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# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/Tale of the Forest

TALE OF THE FOREST.
I know of a spot in our Western woods, Where the deep shadows lie on the rushing floods, Where the foam and the mist are as white as snow On the dark brown sides of the rocks below; Where yet deeper down I can see the gleam Of the sunshine broad on the glimmering stream, Through arches of green, twined of leaves that shiver To the breath of the wind and the sound of the river.
There are violets growing there all the year, When the leaves of the forest are dry and sere, Fed by the dew that distils all the day From the moist green leaves or the river's spray; And a bird with a soft, wild, silvery note, And a sound of grief in its little throat, Has chosen the shade for its lonely song— To that bird and to me does the place belong.
There, when the summer was fairest, I made At the falling of twilight, a grave—and laid A heart that was weary forever to rest— The heart that had broke in my beating breast; Wrapt and shrouded in mist, and covered in gloom, Mourned by the bird and the drooping plume Of the evergreen trees that bend o'er the flood, I left it to sleep in that wild solitude.
When the summer hung light on the maple boughs, And the birds in the greenwood were singing their vows, Came I one sunset and sat where the gleam Glanced from the young leaves and fell on the stream; And sitting I heard what my spirit hears yet, And the heart that I buried can never forget; Holy and solemn the vow that was made— Ere summer had ripened the vow was betrayed.
​Now where the autumn leaves lie on the ground, And the dark river flows with a sullen sound, And the white cloud of mist rises up from the gloom Like the ghost that I laid bursting out of its tomb, Come I each twilight and pillow my head On the dark withered leaves—the grave of the dead, And list to the murmur of leaves and of river, Praying sleep may descend on my eyelids forever.
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/The Dying Poet

THE DYING POET.
He knew that he was dying; day by day He felt the silver chords within his bosom Mysteriously but palpably give way, And he cared not that death so soon should loose them; For a dull grief was carking in his breast, That while his heart beat would not be at rest.
There had been flowers in his course at morn, But one by one had withered on his way; His heart was heavy, and his feet were torn, And yet no close came to his weary day; The night was distant, but he prayed to die Before its shadows darkened in his sky.
​Many had blessed him as he passed them by, And hushed their hearts to listen to his singing; And shouted his name upward to the sky— Roses and gems upon his pathway flinging; But fainting he had turned him from the throng, Sighing his sorrow to himself and song.
There had been one to whom his heart went forth In his young manhood—love's free gift, unbidden; But she was fair and frigid as the north, And the warm breathings of his lyre were chidden: And from that hour it took an altered tone, Singing to Nature and itself alone.
But now his course was ended; and his gaze Watched the red sunset fading from the sky— The last his eyes might look on; while a maze Of half-forgotten memories flitted by; A breeze came from the sea and stirred his hair, And fancy felt his mother's fingers there.
Deeper the crimson of the sunset grew; An old church-tower that loomed against the west, Lifting its pinnacle to the far blue, Pictured to him his own deserted breast, That rent and ruined, let the sunset in, Gilding in mockery the shapeless scene.
How had his life been wasted; he had spent His youth, his manhood, all his young bright years, In giving one poor passion its full vent, And it rewarded him with heart-wrung tears, Till the slow fever sapped his veins all dry, Nor blood refreshed his heart, nor tears his eye.
Then like an old man with a century's weight Bowing him to the dust, he laid his weary head ​Upon the arm of death, and waiting sat, Wishing the moments of probation fled— Wishing his sun of life would fade away, With the departing brightness of the day.
And thus was hushed his heart, and hushed his lyre; Death had o'ercome him with the twilight's shade; The altar had consumed with its own fire, And perished with the gift upon it laid; The idol was an idol now no more— The Poet's love, and grief, and song were o'er.
# Poems (Craik)/Our Father's Business

