LONGING

Matthew Arnold 1822-88

Come to me in my dreams, and then

By day I shall be well again!

For so the night will more than pay

The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,

A messenger from radiant climes,

And smile on thy new world, and be

As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,

Come now, and let me dream it truth,

And part my hair, and kiss my brow,

And say, My love why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then

By day I shall be well again!

For so the night will more than pay

The hopeless longing of the day.

THIS POST CONCLUDES THE SERIES. 

The new blog

POETRY TO READ ALOUD

begins tomorrow

poetrytoreadaloud.blogspot.com

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POETRY TO PLEASE COMES TO AN END ON SUNDAY.
A New Blog
POETRY TO READ ALOUD
will begin on Monday 2nd October
poetrytoreadaloud.blogspot.com

AUTUMN SONG

Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1828-82

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf 

How the heart feels a languid grief 

Laid on it for a covering, 

And how sleep seems a goodly thing 

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf? 

And how the swift beat of the brain 

Falters because it is in vain, 

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf 

Knowest thou not? and how the chief 

Of joys seems - not to suffer pain? 

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf 

How the soul feels like a dried sheaf 

Bound up at length for harvesting, 

And how death seems a comely thing 

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf? 

Please note that my current blogs are all affected by changes this week end

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BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS

Thomas Moore 1779-1852

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,

Live fairy-gifts fading away,

Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,

Let thy loveliness fade as it will,

And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart

Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,

And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,

That the fervour and faith of a soul may be known,

To which time will but make thee more dear!

No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,

But as truly loves on to the close,

As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets

The same look which she turned when he rose! 

-o0o-

I WONDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

I wandered lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden daffodils; 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 

And twinkle on the milky way, 

They stretched in never-ending line 

Along the margin of a bay: 

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced; but they 

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: 

A poet could not but be gay, 

In such a jocund company: 

I gazed - and gazed - but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought: 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 

In vacant or in pensive mood, 

They flash upon that inward eye 

Which is the bliss of solitude; 

And then my heart with pleasure fills, 

And dances with the daffodils. 

-o0o-

A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT

Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1806-61

What was he doing, the great god Pan, 

    Down in the reeds by the river ? 

Spreading ruin and scattering ban, 

Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, 

And breaking the golden lilies afloat 

    With the dragon-fly on the river. 

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, 

    From the deep cool bed of the river : 

The limpid water turbidly ran, 

And the broken lilies a-dying lay, 

And the dragon-fly had fled away, 

    Ere he brought it out of the river. 

High on the shore sate the great god Pan, 

    While turbidly flowed the river ; 

And hacked and hewed as a great god can, 

With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, 

Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed 

    To prove it fresh from the river. 

He cut it short, did the great god Pan, 

    (How tall it stood in the river !) 

Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, 

Steadily from the outside ring, 

And notched the poor dry empty thing 

    In holes, as he sate by the river. 

This is the way, laughed the great god Pan, 

    Laughed while he sate by the river,

The only way, since gods began 

To make sweet music, they could succeed.

Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, 

    He blew in power by the river. 

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan ! 

    Piercing sweet by the river ! 

Blinding sweet, O great god Pan ! 

The sun on the hill forgot to die, 

And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly 

    Came back to dream on the river. 

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, 

    To laugh as he sits by the river, 

Making a poet out of a man : 

The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, — 

For the reed which grows nevermore again 

    As a reed with the reeds in the river. 

-o0o-

Extract from 

THE DESERTED VILLAGE

Oliver Goldsmith 1730-74

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,

Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:

Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;

A breath can make them, as a breath has made;

But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,

When once destroyed can never be supplied.

A time there was, ere England's griefs began,

When every rood of ground maintained its man;

For him light labour spread her wholesome store,

Just gave what life required, but gave no more:

His best companions, innocence and health;

And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train

Usurp the land and dispossess the swain;

Along the lawn, where scattered hamlet's rose,

Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose,

And every want to opulence allied,

And every pang that folly pays to pride.

Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,

Those calm desires that asked but little room,

Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,

Lived in each look, and brightened all the green;

These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,

And rural mirth and manners are no more.

