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Best Famous Regulate Poems

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We Are Seven

A simple child, dear brother Jim, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl, She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That cluster'd round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad; Her eyes were fair, and very fair, —Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?" "How many? seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they, I pray you tell?" She answered, "Seven are we, And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea."

"Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother, And in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet you are seven; I pray you tell Sweet Maid, how this may be?"

Then did the little Maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side."

"My stockings there I often knit, My 'kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit— I sit and sing to them."

"And often after sunset, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there."

"The first that died was little Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain, And then she went away."

"So in the church-yard she was laid, And all the summer dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I."

"And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side."

"How many are you then," said I, "If they two are in Heaven?" The little Maiden did reply, "O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" 'Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

ANECDOTE for FATHERS, Shewing how the practice of Lying may be taught.

I have a boy of five years old, His face is fair and fresh to see; His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, And dearly he loves me.

One morn we stroll'd on our dry walk, Our quiet house all full in view, And held such intermitted talk As we are wont to do.

My thoughts on former pleasures ran; I thought of Kilve's delightful shore, My pleasant home, when Spring began, A long, long year before.

A day it was when I could bear To think, and think, and think again; With so much happiness to spare, I could not feel a pain.

My boy was by my side, so slim And graceful in his rustic dress! And oftentimes I talked to him In very idleness.

The young lambs ran a pretty race; The morning sun shone bright and warm; "Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place, And so is Liswyn farm."

"My little boy, which like you more," I said and took him by the arm— "Our home by Kilve's delightful shore, Or here at Liswyn farm?"

"And tell me, had you rather be," I said and held-him by the arm, "At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea, Or here at Liswyn farm?"

In careless mood he looked at me, While still I held him by the arm, And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be Than here at Liswyn farm."

"Now, little Edward, say why so; My little Edward, tell me why;" "I cannot tell, I do not know." "Why this is strange," said I.

"For, here are woods and green hills warm: There surely must some reason be Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm, For Kilve by the green sea."

At this, my boy hung down his head, He blush'd with shame, nor made reply; And five times to the child I said, "Why, Edward, tell me, why?"

His head he raised—there was in sight, It caught his eye, he saw it plain— Upon the house-top, glittering bright, A broad and gilded vane.

Then did the boy his tongue unlock, And thus to me he made reply; "At Kilve there was no weather-cock, And that's the reason why."

Oh dearest, dearest boy! my heart For better lore would seldom yearn Could I but teach the hundredth part Of what from thee I learn.

LINES Written at a small distance from my House, and sent by my little boy to the person to whom they are addressed.

It is the first mild day of March: Each minute sweeter than before, The red-breast sings from the tall larch That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, And grass in the green field.

My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine) Now that our morning meal is done, Make haste, your morning task resign; Come forth and feel the sun.

Edward will come with you, and pray, Put on with speed your woodland dress, And bring no book, for this one day We'll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate Our living Calendar: We from to-day, my friend, will date The opening of the year.

Love, now an universal birth, From heart to heart is stealing, From earth to man, from man to earth, —It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more Than fifty years of reason; Our minds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season.

Some silent laws our hearts may make, Which they shall long obey; We for the year to come may take Our temper from to-day.

And from the blessed power that rolls About, below, above; We'll frame the measure of our souls, They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my sister I come, I pray, With speed put on your woodland dress, And bring no book; for this one day We'll give to idleness.

