10 Best Famous Like Minded Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Like Minded poems. This is a select list of the best famous Like Minded poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Like Minded poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of like minded poems.

• All Famous Like Minded Poems

 Once more the gate behind me falls; 
Once more before my face 
I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls, 
That stand within the chace. 

Beyond the lodge the city lies, 
Beneath its drift of smoke; 
And ah! with what delighted eyes 
I turn to yonder oak. 

For when my passion first began, 
Ere that, which in me burn'd, 
The love, that makes me thrice a man, 
Could hope itself return'd; 

To yonder oak within the field 
I spoke without restraint, 
And with a larger faith appeal'd 
Than Papist unto Saint. 

For oft I talk'd with him apart 
And told him of my choice, 
Until he plagiarized a heart, 
And answer'd with a voice. 

Tho' what he whisper'd under Heaven 
None else could understand; 
I found him garrulously given, 
A babbler in the land. 

But since I heard him make reply 
Is many a weary hour; 
'Twere well to question him, and try 
If yet he keeps the power. 

Hail, hidden to the knees in fern, 
Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, 
Whose topmost branches can discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place! 

Say thou, whereon I carved her name, 
If ever maid or spouse, 
As fair as my Olivia, came 
To rest beneath thy boughs.--- 

"O Walter, I have shelter'd here 
Whatever maiden grace 
The good old Summers, year by year 
Made ripe in Sumner-chace: 

"Old Summers, when the monk was fat, 
And, issuing shorn and sleek, 
Would twist his girdle tight, and pat 
The girls upon the cheek, 

"Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, 
And number'd bead, and shrift, 
Bluff Harry broke into the spence 
And turn'd the cowls adrift: 

"And I have seen some score of those 
Fresh faces that would thrive 
When his man-minded offset rose 
To chase the deer at five; 

"And all that from the town would stroll, 
Till that wild wind made work 
In which the gloomy brewer's soul 
Went by me, like a stork: 

"The slight she-slips of royal blood, 
And others, passing praise, 
Straight-laced, but all-too-full in bud 
For puritanic stays: 

"And I have shadow'd many a group 
Of beauties, that were born 
In teacup-times of hood and hoop, 
Or while the patch was worn; 

"And, leg and arm with love-knots gay 
About me leap'd and laugh'd 
The modish Cupid of the day, 
And shrill'd his tinsel shaft. 

"I swear (and else may insects prick 
Each leaf into a gall) 
This girl, for whom your heart is sick, 
Is three times worth them all. 

"For those and theirs, by Nature's law, 
Have faded long ago; 
But in these latter springs I saw 
Your own Olivia blow, 

"From when she gamboll'd on the greens 
A baby-germ, to when 
The maiden blossoms of her teens 
Could number five from ten. 

"I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, 
(And hear me with thine ears,) 
That, tho' I circle in the grain 
Five hundred rings of years--- 

"Yet, since I first could cast a shade, 
Did never creature pass 
So slightly, musically made, 
So light upon the grass: 

"For as to fairies, that will flit 
To make the greensward fresh, 
I hold them exquisitely knit, 
But far too spare of flesh." 

Oh, hide thy knotted knees in fern, 
And overlook the chace; 
And from thy topmost branch discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place. 

But thou, whereon I carved her name, 
That oft hast heard my vows, 
Declare when last Olivia came 
To sport beneath thy boughs. 

"O yesterday, you know, the fair 
Was holden at the town; 
Her father left his good arm-chair, 
And rode his hunter down. 

"And with him Albert came on his. 
I look'd at him with joy: 
As cowslip unto oxlip is, 
So seems she to the boy. 

"An hour had past---and, sitting straight 
Within the low-wheel'd chaise, 
Her mother trundled to the gate 
Behind the dappled grays. 

"But as for her, she stay'd at home, 
And on the roof she went, 
And down the way you use to come, 
She look'd with discontent. 

"She left the novel half-uncut 
Upon the rosewood shelf; 
She left the new piano shut: 
She could not please herseif 

"Then ran she, gamesome as the colt, 
And livelier than a lark 
She sent her voice thro' all the holt 
Before her, and the park. 

"A light wind chased her on the wing, 
And in the chase grew wild, 
As close as might be would he cling 
About the darling child: 

"But light as any wind that blows 
So fleetly did she stir, 
The flower, she touch'd on, dipt and rose, 
And turn'd to look at her. 

"And here she came, and round me play'd, 
And sang to me the whole 
Of those three stanzas that you made 
About my Ôgiant bole;' 

"And in a fit of frolic mirth 
She strove to span my waist: 
Alas, I was so broad of girth, 
I could not be embraced. 

"I wish'd myself the fair young beech 
That here beside me stands, 
That round me, clasping each in each, 
She might have lock'd her hands. 

"Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as sweet 
As woodbine's fragile hold, 
Or when I feel about my feet 
The berried briony fold." 

O muffle round thy knees with fern, 
And shadow Sumner-chace! 
Long may thy topmost branch discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place! 

But tell me, did she read the name 
I carved with many vows 
When last with throbbing heart I came 
To rest beneath thy boughs? 

