Let Winter wed one, sow them in her womb,
And she shall child them on the New-world strand.’
. . . . . . . .
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I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day,
This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!And more must, in yet longer light’s delay.With witness I speak this. But where I sayHours I mean years, mean life. And my lamentIs cries countless, cries like dead letters sentTo dearest him that lives alas! away.I am gall, I am heartburn. God’s most deep decreeBitter…
On ear and ear two noises too old to end
With a flood or a fall, low lull-off or all roar,Frequenting there while moon shall wear and wend.Left hand, off land, I hear the lark ascend,His rash-fresh re-winded new-skeinèd scoreIn crisps of curl off wild winch whirl, and pourAnd pelt music, till none ’s to spill nor spend.How these two shame this shallow and frail…
Let me be to Thee as the circling bird,
That shapes in half-light his departing rings,From both of whom a changeless note is heard.I have found my music in a common word,Trying each pleasurable throat that singsAnd every praised sequence of sweet strings,And know infallibly which I preferred.The authentic cadence was discovered lateWhich ends those only strains that I approve,And other science all gone…
I bear a basket lined with grass;
That men must wonder as I passAnd at the basket that I bear,Where in a newly-drawn green litterSweet flowers I carry,—sweets for bitter.Lilies I shew you, lilies none,None in Caesar’s gardens blow,—And a quince in hand,—not oneIs set upon your boughs below;Not set, because their buds not spring;Spring not, ’cause world is wintering.But these were…
The poet wishes well to the divine genius of Purcell and praises him that, whereas other musicians have given utterance to the moods of man’s mind, he has, beyond that, uttered in notes the very make and species of man as created both in him and in all men generally.
To me, so arch-especial a spirit as heaves in Henry Purcell,An age is now since passed, since parted; with the reversalOf the outward sentence low lays him, listed to a heresy, here.Not mood in him nor meaning, proud fire or sacred fear,Or love or pity or all that sweet notes not his might nursle:It is…
A Brother and Sister
Discovering you, dark tramplers, tyrant years.A juice rides rich through bluebells, in vine leaves,And beauty’s dearest veriest vein is tears.Happy the father, mother of these! Too fast:Not that, but thus far, all with frailty, blestIn one fair fall; but, for time’s aftercast,Creatures all heft, hope, hazard, interest.And are they thus? The fine, the fingering beamsTheir…