in Poems (Author's Poems)
Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees its close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Send
Author's Poems
in Poems (Author's Poems)
For conversation well endued;
She calls it witty to be rude;
And, placing raillery in railing,
Will tell aloud your greatest failing.
Send
in Poems (Author's Poems)
Tis a long hundred leagues to Babylon;
And to get in one's debts is no employment,
That speeds a traveller.
Send
in Poems (Author's Poems)
One pillar holding up consolations
And don't bother telling me anything
And so? The pale metalloid heals you?
I have a terrible fear of being an animal.
And what if after so many words,
The anger that breaks a man down into boys.
Send
in Poems (Author's Poems)
In our natural state, we are glorious beings.
In the world of illusion, we are lost and imprisoned,
slaves to our appetites and our will to false power.
Send
in Poems (Author's Poems)
The heart of Man is not compound of lies,
but draws some wisdom from the only Wise,
and still recalls him. Though now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
Dis-graced he may be, yet is not dethroned,
and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned,
his world-dominion by creative act:
not his to worship the great Artefact,
Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
Send
in Poems (Author's Poems)
My poems please the brave:
My poems, short and sincere,
Have the force of steel
Which forges swords.
Send
in Poems (Author's Poems)
Ah, to build, to build!
That is the noblest art of all the arts.
Painting and sculpture are but images,
Are merely shadows cast by outward things
On stone or canvas, having in themselves
No separate existence. Architecture,
Existing in itself, and not in seeming
a something it is not, surpasses them
As substance shadow.
Send
in Poems (Author's Poems)
A Ballad
I.
'Twas when the seas were roaring
With hollow blasts of wind;
A damsel lay deploring,
All on a rock reclin'd.
Wide o'er the roaring billows
She cast a wistful look;
Her head was crown'd with willows,
That tremble o'er the brook.
II.
Twelve months are gone and over,
And nine long tedious days,
Why didst thou, vent'rous lover,
Why didst thou trust the seas?
Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean,
And let my lover rest:
Ah! what's thy troubled motion
To that within my breast?
III.
The merchant robb'd of pleasure
Sees tempests in despair;
But what's the loss of treasure
To losing of my dear?
Should you some coast be laid on
Where gold and diamonds grow
You'd find a richer maiden,
But none that loves you so.
IV.
How can they say that nature
Has nothing made in vain
Why then beneath the water
Should hideous rocks remain?
No eyes the rocks discover,
That lurk beneath the deep,
To wreck the wandering lover,
And leave the maid to weep.
V.
All melancholy lying,
Thus wail'd she for her dear;
Repay'd each blast with sighing,
Each billow with a tear;
When, o'er the white wave stooping,
His floating corpse she spied;
Then like a lily drooping,
She bow'd her head and died.
Send
in Poems (Author's Poems)
Out of my own great woe
I make my little songs.
Send