POEMS SINCE 1860.
# Persian Literature/Volume 1/The Sháh Námeh/Kaiúmers

THE SHÁH NÁMEH
KAIÚMERS
ACCORDING to the traditions of former ages, recorded in the Bastan-námeh, the first person who established a code of laws and exercised the functions of a monarch in Persia, was Kaiúmers. It is said that he dwelt among the mountains, and that his garments were made of the skins of beasts.
​Disheartened by this disastrous event, the army immediately retreated, and returned to Kaiúmers, who wept bitterly for the loss of his son, and continued a long time inconsolable. But after a year had elapsed a mysterious voice addressed him, saying:—“Be patient, and despair not—thou hast only to send another army against the Demons, and the triumph and the victory will be thine.
Saiámuk left a son whose name was Húsheng, whom the king loved much more even than his father.
Kaiúmers having appointed Húsheng the leader of the army, the young hero set out with an immense body of troops to engage the Demon and his son. It is said that at that time every species of animal, wild and tame, was obedient to his command.
The wolf, the tiger, the lion, the panther, and even the fowls of the air, assembled in aid of him, and he, by the blessing of God, slew the Demon and his offspring with his own hand. After which the army of Kaiúmers, and the devouring animals that accompanied him in his march, defeated and tore to pieces the scattered legions of the enemy. Upon the death of Kaiúmers Húsheng ascended the throne of Persia.
# Poems (Philips)/An Answer to another perswading a Lady to Marriage

An Answer to another perswading a Lady to Marriage.
I.
FOrbear bold Youth, all's Heav'n here,
And what you do aver,
To others Courtship may appear,
'Tis Sacrilege to her.
II.
She is a publick Deity,
And were't not very odd
She shou'd depose her self, to be
A petty Houshold God?
III.
First make the Sun in private shine,
And bid the World adieu, ​That so he may his Beams confine
In Complement to you.
IV.
But if of that you do despair,
Think how you did amiss,
To strive to fix her Beams, which are
More bright and large than his.
# Poems (Philips)/To Celimena

To Celimena.
FOrbear fond Heart (say I) torment no more
That Celimena whom thou dost adore;
For since so many of her Chains are proud,
How canst thou be distinguish'd in the Crowd:
But say, bold Trifler, what dost thou pretend?
Wou'dst thou depose thy Saint into thy Friend?
Equality in Friendship is requir'd,
Which here were criminal to be desir'd.
# Poems (Philips)/Song to the Tune of Adieu Phillis

SONG. To the Tune of Adieu Phillis.
'TIS true, our Life is bur a long Disease,
Made up of real Pain and seeming Ease.
You Stars, who these entangled Fortunes give,
O tell me why
It is so hard to dye,
Yet such a Task to Live?
If with some Pleasure we our Griefs betray,
It costs us dearer than it can repay.
For Time or Fortune all Things so devours;
Our hopes are crost,
Or else the Object lost,
E'er we can call it ours.
# Poems (Philips)

(Upload an image to replace this placeholder.)
POEMS
By the most deservedly Admired
Mrs. Katherine Philips,
The Matchless
ORINDA.
To which is added
Monsieur Corneille's Tragedies
OF
POMPEY and HORACE,
With several
Other Translations out of French.
LONDON:
Printed for Jacob Tonson, within Grays-Inn Gate next Grays-Inn Lane. MDCCX.
* The Preface
* The Earl of Orrery to Mrs. Philips
* The Earl of Roscommon to Orinda: An Imitation of Horace
* Upon Mrs. K. Philips her Poems
* To the Excellent Orinda
* To the Memory of the Excellent Orinda
* To the Memory of the Incomparable Orinda
* On the Death of Mrs. Katherine Philips
THE TABLE.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems (Piatt)

​These two volumes comprise all of the Author's poems hitherto published in this country, with the exception of those referring to her residence in Ireland entitled "An Enchanted Castle and Other Poems." Many additional pieces, however, are also included.
J. J. P
* Volume 1
* Volume 2
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems (Piatt)/Volume 1

POEMS
BY
SARAH PIATT
VOL. I
LONDON
LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.
AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 36TH STREET
1894
[All rights reserved]
CONTENTS
Edinburgh University Press: T. AND A, CONSTABLE, PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY.
# Poems and Ballads (Swinburne)/Anima Anceps

ANIMA ANCEPS.
Till death have broken Sweet life's love-token, Till all be spoken That shall be said, What dost thou praying, O soul, and playing With song and saying, Things flown and fled? For this we know not— That fresh springs flow not And fresh griefs grow not When men are dead; When strange years cover Lover and lover, And joys are over And tears are shed.
If one day's sorrow Mar the day's morrow— If man's life borrow And man's death pay—
If souls once taken, If lives once shaken, Arise, awaken, By night, by day— Why with strong crying And years of sighing, Living and dying, Fast ye and pray? For all your weeping, Waking and sleeping, Death comes to reaping And takes away. Though time rend after Roof-tree from rafter, A little laughter Is much more worth Than thus to measure The hour, the treasure, The pain, the pleasure, The death, the birth; Grief, when days alter, Like joy shall falter; Song-book and psalter, Mourning and mirth. Live like the swallow; Seek not to follow Where earth is hollow Under the earth.
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# Poems and Ballads (Swinburne)/August

