10 Best Famous Woos Poems

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

• All Famous Woos Poems

 My Soul. I summon to the winding ancient stair;
Set all your mind upon the steep ascent,
Upon the broken, crumbling battlement,
Upon the breathless starlit air,
"Upon the star that marks the hidden pole;
Fix every wandering thought upon
That quarter where all thought is done:
Who can distinguish darkness from the soul

My Self. The consecretes blade upon my knees
Is Sato's ancient blade, still as it was,
Still razor-keen, still like a looking-glass
Unspotted by the centuries;
That flowering, silken, old embroidery, torn
From some court-lady's dress and round
The wodden scabbard bound and wound
Can, tattered, still protect, faded adorn

My Soul. Why should the imagination of a man
Long past his prime remember things that are
Emblematical of love and war?
Think of ancestral night that can,
If but imagination scorn the earth
And interllect is wandering
To this and that and t'other thing,
Deliver from the crime of death and birth.

My Self. Montashigi, third of his family, fashioned it
Five hundred years ago, about it lie
Flowers from I know not what embroidery -
Heart's purple - and all these I set
For emblems of the day against the tower
Emblematical of the night,
And claim as by a soldier's right
A charter to commit the crime once more.

My Soul. Such fullness in that quarter overflows
And falls into the basin of the mind
That man is stricken deaf and dumb and blind,
For intellect no longer knows
Is from the Ought, or knower from the Known - 
That is to say, ascends to Heaven;
Only the dead can be forgiven;
But when I think of that my tongue's a stone.

II

My Self. A living man is blind and drinks his drop.
What matter if the ditches are impure?
What matter if I live it all once more?
Endure that toil of growing up;
The ignominy of boyhood; the distress
Of boyhood changing into man;
The unfinished man and his pain
Brought face to face with his own clumsiness;

The finished man among his enemies? -
How in the name of Heaven can he escape
That defiling and disfigured shape
The mirror of malicious eyes
Casts upon his eyes until at last
He thinks that shape must be his shape?
And what's the good of an escape
If honour find him in the wintry blast?

I am content to live it all again
And yet again, if it be life to pitch
Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch,
A blind man battering blind men;
Or into that most fecund ditch of all,
The folly that man does
Or must suffer, if he woos
A proud woman not kindred of his soul.

I am content to follow to its source
Every event in action or in thought;
Measure the lot; forgive myself the lot!
When such as I cast out remorse
So great a sweetness flows into the breast
We must laugh and we must sing,
We are blest by everything,
Everything we look upon is blest.

 Whate'er we leave to God, God does, 
And blesses us; 
The work we choose should be our own, 
God leaves alone. 
If with light head erect I sing, 
Though all the Muses lend their force, 
From my poor love of anything, 
The verse is weak and shallow as its source. 

But if with bended neck I grope 
Listening behind me for my wit, 
With faith superior to hope, 
More anxious to keep back than forward it; 

Making my soul accomplice there 
Unto the flame my heart hath lit, 
Then will the verse forever wear-- 
Time cannot bend the line which God hath writ. 

Always the general show of things 
Floats in review before my mind, 
And such true love and reverence brings, 
That sometimes I forget that I am blind. 

But now there comes unsought, unseen, 
Some clear divine electuary, 
And I, who had but sensual been, 
Grow sensible, and as God is, am wary. 

I hearing get, who had but ears, 
And sight, who had but eyes before, 
I moments live, who lived but years, 
And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore. 

I hear beyond the range of sound, 
I see beyond the range of sight, 
New earths and skies and seas around, 
And in my day the sun doth pale his light. 

A clear and ancient harmony 
Pierces my soul through all its din, 
As through its utmost melody-- 
Farther behind than they, farther within. 

More swift its bolt than lightning is, 
Its voice than thunder is more loud, 
It doth expand my privacies 
To all, and leave me single in the crowd. 

It speaks with such authority, 
With so serene and lofty tone, 
That idle Time runs gadding by, 
And leaves me with Eternity alone. 

Now chiefly is my natal hour, 
And only now my prime of life; 
Of manhood's strength it is the flower, 
'Tis peace's end and war's beginning strife. 

