Written by
Friedrich von Schiller |
I, too, at length discerned great Hercules' energy mighty,--
Saw his shade.
He himself was not, alas, to be seen.
Round him were heard, like the screaming of birds,
the screams of tragedians,
And, with the baying of dogs, barked dramaturgists around.
There stood the giant in all his terrors; his bow was extended,
And the bolt, fixed on the string, steadily aimed at the heart.
"What still hardier action, unhappy one, dost thou now venture,
Thus to descend to the grave of the departed souls here?"--
"'Tis to see Tiresias I come, to ask of the prophet
Where I the buskin of old, that now has vanished, may find?"
"If they believe not in Nature, nor the old Grecian, but vainly
Wilt thou convey up from hence that dramaturgy to them.
"
"Oh, as for Nature, once more to tread our stage she has ventured,
Ay, and stark-naked beside, so that each rib we count.
"
"What? Is the buskin of old to be seen in truth on your stage, then,
Which even I came to fetch, out of mid-Tartarus' gloom?"--
"There is now no more of that tragic bustle, for scarcely
Once in a year on the boards moves thy great soul, harness-clad.
"
"Doubtless 'tis well! Philosophy now has refined your sensations,
And from the humor so bright fly the affections so black.
"--
"Ay, there is nothing that beats a jest that is stolid and barren,
But then e'en sorrow can please, if 'tis sufficiently moist.
"
"But do ye also exhibit the graceful dance of Thalia,
Joined to the solemn step with which Melpomene moves?"--
"Neither! For naught we love but what is Christian and moral;
And what is popular, too, homely, domestic, and plain.
"
"What? Does no Caesar, does no Achilles, appear on your stage now,
Not an Andromache e'en, not an Orestes, my friend?"
"No! there is naught to be seen there but parsons,
and syndics of commerce,
Secretaries perchance, ensigns, and majors of horse.
"
"But, my good friend, pray tell me, what can such people e'er meet with
That can be truly called great?--what that is great can they do?"
"What? Why they form cabals, they lend upon mortgage, they pocket
Silver spoons, and fear not e'en in the stocks to be placed.
"
"Whence do ye, then, derive the destiny, great and gigantic,
Which raises man up on high, e'en when it grinds him to dust?"--
"All mere nonsense! Ourselves, our worthy acquaintances also,
And our sorrows and wants, seek we, and find we, too, here.
"
"But all this ye possess at home both apter and better,--
Wherefore, then, fly from yourselves, if 'tis yourselves that ye seek?"
"Be not offended, great hero, for that is a different question;
Ever is destiny blind,--ever is righteous the bard.
"
"Then one meets on your stage your own contemptible nature,
While 'tis in vain one seeks there nature enduring and great?"
"There the poet is host, and act the fifth is the reckoning;
And, when crime becomes sick, virtue sits down to the feast!"
|
Written by
Robert Frost |
There were three in the meadow by the brook
Gathering up windrows, piling cocks of hay,
With an eye always lifted toward the west
Where an irregular sun-bordered cloud
Darkly advanced with a perpetual dagger
Flickering across its bosom.
Suddenly
One helper, thrusting pitchfork in the ground,
Marched himself off the field and home.
One stayed.
The town-bred farmer failed to understand.
"What is there wrong?"
"Something you just now said.
"
"What did I say?"
"About our taking pains.
"
"To cock the hay?--because it's going to shower?
I said that more than half an hour ago.
I said it to myself as much as you.
"
"You didn't know.
But James is one big fool.
He thought you meant to find fault with his work.
That's what the average farmer would have meant.
James would take time, of course, to chew it over
Before he acted: he's just got round to act.
"
"He is a fool if that's the way he takes me.
"
"Don't let it bother you.
You've found out something.
The hand that knows his business won't be told
To do work better or faster--those two things.
I'm as particular as anyone:
Most likely I'd have served you just the same.
But I know you don't understand our ways.
You were just talking what was in your mind,
What was in all our minds, and you weren't hinting.
Tell you a story of what happened once:
I was up here in Salem at a man's
Named Sanders with a gang of four or five
Doing the haying.
No one liked the boss.
He was one of the kind sports call a spider,
All wiry arms and legs that spread out wavy
From a humped body nigh as big's a biscuit.
But work! that man could work, especially
If by so doing he could get more work
Out of his hired help.
I'm not denying
He was hard on himself.
I couldn't find
That he kept any hours--not for himself.
Daylight and lantern-light were one to him:
I've heard him pounding in the barn all night.
But what he liked was someone to encourage.
Them that he couldn't lead he'd get behind
And drive, the way you can, you know, in mowing--
Keep at their heels and threaten to mow their legs off.
I'd seen about enough of his bulling tricks
(We call that bulling).
I'd been watching him.
