The attraction of a country in romance!
When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights
When most intent on making of herself
A prime enchantress – to assist the work,
Which then was going forward in her name!
Not favoured spots alone, but the whole Earth,
The beauty wore of promise – that which sets
(As at some moments might not be unfelt
Among the bowers of Paradise itself)
The budding rose above the rose full blown.
What temper at the prospect did not wake
To happiness unthought of? The inert
Were roused, and lively natures rapt away!
They who had fed their childhood upon dreams,
The play-fellows of fancy, who had made
All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and strength
Their ministers, – who in lordly wise had stirred
Among the grandest objects of the sense,
And dealt with whatsoever they found there
As if they had within some lurking right
To wield it; – they, too, who of gentle mood
Had watched all gentle motions, and to these
Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild,
And in the region of their peaceful selves; –
Now was it that both found, the meek and lofty
Did both find helpers to their hearts’ desire,
And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish, –
Were called upon to exercise their skill,
Not in Utopia, – subterranean fields, –
Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where!
But in the very world, which is the world
Of all of us, – the place where, in the end,
We find our happiness, or not at all!
EBENEZER JONES
High Summer
I never wholly feel that summer is high,
However green the trees, or loud the birds,
However movelessly eye-winking herds
Stand in field ponds, or under large trees lie,
Till I do climb all cultured pastures by,
That hedged by hedgerows studiously fretted trim,
Smile like a lady’s face with lace laced prim,
And on some moor or hill that seeks the sky
Lonely and nakedly, – utterly lie down,
And feel the sunshine throbbing on body and limb,
My drowsy brain in pleasant drunkenness swim,
Each rising thought sink back and dreamily drown,
Smiles creep o’er my face, and smother my lips, and cloy,
Each muscle sink to itself, and separately enjoy.
ROBERT WEVER
In Youth is Pleasure
In a harbour green asleep whereas I lay,
The birds sang sweet in the middes of the day,
I dreamed fast of mirth and play:
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.
Methought I walked still to and fro,
And from her company I could not go –
But when I waked it was not so:
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.
Therefore my heart is surely plight
Of her alone to have a sight
Which is my joy and heart’s delight:
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.
ROBERT HERRICK
To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a flying;
And this same flow’r, that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heav’n, the sun,
The higher he’s a getting;
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But, being spent, the worse; and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time;
And while ye may, go marry:
For, having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.
GEOFFREY CHAUCER
from Troilus and Criseyde, Book I
Withinne the temple he wente hym forth pleyinge,
This Troilus, of every wight aboute,
On this lady, and now on that, lokynge,
Wher so she were of town or of withoute;
And upon cas bifel that thorugh a route
His eye percede, and so depe it wente,
Til on Criseyde it smot, and ther it stente.
And sodeynly he wax therwith astoned,
And gan hir bet biholde in thrifty wise.
‘O mercy, God,’ thoughte he, ‘wher hastow woned,
That art so feyr and goodly to devise?’
Therwith his herte gan to sprede and rise,
And softe sighed, lest men myghte hym here,
And caught ayeyn his firste pleyinge chere.
She nas nat with the leste of hire stature,
But alle hire lymes so wel answerynge
Weren to wommanhod, that creature
Was nevere lasse mannyssh in semynge;
And ek the pure wise of hire mevynge
Shewed wel that men myght in hire gesse
Honour, estat, and wommanly noblesse.
pleyinge making fun; wight person; wher so whether; upon cas bifel by chance it happened; route crowd; percede gazed through; smot hit; stente stayed; astoned astonished; hastow hast thou; woned dwelled; devise look upon; caughte ayeyn recovered; pleyinge chere playful expression; leste shortest; answerynge corresponding; semynge appearance; pure wise sheer manner; mevynge way of moving; gesse infer; estat dignity
To Troilus right wonder wel with alle
Gan for to like hire mevynge and hire chere,
Which somdel deignous was, for she let falle
Hire look a lite aside in swich manere,
Ascaunces, ‘What, may I nat stonden here?’
And after that hir lokynge gan she lighte,
That nevere thoughte hym seen so good a syghte.
And of hire look in him ther gan to quyken
So gret desir and swich affeccioun,
That in his hertes botme gan to stiken
Of hir his fixe and depe impressioun.