It comes in summer's broadest noon, 
By a grey wall or some chance place, 
Unseasoning Time, insulting June, 
And vexing day with its presuming face. 

Such fragrance round my couch it makes, 
More rich than are Arabian drugs, 
That my soul scents its life and wakes 
The body up beneath its perfumed rugs. 

Such is the Muse, the heavenly maid, 
The star that guides our mortal course, 
Which shows where life's true kernel's laid, 
Its wheat's fine flour, and its undying force. 

She with one breath attunes the spheres, 
And also my poor human heart, 
With one impulse propels the years 
Around, and gives my throbbing pulse its start. 

I will not doubt for evermore, 
Nor falter from a steadfast faith, 
For thought the system be turned o'er, 
God takes not back the word which once He saith. 

I will not doubt the love untold 
Which not my worth nor want has bought, 
Which wooed me young, and woos me old, 
And to this evening hath me brought. 

My memory I'll educate 
To know the one historic truth, 
Remembering to the latest date 
The only true and sole immortal youth. 

Be but thy inspiration given, 
No matter through what danger sought, 
I'll fathom hell or climb to heaven, 
And yet esteem that cheap which love has bought. 
___________________ 

Fame cannot tempt the bard 
Who's famous with his God, 
Nor laurel him reward 
Who has his Maker's nod.

 IT was the Winter wilde, 
While the Heav'n-born-childe, 
 All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; 
Nature in aw to him 
Had doff't her gawdy trim, 
 With her great Master so to sympathize: 
It was no season then for her 
To wanton with the Sun her lusty Paramour. 

Only with speeches fair 
She woo's the gentle Air 
 To hide her guilty front with innocent Snow, 
And on her naked shame, 
Pollute with sinfull blame, 
 The Saintly Vail of Maiden white to throw, 
Confounded, that her Makers eyes 
Should look so neer upon her foul deformities. 

But he her fears to cease, 
Sent down the meek-eyd Peace, 
 She crown'd with Olive green, came softly sliding 
Down through the turning sphear 
His ready Harbinger, 
 With Turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing, 
And waving wide her mirtle wand, 
She strikes a universall Peace through Sea and Land. 

No War, or Battails sound 
Was heard the World around, 
 The idle spear and shield were high up hung; 
The hooked Chariot stood 
Unstain'd with hostile blood, 
 The Trumpet spake not to the armed throng, 
And Kings sate still with awfull eye, 
As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. 

But peacefull was the night 
Wherin the Prince of light 
 His raign of peace upon the earth began: 
The Windes with wonder whist, 
Smoothly the waters kist, 
 Whispering new joyes to the milde Ocean, 
Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 
While Birds of Calm sit brooding on the charmeed wave. 

The Stars with deep amaze 
Stand fixt in stedfast gaze, 
 Bending one way their pretious influence, 
And will not take their flight, 
For all the morning light, 
 Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence; 
But in their glimmering Orbs did glow, 
Untill their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. 

And though the shady gloom 
Had given day her room, 
 The Sun himself with-held his wonted speed, 
And hid his head for shame, 
As his inferiour flame, 
 The new enlightn'd world no more should need; 
He saw a greater Sun appear 
Then his bright Throne, or burning Axletree could bear. 

The Shepherds on the Lawn, 
Or ere the point of dawn, 
 Sate simply chatting in a rustick row; 
Full little thought they than, 
That the mighty Pan 
 Was kindly com to live with them below; 
Perhaps their loves, or els their sheep, 
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busie keep. 

When such musick sweet 
Their hearts and ears did greet, 
 As never was by mortall finger strook, 
Divinely-warbled voice 
Answering the stringed noise, 
 As all their souls in blisfull rapture took 
The Air such pleasure loth to lose, 
With thousand echo's still prolongs each heav'nly close. 

Nature that heard such sound 
Beneath the hollow round 
 Of Cynthia's seat, the Airy region thrilling, 
Now was almost won 
To think her part was don, 
 And that her raign had here its last fulfilling; 
She knew such harmony alone 
Could hold all Heav'n and Earth in happier union. 