"O yes, she wander'd round and round 
These knotted knees of mine, 
And found, and kiss'd the name she found, 
And sweetly murmur'd thine. 

"A teardrop trembled from its source, 
And down my surface crept. 
My sense of touch is something coarse, 
But I believe she wept. 

"Then flush'd her cheek with rosy light, 
She glanced across the plain; 
But not a creature was in sight: 
She kiss'd me once again. 

"Her kisses were so close and kind, 
That, trust me on my word, 
Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, 
But yet my sap was stirr'd: 

"And even into my inmost ring 
A pleasure I discern'd, 
Like those blind motions of the Spring, 
That show the year is turn'd. 

"Thrice-happy he that may caress 
The ringlet's waving balm--- 
The cushions of whose touch may press 
The maiden's tender palm. 

"I, rooted here among the groves 
But languidly adjust 
My vapid vegetable loves 
With anthers and with dust: 

"For ah! my friend, the days were brief 
Whereof the poets talk, 
When that, which breathes within the leaf, 
Could slip its bark and walk. 

"But could I, as in times foregone, 
From spray, and branch, and stem, 
Have suck'd and gather'd into one 
The life that spreads in them, 

"She had not found me so remiss; 
But lightly issuing thro', 
I would have paid her kiss for kiss, 
With usury thereto." 

O flourish high, with leafy towers, 
And overlook the lea, 
Pursue thy loves among the bowers 
But leave thou mine to me. 

O flourish, hidden deep in fern, 
Old oak, I love thee well; 
A thousand thanks for what I learn 
And what remains to tell. 

" ÔTis little more: the day was warm; 
At last, tired out with play, 
She sank her head upon her arm 
And at my feet she lay. 

"Her eyelids dropp'd their silken eaves 
I breathed upon her eyes 
Thro' all the summer of my leaves 
A welcome mix'd with sighs. 

"I took the swarming sound of life--- 
The music from the town--- 
The murmurs of the drum and fife 
And lull'd them in my own. 

"Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip, 
To light her shaded eye; 
A second flutter'd round her lip 
Like a golden butterfly; 

"A third would glimmer on her neck 
To make the necklace shine; 
Another slid, a sunny fleck, 
From head to ankle fine, 

"Then close and dark my arms I spread, 
And shadow'd all her rest--- 
Dropt dews upon her golden head, 
An acorn in her breast. 

"But in a pet she started up, 
And pluck'd it out, and drew 
My little oakling from the cup, 
And flung him in the dew. 

"And yet it was a graceful gift--- 
I felt a pang within 
As when I see the woodman lift 
His axe to slay my kin. 

"I shook him down because he was 
The finest on the tree. 
He lies beside thee on the grass. 
O kiss him once for me. 

"O kiss him twice and thrice for me, 
That have no lips to kiss, 
For never yet was oak on lea 
Shall grow so fair as this.' 

Step deeper yet in herb and fern, 
Look further thro' the chace, 
Spread upward till thy boughs discern 
The front of Sumner-place. 

This fruit of thine by Love is blest, 
That but a moment lay 
Where fairer fruit of Love may rest 
Some happy future day. 

I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice, 
The warmth it thence shall win 
To riper life may magnetise 
The baby-oak within. 

But thou, while kingdoms overset, 
Or lapse from hand to hand, 
Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet 
Thine acorn in the land. 

May never saw dismember thee, 
Nor wielded axe disjoint, 
That art the fairest-spoken tree 
From here to Lizard-point. 

O rock upon thy towery-top 
All throats that gurgle sweet! 
All starry culmination drop 
Balm-dews to bathe thy feet! 

All grass of silky feather grow--- 
And while he sinks or swells 
The full south-breeze around thee blow 
The sound of minster bells. 

The fat earth feed thy branchy root, 
That under deeply strikes! 
The northern morning o'er thee shoot, 
High up, in silver spikes! 

Nor ever lightning char thy grain, 
But, rolling as in sleep, 
Low thunders bring the mellow rain, 
That makes thee broad and deep! 

And hear me swear a solemn oath, 
That only by thy side 
Will I to Olive plight my troth, 
And gain her for my bride. 

And when my marriage morn may fall, 
She, Dryad-like, shall wear 
Alternate leaf and acorn-ball 
In wreath about her hair. 

And I will work in prose and rhyme, 
And praise thee more in both 
Than bard has honour'd beech or lime, 
Or that Thessalian growth, 

In which the swarthy ringdove sat, 
And mystic sentence spoke; 
And more than England honours that, 
Thy famous brother-oak, 

Wherein the younger Charles abode 
Till all the paths were dim, 
And far below the Roundhead rode, 
And humm'd a surly hymn.

