« AnteriorContinuar »
Her sheep followed her, as their tails did them.
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And this song is considered a perfect gem,
And as to the meaning, it's what you please.
LOVERS, AND A REFLECTION
Imitation of Jean Ingelow
N MOSS-PRANKT dells which the sunbeams flatter,
(And heaven it knoweth what that may mean;
Thro' God's own heather we wonned together,
I and my Willie (O love my love):
And flitterbats wavered alow, above;
Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing,
(Boats in that climate are so polite)
And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!
Thro' the rare red heather we danced together,
(O love my Willie!) and smelt for flowers:
Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:
By rises that flushed with their purple favors,
Thro' becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen,
Thanking our stars we were both so green.
In fortunate parallels! Butterflies,
Or marjoram, kept making peacock eyes:
Song-birds darted about, some inky
As coal, some snowy, I ween, as curds; (Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky -)
They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds!
But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes,
Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem;
They need no parasols, no goloshes;
And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.
That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms;
Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms:
Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea).
Rhymes (better to put it) of “ancientry):
In William's carol (O love my Willie!)
I quite forget what -- say a daffodilly.
I think occurred next in his nimble strain;
A rhyme most novel, I do maintain:
And all at least furlable things got “furled ”;
But simply and solely to rhyme with “world.”
Oh, if billows and pillows and hours and flowers,
And all the brave rhymes of an elder day,
And carted or carried in wafts away,
« She was a phantom » etc. N LONE Glenartney's thickets lies couched the lordly stag,
The dreaming terrier's tail forgets its customary wag; And plodding plowmen's weary steps insensibly grow quicker, As broadening casements light them on toward home, or home
It is — in brief — the evening: that pure and pleasant time,
Miss Goodchild — Julia Goodchild!- how graciously you smiled Upon my childish passion once, yourself a fair-haired child: When I was (no doubt) profiting by Dr. Crabb's instruction, And sent those streaky lollipops honie for your fairy suction.
« She wore
» her natural “roses, the night when first we met,” – Her golden hair was gleaming neath the coercive net: « Her brow was like the snawdrift,” her step was like Queen
The parlor-boarder chasséed tow'rds her on graceful limb;
And evermore, when winter comes in his garb of snows,
I know that never, never may her love for me return
And yet we two may meet again,- (Be still, my throbbing heart!)
we stood upon a rug, in a sumptuous dining-room:
I used to roam o'er glen and glade,
Buoyant and blithe as other folk,
I'd sing, as one whose heart must break, Lay upon lay-I nearly learned
Of fights our fathers fought of yore,
I cannot sing the old songs now!
It is not that I deem them low; 'Tis that I can't remember how
Above me stood the summer moon:
The sports, to which with boyish glee
I sprang erewhile, attract no more: Although I am but sixty-three
Nay, worse than that, I've seemed of late
To shrink from happy boyhood – boys Have grown so noisy, and I hate
A noise. They fright me when the beech is green,
By swarming up its stem for eggs;
I'll tell you what I'll do instead:
THOUGHTS AT A RAILWAY STATION
vs but a box, of modest deal;
Directed to no matter where:
Yet down my cheek the teardrops steal Yes, I am blubbering like a seal; For on it is this mute appeal,
« With care.”
I am a stern cold man, and range
Apart: but those vague words “ With care» Wake yearnings in me sweet as strange: Drawn from my moral Moated Grange, I feel I rather like the change
Hast thou ne'er seen rough pointsmen spy
Some simple English phrase — «With care>> Or “This side upper most » — and cry Like children? No? No more have I. Yet deem not him whose eyes are dry
But ah! what treasure hides beneath
That lid so much the worse for wear ?
Perhaps some seaman, in Peru
Or Ind, hath stowed herein a rare
Perhaps -- but wherefore vainly pry
Into the page that's folded there?