First published in The Spectator, September 6th, 1862, p. 997.
AUGUST.
There were four apples on the bough, Half gold half red, that one might know The blood was ripe inside the core; The colour of the leaves was more Like stems of yellow corn that grow Through all the gold June meadow’s floor.
The warm smell of the fruit was good To feed on, and the split green wood, With all its bearded lips and stains Of mosses in the cloven veins, Most pleasant, if one lay or stood In sunshine or in happy rains.
There were four apples on the tree, Red stained through gold, that all might see The sun went warm from core to rind; The green leaves made the summer blind In that soft place they kept for me With golden apples shut behind.
The leaves caught gold across the sun, And where the bluest air begun, Thirsted for song to help the heat; As I to feel my lady’s feet Draw close before the day were done; Both lips grew dry with dreams of it.
In the mute August afternoon They trembled to some undertune Of music in the silver air; Great pleasure was it to be there Till green turned duskier and the moon Coloured the corn-sheaves like gold hair.
That August time it was delight To watch the red moons wane to white ’Twixt grey seamed stems of apple-trees; A sense of heavy harmonies Grew on the growth of patient night, More sweet than shapen music is.
But some three hours before the moon The air, still eager from the noon, Flagged after heat, not wholly dead; Against the stem I leant my head; The colour soothed me like a tune, Green leaves all round the gold and red.
I lay there till the warm smell grew More sharp, when flecks of yellow dew
Between the round ripe leaves had blurred The rind with stain and wet; I heard A wind that blew and breathed and blew, Too weak to alter its one word.
The wet leaves next the gentle fruit Felt smoother, and the brown tree-root Felt the mould warmer: I too felt (As water feels the slow gold melt Right through it when the day burns mute) The peace of time wherein love dwelt.
There were four apples on the tree, Gold stained on red that all might see The sweet blood filled them to the core: The colour of her hair is more Like stems of fair faint gold, that be Mown from the harvest’s middle floor.
# Poems and Ballads (Swinburne)/Before Dawn

BEFORE DAWN.
Sweet life, if life were stronger, Earth clear of years that wrong her, Then two things might live longer, Two sweeter things than they; Delight, the rootless flower, And love, the bloomless bower; Delight that lives an hour, And love that lives a day.
From evensong to daytime, When April melts in Maytime, Love lengthens out his playtime, Love lessens breath by breath, And kiss by kiss grows older On listless throat or shoulder Turned sideways now, turned colder Than life that dreams of death.
This one thing once worth giving Life gave, and seemed worth living;
Sin sweet beyond forgiving And brief beyond regret: To laugh and love together And weave with foam and feather And wind and words the tether Our memories play with yet.
Ah, one thing worth beginning, One thread in life worth spinning, Ah sweet, one thing worth sinning With all the whole soul's will; To lull you till one stilled you, To kiss you till one killed you, To feed you till one filled you, Sweet lips, if love could fill;
To hunt sweet love and lose him Between white arm and bosom, Between the bud and blossom, Between your throat and chin; To say of shame—what is it? Or virtue—we can miss it; Of sin—we can but kiss it, And it's no longer sin;
To feel the strong soul, stricken Through fleshly pulses, quicken Beneath swift sighs that thicken, Soft hands and lips that smite;
Lips that no love can tire, And hands that sting like fire, Weaving the web Desire To snare the bird Delight.
But love so lightly plighted, Our love with torch unlighted, Paused near us unaffrighted, Who found and left him free; None, seeing us woven in sunder, Will weep or laugh or wonder; Light love stands clear of thunder, And safe from winds at sea.
As, when late larks give warning Of dying lights and dawning, Night murmurs to the morning, "Lie still, O love, lie still;" And half her dark limbs cover The white limbs of her lover, With amorous plumes that hover And fervent lips that chill;
As scornful day represses Night's void and vain caresses, And from her cloudier tresses Unwinds the gold of his, With limbs by limbs dividing And breath by breath subsiding;
For love has no abiding, But dies before the kiss;
So hath it been, so be it; For who shall live and flee it? But look that no man see it Or hear it unaware; Lest all who love and choose him See Love, and so refuse him; For all who find him lose him, But all have found him fair.
# Poems and Ballads (Swinburne)/Before Parting