-o0o-

ROSES

George Eliot 1819-80

You love the roses - so do I. I wish

The sky would rain down roses, as they rain

From off the shaken bush. Why will it not? 

Then all the valley would be pink and white

And soft to tread on. They would fall as light

As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be

Like sleeping and like waking, all at once! 

-o0o-

THE  WINDS OF FATE

Ella Wheeler Wilcox 1850-1919

One ship drives east and another drives west

With the selfsame winds that blow.

Tis the set of the sails

And not the gales

Which tells us the way to go. 

Like the winds of the seas are the ways of fate,

As we voyage along through the life:

Tis the set of a soul

That decides its goal,

And not the calm or the strife. 

-o0o-

ALL THE THINGS YOU ARE

Oscar Hammerstein II 1895-1960

Time and again I've longed for adventure

Something to make my heart beat the faster

What did I long for, I never really knew.

Finding your love, I found my adventure,

Touching your hand makes my heart beat the faster

All that I want in all of this world is you.

You are the promised kiss of springtime

That makes the lonely winter seem long,

You are the breathless hush of evening

That trembles on the brink of a lovely song.

You are the angel glow that lights a star,

The dearest things I know are what you are.

Someday my happy arms will hold you,

And someday I'll know that moment divine

When all the things you are are mine.

-o0o-

THE ROAD GOES EVER ON

J.R.R. Tolkien 1892-1973

The Road goes ever on and on

   Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

   And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

   Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

   And whither then? I cannot say.

-o0o-

DISILLUSIONED

Lewis Carroll 1832-98

I painted her a gushing thing,

With years about a score;

I little thought to find they were

At least a dozen more;

My fancy gave her eyes of blue,

A curly auburn head:

I came to find the blue a green,

The auburn turned to red.

She boxed my ears this morning,

They tingled very much;

I own that I could wish her

A somewhat lighter touch;

And if you ask me how

Her charms might be improved,

I would not have them added to,

But just a few removed!

She has the bear's ethereal grace,

The bland hyena's laugh,

The footstep of the elephant,

The neck of a giraffe;

I love her still, believe me,

Though my heart its passion hides;

She's all my fancy painted her,

But oh! how much besides!

-o0o-

HOPE THE HERMIT (17th Cent)

Anon

Once in a blythe greenwood 

Lived a hermit wise and good

Whom the folks from far and near

For his council sought,

Knowing well that what he taught 

The dreariest of hearts would cheer.

Though his hair was white 

His eye was clear and bright, 

And he thus was ever wont to say:

"Though to care we are born, 

Yet the dullest morn 

Often heralds in the fairest day!" 

"The very longest lane,

Has a turning, it is plain,

E'en the blackest of clouds will fly:

And what can't be cured

Must with patience be endured:

As cheaply can we laugh as cry."

And people gazed,

At words so deep amazed,

While the Sage went on to say:

"Though to care we are born, 

Yet the dullest morn 

Often heralds in the fairest day!" 

Pray, is the hermit dead?

From the forest has he fled?

No, he lives to counsel all

Who an ear will lend

To their wisest, truest friend,

And Hope the Hermit's name they call.

Still he sits, I ween,

'Mid branches ever green,

And cheerly you may hear him say:

"Though to care we are born, 

Yet the dullest morn 

Often heralds in the fairest day!" 

-o0o-

AH SUNFLOWER

William Blake 1757-1827

Ah Sunflower, weary of time, 

  Who countest the steps of the sun; 

Seeking after that sweet golden clime 

  Where the traveller's journey is done; 

Where the Youth pined away with desire, 

  And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow, 

Arise from their graves, and aspire 

  Where my Sunflower wishes to go!

-o0o-

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, 

Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: 

Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard 

In the silence of morning the song of the Bird. 

Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees 

A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; 

Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, 

And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, 

Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; 

And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, 

The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, 

The mist and the river, the hill and the shade: 

The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 

And the colours have all passed away from her eyes! 

-o0o-

DANNY DEEVER

Rudyard Kipling 1865-1936

‘What are the bugles blowin’ for?' said Files-on-Parade.   

‘To turn you out, to turn you out,’ the Colour-Sergeant said. 