At last surrounds their sight 
A Globe of circular light, 
 That with long beams the shame-fac't night array'd, 
The helmed Cherubim 
And sworded Seraphim, 
 Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displaid, 
Harping in loud and solemn quire, 
With unexpressive notes to Heav'ns new-born Heir. 

Such musick (as 'tis said) 
Before was never made, 
 But when of old the sons of morning sung, 
While the Creator Great 
His constellations set, 
 And the well-ballanc't world on hinges hung, 
And cast the dark foundations deep, 
And bid the weltring waves their oozy channel keep. 

Ring out ye Crystall sphears, 
Once bless our human ears, 
 (If ye have power to touch our senses so) 
And let your silver chime 
Move in melodious time; 
 And let the Base of Heav'ns deep Organ blow 
And with your ninefold harmony 
Make up full consort to th'Angelike symphony. 

For if such holy Song 
Enwrap our fancy long, 
 Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold, 
And speckl'd vanity 
Will sicken soon and die, 
 And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould, 
And Hell it self will pass away, 
And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. 

Yea Truth, and Justice then 
Will down return to men, 
 Th'enameld Arras of the Rain-bow wearing, 
And Mercy set between, 
Thron'd in Celestiall sheen, 
 With radiant feet the tissued clouds down stearing, 
And Heav'n as at som festivall, 
Will open wide the Gates of her high Palace Hall. 

But wisest Fate sayes no, 
This must not yet be so, 
 The Babe lies yet in smiling Infancy, 
That on the bitter cross 
Must redeem our loss; 
 So both himself and us to glorifie: 
Yet first to those ychain'd in sleep, 
The wakefull trump of doom must thunder through the deep, 

With such a horrid clang 
As on mount Sinai rang 
 While the red fire, and smouldring clouds out brake: 
The aged Earth agast 
With terrour of that blast, 
 Shall from the surface to the center shake; 
When at the worlds last session, 
The dreadfull Judge in middle Air shall spread his throne. 

And then at last our bliss 
Full and perfect is, 
 But now begins; for from this happy day 
Th'old Dragon under ground 
In straiter limits bound, 
 Not half so far casts his usurped sway, 
And wrath to see his Kingdom fail, 
Swindges the scaly Horrour of his foulded tail. 

The Oracles are dumm, 
No voice or hideous humm 
 Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. 
Apollo from his shrine 
Can no more divine, 
 With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving. 
No nightly trance, or breathed spell, 
Inspire's the pale-ey'd Priest from the prophetic cell. 

The lonely mountains o're, 
And the resounding shore, 
 A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; 
From haunted spring, and dale 
Edg'd with poplar pale, 
 The parting Genius is with sighing sent, 
With flowre-inwov'n tresses torn 
The Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. 

In consecrated Earth, 
And on the holy Hearth, 
 The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint, 
In Urns, and Altars round, 
A drear, and dying sound 
 Affrights the Flamins at their service quaint; 
And the chill Marble seems to sweat, 
While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat 

Peor, and Baalim, 
Forsake their Temples dim, 
 With that twise-batter'd god of Palestine, 
And mooned Ashtaroth, 
Heav'ns Queen and Mother both, 
 Now sits not girt with Tapers holy shine, 
The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn, 
In vain the Tyrian Maids their wounded Thamuz mourn. 

And sullen Moloch fled, 
Hath left in shadows dred, 
 His burning Idol all of blackest hue, 
In vain with Cymbals ring, 
They call the grisly king, 
 In dismall dance about the furnace blue; 
The brutish gods of Nile as fast, 
Isis and Orus, and the Dog Anubis hast. 

Nor is Osiris seen 
In Memphian Grove, or Green, 
 Trampling the unshowr'd Grasse with lowings loud: 
Nor can he be at rest 
Within his sacred chest, 
 Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud, 
In vain with Timbrel'd Anthems dark 
The sable-stoled Sorcerers bear his worshipt Ark. 

He feels from Juda's Land 
The dredded Infants hand, 
 The rayes of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; 
Nor all the gods beside, 
Longer dare abide, 
 Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: 
Our Babe to shew his Godhead true, 
Can in his swadling bands controul the damned crew. 

