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# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/To Lord Dunsany

TO LORD DUNSANY
(ON HIS RETURN FROM EAST AFRICA)
For you I knit these lines, and on their ends Hang little tossing bells to ring you home. The music is all cracked, and Poesy tends To richer blooms than mine; but you who roam Thro' coloured gardens of the highest muse, And leave the door ajar sometimes that we May steal small breathing things of reds and blues And things of white sucked empty by the bee, Will listen to this bunch of bells from me. ​My cowslips ring you welcome to the land Your muse brings honour to in many a tongue, Not only that I long to clasp your hand, But that you're missed by poets who have sung And viewed with doubt the music of their verse All the long winter, for you love to bring The true note in and say the wise thing terse, And show what birds go lame upon a wing, And where the weeds among the flowers do spring.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/The Sister

THE SISTER
I saw the little quiet town, And the whitewashed gables on the hill, And laughing children coming down The laneway to the mill.
Wind-blushes up their faces glowed, And they were happy as could be, The wobbling water never flowed So merry and so free.
One little maid withdrew aside To pick a pebble from the sands. Her golden hair was long and wide, And there were dimples on her hands.
​And when I saw her large blue eyes, What was the pain that went thro' me? Why did I think on Southern skies And ships upon the sea?
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/To M. McG.

TO M. McG.
(WHO CAME ONE DAY WHEN WE WERE ALL GLOOMY AND CHEERED US WITH SAD MUSIC)
We were all sad and could not weep, Because our sorrow had not tears: You came a silent thing like Sleep, And stole away our fears.
Old memories knocking at each heart Troubled us with the world's great lie: You sat a little way apart And made a fiddle cry.
​And April with her sunny showers Came laughing up the fields again: White wings went flashing thro' the hours So lately full of pain.
And rivers full of little lights Came down the fields of waving green: Our immemorial delights Stole in on us unseen.
For this may Good Luck let you loose Upon her treasures many years, And Peace unfurl her flag of truce To any threat'ning fears.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/The Sorrow of Findebar

THE SORROW OF FINDEBAR
"Why do you sorrow, child? There is loud cheer In the wide halls, and poets red with wine Tell of your eyebrows and your tresses long, And pause to let your royal mother hear The brown bull low amid her silken kine. And you who are the harpstring and the song Weep like a memory born of some old pain."
And Findebar made answer, "I have slain More than Cuculain's sword, for I have been The promised meed of every warrior brave In Tain Bo Cualigne wars, and I am sad As is the red banshee that goes to keen ​Above the wet dark of the deep brown grave, For the warm loves that made my memory glad."
And her old nurse bent down and took a wild Curl from her eye and hung it on her ear, And said, "The woman at the heavy quern, Who weeps that she will never bring a child, And sees her sadness in the coming year, Will roll up all her beauty like a fern; Not you, whose years stretch purple to the end."
And Findebar, "Beside the broad blue bend Of the slow river where the dark banks slope Wide to the woods sleeps Ferdia apart. ​I loved him, and then drove him for pride's sake To early death, and now I have no hope, For mine is Maeve's proud heart, Ailill's kind heart, And that is why it pines and will not break."
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/The Vision on the Brink

THE VISION ON THE BRINK
To-night when you sit in the deep hours alone, And from the sleeps you snatch wake quick and feel You hear my step upon the threshold-stone, My hand upon the doorway latchward steal, Be sure 'tis but the white winds of the snow, For I shall come no more.
And when the candle in the pane is wore, And moonbeams down the hill long shadows throw, When night's white eyes are in the chinky door, ​Think of a long road in a valley low, Think of a wanderer in the distance far, Lost like a voice among the scattered hills.
And when the moon has gone and ocean spills Its waters backward from the trysting bar, And in dark furrows of the night there tills A jewelled plough, and many a falling star Moves you to prayer, then will you think of me On the long road that will not ever end.
Jonah is hoarse in Nineveh—I'd lend My voice to save the town—and hurriedly Goes Abraham with murdering knife, and Ruth Is weary in the corn.... Yet will I stay, For one flower blooms upon the rocks of truth, God is in all our hurry and delay.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/Thoughts at the Trysting Stile

THOUGHTS AT THE TRYSTING STILE
Come, May, and hang a white flag on each thorn, Make truce with earth and heaven; the April child Now hides her sulky face deep in the morn Of your new flowers by the water wild And in the ripples of the rising grass, And rushes bent to let the south wind pass On with her tumult of swift nomad wings, And broken domes of downy dandelion. Only in spasms now the blackbird sings. The hour is all a-dream. Nets of woodbine Throw woven shadows over dreaming flowers, ​And dreaming, a bee-luring lily bends Its tender bell where blue dyke-water cowers Thro' briars, and folded ferns, and gripping ends Of wild convolvulus. The lark's sky-way Is desolate. I watch an apple-spray Beckon across a wall as if it knew I wait the calling of the orchard maid.
Inly I feel that she will come in blue, With yellow on her hair, and two curls strayed Out of her comb's loose stocks, and I shall steal Behind and lay my hands upon her eyes, "Look not, but be my Psyche!" ​And her peal Of laughter will ring far, and as she tries For freedom I will call her names of flowers That climb up walls; then thro' the twilight hours We'll talk about the loves of ancient queens, And kisses like wasp-honey, false and sweet, And how we are entangled in love's snares Like wind-looped flowers.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/To My Best Friend