 At midnight, death's and truth's unlocking time,
When far within the spirit's hearing rolls
The great soft rumble of the course of things --
A bulk of silence in a mask of sound, --
When darkness clears our vision that by day
Is sun-blind, and the soul's a ravening owl
For truth and flitteth here and there about
Low-lying woody tracts of time and oft
Is minded for to sit upon a bough,
Dry-dead and sharp, of some long-stricken tree
And muse in that gaunt place, -- 'twas then my heart,
Deep in the meditative dark, cried out:

"Ye companies of governor-spirits grave,
Bards, and old bringers-down of flaming news
From steep-wall'd heavens, holy malcontents,
Sweet seers, and stellar visionaries, all
That brood about the skies of poesy,
Full bright ye shine, insuperable stars;
Yet, if a man look hard upon you, none
With total lustre blazeth, no, not one
But hath some heinous freckle of the flesh
Upon his shining cheek, not one but winks
His ray, opaqued with intermittent mist
Of defect; yea, you masters all must ask
Some sweet forgiveness, which we leap to give,
We lovers of you, heavenly-glad to meet
Your largesse so with love, and interplight
Your geniuses with our mortalities.

Thus unto thee, O sweetest Shakespeare sole,
A hundred hurts a day I do forgive
('Tis little, but, enchantment! 'tis for thee):
Small curious quibble; Juliet's prurient pun
In the poor, pale face of Romeo's fancied death;
Cold rant of Richard; Henry's fustian roar
Which frights away that sleep he invocates;
Wronged Valentine's unnatural haste to yield;
Too-silly shifts of maids that mask as men
In faint disguises that could ne'er disguise --
Viola, Julia, Portia, Rosalind;
Fatigues most drear, and needless overtax
Of speech obscure that had as lief be plain;
Last I forgive (with more delight, because
'Tis more to do) the labored-lewd discourse
That e'en thy young invention's youngest heir
Besmirched the world with.

Father Homer, thee,
Thee also I forgive thy sandy wastes
Of prose and catalogue, thy drear harangues
That tease the patience of the centuries,
Thy sleazy scrap of story, -- but a rogue's
Rape of a light-o'-love, -- too soiled a patch
To broider with the gods.

Thee, Socrates,
Thou dear and very strong one, I forgive
Thy year-worn cloak, thine iron stringencies
That were but dandy upside-down, thy words
Of truth that, mildlier spoke, had mainlier wrought.

So, Buddha, beautiful! I pardon thee
That all the All thou hadst for needy man
Was Nothing, and thy Best of being was
But not to be.

Worn Dante, I forgive
The implacable hates that in thy horrid hells
Or burn or freeze thy fellows, never loosed
By death, nor time, nor love.

And I forgive
Thee, Milton, those thy comic-dreadful wars
Where, armed with gross and inconclusive steel,
Immortals smite immortals mortalwise
And fill all heaven with folly.

Also thee,
Brave Aeschylus, thee I forgive, for that
Thine eye, by bare bright justice basilisked,
Turned not, nor ever learned to look where Love
Stands shining.

So, unto thee, Lucretius mine
(For oh, what heart hath loved thee like to this
That's now complaining?), freely I forgive
Thy logic poor, thine error rich, thine earth
Whose graves eat souls and all.

Yea, all you hearts
Of beauty, and sweet righteous lovers large:
Aurelius fine, oft superfine; mild Saint
A Kempis, overmild; Epictetus,
Whiles low in thought, still with old slavery tinct;
Rapt Behmen, rapt too far; high Swedenborg,
O'ertoppling; Langley, that with but a touch
Of art hadst sung Piers Plowman to the top
Of English songs, whereof 'tis dearest, now,
And most adorable; Caedmon, in the morn
A-calling angels with the cow-herd's call
That late brought up the cattle; Emerson,
Most wise, that yet, in finding Wisdom, lost
Thy Self, sometimes; tense Keats, with angels' nerves
Where men's were better; Tennyson, largest voice
Since Milton, yet some register of wit
Wanting; -- all, all, I pardon, ere 'tis asked,
Your more or less, your little mole that marks
You brother and your kinship seals to man.

But Thee, but Thee, O sovereign Seer of time,
But Thee, O poets' Poet, Wisdom's Tongue,
But Thee, O man's best Man, O love's best Love,
O perfect life in perfect labor writ,
O all men's Comrade, Servant, King, or Priest, --
What `if' or `yet', what mole, what flaw, what lapse,
What least defect or shadow of defect,
What rumor, tattled by an enemy,
Of inference loose, what lack of grace
Even in torture's grasp, or sleep's, or death's, --
Oh, what amiss may I forgive in Thee,
Jesus, good Paragon, thou Crystal Christ?"

 I’ve never ceased to curse the day I signed 
A seven years’ bargain for the Golden Fleece. 
’Twas a bad deal all round; and dear enough 
It cost me, what with my daft management, 
And the mean folk as owed and never paid me, 
And backing losers; and the local bucks 
Egging me on with whiskys while I bragged 
The man I was when huntsman to the Squire. 

I’d have been prosperous if I’d took a farm 
Of fifty acres, drove my gig and haggled 
At Monday markets; now I’ve squandered all 
My savings; nigh three hundred pound I got 
As testimonial when I’d grown too stiff 
And slow to press a beaten fox. 

The Fleece! 
’Twas the damned Fleece that wore my Emily out, 
The wife of thirty years who served me well; 
(Not like this beldam clattering in the kitchen, 
That never trims a lamp nor sweeps the floor, 
And brings me greasy soup in a foul crock.) 