Written by Robert Frost |

A Servant to Servants

 I didn't make you know how glad I was 
To have you come and camp here on our land. 
I promised myself to get down some day 
And see the way you lived, but I don't know! 
With a houseful of hungry men to feed 
I guess you'd find.... It seems to me 
I can't express my feelings any more 
Than I can raise my voice or want to lift 
My hand (oh, I can lift it when I have to). 
Did ever you feel so? I hope you never. 
It's got so I don't even know for sure 
Whether I am glad, sorry, or anything. 
There's nothing but a voice-like left inside 
That seems to tell me how I ought to feel, 
And would feel if I wasn't all gone wrong. 
You take the lake. I look and look at it. 
I see it's a fair, pretty sheet of water. 
I stand and make myself repeat out loud 
The advantages it has, so long and narrow, 
Like a deep piece of some old running river 
Cut short off at both ends. It lies five miles 
Straight away through the mountain notch 
From the sink window where I wash the plates, 
And all our storms come up toward the house, 
Drawing the slow waves whiter and whiter and whiter. 
It took my mind off doughnuts and soda biscuit 
To step outdoors and take the water dazzle 
A sunny morning, or take the rising wind 
About my face and body and through my wrapper, 
When a storm threatened from the Dragon's Den, 
And a cold chill shivered across the lake. 
I see it's a fair, pretty sheet of water, 
Our Willoughby! How did you hear of it? 
I expect, though, everyone's heard of it. 
In a book about ferns? Listen to that! 
You let things more like feathers regulate 
Your going and coming. And you like it here? 
I can see how you might. But I don't know! 
It would be different if more people came, 
For then there would be business. As it is, 
The cottages Len built, sometimes we rent them, 
Sometimes we don't. We've a good piece of shore 
That ought to be worth something, and may yet. 
But I don't count on it as much as Len. 
He looks on the bright side of everything, 
Including me. He thinks I'll be all right 
With doctoring. But it's not medicine-- 
Lowe is the only doctor's dared to say so-- 
It's rest I want--there, I have said it out-- 
From cooking meals for hungry hired men 
And washing dishes after them--from doing 
Things over and over that just won't stay done. 
By good rights I ought not to have so much 
Put on me, but there seems no other way. 
Len says one steady pull more ought to do it. 
He says the best way out is always through. 
And I agree to that, or in so far 
As that I can see no way out but through-- 
Leastways for me--and then they'll be convinced. 
It's not that Len don't want the best for me. 
It was his plan our moving over in 
Beside the lake from where that day I showed you 
We used to live--ten miles from anywhere. 
We didn't change without some sacrifice, 
But Len went at it to make up the loss. 
His work's a man's, of course, from sun to sun, 
But he works when he works as hard as I do-- 
Though there's small profit in comparisons. 
(Women and men will make them all the same.) 
But work ain't all. Len undertakes too much. 
He's into everything in town. This year 
It's highways, and he's got too many men 
Around him to look after that make waste. 
They take advantage of him shamefully, 
And proud, too, of themselves for doing so. 
We have four here to board, great good-for-nothings, 
Sprawling about the kitchen with their talk 
While I fry their bacon. Much they care! 
No more put out in what they do or say 
Than if I wasn't in the room at all. 
Coming and going all the time, they are: 
I don't learn what their names are, let alone 
Their characters, or whether they are safe 
To have inside the house with doors unlocked. 
I'm not afraid of them, though, if they're not 
Afraid of me. There's two can play at that. 
I have my fancies: it runs in the family. 
My father's brother wasn't right. They kept him 
Locked up for years back there at the old farm. 
I've been away once--yes, I've been away. 
The State Asylum. I was prejudiced; 
I wouldn't have sent anyone of mine there; 
You know the old idea--the only asylum 
Was the poorhouse, and those who could afford, 
Rather than send their folks to such a place, 
Kept them at home; and it does seem more human. 
But it's not so: the place is the asylum. 
There they have every means proper to do with, 
And you aren't darkening other people's lives-- 
Worse than no good to them, and they no good 
To you in your condition; you can't know 
Affection or the want of it in that state. 
I've heard too much of the old-fashioned way. 
My father's brother, he went mad quite young. 
Some thought he had been bitten by a dog, 
Because his violence took on the form 
Of carrying his pillow in his teeth; 
But it's more likely he was crossed in love, 
Or so the story goes. It was some girl. 
Anyway all he talked about was love. 
They soon saw he would do someone a mischief 
If he wa'n't kept strict watch of, and it ended 
In father's building him a sort of cage, 
Or room within a room, of hickory poles, 
Like stanchions in the barn, from floor to ceiling,-- 
A narrow passage all the way around. 
Anything they put in for furniture 
He'd tear to pieces, even a bed to lie on. 
So they made the place comfortable with straw, 
Like a beast's stall, to ease their consciences. 
Of course they had to feed him without dishes. 
They tried to keep him clothed, but he paraded 
With his clothes on his arm--all of his clothes. 
Cruel--it sounds. I 'spose they did the best 
They knew. And just when he was at the height, 
Father and mother married, and mother came, 
A bride, to help take care of such a creature, 
And accommodate her young life to his. 
That was what marrying father meant to her. 
She had to lie and hear love things made dreadful 
By his shouts in the night. He'd shout and shout 
Until the strength was shouted out of him, 
And his voice died down slowly from exhaustion. 
He'd pull his bars apart like bow and bow-string, 
And let them go and make them twang until 
His hands had worn them smooth as any ox-bow. 
And then he'd crow as if he thought that child's play-- 
The only fun he had. I've heard them say, though, 
They found a way to put a stop to it. 
He was before my time--I never saw him; 
But the pen stayed exactly as it was 
There in the upper chamber in the ell, 
A sort of catch-all full of attic clutter. 
I often think of the smooth hickory bars. 
It got so I would say--you know, half fooling-- 
"It's time I took my turn upstairs in jail"-- 
Just as you will till it becomes a habit. 
No wonder I was glad to get away. 
Mind you, I waited till Len said the word. 
I didn't want the blame if things went wrong. 
I was glad though, no end, when we moved out, 
And I looked to be happy, and I was, 
As I said, for a while--but I don't know! 
Somehow the change wore out like a prescription. 
And there's more to it than just window-views 
And living by a lake. I'm past such help-- 
Unless Len took the notion, which he won't, 
And I won't ask him--it's not sure enough. 
I 'spose I've got to go the road I'm going: 
Other folks have to, and why shouldn't I? 
I almost think if I could do like you, 
Drop everything and live out on the ground-- 
But it might be, come night, I shouldn't like it, 
Or a long rain. I should soon get enough, 
And be glad of a good roof overhead. 
I've lain awake thinking of you, I'll warrant, 
More than you have yourself, some of these nights. 
The wonder was the tents weren't snatched away 
From over you as you lay in your beds. 
I haven't courage for a risk like that. 
Bless you, of course, you're keeping me from work, 
But the thing of it is, I need to be kept. 
There's work enough to do--there's always that; 
But behind's behind. The worst that you can do 
Is set me back a little more behind. 
I sha'n't catch up in this world, anyway.
I'd rather you'd not go unless you must.