TO MY BEST FRIEND
I love the wet-lipped wind that stirs the hedge And kisses the bent flowers that drooped for rain, That stirs the poppy on the sun-burned ledge And like a swan dies singing, without pain. The golden bees go buzzing down to stain The lilies' frills, and the blue harebell rings, And the sweet blackbird in the rainbow sings.
Deep in the meadows I would sing a song, The shallow brook my tuning-fork, the birds My masters; and the boughs they hop along ​Shall mark my time: but there shall be no words For lurking Echo's mock; an angel herds Words that I may not know, within, for you, Words for the faithful meet, the good and true.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/The Visitation of Peace

THE VISITATION OF PEACE
I closed the book of verse where Sorrow wept Above Love's broken fane where Hope once prayed, And thought of old trysts broken and trysts kept Only to chide my fondness. Then I strayed Down a green coil of lanes where murmuring wings Moved up and down like lights upon the sea, Searching for calm amid untroubled things Of wood and water. The industrious bee Sang in his barn within the hollow beech, And in a distant haggard a loud mill ​Hummed like a war of hives. A whispered speech Of corn and wind was on the yellow hill, And tattered scarecrows nodded their assent And waved their arms like orators. The brown Nude beauty of the Autumn sweetly bent Over the woods, across the little town.
I sat in a retreating shade beside The river, where it fell across a weir Like a white mane, and in a flourish wide Roars by an island field and thro' a tier Of leaning sallies, like an avenue When the moon's flambeau hunts the shadows out And strikes the borders white across the dew. Where little ringlets ended, the fleet trout ​Fed on the water moths. A marsh hen crossed On flying wings and swimming feet to where Her mate was in the rushes forest, tossed On the heaving dusk like swallows in the air.
Beyond the river a walled rood of graves Hung dead with all its hemlock wan and sere, Save where the wall was broken and long waves Of yellow grass flowed outward like a weir, As if the dead were striving for more room And their old places in the scheme of things; For sometimes the thought comes that the brown tomb Is not the end of all our labourings, But we are born once more of wind and rain, To sow the world with harvest young and strong, ​That men may live by men 'til the stars wane, And still sweet music fill the blackbird's song.
But O for truths about the soul denied. Shall I meet Keats in some wild isle of balm, Dreaming beside a tarn where green and wide Boughs of sweet cinnamon protect the calm Of the dark water? And together walk Thro' hills with dimples full of water where White angels rest, and all the dead years talk About the changes of the earth? Despair Sometimes takes hold of me but yet I hope To hope the old hope in the better times When I am free to cast aside the rope That binds me to all sadness 'till my rhymes Cry like lost birds. But O, if I should die Ere this millennium, and my hands be crossed ​Under the flowers I loved, the passers-by Shall scowl at me as one whose soul is lost.
But a soft peace came to me when the West Shut its red door and a thin streak of moon Was twisted on the twilight's dusky breast. It wrapped me up as sometimes a sweet tune Heard for the first time wraps the scenes around, That we may have their memories when some hand Strikes it in other times and hopes unbound Rising see clear the everlasting land.
# The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge/Songs of the Fields/To a Linnet in a Cage

TO A LINNET IN A CAGE
When Spring is in the fields that stained your wing, And the blue distance is alive with song, And finny quiets of the gabbling spring Rock lilies red and long, At dewy daybreak, I will set you free In ferny turnings of the woodbine lane, Where faint-voiced echoes leave and cross in glee The hilly swollen plain.
In draughty houses you forget your tune, The modulator of the changing hours, ​You want the wide air of the moody noon. And the slanting evening showers. So I will loose you, and your song shall fall When morn is white upon the dewy pane, Across my eyelids, and my soul recall From worlds of sleeping pain.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Summons