So when the Sun in bed, 
Curtain'd with cloudy red, 
 Pillows his chin upon an Orient wave, 
The flocking shadows pale, 
Troop to th'infernall jail, 
 Each fetter'd Ghost slips to his severall grave, 
And the yellow-skirted Fayes, 
Fly after the Night-steeds, leaving their Moon-lov'd maze. 

But see the Virgin blest, 
Hath laid her Babe to rest. 
 Time is our tedious Song should here have ending, 
Heav'ns youngest teemed Star, 
Hath fixt her polisht Car, 
 Her sleeping Lord with Handmaid Lamp attending: 
And all about the Courtly Stable, 
Bright-harnest Angels sit in order serviceable.

 I
The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies 
white and unspotted,
in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness 
sweep into
the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The 
air
is silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight.
See how the roof glitters, like ice!
Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into the silver-blue, 
and beside it stand
two geraniums, purple because the light is silver-blue, to-night.

See! She is coming, the young woman with the bright hair.
She swings a basket as she walks, which she places on the sill,
between the geranium stalks. He laughs, and crumples 
his paper
as he leans forward to look. "The Basket Filled with 
Moonlight",
what a title for a book!
The bellying clouds swing over the housetops.

He has forgotten the woman in the room with the geraniums. He 
is beating
his brain, and in his eardrums hammers his heavy pulse. She 
sits
on the window-sill, with the basket in her lap. And tap! She 
cracks a nut.
And tap! Another. Tap! Tap! Tap! The 
shells ricochet upon the roof,
and get into the gutters, and bounce over the edge and disappear.
"It is very *****," thinks Peter, "the basket was 
empty, I'm sure.
How could nuts appear from the atmosphere?"
The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, 
and the roof glitters
like ice.

II
Five o'clock. The geraniums are very 
gay in their crimson array.
The bellying clouds swing over the housetops, and over the roofs 
goes Peter
to pay his morning's work with a holiday.
"Annette, it is I. Have you finished? Can 
I come?"
Peter jumps through the window.
"Dear, are you alone?"
"Look, Peter, the dome of the tabernacle is done. This 
gold thread
is so very high, I am glad it is morning, a starry sky would have
seen me bankrupt. Sit down, now tell me, is your story 
going well?"
The golden dome glittered in the orange of the 
setting sun. On the walls,
at intervals, hung altar-cloths and chasubles, and copes, and stoles,
and coffin palls. All stiff with rich embroidery, and 
stitched with
so much artistry, they seemed like spun and woven gems, or flower-buds
new-opened on their stems.

Annette looked at the geraniums, very red against the blue sky.
"No matter how I try, I cannot find any thread 
of such a red.
My bleeding hearts drip stuff muddy in comparison. Heigh-ho! See 
my little
pecking dove? I'm in love with my own temple. Only 
that halo's wrong.
The colour's too strong, or not strong enough. I don't 
know. My eyes
are tired. Oh, Peter, don't be so rough; it is valuable. I 
won't do
any more. I promise. You tyrannise, Dear, 
that's enough. Now sit down
and amuse me while I rest."
The shadows of the geraniums creep over the floor, 
and begin to climb
the opposite wall.

Peter watches her, fluid with fatigue, floating, and drifting,
and undulant in the orange glow. His senses flow towards 
her,
where she lies supine and dreaming. Seeming drowned in 
a golden halo.
The pungent smell of the geraniums is hard to bear.

He pushes against her knees, and brushes his lips across her languid 
hands.
His lips are hot and speechless. He woos her, quivering, 
and the room
is filled with shadows, for the sun has set. But she 
only understands
the ways of a needle through delicate stuffs, and the shock of one 
colour
on another. She does not see that this is the same, and 
querulously murmurs
his name.
"Peter, I don't want it. I am tired."
And he, the undesired, burns and is consumed.
There is a crescent moon on the rim of the sky.