Written by Emily Dickinson |

The last Night that She lived

 The last Night that She lived
It was a Common Night
Except the Dying -- this to Us
Made Nature different

We noticed smallest things --
Things overlooked before
By this great light upon our Minds
Italicized -- as 'twere.

As We went out and in
Between Her final Room
And Rooms where Those to be alive
Tomorrow were, a Blame

That Others could exist
While She must finish quite
A Jealousy for Her arose
So nearly infinite --

We waited while She passed --
It was a narrow time --
Too jostled were Our Souls to speak
At length the notice came.

She mentioned, and forgot --
Then lightly as a Reed
Bent to the Water, struggled scarce --
Consented, and was dead --

And We -- We placed the Hair --
And drew the Head erect --
And then an awful leisure was
Belief to regulate --

Written by William Cowper |

The Task: Book II The Time-Piece (excerpts)

 England, with all thy faults, I love thee still--
My country! and, while yet a nook is left
Where English minds and manners may be found,
Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy clime
Be fickle, and thy year most part deform'd
With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost,
I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies,
And fields without a flow'r, for warmer France
With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves
Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs.
To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime
Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire
Upon thy foes, was never meant my task:
But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake
Thy joys and sorrows, with as true a heart
As any thund'rer there. And I can feel
Thy follies, too; and with a just disdain
Frown at effeminates, whose very looks
Reflect dishonour on the land I love.
How, in the name of soldiership and sense,
Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth
And tender as a girl, all essenc'd o'er
With odours, and as profligate as sweet;
Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath,
And love when they should fight; when such as these
Presume to lay their hand upon the ark
Of her magnificent and awful cause?
Time was when it was praise and boast enough
In ev'ry clime, and travel where we might,
That we were born her children. Praise enough
To fill th' ambition of a private man,
That Chatham's language was his mother tongue,
And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own.
Farewell those honours, and farewell with them
The hope of such hereafter! They have fall'n
Each in his field of glory; one in arms,
And one in council--Wolfe upon the lap
Of smiling victory that moment won,
And Chatham heart-sick of his country's shame!
They made us many soldiers. Chatham, still
Consulting England's happiness at home,
Secur'd it by an unforgiving frown
If any wrong'd her. Wolfe, where'er he fought,
Put so much of his heart into his act,
That his example had a magnet's force,
And all were swift to follow whom all lov'd.
Those suns are set. Oh, rise some other such!
Or all that we have left is empty talk
Of old achievements, and despair of new....