So when he paired off with me in the hayfield
To load the load, thinks I, Look out for trouble.
I built the load and topped it off; old Sanders
Combed it down with a rake and says, 'O.
K.
'
Everything went well till we reached the barn
With a big catch to empty in a bay.
You understand that meant the easy job
For the man up on top of throwing down
The hay and rolling it off wholesale,
Where on a mow it would have been slow lifting.
You wouldn't think a fellow'd need much urging
Under these circumstances, would you now?
But the old fool seizes his fork in both hands,
And looking up bewhiskered out of the pit,
Shouts like an army captain, 'Let her come!'
Thinks I, D'ye mean it? 'What was that you said?'
I asked out loud, so's there'd be no mistake,
'Did you say, Let her come?' 'Yes, let her come.
'
He said it over, but he said it softer.
Never you say a thing like that to a man,
Not if he values what he is.
God, I'd as soon
Murdered him as left out his middle name.
I'd built the load and knew right where to find it.
Two or three forkfuls I picked lightly round for
Like meditating, and then I just dug in
And dumped the rackful on him in ten lots.
I looked over the side once in the dust
And caught sight of him treading-water-like,
Keeping his head above.
'Damn ye,' I says,
'That gets ye!' He squeaked like a squeezed rat.
That was the last I saw or heard of him.
I cleaned the rack and drove out to cool off.
As I sat mopping hayseed from my neck,
And sort of waiting to be asked about it,
One of the boys sings out, 'Where's the old man?'
'I left him in the barn under the hay.
If ye want him, ye can go and dig him out.
'
They realized from the way I swobbed my neck
More than was needed something must be up.
They headed for the barn; I stayed where I was.
They told me afterward.
First they forked hay,
A lot of it, out into the barn floor.
Nothing! They listened for him.
Not a rustle.
I guess they thought I'd spiked him in the temple
Before I buried him, or I couldn't have managed.
They excavated more.
'Go keep his wife
Out of the barn.
' Someone looked in a window,
And curse me if he wasn't in the kitchen
Slumped way down in a chair, with both his feet
Stuck in the oven, the hottest day that summer.
He looked so clean disgusted from behind
There was no one that dared to stir him up,
Or let him know that he was being looked at.
Apparently I hadn't buried him
(I may have knocked him down); but my just trying
To bury him had hurt his dignity.
He had gone to the house so's not to meet me.
He kept away from us all afternoon.
We tended to his hay.
We saw him out
After a while picking peas in his garden:
He couldn't keep away from doing something.
"
"Weren't you relieved to find he wasn't dead?"
"No! and yet I don't know--it's hard to say.
I went about to kill him fair enough.
"
"You took an awkward way.
Did he discharge you?"
"Discharge me? No! He knew I did just right.
"
|
Written by
Elizabeth Barrett Browning |
I.
FRIENDS of faces unknown and a land
Unvisited over the sea,
Who tell me how lonely you stand
With a single gold curl in the hand
Held up to be looked at by me, --
II.
While you ask me to ponder and say
What a father and mother can do,
With the bright fellow-locks put away
Out of reach, beyond kiss, in the clay
Where the violets press nearer than you.
III.
Shall I speak like a poet, or run
Into weak woman's tears for relief ?
Oh, children ! -- I never lost one, --
Yet my arm 's round my own little son,
And Love knows the secret of Grief.
IV.
And I feel what it must be and is,
When God draws a new angel so
Through the house of a man up to His,
With a murmur of music, you miss,
And a rapture of light, you forgo.
V.
How you think, staring on at the door,
Where the face of your angel flashed in,
That its brightness, familiar before,
Burns off from you ever the more
For the dark of your sorrow and sin.
VI.
`God lent him and takes him,' you sigh ;
-- Nay, there let me break with your pain :
God 's generous in giving, say I, --
And the thing which He gives, I deny
That He ever can take back again.
VII.
He gives what He gives.
I appeal
To all who bear babes -- in the hour
When the veil of the body we feel
Rent round us, -- while torments reveal
The motherhood's advent in power,
VIII.
And the babe cries ! -- has each of us known
By apocalypse (God being there
Full in nature) the child is our own,
Life of life, love of love, moan of moan,
Through all changes, all times, everywhere.
IX.
He 's ours and for ever.
Believe,
O father ! -- O mother, look back
To the first love's assurance.
To give
Means with God not to tempt or deceive
With a cup thrust in Benjamin's sack.
X.
He gives what He gives.
Be content !
He resumes nothing given, -- be sure !
God lend ? Where the usurers lent
In His temple, indignant He went
And scourged away all those impure.
XI.
He lends not ; but gives to the end,
As He loves to the end.
If it seem
That He draws back a gift, comprehend
'Tis to add to it rather, -- amend,
And finish it up to your dream, --
XII.
