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Best Famous Fruited Poems

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Written by Pablo Neruda | Create an image from this poem

A Song Of Despair

 The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.

Deserted like the dwarves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!

Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.

In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.

You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!

It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.

Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!

In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!

I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on.

Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.

Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness.
and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.

There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.

Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!

How terrible and brief my desire was to you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.

Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.

Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.

Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.

And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.

This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!

Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!

From billow to billow you still called and sang.
Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.

You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents.
Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.

Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,
lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.

The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.

Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.

It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!


Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Land

 When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald,
In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,
He called to him Hobdenius-a Briton of the Clay,
Saying: "What about that River-piece for layin'' in to hay?"

And the aged Hobden answered: "I remember as a lad
My father told your father that she wanted dreenin' bad.
An' the more that you neeglect her the less you'll get her clean.
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd dreen."

So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style--
Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile,
And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows
 show,
We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago.

Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do,
And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.
Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern main
And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.

Well could Ogier work his war-boat --well could Ogier wield his
 brand--
Much he knew of foaming waters--not so much of farming land.
So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood,
Saying: "What about that River-piece; she doesn't look no good?"

And that aged Hobden answered "'Tain't for me not interfere.
But I've known that bit o' meadow now for five and fifty year.
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but I've proved it time on ' time,
If you want to change her nature you have got to give her lime!"

Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours' solemn walk,
And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk.
And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was
 in't.--
Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint.

Ogier died. His sons grew English-Anglo-Saxon was their name--
Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came;
For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men,
And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.

But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy autumn night 
And tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right.
So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping rounds:
"Hob, what about that River-bit--the Brook's got up no bounds? "

 And that aged Hobden answered: "'Tain't my business to advise,
But ye might ha' known 'twould happen from the way the valley
 lies.
 Where ye can't hold back the water you must try and save the
 sile.
 Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd spile!"

 They spiled along the water-course with trunks of willow-trees,
 And planks of elms behind 'em and immortal oaken knees.
 And when the spates of Autumn whirl the gravel-beds away
 You can see their faithful fragments, iron-hard in iron clay.
. . . . . . . . . . 
 Georgii Quinti Anno Sexto, I, who own the River-field,
 Am fortified with title-deeds, attested, signed and sealed, 
 Guaranteeing me, my assigns, my executors and heirs
 All sorts of powers and profits which-are neither mine nor theirs,

 I have rights of chase and warren, as my dignity requires.
 I can fish-but Hobden tickles--I can shoot--but Hobden wires.
 I repair, but he reopens, certain gaps which, men allege,
 Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swapped a
 hedge.

Shall I dog his morning progress o'er the track-betraying dew?
Demand his dinner-basket into which my pheasant flew?
Confiscate his evening ****** under which my conies ran,
And summons him to judgment? I would sooner summons Pan.

His dead are in the churchyard--thirty generations laid.
Their names were old in history when Domesday Book was made;
 And the passion and the piety and prowess of his line
 Have seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine.

 Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that flies,
 Would I lose his large sound council, miss his keen amending
 eyes.
 He is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer,
 And if flagrantly a poacher--'tain't for me to interfere.

 "Hob, what about that River-bit?" I turn to him again,
 With Fabricius and Ogier and William of Warenne.
 "Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but"-and here he takes com-
 mand.
 For whoever pays the taxes old Mus' Hobden owns the land.
Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | Create an image from this poem

A Game Of Chess

  The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
  Glowed on the marble, where the glass
  Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
  From which a golden Cupidon peeped out                                  80
  (Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
  Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
  Reflecting light upon the table as
  The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
  From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
  In vials of ivory and coloured glass
  Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
  Unguent, powdered, or liquid— troubled, confused
  And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
  That freshened from the window, these ascended                          90
  In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
  Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
  Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
  Huge sea-wood fed with copper
  Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
  In which sad light a carved dolphin swam.
  Above the antique mantel was displayed
  As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
  The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
  So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale                             100
  Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
  And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
  "Jug Jug" to dirty ears.
  And other withered stumps of time
  Were told upon the walls; staring forms
  Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
  Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
  Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
  Spread out in fiery points
  Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.                        110

  "My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
  "Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
  "What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
  "I never know what you are thinking. Think."

  I think we are in rats' alley
  Where the dead men lost their bones.

  "What is that noise?"
                               The wind under the door.
  "What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?"
                               Nothing again nothing.                     120
                                                                    "Do
  "You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
  "Nothing?"