THE SUMMONS
[After publishing this poem Whittier wrote to Lucy Larcom: “I do not quite like the tone of The Summons now that it is published. It was, however, an expression of a state of mind which thee would regard as pardonable if thee knew all the circumstances. It is too complaining, and I hope I shall not be left to do such a thing again.”]
My ear is full of summer sounds, Of summer sights my languid eye; Beyond the dusty village bounds I loiter in my daily rounds, And in the noon-time shadows lie.
I hear the wild bee wind his horn, The bird swings on the ripened wheat, The long green lances of the corn Are tilting in the winds of morn, The locust shrills his song of heat.
Another sound my spirit hears, A deeper sound that drowns them all; A voice of pleading choked with tears, The call of human hopes and fears, The Macedonian cry to Paul!
The storm-bell rings, the trumpet blows; I know the word and countersign; Wherever Freedom’s vanguard goes, Where stand or fall her friends or foes, I know the place that should be mine.
Shamed be the hands that idly fold, And lips that woo the reed’s accord, When laggard Time the hour has tolled For true with false and new with old To fight the battles of the Lord!
O brothers! blest by partial Fate With power to match the will and deed, To him your summons comes too late Who sinks beneath his armor’s weight, And has no answer but God-speed!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Three Bells

THE THREE BELLS
Beneath the low-hung night cloud That raked her splintering mast The good ship settled slowly, The cruel leak gained fast.
Over the awful ocean Her signal guns pealed out, Dear God! was that Thy answer From the horror round about?
A voice came down the wild wind, “Ho! ship ahoy!” its cry: “Our stout Three Bells of Glasgow Shall lay till daylight by!”
Hour after hour crept slowly, Yet on the heaving swells Tossed up and down the ship-lights, The lights of the Three Bells!
And ship to ship made signals, Man answered back to man, While oft, to cheer and hearten, The Three Bells nearer ran;
And the captain from her taffrail Sent down his hopeful cry: “Take heart! Hold on!” he shouted! “The Three Bells shall lay by!”
All night across the waters The tossing lights shone clear; All night from reeling taffrail The Three Bells sent her cheer.
And when the dreary watches Of storm and darkness passed,
Just as the wreck lurched under, All souls were saved at last.
Sail on, Three Bells, forever, In grateful memory sail! Ring on, Three Bells of rescue, Above the wave and gale!
Type of the Love eternal, Repeat the Master’s cry, As tossing through our darkness The lights of God draw nigh!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Trailing Arbutus

THE TRAILING ARBUTUS
I wandered lonely where the pine-trees made Against the bitter East their barricade, And, guided by its sweet Perfume, I found, within a narrow dell, The trailing spring flower tinted like a shell Amid dry leaves and mosses at my feet.
From under dead boughs, for whose loss the pines Moaned ceaseless overhead, the blossoming vines Lifted their glad surprise, While yet the bluebird smoothed in leafless trees His feathers ruffled by the chill sea-breeze, And snow-drifts lingered under April skies.
As, pausing, o’er the lonely flower I bent, I thought of lives thus lowly, clogged and pent, Which yet find room, Through care and cumber, coldness and decay, To lend a sweetness to the ungenial day, And make the sad earth happier for their bloom.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Two Angels

THE TWO ANGELS
God called the nearest angels who dwell with Him above: The tenderest one was Pity, the dearest one was Love.
“Arise,” He said, “my angels! a wail of woe and sin Steals through the gates of heaven, and saddens all within.
“My harps take up the mournful strain that from a lost world swells, The smoke of torment clouds the light and blights the asphodels.
“Fly downward to that under world, and on its souls of pain Let Love drop smiles like sunshine, and Pity tears like rain!”
Two faces bowed before the Throne, veiled in their golden hair; Four white wings lessened swiftly down the dark abyss of air.
The way was strange, the flight was long; at last the angels came Where swung the lost and nether world, red-wrapped in rayless flame.
There Pity, shuddering, wept; but Love, with faith too strong for fear, Took heart from God’s almightiness and smiled a smile of cheer.
And lo! that tear of Pity quenched the flame whereon it fell, And, with the sunshine of that smile, hope entered into hell!
Two unveiled faces full of joy looked upward to the Throne, Four white wings folded at the feet of Him who sat thereon!
And deeper than the sound of seas, more soft than falling flake, Amidst the hush of wing and song the Voice Eternal spake:
“Welcome, my angels! ye have brought a holier joy to heaven; Henceforth its sweetest song shall be the song of sin forgiven!”
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Two Loves

THE TWO LOVES
Smoothing soft the nestling head Of a maiden fancy-led, Thus a grave-eyed woman said:
“Richest gifts are those we make, Dearer than the love we take That we give for love’s own sake.
“Well I know the heart’s quest; Mine has been the common quest, To be loved and therefore blest.
“Favors undeserved were mine; At my feet as on a shrine Love has laid its gifts divine.
“Sweet the offerings seemed, and yet With their sweetness came regret, And a sense of unpaid debt.
“Heart of mine unsatisfied, Was it vanity or pride That a deeper joy denied?
“Hands that ope but to receive Empty close; they only live Richly who can richly give.
“Still,” she sighed, with moistening eyes, “Love is sweet in any guide; But its best is sacrifice!
“He who, giving, does not crave Likest is to Him who gave Life itself the loved to save.
“Love, that self-forgetful gives, Sows surprise of ripened sheaves, Late or soon its own receives.”
# The Commentaries of Cæsar