First published in The Spectator, May 17th, 1862, p. 550.
BEFORE PARTING.
A month or twain to live on honeycomb Is pleasant; but one tires of scented time, Cold sweet recurrence of accepted rhyme, And that strong purple under juice and foam Where the wine’s heart has burst; Nor feel the latter kisses like the first.
Once yet, this poor one time; I will not pray Even to change the bitterness of it, The bitter taste ensuing on the sweet, To make your tears fall where your soft hair lay All blurred and heavy in some perfumed wise Over my face and eyes.
And yet who knows what end the scythèd wheat Makes of its foolish poppies’ mouths of red? These were not sown, these are not harvested, They grow a month and are cast under feet And none has care thereof, As none has care of a divided love.
I know each shadow of your lips by rote, Each change of love in eyelids and eyebrows; The fashion of fair temples tremulous With tender blood, and colour of your throat; I know not how love is gone out of this, Seeing that all was his.
Love’s likeness there endures upon all these: But out of these one shall not gather love. Day hath not strength nor the night shade enough To make love whole and fill his lips with ease, As some bee-builded cell Feels at filled lips the heavy honey swell.
I know not how this last month leaves your hair Less full of purple colour and hid spice, And that luxurious trouble of closed eyes Is mixed with meaner shadow and waste care; And love, kissed out by pleasure, seems not yet Worth patience to regret.
# Poems and Ballads (Swinburne)/After Death

First published in The Spectator, May 24th, 1862, pp. 578-579.
AFTER DEATH.
The four boards of the coffin lid Heard all the dead man did.
The first curse was in his mouth, Made of grave's mould and deadly drouth.
The next curse was in his head, Made of God's work discomfited.
The next curse was in his hands, Made out of two grave-bands.
The next curse was in his feet, Made out of a grave-sheet.
"I had fair coins red and white, And my name was as great light;
I had fair clothes green and red, And strong gold bound round my head.
But no meat comes in my mouth, Now I fare as the worm doth;
And no gold binds in my hair, Now I fare as the blind fare.
My live thews were of great strength, Now am I waxen a span's length;
My live sides were full of lust, Now are they dried with dust."
The first board spake and said: "Is it best eating flesh or bread?"
The second answered it: "Is wine or honey the more sweet?"
The third board spake and said: "Is red gold worth a girl's gold head?"
The fourth made answer thus: "All these things are as one with us."
The dead man asked of them: "Is the green land stained brown with flame?
Have they hewn my son for beasts to eat, And my wife's body for beasts' meat?
Have they boiled my maid in a brass pan, And built a gallows to hang my man?"
The boards said to him: "This is a lewd thing that ye deem.
Your wife has gotten a golden bed, All the sheets are sewn with red.
Your son has gotten a coat of silk, The sleeves are soft as curded milk.
Your maid has gotten a kirtle new, All the skirt has braids of blue.
Your man has gotten both ring and glove, Wrought well for eyes to love."
The dead man answered thus: "What good gift shall God give us?"
The boards answered him anon: "Flesh to feed hell's worm upon."
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# Poems and Ballads (Swinburne)/An Interlude

AN INTERLUDE.
In the greenest growth of the Maytime, I rode where the woods were wet, Between the dawn and the daytime; The spring was glad that we met.
There was something the season wanted, Though the ways and the woods smelt sweet; The breath at your lips that panted, The pulse of the grass at your feet.
You came, and the sun came after, And the green grew golden above; And the flag-flowers lightened with laughter, And the meadow-sweet shook with love.
Your feet in the full-grown grasses Moved soft as a weak wind blows; You passed me as April passes, With face made out of a rose.
By the stream where the stems were slender, Your bright foot paused at the sedge; It might be to watch the tender Light leaves in the springtime hedge,
On boughs that the sweet month blanches With flowery frost of May: It might be a bird in the branches, It might be a thorn in the way.
I waited to watch you linger With foot drawn back from the dew, Till a sunbeam straight like a finger Struck sharp through the leaves at you.
And a bird overhead sang Follow, And a bird to the right sang Here; And the arch of the leaves was hollow, And the meaning of May was clear.
I saw where the sun’s hand pointed, I knew what the bird’s note said; By the dawn and the dewfall anointed, You were queen by the gold on your head.
As the glimpse of a burnt-out ember Recalls a regret of the sun, I remember, forget, and remember What Love saw done and undone.
I remember the way we parted, The day and the way we met; You hoped we were both broken-hearted, And knew we should both forget.
And May with her world in flower Seemed still to murmur and smile As you murmured and smiled for an hour; I saw you turn at the stile.
A hand like a white wood-blossom You lifted, and waved, and passed, With head hung down to the bosom, And pale, as it seemed, at last.
And the best and the worst of this is That neither is most to blame If you've forgotten my kisses And I've forgotten your name.
# Poems and Ballads (Swinburne)/April