‘What makes you look so white, so white?’ said Files-on-Parade. 

‘I’m dreadin’ what I’ve got to watch,’ the Colour-Sergeant said. 

      For they’re hangin’ Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play, 

      The Regiment’s in ’ollow square - they’re hangin’ him to-day; 

      They’ve taken of his buttons off an’ cut his stripes away, 

      An’ they're hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’. 

‘What makes the rear-rank breathe so ’ard?’ said Files-on-Parade. 

‘It’s bitter cold, it's bitter cold,’ the Colour-Sergeant said. 

‘What makes that front-rank man fall down?’ said Files-on-Parade. 

‘A touch o’ sun, a touch o’ sun,’ the Colour-Sergeant said. 

      They are hangin’ Danny Deever, they are marchin’ of ’im round, 

      They ’ave ’alted Danny Deever by ’is coffin on the ground; 

      An’ ’e’ll swing in ’arf a minute for a sneakin’ shootin’ hound -

      O they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin!’ 

‘’Is cot was right -hand cot to mine,’ said Files-on-Parade. 

‘’E’s sleepin’ out an’ far to-night,’ the Colour-Sergeant said. 

‘I’ve drunk ’is beer a score o’ times,’ said Files-on-Parade. 

‘’E’s drinkin’ bitter beer alone,’ the Colour-Sergeant said. 

      They are hangin’ Danny Deever, you must mark ’im to ’is place, 

      For ’e shot a comrade sleepin’ - you must look ’im in the face; 

      Nine ’undred of ’is county an’ the Regiment’s disgrace,   

      While they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’. 

‘What’s that so black agin the sun?’ said Files-on-Parade.   

‘It’s Danny fightin’ ’ard for life,’ the Colour-Sergeant said.   

‘What’s that that whimpers over’ead?’ said Files-on-Parade. 

‘It’s Danny’s soul that’s passin’ now,’ the Colour-Sergeant said. 

      For they’re done with Danny Deever, you can ’ear the quickstep play, 

      The Regiment’s in column, an’ they’re marchin’ us away; 

      Ho! the young recruits are shakin’, an’ they’ll want their beer to-day, 

      After hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’!

PICTURES TO PLEASE
WAS UPDATED YESTERDAY

-o0o-

MISS LOO

Walter de la Mare 1873-1958

When thin-strewn memory I look through, 

I see most clearly poor Miss Loo, 

Her tabby cat, her cage of birds, 

Her nose, her hair -- her muffled words, 

And how she'd open her green eyes, 

As if in some immense surprise, 

Whenever as we sat at tea, 

She made some small remark to me. 

It's always drowsy summer when 

From out the past she comes again; 

The westering sunshine in a pool 

Floats in her parlour still and cool; 

While the slim bird its lean wires shakes, 

As into piercing song it breaks 

Till Peter's pale-green eyes ajar 

Dream, wake; wake, dream, in one brief bar; 

And I am sitting , dull and shy 

And she with gaze of vacancy, 

And large hands folded on the tray, 

Musing the afternoon away; 

Her satin bosom heaving slow 

With sighs that softly ebb and flow, 

And her plain face in such dismay, 

It seems unkind to look her way: 

Until all cheerful back will come 

Her cheerful gleaming spirit home: 

And one would think that poor Miss Loo 

Asked nothing else, if she had you. 

The New Blog

PICTURES TO PLEASE

was updated today

picturestoplease.blogspot.com

-o0o-

HUMAN FAMILY

Maya Angelou 1928-2014

I note the obvious differences

in the human family.

Some of us are serious,

some thrive on comedy.

Some declare their lives are lived

as true profundity,

and others claim they really live

the real reality.

The variety of our skin tones

can confuse, bemuse, delight,

brown and pink and beige and purple,

tan and blue and white.

I've sailed upon the seven seas

and stopped in every land,

I've seen the wonders of the world

not yet one common man.

I know ten thousand women

called Jane and Mary Jane,

but I've not seen any two

who really were the same.

Mirror twins are different

although their features jibe,

and lovers think quite different thoughts

while lying side by side.