III
"Go home, now, Peter. To-night is full 
moon. I must be alone."
"How soon the moon is full again! Annette, 
let me stay. Indeed, Dear Love,
I shall not go away. My God, but you keep me starved! You 
write
`No Entrance Here', over all the doors. Is it not strange, 
my Dear,
that loving, yet you deny me entrance everywhere. Would 
marriage
strike you blind, or, hating bonds as you do, why should I be denied
the rights of loving if I leave you free? You want the 
whole of me,
you pick my brains to rest you, but you give me not one heart-beat.
Oh, forgive me, Sweet! I suffer in my loving, and you 
know it. I cannot
feed my life on being a poet. Let me stay."
"As you please, poor Peter, but it will hurt me 
if you do. It will
crush your heart and squeeze the love out."
He answered gruffly, "I know what I'm about."
"Only remember one thing from to-night. My 
work is taxing and I must
have sight! I MUST!"
The clear moon looks in between the geraniums. On 
the wall,
the shadow of the man is divided from the shadow of the woman
by a silver thread.

They are eyes, hundreds of eyes, round like marbles! Unwinking, 
for there
are no lids. Blue, black, gray, and hazel, and the irises 
are cased
in the whites, and they glitter and spark under the moon. The 
basket
is heaped with human eyes. She cracks off the whites 
and throws them away.
They ricochet upon the roof, and get into the gutters, and bounce
over the edge and disappear. But she is here, quietly 
sitting
on the window-sill, eating human eyes.
The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, 
and the roof shines
like ice.

IV
How hot the sheets are! His skin is 
tormented with pricks,
and over him sticks, and never moves, an eye. It lights 
the sky with blood,
and drips blood. And the drops sizzle on his bare skin, 
and he smells them
burning in, and branding his body with the name "Annette".
The blood-red sky is outside his window now. Is 
it blood or fire?
Merciful God! Fire! And his heart wrenches 
and pounds "Annette!"
The lead of the roof is scorching, he ricochets, 
gets to the edge,
bounces over and disappears.
The bellying clouds are red as they swing over 
the housetops.

V
The air is of silver and pearl, for the night is 
liquid with moonlight.
How the ruin glistens, like a palace of ice! Only two 
black holes swallow
the brilliance of the moon. Deflowered windows, sockets 
without sight.
A man stands before the house. He sees 
the silver-blue moonlight,
and set in it, over his head, staring and flickering, eyes of geranium 
red.

Annette!

 See you the towers, that, gray and old,
Frown through the sunlight's liquid gold,
Steep sternly fronting steep?
The Hellespont beneath them swells,
And roaring cleaves the Dardanelles,
The rock-gates of the deep!
Hear you the sea, whose stormy wave,
From Asia, Europe clove in thunder?
That sea which rent a world, cannot
Rend love from love asunder!

In Hero's, in Leander's heart,
Thrills the sweet anguish of the dart
Whose feather flies from love.
All Hebe's bloom in Hero's cheek--
And his the hunter's steps that seek
Delight, the hills above!
Between their sires the rival feud
Forbids their plighted hearts to meet;
Love's fruits hang over danger's gulf,
By danger made more sweet.

Alone on Sestos' rocky tower,
Where upward sent in stormy shower,
The whirling waters foam,--
Alone the maiden sits, and eyes
The cliffs of fair Abydos rise
Afar--her lover's home.
Oh, safely thrown from strand to strand,
No bridge can love to love convey;
No boatman shoots from yonder shore,
Yet Love has found the way.--

That love, which could the labyrinth pierce--
Which nerves the weak, and curbs the fierce,
And wings with wit the dull;--
That love which o'er the furrowed land
Bowed--tame beneath young Jason's hand--
The fiery-snorting bull!
Yes, Styx itself, that ninefold flows,
Has love, the fearless, ventured o'er,
And back to daylight borne the bride,
From Pluto's dreary shore!

What marvel then that wind and wave,
Leander doth but burn to brave,
When love, that goads him, guides!
Still when the day, with fainter glimmer,
Wanes pale--he leaps, the daring swimmer,
Amid the darkening tides;
With lusty arms he cleaves the waves,
And strikes for that dear strand afar;
Where high from Hero's lonely tower
Lone streams the beacon-star.

In vain his blood the wave may chill,
These tender arms can warm it still--
And, weary if the way,
By many a sweet embrace, above
All earthly boons--can liberal love
The lover's toil repay,
Until Aurora breaks the dream,
And warns the loiterer to depart--
Back to the ocean's icy bed,
Scared from that loving heart.