Or keep, -- as a mother will toys
Too costly, though given by herself,
Till the room shall be stiller from noise,
And the children more fit for such joys,
Kept over their heads on the shelf.
XIII.
So look up, friends ! you, who indeed
Have possessed in your house a sweet piece
Of the Heaven which men strive for, must need
Be more earnest than others are,--speed
Where they loiter, persist where they cease.
XIV.
You know how one angel smiles there.
Then weep not.
'Tis easy for you
To be drawn by a single gold hair
Of that curl, from earth's storm and despair,
To the safe place above us.
Adieu.
|
Written by
D. H. Lawrence |
I
Dunna thee tell me its his'n, mother,
Dunna thee, dunna thee.
--Oh ay! he'll be comin' to tell thee his-sèn
Wench, wunna he?
Tha doesna mean to say to me, mother,
He's gone wi that--
--My gel, owt'll do for a man i' the dark,
Tha's got it flat.
But 'er's old, mother, 'er's twenty year
Older nor him--
--Ay, an' yaller as a crowflower, an' yet i' the dark
Er'd do for Tim.
Tha niver believes it, mother, does ter?
It's somebody's lies.
--Ax him thy-sèn wench--a widder's lodger;
It's no surprise.
II
A widow of forty-five
With a bitter, swarthy skin,
To ha' 'ticed a lad o' twenty-five
An' 'im to have been took in!
A widow of forty-five
As has sludged like a horse all her life,
Till 'er's tough as whit-leather, to slive
Atween a lad an' 'is wife!
A widow of forty-five.
A tough old otchel wi' long
Witch teeth, an' 'er black hawk-eyes as I've
Mistrusted all along!
An' me as 'as kep my-sen
Shut like a daisy bud,
Clean an' new an' nice, so's when
He wed he'd ha'e summat good!
An' 'im as nice an' fresh
As any man i' the force,
To ha'e gone an' given his white young flesh
To a woman that coarse!
III
You're stout to brave this snow, Miss Stainwright,
Are you makin' Brinsley way?
--I'm off up th' line to Underwood
Wi' a dress as is wanted to-day.
Oh are you goin' to Underwood?
'Appen then you've 'eered?
--What's that as 'appen I've 'eered-on, Missis,
Speak up, you nedna be feared.
Why, your young man an' Widow Naylor,
Her as he lodges wi',
They say he's got her wi' childt; but there,
It's nothing to do wi' me.
Though if it's true they'll turn him out
O' th' p'lice force, without fail;
An' if it's not true, I'd back my life
They'll listen to _her_ tale.
Well, I'm believin' no tale, Missis,
I'm seein' for my-sen;
An' when I know for sure, Missis,
I'll talk _then_.
IV
Nay robin red-breast, tha nedna
Sit noddin' thy head at me;
My breast's as red as thine, I reckon,
Flayed red, if tha could but see.
Nay, you blessed pee-whips,
You nedna screet at me!
I'm screetin' my-sen, but are-na goin'
To let iv'rybody see.
Tha _art_ smock-ravelled, bunny,
Larropin' neck an' crop
I' th' snow: but I's warrant thee, bunny,
_I'm_ further ower th' top.
V
Now sithee theer at th' railroad crossin'
Warmin' his-sen at the stool o' fire
Under the tank as fills the ingines,
If there isn't my dearly-beloved liar!
My constable wi' 'is buttoned breast
As stout as the truth, my sirs!--An' 'is face
As bold as a robin! It's much he cares
For this nice old shame and disgrace.
Oh but he drops his flag when 'e sees me,
Yes, an' 'is face goes white ... oh yes
Tha can stare at me wi' thy fierce blue eyes,
But tha doesna stare me out, I guess!
VI
Whativer brings thee out so far
In a' this depth o' snow?
--I'm takin' 'ome a weddin' dress
If tha maun know.
Why, is there a weddin' at Underwood,
As tha ne'd trudge up here?
--It's Widow Naylor's weddin'-dress,
An' 'er's wantin it, I hear.
_'Er_ doesna want no weddin-dress ...
What--but what dost mean?
--Doesn't ter know what I mean, Tim?--Yi,
Tha must' a' been hard to wean!
Tha'rt a good-un at suckin-in yet, Timmy;
But tell me, isn't it true
As 'er'll be wantin' _my_ weddin' dress
In a week or two?
Tha's no occasions ter ha'e me on
Lizzie--what's done is done!
--_Done_, I should think so--Done! But might
I ask when tha begun?
It's thee as 'as done it as much as me,
Lizzie, I tell thee that.
--"Me gotten a childt to thy landlady--!"