     I remember
  Those are pearls that were his eyes.
  "Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?"
                                                                      But
  O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
  It's so elegant
  So intelligent                                                          130
  "What shall I do now? What shall I do?"
  I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
  "With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
  "What shall we ever do?"
                                       The hot water at ten.
  And if it rains, a closed car at four.
  And we shall play a game of chess,
  Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

  When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said—
  I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,                          140
  HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
  Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
  He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
  To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
  You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
  He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
  And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
  He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
  And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
  Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.                       150
  Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
  HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
  If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
  Others can pick and choose if you can't.
  But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.
  You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
  (And her only thirty-one.)
  I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
  It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
  (She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)              160
  The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same.
  You are a proper fool, I said.
  Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,
  What you get married for if you don't want children?
  HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
  Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
  And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
  HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
  HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
  Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.                    170
  Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
  Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

Written by John Greenleaf Whittier | Create an image from this poem

Barbara Frietchie

 Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as the garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain-wall;

Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet,

Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced; the old flag met his sight.

'Halt!' - the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
'Fire!' - out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.

She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.

'Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country's flag,' she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman's deed and word;

'Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on! he said.

All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,
And the Rebel rides on his raids nor more.

Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewalls' bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw
Round they symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!
Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

Pan with Us

 Pan came out of the woods one day,--
His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray,
The gray of the moss of walls were they,--
And stood in the sun and looked his fill
At wooded valley and wooded hill.

He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand,
On a height of naked pasture land;
In all the country he did command
He saw no smoke and he saw no roof.
That was well! and he stamped a hoof.

His heart knew peace, for none came here
To this lean feeding save once a year
Someone to salt the half-wild steer,
Or homespun children with clicking pails
Who see so little they tell no tales.

He tossed his pipes, too hard to teach
A new-world song, far out of reach,
For sylvan sign that the blue jay's screech
And the whimper of hawks beside the sun
Were music enough for him, for one.

Times were changed from what they were:
Such pipes kept less of power to stir
The fruited bough of the juniper
And the fragile bluets clustered there
Than the merest aimless breath of air.

They were pipes of pagan mirth,
And the world had found new terms of worth.
He laid him down on the sun-burned earth
And raveled a flower and looked away--
Play? Play?--What should he play?


Written by Dylan Thomas | Create an image from this poem

Foster The Light

 Foster the light nor veil the manshaped moon,
Nor weather winds that blow not down the bone,
But strip the twelve-winded marrow from his circle;
Master the night nor serve the snowman's brain
That shapes each bushy item of the air
Into a polestar pointed on an icicle.

Murmur of spring nor crush the cockerel's eggs,
Nor hammer back a season in the figs,
But graft these four-fruited ridings on your country;
Farmer in time of frost the burning leagues,
By red-eyed orchards sow the seeds of snow,
In your young years the vegetable century.

And father all nor fail the fly-lord's acre,
Nor sprout on owl-seed like a goblin-sucker,
But rail with your wizard's ribs the heart-shaped planet;
Of mortal voices to the ninnies' choir,
High lord esquire, speak up the singing cloud,
And pluck a mandrake music from the marrowroot.

Roll unmanly over this turning tuft,
O ring of seas, nor sorrow as I shift
From all my mortal lovers with a starboard smile;
Nor when my love lies in the cross-boned drift
Naked among the bow-and-arrow birds
Shall you turn cockwise on a tufted axle.

Who gave these seas their colour in a shape,
Shaped my clayfellow, and the heaven's ark
In time at flood filled with his coloured doubles;
O who is glory in the shapeless maps,
Now make the world of me as I have made
A merry manshape of your walking circle.
Written by William Morris | Create an image from this poem

The Earthly Paradise: Apology

 Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing,
I cannot ease the burden of your fears,
Or make quick-coming death a little thing,
Or bring again the pleasure of past years,
Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears,
Or hope again for aught that I can say,
The idle singer of an empty day.

But rather, when aweary of your mirth,
From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh,
And, feeling kindly unto all the earth,
Grudge every minute as it passes by,
Made the more mindful that the sweet days die--
--Remember me a little then I pray,
The idle singer of an empty day.

The heavy trouble, the bewildering care
That weighs us down who live and earn our bread,
These idle verses have no power to bear;
So let em sing of names remember{`e}d,
Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead,
Or long time take their memory quite away
From us poor singers of an empty day.

Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time,
Why should I strive to set the crooked straight?
Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme
Beats with light wing against the ivory gate,
Telling a tale not too importunate
To those who in the sleepy region stay,
Lulled by the singer of an empty day.

Folk say, a wizard to a northern king
At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did show,
That through one window men beheld the spring,
And through another saw the summer glow,
And through a third the fruited vines a-row,
While still, unheard, but in its wonted way,
Piped the drear wind of that December day.

