No.70

I Know a Bank

from "A Midsummer Night's Dream" spoken by Oberon

William Shakespeare  1564-1616

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,

Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:

There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,

Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;

And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,

Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in.

-o0o-

No.69

Beautiful Dreamer

Stephen Foster 1826-64

Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,

Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;

Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day,

Lull'd by the moonlight have all passed away!

Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,

List while I woo thee with soft melody;

Gone are the cares of life's busy throng,

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me

Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea,

Mermaids are chanting the wild lorelei;

Over the streamlet vapors are borne,

Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.

Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,

Even as the morn on the streamlet and sea;

Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

-o0o-

No.68

Untitled
Rabindranath Tagore 1861-1941

I want to give you something, my child,
for we are drifting in the stream of the world.
Our lives will be carried apart,
and our love forgotten.
But I am not so foolish as to hope that
I could buy your heart with my gifts.
Young is your life, your path long, and
you drink the love we bring you at one draught
and turn and run away from us.
You have your play and your playmates.
What harm is there if you have no time
or thought for us.
We, indeed, have leisure enough in old age
to count the days that are past,
to cherish in our hearts what our
hands have lost for ever.
The river runs swift with a song,
breaking through all barriers.
But the mountain stays and remembers,
and follows her with his love.

-o0o-

No.67

After Three Years

Paul Verlaine

Translation from French by A.S. Kline

Opening the narrow rickety gate,

I went for a walk in the little garden,

All lit up by that gentle morning sun,

Starring each flower with watery light.

Nothing was changed. Again: the humble arbour

With wild vines and chairs made of rattan…

The fountain as ever in its silvery pattern,

And the old aspen with its eternal murmur.

The roses as then still trembled, and as then

The tall proud lilies rocked in the wind.

I knew every lark there, coming and going.

I found the Veleda statue standing yet,

At the end of the avenue its plaster flaking,

– Weathered, among bland scents of mignonette.

-o0o-

No.66

Unwelcome

Mary Coleridge 1861-1907

We were young, we were merry, we were very, very wise,

And the door stood open at our feast,

When there passed us a woman with the West in her eyes,

And a man with his back to the East.

O, still grew the hearts that were beating so fast,

The loudest voice was still,

The jest died away on our lips as they passed,

And the rays of July struck chill.

The cups of red wine turned pale on the board,

The white bread black as soot,

The hound forgot the hand of her lord,

She fell down at his foot. 

Low let me lie where the dead dog lies,

Ere I sit me down again at a feast,

When there passes a woman with the West in her eyes,

And a man with his back to the East.

-o0o-

No.65

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-

No.64

The Ageing House
Thomas Hardy 1840-1928

When the walls were red
        That now are seen
        To be overspread
        With a mouldy green,
        A fresh fair head
        Would often lean
        From the sunny casement
        And scan the scene,
While blithely spoke the wind to the little sycamore tree.

        But storms have raged
        Those walls about,
        And the head has aged
        That once looked out;
        And zest is suaged
        And trust is doubt,
        And slow effacement
        Is rife throughout,
While fiercely girds the wind at the long-limbed sycamore tree!

-o0o-