Blast the old harridan! What’s fetched her now, 
Leaving me in the dark, and short of fire? 
And where’s my pipe? ’Tis lucky I’ve a turn 
For thinking, and remembering all that’s past. 
And now’s my hour, before I hobble to bed, 
To set the works a-wheezing, wind the clock 
That keeps the time of life with feeble tick 
Behind my bleared old face that stares and wonders. 

. . . . 
It’s ***** how, in the dark, comes back to mind 
Some morning of September. We’ve been digging 
In a steep sandy warren, riddled with holes, 
And I’ve just pulled the terrier out and left 
A sharp-nosed cub-face blinking there and snapping, 
Then in a moment seen him mobbed and torn 
To strips in the baying hurly of the pack. 
I picture it so clear: the dusty sunshine 
On bracken, and the men with spades, that wipe 
Red faces: one tilts up a mug of ale. 
And, having stopped to clean my gory hands, 
I whistle the jostling beauties out of the wood. 

I’m but a daft old fool! I often wish 
The Squire were back again—ah! he was a man! 
They don’t breed men like him these days; he’d come 
For sure, and sit and talk and suck his briar 
Till the old wife brings up a dish of tea. 

Ay, those were days, when I was serving Squire! 
I never knowed such sport as ’85, 
The winter afore the one that snowed us silly. 

. . . . 
Once in a way the parson will drop in 
And read a bit o’ the Bible, if I’m bad, 
And pray the Lord to make my spirit whole 
In faith: he leaves some ’baccy on the shelf, 
And wonders I don’t keep a dog to cheer me 
Because he knows I’m mortal fond of dogs! 

I ask you, what’s a gent like that to me 
As wouldn’t know Elijah if I saw him, 
Nor have the wit to keep him on the talk? 
’Tis kind of parson to be troubling still 
With such as me; but he’s a town-bred chap, 
Full of his college notions and Christmas hymns. 

Religion beats me. I’m amazed at folk
Drinking the gospels in and never scratching 
Their heads for questions. When I was a lad 
I learned a bit from mother, and never thought 
To educate myself for prayers and psalms. 

But now I’m old and bald and serious-minded,
With days to sit and ponder. I’d no chance 
When young and gay to get the hang of all 
This Hell and Heaven: and when the clergy hoick 
And holloa from their pulpits, I’m asleep, 
However hard I listen; and when they pray
It seems we’re all like children sucking sweets 
In school, and wondering whether master sees. 

I used to dream of Hell when I was first 
Promoted to a huntsman’s job, and scent 
Was rotten, and all the foxes disappeared,
And hounds were short of blood; and officers 
From barracks over-rode ’em all day long 
On weedy, whistling nags that knocked a hole 
In every fence; good sportsmen to a man 
And brigadiers by now, but dreadful hard
On a young huntsman keen to show some sport. 

Ay, Hell was thick with captains, and I rode 
The lumbering brute that’s beat in half a mile, 
And blunders into every blind old ditch. 
Hell was the coldest scenting land I’ve known,
And both my whips were always lost, and hounds 
Would never get their heads down; and a man 
On a great yawing chestnut trying to cast ’em 
While I was in a corner pounded by 
The ugliest hog-backed stile you’ve clapped your eyes on.
There was an iron-spiked fence round all the coverts, 
And civil-spoken keepers I couldn’t trust, 
And the main earth unstopp’d. The fox I found 
Was always a three-legged ’un from a bag, 
Who reeked of aniseed and wouldn’t run.
The farmers were all ploughing their old pasture 
And bellowing at me when I rode their beans 
To cast for beaten fox, or galloped on 
With hounds to a lucky view. I’d lost my voice 
Although I shouted fit to burst my guts,
And couldn’t blow my horn. 

And when I woke, 
Emily snored, and barn-cocks started crowing, 
And morn was at the window; and I was glad 
To be alive because I heard the cry 
Of hounds like church-bells chiming on a Sunday.
Ay, that’s the song I’d wish to hear in Heaven! 
The cry of hounds was Heaven for me: I know 
Parson would call me crazed and wrong to say it, 
But where’s the use of life and being glad 
If God’s not in your gladness? 

I’ve no brains
For book-learned studies; but I’ve heard men say 
There’s much in print that clergy have to wink at: 
Though many I’ve met were jolly chaps, and rode 
To hounds, and walked me puppies; and could pick 
Good legs and loins and necks and shoulders, ay,
And feet—’twas necks and feet I looked at first. 

Some hounds I’ve known were wise as half your saints, 
And better hunters. That old dog of the Duke’s, 
Harlequin; what a dog he was to draw! 
And what a note he had, and what a nose
When foxes ran down wind and scent was catchy! 
And that light lemon ***** of the Squire’s, old Dorcas— 
She were a marvellous hunter, were old Dorcas! 
Ay, oft I’ve thought, ‘If there were hounds in Heaven, 
With God as master, taking no subscription; 
And all His bless?d country farmed by tenants, 
And a straight-necked old fox in every gorse!’ 
But when I came to work it out, I found 
There’d be too many huntsmen wanting places, 
Though some I’ve known might get a job with Nick! 