We love and lose in China,

we weep on England's moors,

and laugh and moan in Guinea,

and thrive on Spanish shores.

We seek success in Finland,

are born and die in Maine.

In minor ways we differ,

in major we're the same.

I note the obvious differences

between each sort and type,

but we are more alike, my friends,

than we are unalike.

-o0o-

THE HARVEST MOON

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-82

It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes

And roofs of villages, on woodland crests

And their aerial neighbourhoods of nests

Deserted, on the curtained window-panes

Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes

And harvest-fields, its mystic splendour rests!

Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,

With the last sheaves return the labouring wains!

All things are symbols: the external shows

Of Nature have their image in the mind,

As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;

The song-birds leave us at the summer’s close,

Only the empty nests are left behind,

And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

-o0o-

A FAIRY SONG

William Percy French 1854-1920

Stay, silver ray,

Till the airy way we wing

To the shade of the glade

Where the fairies dance and sing:

The mortals are asleep -

They can never understand

That night brings delight,

It is day in Fairyland

Float, golden note,

From the lute strings all in tune,

Climb, quiv'ring chime,

Up the moonbeams to the moon.

There is music on the river,

There is music on the strand,

Night brings delight,

It is day in Fairyland.

Sing while we swing

From the bluebell's lofty crest.

Hey! Come and play,

Sleepy songbirds in your nest;

The glow-worm lamps are lit,

Come and join our Elfin band,

Night brings delight,

It is day in Fairyland.'

Roam thro' the home

Where the little children sleep,

Light in our flight

Where the curly ringlets peep.

Some shining eyes may see us,

But the babies understand,

Night brings delight,

It is day in Fairyland. 

-o0o-

DO YOU HEAR THE CHILDREN WEEPING

from "The Cry of the Children"

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1800-61

Do you hear the children weeping, O my brothers, 

      Ere the sorrow comes with years ? 

They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,  - 

      And that cannot stop their tears. 

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows ; 

   The young birds are chirping in the nest ; 

The young fawns are playing with the shadows ; 

   The young flowers are blowing toward the west -

But the young, young children, O my brothers, 

      They are weeping bitterly ! 

They are weeping in the playtime of the others, 

      In the country of the free. 

"For oh," say the children, "we are weary, 

      And we cannot run or leap -

If we cared for any meadows, it were merely 

      To drop down in them and sleep. 

Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping  - 

   We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; 

And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, 

   The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. 

For, all day, we drag our burden tiring, 

      Through the coal-dark, underground  - 

Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron 

      In the factories, round and round. 

They look up, with their pale and sunken faces, 

      And their look is dread to see, 

For they think you see their angels in their places, 

      With eyes meant for Deity ; -

"How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation, 

   Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart, -

Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, 

   And tread onward to your throne amid the mart ? 

Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants, 

      And your purple shews your path ; 

But the child's sob curseth deeper in the silence 

      Than the strong man in his wrath !"

-o0o-

THE SOLITARY REAPER

William Wordsworth 1770-1850 

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending;

I listened, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more. 

-o0o-

DARK LOCHNAGAR

George Gordon, Lord Byron 1788-1824

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses,

In you let the minions of luxury rove,

Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes,

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love.

Yet Caledonia, belov'd are thy mountains,

Round their white summits tho' elements war,

Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,

I sigh for the valley of dark Lochnagar.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd,

My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid.

On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd

As daily I strode thro' the pine-cover'd glade.

I sought not my home till the day's dying glory

Gave place to the rays of the bright Polar star,

For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story,

Disclos'd by the natives of dark Lochnagar!

Years have roll'd on, Lochnagar, since I left you!

Years must elapse ere I tread you again.

Though nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you,

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.

England, thy beauties are tame and domestic

To one who has roamed over mountains afar,

Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic,

The steep frowning glories of dark Lochnagar.

-o0o-

WE’LL GO NO MORE A-ROVING

George, Lord Byron 1788-1824

So, we'll go no more a-roving    

  So late into the night,    

Though the heart be still as loving,    

  And the moon be still as bright.    

          For the sword outwears its sheath,             

  And the soul wears out the breast,    

And the heart must pause to breathe,    

  And love itself have rest.    