So thirty suns have sped their flight--
Still in that theft of sweet delight
Exult the happy pair;
Caress will never pall caress,
And joys that gods might envy, bless
The single bride-night there.
Ah! never he has rapture known,
Who has not, where the waves are driven
Upon the fearful shores of hell,
Plucked fruits that taste of heaven!

Now changing in their season are,
The morning and the Hesper star;--
Nor see those happy eyes
The leaves that withering droop and fall,
Nor hear, when, from its northern hall,
The neighboring winter sighs;
Or, if they see, the shortening days
But seem to them to close in kindness;
For longer joys, in lengthening nights,
They thank the heaven in blindness.

It is the time, when night and day,
In equal scales contend for sway--
Lone, on her rocky steep,
Lingers the girl with wistful eyes
That watch the sun-steeds down the skies,
Careering towards the deep.
Lulled lay the smooth and silent sea,
A mirror in translucent calm,
The breeze, along that crystal realm,
Unmurmuring, died in balm.

In wanton swarms and blithe array,
The merry dolphins glide and play
Amid the silver waves.
In gray and dusky troops are seen,
The hosts that serve the ocean-queen,
Upborne from coral caves:
They--only they--have witnessed love
To rapture steal its secret way:
And Hecate [36] seals the only lips
That could the tale betray!

She marks in joy the lulled water,
And Sestos, thus thy tender daughter,
Soft-flattering, woos the sea!
"Fair god--and canst thou then betray?
No! falsehood dwells with them that say
That falsehood dwells with thee!
Ah! faithless is the race of man,
And harsh a father's heart can prove;
But thee, the gentle and the mild,
The grief of love can move!"

"Within these hated walls of stone,
Should I, repining, mourn alone,
And fade in ceaseless care,
But thou, though o'er thy giant tide,
Nor bridge may span, nor boat may glide,
Dost safe my lover bear.
And darksome is thy solemn deep,
And fearful is thy roaring wave;
But wave and deep are won by love--
Thou smilest on the brave!"

"Nor vainly, sovereign of the sea,
Did Eros send his shafts to thee
What time the rain of gold,
Bright Helle, with her brother bore,
How stirred the waves she wandered o'er,
How stirred thy deeps of old!
Swift, by the maiden's charms subdued,
Thou cam'st from out the gloomy waves,
And in thy mighty arms, she sank
Into thy bridal caves."

"A goddess with a god, to keep
In endless youth, beneath the deep,
Her solemn ocean-court!
And still she smooths thine angry tides,
Tames thy wild heart, and favoring guides
The sailor to the port!
Beautiful Helle, bright one, hear
Thy lone adoring suppliant pray!
And guide, O goddess--guide my love
Along the wonted way!"

Now twilight dims the waters' flow,
And from the tower, the beacon's glow
Waves flickering o'er the main.
Ah, where athwart the dismal stream,
Shall shine the beacon's faithful beam
The lover's eyes shall strain!
Hark! sounds moan threatening from afar--
From heaven the blessed stars are gone--
More darkly swells the rising sea
The tempest labors on!

Along the ocean's boundless plains
Lies night--in torrents rush the rains
From the dark-bosomed cloud--
Red lightning skirs the panting air,
And, loosed from out their rocky lair,
Sweep all the storms abroad.
Huge wave on huge wave tumbling o'er,
The yawning gulf is rent asunder,
And shows, as through an opening pall,
Grim earth--the ocean under!

Poor maiden! bootless wail or vow--
"Have mercy, Jove--be gracious, thou!
Dread prayer was mine before!"
What if the gods have heard--and he,
Lone victim of the stormy sea,
Now struggles to the shore!
There's not a sea-bird on the wave--
Their hurrying wings the shelter seek;
The stoutest ship the storms have proved,
Takes refuge in the creek.

"Ah, still that heart, which oft has braved
The danger where the daring saved,
Love lureth o'er the sea;--
For many a vow at parting morn,
That naught but death should bar return,
Breathed those dear lips to me;
And whirled around, the while I weep,
Amid the storm that rides the wave,
The giant gulf is grasping down
The rash one to the grave!