. . . . 
I’ve come to think of God as something like 
The figure of a man the old Duke was 
When I was turning hounds to Nimrod King, 
Before his Grace was took so bad with gout 
And had to quit the saddle. Tall and spare,
Clean-shaved and grey, with shrewd, kind eyes, that twinkled, 
And easy walk; who, when he gave good words, 
Gave them whole-hearted; and would never blame 
Without just cause. Lord God might be like that, 
Sitting alone in a great room of books
Some evening after hunting. 

Now I’m tired 
With hearkening to the tick-tack on the shelf; 
And pondering makes me doubtful. 

Riding home 
On a moonless night of cloud that feels like frost 
Though stars are hidden (hold your feet up, horse!) 
And thinking what a task I had to draw 
A pack with all those lame ’uns, and the lot 
Wanting a rest from all this open weather; 
That’s what I’m doing now. 

And likely, too, 
The frost’ll be a long ’un, and the night 
One sleep. The parsons say we’ll wake to find 
A country blinding-white with dazzle of snow. 

The naked stars make men feel lonely, wheeling 
And glinting on the puddles in the road. 

And then you listen to the wind, and wonder 
If folk are quite such bucks as they appear 
When dressed by London tailors, looking down 
Their boots at covert side, and thinking big. 

. . . . 
This world’s a funny place to live in. Soon 
I’ll need to change my country; but I know 
’Tis little enough I’ve understood my life, 
And a power of sights I’ve missed, and foreign marvels. 

I used to feel it, riding on spring days 
In meadows pied with sun and chasing clouds, 
And half forget how I was there to catch
The foxes; lose the angry, eager feeling 
A huntsman ought to have, that’s out for blood, 
And means his hounds to get it! 

Now I know 
It’s God that speaks to us when we’re bewitched, 
Smelling the hay in June and smiling quiet;
Or when there’s been a spell of summer drought, 
Lying awake and listening to the rain. 

. . . . 
I’d like to be the simpleton I was 
In the old days when I was whipping-in 
To a little harrier-pack in Worcestershire,
And loved a dairymaid, but never knew it 
Until she’d wed another. So I’ve loved 
My life; and when the good years are gone down, 
Discover what I’ve lost. 

I never broke 
Out of my blundering self into the world,
But let it all go past me, like a man 
Half asleep in a land that’s full of wars. 

What a grand thing ’twould be if I could go 
Back to the kennels now and take my hounds 
For summer exercise; be riding out
With forty couple when the quiet skies 
Are streaked with sunrise, and the silly birds 
Grown hoarse with singing; cobwebs on the furze 
Up on the hill, and all the country strange, 
With no one stirring; and the horses fresh,
Sniffing the air I’ll never breathe again. 

. . . . 
You’ve brought the lamp, then, Martha? I’ve no mind 
For newspaper to-night, nor bread and cheese. 
Give me the candle, and I’ll get to bed.

 I shall never get out of this! There are two of me now:
This new absolutely white person and the old yellow one,
And the white person is certainly the superior one.
She doesn't need food, she is one of the real saints.
At the beginning I hated her, she had no personality --
She lay in bed with me like a dead body
And I was scared, because she was shaped just the way I was

Only much whiter and unbreakable and with no complaints.
I couldn't sleep for a week, she was so cold.
I blamed her for everything, but she didn't answer.
I couldn't understand her stupid behavior!
When I hit her she held still, like a true pacifist.
Then I realized what she wanted was for me to love her:
She began to warm up, and I saw her advantages.

Without me, she wouldn't exist, so of course she was grateful.
I gave her a soul, I bloomed out of her as a rose
Blooms out of a vase of not very valuable porcelain,
And it was I who attracted everybody's attention,
Not her whiteness and beauty, as I had at first supposed.
I patronized her a little, and she lapped it up --
You could tell almost at once she had a slave mentality.

I didn't mind her waiting on me, and she adored it.
In the morning she woke me early, reflecting the sun
From her amazingly white torso, and I couldn't help but notice
Her tidiness and her calmness and her patience:
She humored my weakness like the best of nurses,
Holding my bones in place so they would mend properly.
In time our relationship grew more intense.

She stopped fitting me so closely and seemed offish.
I felt her criticizing me in spite of herself,
As if my habits offended her in some way.
She let in the drafts and became more and more absent-minded.
And my skin itched and flaked away in soft pieces
Simply because she looked after me so badly.
Then I saw what the trouble was: she thought she was immortal.

She wanted to leave me, she thought she was superior,
And I'd been keeping her in the dark, and she was resentful --
Wasting her days waiting on a half-corpse!
And secretly she began to hope I'd die.
Then she could cover my mouth and eyes, cover me entirely,
And wear my painted face the way a mummy-case
Wears the face of a pharaoh, though it's made of mud and water.

I wasn't in any position to get rid of her.
She'd supported me for so long I was quite limp --
I had forgotten how to walk or sit,
So I was careful not to upset her in any way
Or brag ahead of time how I'd avenge myself.
Living with her was like living with my own coffin:
Yet I still depended on her, though I did it regretfully.

