Written by
Paul Muldoon |
I am stretched out under the lean-to
Of an old tobacco-shed
On a farm in North Carolina.
A cardinal sings from the dogwood
For the love of marijuana.
His song goes over my head.
There is such splendour in the grass
I might be the picture of happiness.
Yet I am utterly bereft
Of the low hills, the open-ended sky,
The wave upon wave of pasture
Rolling in, and just as surely
Falling short of my bare feet.
Whatever is passing is passing me by.
I am with Raleigh, near the Atlantic,
Where we have built a stockade
Around our little colony.
Give him his scallop-shell of quiet,
His staff of faith to walk upon,
His scrip of joy, immortal diet—
We are some eighty souls
On whom Raleigh will hoist his sails.
He will return, years afterwards,
To wonder where and why
We might have altogether disappeared,
Only to glimpse us here and there
As one fair strand in her braid,
The blue in an Indian girl's dead eye.
I am stretched out under the lean-to
Of an old tobacco-shed
On a farm in North Carolina,
When someone or other, warm, naked,
Stirs within my own skeleton
And stands on tip-toe to look out
Over the horizon,
Through the zones, across the Ocean.
The cardinal sings from a redbud
For the love of one slender and shy,
The flight after flight of stairs
To her room in Bayswater,
The damson freckle on her throat
That I kissed when we kissed Goodbye.
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Written by
Isaac Watts |
A hopeful youth falling short of heaven.
Mark 10:21.
Must all the charms of nature, then,
So hopeless to salvation prove?
Can hell demand, can heav'n condemn,
The man whom Jesus deigns to love?
The man who sought the ways of truth,
Paid friends and neighbors all their due;
A modest, sober, lovely youth,
And thought he wanted nothing new.
But mark the change; thus spake the Lord-
"Come, part with earth for heav'n today:"
The youth, astonished at the word,
In silent sadness went his way.
Poor virtues that he boasted so,
This test unable to endure;
Let Christ, and grace, and glory go,
To make his land and money sure!
Ah, foolish choice of treasures here!
Ah, fatal love of tempting gold!
Must this base world be bought so dear?
Are life and heav'n so cheaply sold?
In vain the charms of nature shine,
If this vile passion govern me:
Transform my soul, O love divine!
And make me part with all for thee.
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Written by
Sir John Suckling |
One of her hands one of her cheeks lay under,
Cosening the pillow of a lawful kiss,
Which therefore swell'd, and seem'd to part asunder,
As angry to be robb'd of such a bliss!
The one look'd pale and for revenge did long,
While t'other blush'd, 'cause it had done the wrong.
Out of the bed the other fair hand was
On a green satin quilt, whose perfect white
Look'd like a daisy in a field of grass,
And show'd like unmelt snow unto the sight;
There lay this pretty perdue, safe to keep
The rest o' th' body that lay fast asleep.
Her eyes (and therefore it was night), close laid
Strove to imprison beauty till the morn:
But yet the doors were of such fine stuff made,
That it broke through, and show'd itself in scorn,
Throwing a kind of light about the place,
Which turn'd to smiles still, as't came near her face.
Her beams, which some dull men call'd hair, divided,
Part with her cheeks, part with her lips did sport.
But these, as rude, her breath put by still; some
Wiselier downwards sought, but falling short,
Curled back in rings, and seemed to turn again
To bite the part so unkindly held them in.
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