"False Pontus! and the calm I hailed,
The awaiting murder darkly veiled--
The lulled pellucid flow,
The smiles in which thou wert arrayed,
Were but the snares that love betrayed
To thy false realm below!
Now in the midway of the main,
Return relentlessly forbidden,
Thou loosenest on the path beyond
The horrors thou hadst hidden."

Loud and more loud the tempest raves
In thunder break the mountain waves,
White-foaming on the rock--
No ship that ever swept the deep
Its ribs of gnarled oak could keep
Unshattered by the shock.
Dies in the blast the guiding torch
To light the struggler to the strand;
'Tis death to battle with the wave,
And death no less to land!

On Venus, daughter of the seas,
She calls the tempest to appease--
To each wild-shrieking wind
Along the ocean-desert borne,
She vows a steer with golden horn--
Vain vow--relentless wind!
On every goddess of the deep,
On all the gods in heaven that be,
She calls--to soothe in calm, awhile
The tempest-laden sea!

"Hearken the anguish of my cries!
From thy green halls, arise--arise,
Leucothoe the divine!
Who, in the barren main afar,
Oft on the storm-beat mariner
Dost gently-saving shine.
Oh,--reach to him thy mystic veil,
To which the drowning clasp may cling,
And safely from that roaring grave,
To shore my lover bring!"

And now the savage winds are hushing.
And o'er the arched horizon, blushing,
Day's chariot gleams on high!
Back to their wonted channels rolled,
In crystal calm the waves behold
One smile on sea and sky!
All softly breaks the rippling tide,
Low-murmuring on the rocky land,
And playful wavelets gently float
A corpse upon the strand!

'Tis he!--who even in death would still
Not fail the sweet vow to fulfil;
She looks--sees--knows him there!
From her pale lips no sorrow speaks,
No tears glide down her hueless cheeks;
Cold-numbed in her despair--
She looked along the silent deep,
She looked upon the brightening heaven,
Till to the marble face the soul
Its light sublime had given!

"Ye solemn powers men shrink to name,
Your might is here, your rights ye claim--
Yet think not I repine
Soon closed my course; yet I can bless
The life that brought me happiness--
The fairest lot was mine!
Living have I thy temple served,
Thy consecrated priestess been--
My last glad offering now receive
Venus, thou mightiest queen!"

Flashed the white robe along the air,
And from the tower that beetled there
She sprang into the wave;
Roused from his throne beneath the waste,
Those holy forms the god embraced--
A god himself their grave!
Pleased with his prey, he glides along--
More blithe the murmured music seems,
A gush from unexhausted urns
His everlasting streams!

 As loving hind that (hartless) wants her deer, 
Scuds through the woods and fern with hark'ning ear, 
Perplext, in every bush and nook doth pry, 
Her dearest deer, might answer ear or eye; 
So doth my anxious soul, which now doth miss 
A dearer dear (far dearer heart) than this. 
Still wait with doubts, and hopes, and failing eye, 
His voice to hear or person to descry. 
Or as the pensive dove doth all alone 
(On withered bough) most uncouthly bemoan 
The absence of her love and loving mate, 
Whose loss hath made her so unfortunate, 
Ev'n thus do I, with many a deep sad groan, 
Bewail my turtle true, who now is gone, 
His presence and his safe return still woos, 
With thousand doleful sighs and mournful coos. 
Or as the loving mullet, that true fish, 
Her fellow lost, nor joy nor life do wish, 
But launches on that shore, there for to die, 
Where she her captive husband doth espy. 
Mine being gone, I lead a joyless life, 
I have a loving peer, yet seem no wife; 
But worst of all, to him can't steer my course, 
I here, he there, alas, both kept by force. 
Return my dear, my joy, my only love, 
Unto thy hind, thy mullet, and thy dove, 
Who neither joys in pasture, house, nor streams, 
The substance gone, O me, these are but dreams. 
Together at one tree, oh let us browse, 
And like two turtles roost within one house, 
And like the mullets in one river glide, 
Let's still remain but one, till death divide. 
Thy loving love and dearest dear, 
At home, abroad, and everywhere

 What large, dark hands are those at the window 
Lifted, grasping in the yellow light 
Which makes its way through the curtain web 
At my heart to-night? 