I used to think we might make a go of it together --
After all, it was a kind of marriage, being so close.
Now I see it must be one or the other of us.
She may be a saint, and I may be ugly and hairy,
But she'll soon find out that that doesn't matter a bit.
I'm collecting my strength; one day I shall manage without her,
And she'll perish with emptiness then, and begin to miss me.

 May—, 1786.I LANG hae thought, my youthfu’ friend,
 A something to have sent you,
Tho’ it should serve nae ither end
 Than just a kind memento:
But how the subject-theme may gang,
 Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang:
 Perhaps turn out a sermon.


Ye’ll try the world soon, my lad;
 And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye’ll find mankind an unco squad,
 And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,
 Ev’n when your end’s attained;
And a’ your views may come to nought,
 Where ev’ry nerve is strained.


I’ll no say, men are villains a’;
 The real, harden’d wicked,
Wha hae nae check but human law,
 Are to a few restricked;
But, Och! mankind are unco weak,
 An’ little to be trusted;
If self the wavering balance shake,
 It’s rarely right adjusted!


Yet they wha fa’ in fortune’s strife,
 Their fate we shouldna censure;
For still, th’ important end of life
 They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest heart,
 Tho’ poortith hourly stare him;
A man may tak a neibor’s part,
 Yet hae nae cash to spare him.


Aye free, aff-han’, your story tell,
 When wi’ a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel’,
 Ye scarcely tell to ony:
Conceal yoursel’ as weel’s ye can
 Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro’ ev’ry other man,
 Wi’ sharpen’d, sly inspection.


The sacred lowe o’ weel-plac’d love,
 Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th’ illicit rove,
 Tho’ naething should divulge it:
I waive the quantum o’ the sin,
 The hazard of concealing;
But, Och! it hardens a’ within,
 And petrifies the feeling!


To catch dame Fortune’s golden smile,
 Assiduous wait upon her;
And gather gear by ev’ry wile
 That’s justified by honour;
Not for to hide it in a hedge,
 Nor for a train attendant;
But for the glorious privilege
 Of being independent.


The fear o’ hell’s a hangman’s whip,
 To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honour grip,
 Let that aye be your border;
Its slightest touches, instant pause—
 Debar a’ side-pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,
 Uncaring consequences.


The great Creator to revere,
 Must sure become the creature;
But still the preaching cant forbear,
 And ev’n the rigid feature:
Yet ne’er with wits profane to range,
 Be complaisance extended;
An atheist-laugh’s a poor exchange
 For Deity offended!


When ranting round in pleasure’s ring,
 Religion may be blinded;
Or if she gie a random sting,
 It may be little minded;
But when on life we’re tempest driv’n—
 A conscience but a canker—
A correspondence fix’d wi’ Heav’n,
 Is sure a noble anchor!


Adieu, dear, amiable youth!
 Your heart can ne’er be wanting!
May prudence, fortitude, and truth,
 Erect your brow undaunting!
In ploughman phrase, “God send you speed,”
 Still daily to grow wiser;
And may ye better reck the rede,
 Then ever did th’ adviser!

 I find it very hard to be fair-minded
About people who go around being air-minded.
I just can't see any fun
In soaring up up up into the sun
When the chances are still a fresh cool orchid to a paper geranium
That you'll unsoar down down down onto your (to you) invaluable
cranium.
I know the constant refrain
About how safer up in God's trafficless heaven than in an automobile
or a train
But ...
My God, have you ever taken a good look at a strut?
Then that one about how you're in Boston before you can say antidis-
establishmentarianism
So that preferring to take five hours by rail is a pernicious example of
antiquarianism.
At least when I get on the Boston train I have a good chance of landing
in the South Station
And not in that part of the daily press which is reserved for victims of
aviation.
Then, despite the assurance that aeroplanes are terribly comfortable I
notice that when you are railroading or automobiling
You don't have to take a paper bag along just in case of a funny feeling.
It seems to me that no kind of depravity
Brings such speedy retribution as ignoring the law of gravity.
Therefore nobody could possibly indict me for perjury
When I swear that I wish the Wright brothers had gone in for silver
fox farming or tree surgery.

 They're taking down a tree at the front door,
The power saw is snarling at some nerves,
Whining at others. Now and then it grunts,
And sawdust falls like snow or a drift of seeds.
Rotten, they tell us, at the fork, and one
Big wind would bring it down. So what they do
They do, as usual, to do us good.
Whatever cannot carry its own weight 
Has got to go, and so on; you expect
To hear them talking next about survival
And the values of a free society.
For in the explanations people give
On these occasions there is generally some
Mean-spirited moral point, and everyone
Privately wonders if his neighbors plan
To saw him up before he falls on them.

Maybe a hundred years in sun and shower
Dismantled in a morning and let down
Out of itself a finger at a time
And then an arm, and so down to the trunk,
Until there's nothing left to hold on to
Or snub the splintery holding rope around,
And where those big green divagations were
So loftily with shadows interleaved
The absent-minded blue rains in on us.
Now that they've got it sectioned on the ground

It looks as though somebody made a plain 
Error in diagnosis, for the wood
Looks sweet and sound throughout. You couldn't know,
Of course, until you took it down. That's what
Experts are for, and these experts stand round
The giant pieces of tree as though expecting
An instruction booklet from the factory
Before they try to put it back together.