There is a pleasure in poetic pains
Which only poets know. The shifts and turns,
Th' expedients and inventions multiform
To which the mind resorts in chase of terms
Thought apt, yet coy, and difficult to win,
T' arrest the fleeting images that fill
The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast,
And force them sit, till he has pencill'd off
A faithful likeness of the forms he views;
Then to dispose his copies with such art
That each may find its most propitious light,
And shine by situation hardly less
Than by the labour and the skill it cost,
Are occupations of the poet's mind
So pleasing, and that steal away the thought
With such address from themes of sad import,
That, lost in his own musings, happy man!
He feels th' anxieties of life, denied
Their wonted entertainment, all retire.
Such joys has he that sings. But ah! not such,
Or seldom such, the hearers of his song.
Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps
Aware of nothing arduous in a task
They never undertook, they little note
His dangers or escapes, and haply find
Their least amusement where he found the most.
But is amusement all? Studious of song,
And yet ambitious not to sing in vain,
I would not trifle merely, though the world
Be loudest in their praise who do no more.
Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay?
It may correct a foible, may chastise
The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress,
Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch;
But where are its sublimer trophies found?
What vice has it subdu'd? whose heart reclaim'd
By rigour, or whom laugh'd into reform?
Alas! Leviathan is not so tam'd.
Laugh'd at, he laughs again; and, stricken hard,
Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales,
That fear no discipline of human hands.
The pulpit, therefore, (and I name it fill'd
With solemn awe, that bids me well beware
With what intent I touch that holy thing)--
The pulpit (when the satirist has at last,
Strutting and vapouring in an empty school,
Spent all his force, and made no proselyte)--
I say the pulpit (in the sober use
Of its legitimate, peculiar pow'rs)
Must stand acknowledg'd, while the world shall stand,
The most important and effectual guard,
Support, and ornament of Virtue's cause.....

Written by Robert William Service |

Flies

 I never kill a fly because
I think that what we have of laws
To regulate and civilize
Our daily life - we owe to flies.

Apropos, I'll tell you of Choo, the spouse
Of the head of the hunters, Wung;
Such a beautiful cave they had for a house,
And a brood of a dozen young.
And Wung would start by the dawn's red light
On the trailing of bird or beast,
And crawl back tired on the brink of night
With food for another feast.

Then the young would dance in their naked glee,
And Choo would fuel the fire;
Fur and feather, how good to see,
And to gorge to heart's desire!
Flesh of rabbit and goose and deer,
With fang-like teeth they tore,
And laughed with faces a bloody smear,
And flung their bones on the floor.

But with morning bright the flies would come,
Clouding into the cave;
You could hardly hear for their noisy hum,
They were big and black and brave.
Darkling the day with gust of greed
They'd swarm in the warm sunrise
On the litter of offal and bones to feed -
A million or so of flies.

Now flies were the wife of Wung's despair;
They would sting and buzz and bite,
And as her only attire was hair
She would itch from morn to night:
But as one day she scratched her hide,
A thought there came to Choo;
"If I were to throw the bones outside,
The flies would go there too."

That spark in a well-nigh monkey mind,
Nay, do not laugh or scorn;
For there in the thoughts of Choo you'll find
Was the sense of Order born;
As she flung the offal far and wide,
And the fly-cloud followed fast,
Battening on the bones outside
The cave was clear at last.

And Wung was pleased when he came at night,
For the air was clean and sweet,
And the cave-kids danced in the gay firelight,
And fed on the new-killed meat;
But the children Choo would chide and boss,
For her cleanly floor was her pride,
And even the baby was taught to toss
His bite of a bone outside.

Then the cave crones came and some admired,
But others were envious;
And they said: "She swanks, she makes us tired
With her complex modern fuss."
However, most of the tribe complied,
Though tradition dourly dies,
And a few Conservatives crossly cried:
"We'll keep our bones and our flies."

So Reformer Choo was much revered
And to all she said: "You see
How my hearth is clean and my floor is cleaned,
And there ain't no flies on me"...
And that was how it all began,
Through horror of muck and mess,
Even in prehistoric Man,
LAW, ORDER and CLEANLINESS'.

And that is why I never kill
A fly, no matter how obscene;
For I believe in God's good will:
He gave us vermin to make us clean.