Ah, only the leaves! So leave me at rest, 
In the west I see a redness come 
Over the evening's burning breast -- 
For now the pain is numb. 

The woodbine creeps abroad 
Calling low to her lover: 
The sunlit flirt who all the day 
Has poised above her lips in play 
And stolen kisses, shallow and gay 
Of dalliance, now has gone away 
-- She woos the moth with her sweet, low word, 
And when above her his broad wings hover 
Then her bright breast she will uncover 
And yeild her honey-drop to her lover. 

Into the yellow, evening glow 
Saunters a man from the farm below, 
Leans, and looks in at the low-built shed 
Where hangs the swallow's marriage bed. 
The bird lies warm against the wall. 
She glances quick her startled eyes 
Towards him, then she turns away 
Her small head, making warm display 
Of red upon the throat. Her terrors sway 
Her out of the nest's warm, busy ball, 
Whose plaintive cries start up as she flies 
In one blue stoop from out the sties 
Into the evening's empty hall. 

Oh, water-hen, beside the rushes 
Hide your quaint, unfading blushes, 
Still your quick tail, and lie as dead, 
Till the distance covers his dangerous tread. 

The rabbit presses back her ears, 
Turns back her liquid, anguished eyes 
And crouches low: then with wild spring 
Spurts from the terror of the oncoming 
To be choked back, the wire ring 
Her frantic effort throttling: 
Piteous brown ball of quivering fears! 

Ah soon in his large, hard hands she dies, 
And swings all loose to the swing of his walk. 
Yet calm and kindly are his eyes 
And ready to open in brown surprise 
Should I not answer to his talk 
Or should he my tears surmise. 

I hear his hand on the latch, and rise from my chair 
Watching the door open: he flashes bare 
His strong teeth in a smile, and flashes his eyes 
In a smile like triumph upon me; then careless-wise 
He flihgs the rabbit soft on the table board 
And comes towards me: ah, the uplifted sword 
Of his hand against my bosom, and oh, the broad 
Blade of his hand that raises my face to applaud 
His coming: he raises up my face to him 
And caresses my mouth with his fingers, smelling grim 
Of the rabbit's fur! God, I am caught in a snare! 
I know not what fine wire is round my throat, 
I only know I let him finger there 
My pulse of life, letting him nose like a stoat 
Who sniffs with joy before he drinks the blood: 
And down his mouth comes to my mouth, and down 
His dark bright eyes descend like a fiery hood 
Upon my mind: his mouth meets mine, and a flood 
Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown 
Within him, die, and find death good.

 God is a distant -- stately Lover --
Woos, as He states us -- by His Son --
Verily, a Vicarious Courtship --
"Miles", and "Priscilla", were such an One --

But, lest the Soul -- like fair "Priscilla"
Choose the Envoy -- and spurn the Groom --
Vouches, with hyperbolic archness --
"Miles", and "John Alden" were Synonym --

 COME, here is adieu to the city
And hurrah for the country again.
The broad road lies before me
Watered with last night's rain.
The timbered country woos me
With many a high and bough;
And again in the shining fallows
The ploughman follows the plough.

The whole year's sweat and study,
And the whole year's sowing time,
Comes now to the perfect harvest,
And ripens now into rhyme.
For we that sow in the Autumn,
We reap our grain in the Spring,
And we that go sowing and weeping
Return to reap and sing.

 To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life
Among strangers. Father and mother dear,
Brothers and sisters are in Christ not near
And he my peace my parting, sword and strife.
 England, whose honour O all my heart woos, wife
To my creating thought, would neither hear
Me, were I pleading, plead nor do I: I wear-
y of idle a being but by where wars are rife. 

 I am in Ireland now; now I am at a thírd
Remove. Not but in all removes I can
Kind love both give and get. Only what word
Wisest my heart breeds dark heaven's baffling ban
Bars or hell's spell thwarts. This to hoard unheard,
Heard unheeded, leaves me a lonely began.