Though the night was made for loving,    

  And the day returns too soon,      

Yet we'll go no more a-roving    

  By the light of the moon.

The New Blog
PICTURES TO PLEASE
Begins today
picturestoplease.blogspot.com
and then will be updated every Saturday

-o0o-

DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS

William Butler Yeats 1865-1939

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;

She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.

She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;

But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,

And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.

She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;

But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.  

-o0o-

I HAVE A GARDEN OF MY OWN

Thomas Moore 1779-1852

I have a garden of my own,

Shining with flowers of every hue;

I loved it dearly while alone,

But I shall love it more with you:

And there the golden bees shall come,

In summer time at break of morn,

And wake us with their busy hum

Around the Siha's fragrant thorn.

I have a fawn from Aden's land,

On leafy buds and berries nursed;

And you shall feed him from your hand,

Though he may start with fear at first;

And I will lead you where he lies

For shelter in the noon-tide heat;

And you may touch his sleeping eyes,

And feel his little silvery feet.

-o0o-

SOLITUDE

Ella Wheeler Wilcox 1850-1919

Laugh and the world laughs with you;

Weep, and you weep alone.

For the sad old earth must borrow it's mirth,

But has trouble enough of its own.

Sing, and the hills will answer;

Sigh, it is lost on the air.

The echoes bound to a joyful sound,

But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;

Grieve, and they turn and go.

They want full measure of all your pleasure,

But they do not need your woe.

Be glad, and your friends are many;

Be sad, and you lose them all.

There are none to decline your nectared wine,

But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;

Fast, and the world goes by.

Succeed and give, and it helps you live,

But no man can help you die.

There is room in the halls of pleasure

For a long and lordly train,

But one by one we must all file on

Through the narrow aisles of pain. 

-o0o-

A TIRED HOUSEWIFE

 Anon

Here lies a poor woman who was always tired,

She lived in a house where help wasn't hired:

Her last words on earth were: “Dear friends, I am going

To where there's no cooking, or washing, or sewing,

For everything there is exact to my wishes,

For where they don't eat there's no washing of dishes.

I'll be where loud anthems will always be ringing,

But having no voice I'll be quit of the singing.

Don't mourn for me now, don't mourn for me never,

I am going to do nothing for ever and ever.”

-o0o-

NO MAN IS AN ISLAND

John Donne 1572-1631

No man is an island,

Entire of itself,

Every man is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less.

As well as if a promontory were.

As well as if a manor of thy friend's

Or of thine own were:

Any man's death diminishes me,

Because I am involved in mankind,

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; 

It tolls for thee. 

-o0o-

A NIGHTINGALE SANG IN BERKELEY SQUARE

Eric Maschwitz 1901-69

When two lovers meet in Mayfair, so the legends tell,

Songbirds sing; winter turns to spring.

Every winding street in Mayfair falls beneath the spell.

I know such enchantment can be, 'cause it happened one evening to me:

That certain night, the night we met,

There was magic abroad in the air,

There were angels dining at the Ritz,

And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

I may be right, I may be wrong,

But I'm perfectly willing to swear

That when you turned and smiled at me

A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

The moon that lingered over London town,

Poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown.

How could he know we two were so in love?

The whole darn world seemed upside down

The streets of town were paved with stars;

It was such a romantic affair.

And, as we kissed and said 'goodnight',

A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square

When dawn came stealing up all gold and blue

To interrupt our rendezvous,

I still remember how you smiled and said,

"Was that a dream or was it true?"

Our homeward step was just as light

As the tap-dancing feet of Astaire

And, like an echo far away,

A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square

I know 'cause I was there,

That night in Berkeley Square.

-o0o-

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

Christopher Marlowe 1564-93

Come live with me and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove,

That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,

Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the Rocks,

Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,

By shallow Rivers to whose falls

Melodious birds sing Madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of Roses

And a thousand fragrant posies,

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle

Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool

Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;

Fair lined slippers for the cold,

With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and Ivy buds,

With Coral clasps and Amber studs:

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with me, and be my love.

The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing

For thy delight each May-morning:

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me, and be my love.

-o0o-