Anyhow, there it isn't, on the ground.
Next come the tractor and the crowbar crew
To extirpate what's left and fill the grave.
Maybe tomorrow grass seed will be sown.
There's some mean-spirited moral point in that
As well: you learn to bury your mistakes,
Though for a while at dusk the darkening air 
Will be with many shadows interleaved,
And pierced with a bewilderment of birds.

 I 
'Tis done -- but yesterday a King! 
And arm'd with Kings to strive -- 
And now thou art a nameless thing: 
So abject -- yet alive! 
Is this the man of thousand thrones, 
Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones, 
And can he thus survive? 
Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, 
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 

II 
Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind 
Who bow'd so low the knee? 
By gazing on thyself grown blind, 
Thou taught'st the rest to see. 
With might unquestion'd, -- power to save, -- 
Thine only gift hath been the grave, 
To those that worshipp'd thee; 
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 
Ambition's less than littleness! 

III 
Thanks for that lesson -- It will teach 
To after-warriors more, 
Than high Philosophy can preach, 
And vainly preach'd before. 
That spell upon the minds of men 
Breaks never to unite again, 
That led them to adore 
Those Pagod things of sabre sway 
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 

IV 
The triumph and the vanity, 
The rapture of the strife -- 
The earthquake voice of Victory, 
To thee the breath of life; 
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
Which man seem'd made but to obey, 
Wherewith renown was rife -- 
All quell'd! -- Dark Spirit! what must be 
The madness of thy memory! 

V 
The Desolator desolate! 
The Victor overthrown! 
The Arbiter of others' fate 
A Suppliant for his own! 
Is it some yet imperial hope 
That with such change can calmly cope? 
Or dread of death alone? 
To die a prince -- or live a slave -- 
Thy choice is most ignobly brave! 

VI 
He who of old would rend the oak, 
Dream'd not of the rebound: 
Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke -- 
Alone -- how look'd he round? 
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, 
An equal deed hast done at length, 
And darker fate hast found: 
He fell, the forest prowler's prey; 
But thou must eat thy heart away! 

VII 
The Roman, when his burning heart 
Was slaked with blood of Rome, 
Threw down the dagger -- dared depart, 
In savage grandeur, home -- 
He dared depart in utter scorn 
Of men that such a yoke had borne, 
Yet left him such a doom! 
His only glory was that hour 
Of self-upheld abandon'd power. 

VIII 
The Spaniard, when the lust of sway 
Had lost its quickening spell, 
Cast crowns for rosaries away, 
An empire for a cell; 
A strict accountant of his beads, 
A subtle disputant on creeds, 
His dotage trifled well: 
Yet better had he neither known 
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 

IX 
But thou -- from thy reluctant hand 
The thunderbolt is wrung -- 
Too late thou leav'st the high command 
To which thy weakness clung; 
All Evil Spirit as thou art, 
It is enough to grieve the heart 
To see thine own unstrung; 
To think that God's fair world hath been 
The footstool of a thing so mean; 
X 
And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, 
Who thus can hoard his own! 
And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, 
And thank'd him for a throne! 
Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear, 
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 
In humblest guise have shown. 
Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind 
A brighter name to lure mankind! 

XI 
Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, 
Nor written thus in vain -- 
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, 
Or deepen every stain: 
If thou hadst died as honour dies, 
Some new Napoleon might arise, 
To shame the world again -- 
But who would soar the solar height, 
To set in such a starless night? 

XII 
Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust 
Is vile as vulgar clay; 
Thy scales, Mortality! are just 
To all that pass away: 
But yet methought the living great 
Some higher sparks should animate, 
To dazzle and dismay: 
Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth 
Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. 

XIII 
And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, 
Thy still imperial bride; 
How bears her breast the torturing hour? 
Still clings she to thy side? 
Must she too bend, must she too share 
Thy late repentance, long despair, 
Thou throneless Homicide? 
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, -- 
'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem! 

XIV 
Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 
And gaze upon the sea; 
That element may meet thy smile -- 
It ne'er was ruled by thee! 
Or trace with thine all idle hand 
In loitering mood upon the sand 
That Earth is now as free! 
That Corinth's pedagogue hath now 
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. 

XV 
Thou Timour! in his captive's cage 
What thought will there be thine, 
While brooding in thy prison'd rage? 
But one -- "The word was mine!" 
Unless, like he of Babylon, 
All sense is with thy sceptre gone, 
Life will not long confine 
That spirit pour'd so widely forth-- 
So long obey'd -- so little worth! 

XVI 
Or, like the thief of fire from heaven, 
Wilt thou withstand the shock? 
And share with him, the unforgiven, 
His vulture and his rock! 
Foredoom'd by God -- by man accurst, 
And that last act, though not thy worst, 
The very Fiend's arch mock; 
He in his fall preserved his pride, 
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died! 

XVII 
There was a day -- there was an hour, 
While earth was Gaul's -- Gaul thine -- 
When that immeasurable power 
Unsated to resign 
Had been an act of purer fame 
Than gathers round Marengo's name, 
And gilded thy decline, 
Through the long twilight of all time, 
Despite some passing clouds of crime. 