So with this Earthly Paradise it is,
If ye will read aright, and pardon me,
Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss
Midmost the beating of the steely sea,
Where tossed about all hearts of men must be;
Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall slay,
Not the poor singer of an empty day.
Written by Algernon Charles Swinburne | Create an image from this poem

Hertha

 I AM that which began; 
 Out of me the years roll; 
 Out of me God and man; 
 I am equal and whole; 
God changes, and man, and the form of them bodily; I am the soul. 

 Before ever land was, 
 Before ever the sea, 
 Or soft hair of the grass, 
 Or fair limbs of the tree, 
Or the flesh-colour'd fruit of my branches, I was, and thy soul was in 
me. 

 First life on my sources 
 First drifted and swam; 
 Out of me are the forces 
 That save it or damn; 
Out of me man and woman, and wild-beast and bird: before God was, I 
am. 

 Beside or above me 
 Naught is there to go; 
 Love or unlove me, 
 Unknow me or know, 
I am that which unloves me and loves; I am stricken, and I am the 
blow. 

 I the mark that is miss'd 
 And the arrows that miss, 
 I the mouth that is kiss'd 
 And the breath in the kiss, 
The search, and the sought, and the seeker, the soul and the body that 
is. 

 I am that thing which blesses 
 My spirit elate; 
 That which caresses 
 With hands uncreate 
My limbs unbegotten that measure the length of the measure of fate. 

 But what thing dost thou now, 
 Looking Godward, to cry, 
 'I am I, thou art thou, 
 I am low, thou art high'? 
I am thou, whom thou seekest to find him; find thou but thyself, thou 
art I. 

 I the grain and the furrow, 
 The plough-cloven clod 
 And the ploughshare drawn thorough, 
 The germ and the sod, 
The deed and the doer, the seed and the sower, the dust which is God. 

 Hast thou known how I fashion'd thee, 
 Child, underground? 
 Fire that impassion'd thee, 
 Iron that bound, 
Dim changes of water, what thing of all these hast thou known of or 
found? 

 Canst thou say in thine heart 
 Thou hast seen with thine eyes 
 With what cunning of art 
 Thou wast wrought in what wise, 
By what force of what stuff thou wast shapen, and shown on my breast 
to the skies? 

 Who hath given, who hath sold it thee, 
 Knowledge of me? 
 Has the wilderness told it thee? 
 Hast thou learnt of the sea? 
Hast thou communed in spirit with night? have the winds taken counsel 
with thee? 

 Have I set such a star 
 To show light on thy brow 
 That thou sawest from afar 
 What I show to thee now? 
Have ye spoken as brethren together, the sun and the mountains and 
thou? 

 What is here, dost thou know it? 
 What was, hast thou known? 
 Prophet nor poet 
 Nor tripod nor throne 
Nor spirit nor flesh can make answer, but only thy mother alone. 

 Mother, not maker, 
 Born, and not made; 
 Though her children forsake her, 
 Allured or afraid, 
Praying prayers to the God of their fashion, she stirs not for all 
that have pray'd. 

 A creed is a rod, 
 And a crown is of night; 
 But this thing is God, 
 To be man with thy might, 
To grow straight in the strength of thy spirit, and live out thy life 
as the light. 

 I am in thee to save thee, 
 As my soul in thee saith; 
 Give thou as I gave thee, 
 Thy life-blood and breath, 
Green leaves of thy labour, white flowers of thy thought, and red 
fruit of thy death. 

 Be the ways of thy giving 
 As mine were to thee; 
 The free life of thy living, 
 Be the gift of it free; 
Not as servant to lord, nor as master to slave, shalt thou give thee 
to me. 

 O children of banishment, 
 Souls overcast, 
 Were the lights ye see vanish meant 
 Alway to last, 
Ye would know not the sun overshining the shadows and stars overpast. 

 I that saw where ye trod 
 The dim paths of the night 
 Set the shadow call'd God 
 In your skies to give light; 
But the morning of manhood is risen, and the shadowless soul is in 
sight. 

 The tree many-rooted 
 That swells to the sky 
 With frondage red-fruited, 
 The life-tree am I; 
In the buds of your lives is the sap of my leaves: ye shall live and 
not die. 

 But the Gods of your fashion 
 That take and that give, 
 In their pity and passion 
 That scourge and forgive, 
They are worms that are bred in the bark that falls off; they shall 
die and not live. 

 My own blood is what stanches 
 The wounds in my bark; 
 Stars caught in my branches 
 Make day of the dark, 
And are worshipp'd as suns till the sunrise shall tread out their 
fires as a spark. 