APRIL.
FROM THE FRENCH OF THE VIDAME DE CHARTRES.
12—?
When the fields catch flower And the underwood is green, And from bower unto bower The songs of the birds begin, I sing with sighing between. When I laugh and sing, I am heavy at heart for my sin; I am sad in the spring For my love that I shall not win, For a foolish thing.
This profit I have of my woe, That I know, as I sing, I know he will needs have it so Who is master and king, Who is lord of the spirit of spring.
I will serve her and will not spare Till her pity awake Who is good, who is pure, who is fair, Even her for whose sake Love hath ta’en me and slain unaware.
O my lord, O Love, I have laid my life at thy feet; Have thy will thereof, Do as it please thee with it, For what shall please thee is sweet. I am come unto thee To do thee service, O Love; Yet cannot I see Thou wilt take any pity thereof, Any mercy on me.
But the grace I have long time sought Comes never in sight, If in her it abideth not, Through thy mercy and might, Whose heart is the world’s delight. Thou hast sworn without fail I shall die, For my heart is set On what hurts me, I wot not why, But cannot forget What I love, what I sing for and sigh.
She is worthy of praise, For this grief of her giving is worth All the joy of my days That lie between death’s day and birth, All the lordship of things upon earth. Nay, what have I said? I would not be glad if I could; My dream and my dread Are of her, and for her sake I would That my life were fled.
Lo, sweet, if I durst not pray to you, Then were I dead; If I sang not a little to say to you, (Could it be said) O my love, how my heart would be fed; Ah sweet who hast hold of my heart, For thy love’s sake I live, Do but tell me, ere either depart, What a lover may give For a woman so fair as thou art.
The lovers that disbelieve, False rumours shall grieve And evil-speaking shall part.
# Poems (Eddy)/Upward

Written in early years.
# Poems (Eddy)/Woman's Rights

Lynn, Mass., May 6, 1876.
# Poems (Eddy)/Truth

Lynn, Mass., April, 1871.
# Poems (Eddy)/To the Sunday School Children

Pleasant View, Concord, N. H., April 3, 1899.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Happy Days when I wer Young

THE HAPPY DAYS WHEN I WER YOUNG.
In happy days when I wer young, An’ had noo ho, an’ laugh’d an’ zung, The maïd wer merry by her cow, An’ men wer merry wi’ the plough; But never talk’d, at hwome or out O’ doors, o’ what’s a-talk’d about By many now,—that to despise The laws o’ God an’ man is wise. Wi’ daïly health, an’ daïly bread, An’ thatch above their shelter’d head, They velt noo fear, an’ had noo spite, To keep their eyes awake at night; But slept in peace wi’ God on high An’ man below, an’ fit to die.
O’ grassy mead an’ woody nook, An’ waters o’ the windèn brook, That sprung below the vu’st dark sky That raïn’d, to run till seas be dry; An’ hills a-stannèn on while all The works o’ man do rise an’ vall; An’ trees the toddlèn child do vind At vu’st, an’ leäve at last behind; I wish that you could now unvwold The peace an’ jäy o’ times o’ wold; An’ tell, when death do still my tongue, O’ happy days when I wer young. Vrom where wer all this venom brought, To kill our hope an’ taïnt our thought? Clear brook! thy water coulden bring Such venom vrom thy rocky spring; Nor could it come in zummer blights, Or reävèn storms o’ winter nights, ​Or in the cloud an’ viry stroke O’ thunder that do split the woak.
O valley dear! I wish that I ’D a-liv’d in former times, to die Wi’ all the happy souls that trod Thy turf in peäce, an’ died to God; Or gone wi’ them that laugh’d an’ zung In happy days when I wer young!