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THE COMMENTARIES
OF
CÆSAR
BY
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS EDINBURGH AND LONDON MDCCCLXX
CONTENTS.
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
# The Coming of War: Actaeon

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
An image of Lethe,  and the fields Full of faint light  but golden, Gray cliffs,  and beneath them A sea Harsher than granite,  unstill, never ceasing; High forms  with the movement of gods, Perilous aspect;  And one said: "This is Actaeon."  Actaeon of golden greaves! Over fair meadows, Over the cool face of that field, Unstill, even moving, Hosts of an ancient people, The silent cortège.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1972, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 51 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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# The Coming of Wisdom with Time (Yeats)

* The Coming of Wisdom with Time, from The Green Helmet and Other Poems (1912)
* The Coming of Wisdom with Time, from Responsibilities (1916)
# The Coming of the Friars

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This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* The Coming of the Friars, a work by Mandell Creighton
* The Coming of the Friars, a work by Augustus Jessopp
* The Coming of the Friars, a work by Herbert Brook Workman
# The Cloud of Unknowing/Chapter 70

​HERE BEGINNETH THE SEVENTIETH CHAPTER
That right as by the defailing of our bodily wits we begin more readily to come to knowing of ghostly things, so by the defailing of our ghostly wits we begin most readily to come to the knowledge of God, such as is possible by grace to be had here.
AND therefore travail fast in this nought, and this nowhere, and leave thine outward bodily wits and all that they work in: for I tell thee truly, that this work may not be conceived by them.
For by thine eyes thou mayest not conceive of anything, unless it be by the length and the breadth, the smallness and the greatness, the roundness and the squareness, the farness and the nearness, and the colour of it. ​And by thine ears, nought but noise or some manner of sound. By thine nose, nought but either stench or savour. And by thy taste, nought but either sour or sweet, salt or fresh, bitter or liking. And by thy feeling, nought but either hot or cold, hard or tender, soft or sharp. And truly, neither hath God nor ghostly things none of these qualities nor quantities. And therefore leave thine outward wits, and work not with them, neither within nor without: for all those that set them to be ghostly workers within, and ween that they should either hear, smell, or see, taste or feel, ghostly things, either within them or without, surely they be deceived, and work wrong against the course of nature.
For by nature they be ordained, that with them men should have knowing of all outward bodily things, and on nowise by them come to the knowing of ghostly things. I mean by their works. By their failings we may, as thus: when we read or hear ​speak of some certain things, and thereto conceive that our outward wits cannot tell us by no quality what those things be, then we may be verily certified that those things be ghostly things, and not bodily things.
On this same manner ghostly it fareth within our ghostly wits, when we travail about the knowing of God Himself. For have a man never so much ghostly understanding in knowing of all made ghostly things, yet may he never by the work of his understanding come to the knowing of an unmade ghostly thing: the which is nought but God. But by the failing it may: for why, that thing that it faileth in is nothing else but only God. And therefore it was that Saint Denis said, the most goodly knowing of God is that, the which is known by unknowing. And truly, whoso will look in Denis' books, he shall find that his words will clearly affirm all that I have said or shall say, from ​the beginning of this treatise to the end. On otherwise than thus, list me not cite him, nor none other doctor, for me at this time. For sometime, men thought it meekness to say nought of their own heads, unless they affirmed it by Scripture and doctors' words: and now it is turned into curiosity, and shewing of cunning. To thee it needeth not, and therefore I do it not. For whoso hath ears, let him hear, and whoso is stirred for to trow, let him trow: for else, shall they not.
# The Cloud of Unknowing/Chapter 71

​HERE BEGINNETH THE ONE AND SEVENTIETH CHAPTER
That some may not come to feel the perfection of this work but in time of ravishing, and some may have it when they will, in the common state of man's soul.
SOME think this matter so hard and so fearful, that they say it may not be come to without much strong travail coming before, nor conceived but seldom, and that but in the time of ravishing. And to these men will I answer as feebly as I can, and say, that it is all at the ordinance and the disposition of God, after their ableness in soul that this grace of contemplation and of ghostly working is given to.
For some there be that without much and long ghostly exercise may ​the beginning of this treatise to the end. On otherwise than thus, list me not cite him, nor none other doctor, for me at this time. For sometime, men thought it meekness to say nought of their own heads, unless they affirmed it by Scripture and doctors' words: and now it is turned into curiosity, and shewing of cunning. To thee it needeth not, and therefore I do it not. For whoso hath ears, let him hear, and whoso is stirred for to trow, let him trow: for else, shall they not.