Tha's gotten thy answer pat,
As tha allers hast--but let me tell thee
Hasna ter sent me whoam, when I
Was a'most burstin' mad o' my-sen
An' walkin' in agony;
After thy kisses, Lizzie, after
Tha's lain right up to me Lizzie, an' melted
Into me, melted into me, Lizzie,
Till I was verily swelted.
An' if my landlady seed me like it,
An' if 'er clawkin', tiger's eyes
Went through me just as the light went out
Is it any cause for surprise?
No cause for surprise at all, my lad,
After lickin' and snuffin' at me, tha could
Turn thy mouth on a woman like her--
Did ter find her good?
Ay, I did, but afterwards
I should like to ha' killed her!
--Afterwards!--an' after how long
Wor it tha'd liked to 'a killed her?
Say no more, Liz, dunna thee,
I might lose my-sen.
--I'll only say good-bye to thee, Timothy,
An' gi'e her thee back again.
I'll ta'e thy word 'Good-bye,' Liz,
But I shonna marry her,
I shonna for nobody.--It is
Very nice on you, Sir.
The childt maun ta'e its luck, it maun,
An' she maun ta'e _her_ luck,
For I tell ye I shonna marry her--
What her's got, her took.
That's spoken like a man, Timmy,
That's spoken like a man ...
"He up an' fired off his pistol
An' then away he ran."
I damn well shanna marry 'er,
So chew at it no more,
Or I'll chuck the flamin' lot of you--
--You nedn't have swore.
VII
That's his collar round the candle-stick
An' that's the dark blue tie I bought 'im,
An' these is the woman's kids he's so fond on,
An' 'ere comes the cat that caught 'im.
I dunno where his eyes was--a gret
Round-shouldered hag! My sirs, to think
Of him stoopin' to her! You'd wonder he could
Throw hisself in that sink.
I expect you know who I am, Mrs Naylor!
--Who yer are?--yis, you're Lizzie Stainwright.
'An 'appen you might guess what I've come for?
--'Appen I mightn't, 'appen I might.
You knowed as I was courtin' Tim Merfin.
--Yis, I knowed 'e wor courtin' thee.
An' yet you've been carryin' on wi' him.
--Ay, an' 'im wi' me.
Well, now you've got to pay for it,
--An' if I han, what's that to thee?
For 'e isn't goin' to marry you.
--Is it a toss-up 'twixt thee an' me?
It's no toss-up 'twixt thee an' me.
--Then what art colleyfoglin' for?
I'm not havin' your orts an' slarts.
--Which on us said you wor?
I want you to know 'e's non _marryin'_ you.
--Tha wants 'im thy-sen too bad.
Though I'll see as 'e pays you, an' comes to the scratch.
--Tha'rt for doin' a lot wi' th' lad.
VIII
To think I should ha'e to haffle an' caffle
Wi' a woman, an' pay 'er a price
For lettin' me marry the lad as I thought
To marry wi' cabs an' rice.
But we'll go unbeknown to the registrar,
An' give _'er_ what money there is,
For I won't be beholden to such as her
For anythink of his.
IX
Take off thy duty stripes, Tim,
An' come wi' me in here,
Ta'e off thy p'lice-man's helmet
An' look me clear.
I wish tha hadna done it, Tim,
I do, an' that I do!
For whenever I look thee i' th' face, I s'll see
Her face too.
I wish tha could wesh 'er off'n thee,
For I used to think that thy
Face was the finest thing that iver
Met my eye....
X
Twenty pound o' thy own tha hast, and fifty pound ha'e I,
Thine shall go to pay the woman, an' wi' my bit we'll buy
All as we shall want for furniture when tha leaves this place,
An' we'll be married at th' registrar--now lift thy face.
Lift thy face an' look at me, man, up an' look at me:
Sorry I am for this business, an' sorry if I ha'e driven thee
To such a thing: but it's a poor tale, that I'm bound to say,
Before I can ta'e thee I've got a widow of forty-five to pay.
Dunnat thee think but what I love thee--I love thee well,
But 'deed an' I wish as this tale o' thine wor niver my tale to tell;
Deed an' I wish as I could stood at the altar wi' thee an' been proud
o' thee,
That I could ha' been first woman to thee, as thou'rt first man to me.
But we maun ma'e the best on't--I'll rear thy childt if 'er'll yield
it to me,
An' then wi' that twenty pound we gi'e 'er I s'd think 'er wunna be
So very much worser off than 'er wor before--An' now look up
An' answer me--for I've said my say, an' there's no more sorrow to sup.
Yi, tha'rt a man, tha'rt a fine big man, but niver a baby had eyes
As sulky an' ormin' as thine. Hast owt to say otherwise
From what I've arranged wi' thee? Eh man, what a stubborn jackass thou
art,
Kiss me then--there!--ne'er mind if I scraight--I wor fond o' thee,
Sweetheart.
|