 Where dead ages hide under 
 The live roots of the tree, 
 In my darkness the thunder 
 Makes utterance of me; 
In the clash of my boughs with each other ye hear the waves sound of 
the sea. 

 That noise is of Time, 
 As his feathers are spread 
 And his feet set to climb 
 Through the boughs overhead, 
And my foliage rings round him and rustles, and branches are bent with 
his tread. 

 The storm-winds of ages 
 Blow through me and cease, 
 The war-wind that rages, 
 The spring-wind of peace, 
Ere the breath of them roughen my tresses, ere one of my blossoms 
increase. 

 All sounds of all changes, 
 All shadows and lights 
 On the world's mountain-ranges 
 And stream-riven heights, 
Whose tongue is the wind's tongue and language of storm-clouds on 
earth-shaking nights; 

 All forms of all faces, 
 All works of all hands 
 In unsearchable places 
 Of time-stricken lands, 
All death and all life, and all reigns and all ruins, drop through me 
as sands. 

 Though sore be my burden 
 And more than ye know, 
 And my growth have no guerdon 
 But only to grow, 
Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings above me or deathworms below. 

 These too have their part in me, 
 As I too in these; 
 Such fire is at heart in me, 
 Such sap is this tree's, 
Which hath in it all sounds and all secrets of infinite lands and of 
seas. 

 In the spring-colour'd hours 
 When my mind was as May's 
 There brake forth of me flowers 
 By centuries of days, 
Strong blossoms with perfume of manhood, shot out from my spirit as 
rays. 

 And the sound of them springing 
 And smell of their shoots 
 Were as warmth and sweet singing 
 And strength to my roots; 
And the lives of my children made perfect with freedom of soul were my 
fruits. 

 I bid you but be; 
 I have need not of prayer; 
 I have need of you free 
 As your mouths of mine air; 
That my heart may be greater within me, beholding the fruits of me 
fair. 

 More fair than strange fruit is 
 Of faiths ye espouse; 
 In me only the root is 
 That blooms in your boughs; 
Behold now your God that ye made you, to feed him with faith of your 
vows. 

 In the darkening and whitening 
 Abysses adored, 
 With dayspring and lightning 
 For lamp and for sword, 
God thunders in heaven, and his angels are red with the wrath of the 
Lord. 

 O my sons, O too dutiful 
 Toward Gods not of me, 
 Was not I enough beautiful? 
 Was it hard to be free? 
For behold, I am with you, am in you and of you; look forth now and 
see. 

 Lo, wing'd with world's wonders, 
 With miracles shod, 
 With the fires of his thunders 
 For raiment and rod, 
God trembles in heaven, and his angels are white with the terror of 
God. 

 For his twilight is come on him, 
 His anguish is here; 
 And his spirits gaze dumb on him, 
 Grown gray from his fear; 
And his hour taketh hold on him stricken, the last of his infinite 
year. 

 Thought made him and breaks him, 
 Truth slays and forgives; 
 But to you, as time takes him, 
 This new thing it gives, 
Even love, the beloved Republic, that feeds upon freedom and lives. 

 For truth only is living, 
 Truth only is whole, 
 And the love of his giving 
 Man's polestar and pole; 
Man, pulse of my centre, and fruit of my body, and seed of my soul. 

 One birth of my bosom; 
 One beam of mine eye; 
 One topmost blossom 
 That scales the sky; 
Man, equal and one with me, man that is made of me, man that is I.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

30. Song—Composed in August

 NOW westlin winds and slaught’ring guns
 Bring Autumn’s pleasant weather;
The moorcock springs on whirring wings
 Amang the blooming heather:
Now waving grain, wide o’er the plain,
 Delights the weary farmer;
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night,
 To muse upon my charmer.


The partridge loves the fruitful fells,
 The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells,
 The soaring hern the fountains:
Thro’ lofty groves the cushat roves,
 The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o’erhangs the thrush,
 The spreading thorn the linnet.


Thus ev’ry kind their pleasure find,
 The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine,
 Some solitary wander:
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
 Tyrannic man’s dominion;
The sportsman’s joy, the murd’ring cry,
 The flutt’ring, gory pinion!


But, Peggy dear, the ev’ning’s clear,
 Thick flies the skimming swallow,
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
 All fading-green and yellow:
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
 And view the charms of Nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
 And ev’ry happy creature.


We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
 Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I’ll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
 Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal show’rs to budding flow’rs,
 Not Autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou to me,
 My fair, my lovely charmer!

Book: Reflection on the Important Things