
The parson once a daughter had,
Fair village maids above;
Unstain’d as fair—and many a lad
Had sought the maiden’s love.
High o’er the hamlet proudly dight
Beyond the winding stream,
The windows of yon mansion bright
Shone in the evening beam.
A Bacchanalian lord dwelt there,
Unworthy of his name;
He plung’d a father in despair,
And robb’d a maiden’s fame.
With wine and tapers sparkling round,
The night flew swift away;
In huntsman’s dress, with horn and hound,
He met the dawning day.
He sent the maid his picture, deck’d
With diamonds, pearls, and gold;
Ah! silly maid, why not reject
What on the back was told?
‘Despise the love of shepherd boys;
Shalt thou be basely woo’d
That worthy art of highest joys,
And youths of noble blood?
‘The tale I would to thee unfold
In secret must be said;
And when the midnight hour is told,
Fair love, be not afraid.
‘And when the am’rous nightingale
Like thee shall sweetly sing,
A stone thy window shall assail,
My idol forth to bring.’
Attired in vest of gayest blue,
He came with lonely tread,
And silent as the beams that threw
Their pale light o’er her head.
And did no thought affect his breast,
Or bid his feet delay?
Ah! no! the crime but adds a zest
To spur his guilty way.
And when the sweet-pip’d nightingale
Sang from the dusky bow’r,
A stone her window did assail
Just at the midnight hour.
And ah! she came;—his treacherous arms
The trembling maid receive;
How soon do they in lover’s charms
A lover’s truth believe!
Lock’d in his arms, she scarcely strove,
Seduc’d by young desire,
The glowing twin brother of Love,
Possess’d with wilder fire.
Still struggling, faint, he led her on
Tow’rd the fatal bow’r,
So still—so dim—while all along
Sweet smelt each blushing flow’r.
Then beat her heart—and heav’d her breast—
And pleaded ev’ry sense;
Remorseless the seducer prest,
To blast her innocence.
But soon in tears repentant drown’d,
The drooping fair bemoan’d,
And oft, when night in terror frown’d,
Forlorn and sad she roam’d.
And when the fragrile flow’rs decay’d,
The bloom her cheeks forsook,
And from her eyes no longer play’d
The loves with wily look.
And when the leaves of autumn fell,
And grey the grass was grown,
Her bosom rose with lovely swell,
And tighter grew her zone.
And when the mow’rs went a field
The yellow corn to ted,
She felt her sorrowing bosom yield
To all a mother’s dread.
And when the winds of winter swept
The stubborn glebe among,
In wild despair and fear she wept
The lingering night along.
And when the fault of yielding love
No more could be conceal’d,
She knelt, her father’s soul to move,
And, weeping, all reveal’d.
But vain her tears; the ruthless sire
In piteous voice revil’d,
And while his eye-balls flash’d with fire,
He spurn’d his hapless child:
Spurn’d her with cruelty severe,
And smote her snowy breast;
The patient blood, that gush’d so clear,
Its purity confess’d.
Such are the dang’rous thorns of love,
That strew the virgin’s way,
While faithless as its roses prove,
‘Tis they that first decay.
Then drove her forth forlorn to wail
Amid the dreary wild,
Forgets that mortals all are frail,
But more—forgets his child!
Unhappy parent!—passion’s slave!
Had nature been thy guide,
Thy child, now sunk in hasten’d grave,
Might still have been thy pride.
Up the harsh rock so steep and slim’d,
The mourner had to roam,
And faint on tott’ring feet she clim’d
To seek her lover’s home.
‘Alas! my blood-stain’d bosom see,
The drooping sufferer cried;
‘A mother hast thou made of me,
Before thou mad’st a bride .
‘This is thy ruthless deed—behold!’
And sinking on the floor;
‘Oh! let thy love with honour hold,
My injur’d name restore.’
‘Poor maid! I grieve to see thy woe;
My folly now lament:
Go not while harsh the tempests blow,
Thy father shall repent.’
‘I cannot stay,’ she shudd’ring cried,
‘While dubious hangs my fame.
Alas! forswear thy cruel pride,
And leave me not to shame.
‘Make me thy wife, I’ll love thee true;
High Heaven approves the deed:
For mercy’s sake some pity shew,
E’en while for thee I bleed!’
‘Sure ‘tis thy mirth, or dost thou rave?
‘Can I,’ he scoffing cried,
‘Thy forfeit name from scorn to save,
E’er wed a peasant maid?
‘What honour bids I’ll do for thee—
My huntsman shall be thine;
While still our loves, voluptuous free,
No shackles shall confine.’
‘Damn’d be thy soul, and sad thy life,
May pangs in hell await!
Wretch! if too humble for thy wife,
Oh, why not for thy mate?
‘May God attend, my bitter prayer!
Some high-born spouse be thine,
Whose wanton arts shall mock thy care,
And spurious be thy line.
‘Then traitor fell, how wretched those
In hopeless shame immers’d,
Strike thy hard breast with vengeful blows,
While curses from it burst!
‘Roll thy dry eyes, for mercy call,
Unsooth’d thy grinning woe;
Through thy pale temples fire the ball,
And sink to fiends below!’
Then starting up, she wildly flew,
Nor heard the hissing sleet,
Nor knew how keen the tempest blew,
Nor felt her bleeding feet.
‘Oh where, my God! where shall I roam?
For shelter where shall fly?’
She cried, as wild she sought the home
Where still she wish’d to die.
Tow’rd the bow’r, in frenzied woe,
The fainting wand’rer drew,
Where wither’d leaves and driving snow
Made haste her bed to strew:
E’en to that bower, where first undone,
Now yields its bed forlorn,
And now beholds a cherub son
In grief and terror born.
‘Ah, lovely babe!’ she cried, ‘we part
Ne’er, ne’er to meet again!’
Then frantic pierc’d its tender heart—
The new-born life is slain.
Swift horror seiz’d her shudd’ring soul—
‘My God, behold my crime!
Let thy avenging thunders roll,
And crush me in my prime!’
With blood-stain’d hands the bank beside
Its shallow grave she tore.
‘There rest in God,’ she wildly cried,
‘Where guilt can stab no more.’
Then the red knife, with blood imbru’d,
Of innocence, she press’d;
Its fatal point convulsive view’d,
And sheath’d it in her breast.
Beside her infant’s lonely tomb
Her mould’ring form is laid,
Where never flow’r is seen to bloom
Beneath the deadly shade.
Where falls nor rain nor heavenly dew,
Where sun-beam never shines,
Where steals along the fire so blue,
And hov’ring spectre pines.
There, too, its blood-stain’d hand to wave,
Her mournful ghost is seen,
Or dimly o’er her infant’s grave,
Three spans in length, to lean.
Poets Corner 