XVIII 
But thou forsooth must be a king, 
And don the purple vest, 
As if that foolish robe could wring 
Remembrance from thy breast. 
Where is that faded garment? where 
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, 
The star, the string, the crest? 
Vain froward child of empire! say, 
Are all thy playthings snatched away? 

XIX 
Where may the wearied eye repose 
When gazing on the Great; 
Where neither guilty glory glows, 
Nor despicable state? 
Yes --one--the first--the last--the best-- 
The Cincinnatus of the West, 
Whom envy dared not hate, 
Bequeath'd the name of Washington, 
To make man blush there was but one!

 Nothing is given which is not taken.

Little or nothing is taken which is not freely desired,
 freely, truly and fully.

"You would not seek me if you had not found me": this is
 true of all that is supremely desired and admired...

"An enigma is an animal," said the hurried, harried 
 schoolboy:

And a horse divided against itself cannot stand;

And a moron is a man who believes in having too many 
 wives: what harm is there in that?

O the endless fecundity of poetry is equaled 
By its endless inexhaustible freshness, as in the discovery
 of America and of poetry.

Hence it is clear that the truth is not strait and narrow but infinite:
All roads lead to Rome and to poetry
 and to poem, sweet poem
 and from, away and towards are the same typography.

Hence the poet must be, in a way, stupid and naive and a 
 little child;

Unless ye be as a little child ye cannot enter the kingdom 
 of poetry.

Hence the poet must be able to become a tiger like Blake; a
 carousel like Rilke.

Hence he must be all things to be free, for all impersonations
a doormat and a monument
to all situations possible or actual
The cuckold, the cuckoo, the conqueror, and the coxcomb.

It is to him in the zoo that the zoo cries out and the hyena:
"Hello, take off your hat, king of the beasts, and be seated, 
Mr. Bones."

And hence the poet must seek to be essentially anonymous.
He must die a little death each morning.
He must swallow his toad and study his vomit
as Baudelaire studied la charogne of Jeanne Duval.

The poet must be or become both Keats and Renoir and
Keats as Renoir.
Mozart as Figaro and Edgar Allan Poe as Ophelia, stoned 
out of her mind
drowning in the river called forever river and ever...

Keats as Mimi, Camille, and an aging gourmet.
He must also refuse the favors of the unattainable lady
(As Baudelaire refused Madame Sabatier when the fair 
blonde summoned him,

For Jeanne Duval was enough and more than enough, 
although she cuckolded him
With errand boys, servants, waiters; reality was Jeanne Duval.
Had he permitted Madame Sabatier to teach the poet a greater whiteness,
His devotion and conception of the divinity of Beauty
would have suffered an absolute diminution.)

The poet must be both Casanova and St. Anthony,

He must be Adonis, Nero, Hippolytus, Heathcliff, and
Phaedre,
Genghis Kahn, Genghis Cohen, and Gordon Martini
Dandy Ghandi and St. Francis,

Professor Tenure, and Dizzy the dean and Disraeli of Death.

He would have worn the horns of existence upon his head, 
He would have perceived them regarding the looking-glass, 
He would have needed them the way a moose needs a hatrack;
Above his heavy head and in his loaded eyes, black and scorched,
He would have seen the meaning of the hat-rack, above the glass
Looking in the dark foyer.

For the poet must become nothing but poetry, 
He must be nothing but a poem when he is writing 
Until he is absent-minded as the dead are
Forgetful as the nymphs of Lethe and a lobotomy...
("the fat weed that rots on Lethe wharf").

 I 

Love me Sweet, with all thou art, 
Feeling, thinking, seeing; 
Love me in the lightest part, 
Love me in full being. 

II 

Love me with thine open youth 
In its frank surrender; 
With the vowing of thy mouth, 
With its silence tender. 

III 

Love me with thine azure eyes, 
Made for earnest grantings; 
Taking colour from the skies, 
Can Heaven's truth be wanting? 

IV 

Love me with their lids, that fall 
Snow-like at first meeting; 
Love me with thine heart, that all 
Neighbours then see beating. 

V 

Love me with thine hand stretched out 
Freely -- open-minded: 
Love me with thy loitering foot, -- 
Hearing one behind it. 

VI 

Love me with thy voice, that turns 
Sudden faint above me; 
Love me with thy blush that burns 
When I murmur 'Love me!' 

VII 

Love me with thy thinking soul, 
Break it to love-sighing; 
Love me with thy thoughts that roll 
On through living -- dying. 

VIII 

Love me in thy gorgeous airs, 
When the world has crowned thee; 
Love me, kneeling at thy prayers, 
With the angels round thee. 

IX 

Love me pure, as muses do, 
Up the woodlands shady: 
Love me gaily, fast and true, 
As a winsome lady. 

X 

Through all hopes that keep us brave, 
Farther off or nigher, 
Love me for the house and grave, 
And for something higher. 

XI 

Thus, if thou wilt prove me, Dear, 
Woman's love no fable, 
I will love thee -- half a year -- 
As a man is able.