And though he erst hadde poured up and down,
He was tho glad his hornes in to shrinke:
Unnethes wiste he how to loke or wynke.
Lo, he that leet hymselven so konnynge,
And scorned hem that Loves peynes dryen,
Was ful unwar that Love hadde his dwellynge
Withinne the subtile stremes of hire yen;
That sodeynly hym thoughte he felte dyen,
Right with hire look, the spirit in his herte –
Blissed be Love, that kan thus folk converte!
somdel deignous somewhat haughty; Ascaunces as if to say; lighte brighten; his hertes botme bottom of his heart; fixe unchangeable; impressioun image; erst before; poured stared; tho then; shrinke draw; Unnethes hardly; wiste knew; leet considered; konnynge knowledgeable; dryen suffer; subtile stremes ethereal beams; yen eyes; dyen die; Right just
JOHN CLARE
First Love
I ne’er was struck before that hour
With love so sudden and so sweet
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete
My face turned pale a deadly pale
My legs refused to walk away
And when she looked what could I ail
My life and all seemed turned to clay
And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noon day
I could not see a single thing
Words from my e
yes did start
They spoke as chords do from the string
And blood burnt round my heart
Are flowers the winters choice
Is love’s bed always snow
She seemed to hear my silent voice
Not loves appeals to know
I never saw so sweet a face
As that I stood before
My heart has left its dwelling place
And can return no more –
ROBERT GRAVES
Love Without Hope
Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcher
Swept off his tall hat to the Squire’s own daughter,
So let the imprisoned larks escape and fly
Singing about her head, as she rode by.
ELIZABETH DARYUSH
Still-life
Through the open French window the warm sun
lights up the polished breakfast-table, laid
round a bowl of crimson roses, for one –
a service of Worcester porcelain, arrayed
near it a melon, peaches, figs, small hot
rolls in a napkin, fairy rack of toast,
butter in ice, high silver coffee-pot,
and, heaped on a salver, the morning’s post.
She comes over the lawn, the young heiress,
from her early walk in her garden-wood
feeling that life’s a table set to bless
her delicate desires with all that’s good,
that even the unopened future lies
like a love-letter, full of sweet surprise.
APHRA BEHN
from The Emperor of the Moon, II, v
When Maidens are young and in their Spring
Of Pleasure, of Pleasure, let ’em take their full Swing,
full Swing, – full Swing, –
And Love, and Dance, and Play, and Sing.
For Silvia, believe it, when Youth is done,
There’s nought but hum drum, hum drum, hum drum;
There’s nought but hum drum, hum drum, hum drum.
Then Silvia be wise – be wise – be wise,
Tho’ Painting and Dressing, for a while, are Supplies,
And may – surprise –
But when the Fire’s going out in your Eyes,
It twinkles, it twinkles, it twinkles, and dies.
And then to hear Love, to hear Love from you,
I’d as lief hear an Owl cry – Wit to woo,
Wit to woo, Wit to woo.
CHARLES TURNER
A Country Dance
He has not woo’d, but he has lost his heart.
That country dance is a sore test for him;
He thinks her cold; his hopes are faint and dim;
But though with seeming mirth she takes her part
In all the dances, and the laughter there,
And though to many a youth, on brief demand,
She gives a kind assent and courteous hand,
She loves but him, for him is all her care.
With jealous heed her lessening voice he hears
Down that long vista, where she seems to move
Among fond faces and relays of love,
And sweet occasion, full of tender fears:
Down those long lines he watches from above,
Till with the refluent dance she reappears.
KIRSTY GUNN
Mataatua
All the handsome boys from school
rode up front, and crowded there
at the prow of that long canoe. I
remember how we watched them. At night,
we slow-danced with them too. Their hair
was damp; we pressed ourselves
dreaming against their dark jackets like
butterflies in our thin dresses, caught.
GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON
from Don Juan, Canto I
XC
Young Juan wandered by the glassy brooks
Thinking unutterable things. He threw
Himself at length within the leafy nooks
Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew.
There poets find materials for their books,
And every now and then we read them through,
So that their plan and prosody are eligible,
Unless like Wordsworth they prove unintelligible.
XCI
He, Juan (and not Wordsworth), so pursued
His self-communion with his own high soul
Until his mighty heart in its great mood
Had mitigated part, though not the whole
Of its disease. He did the best he could
With things not very subject to control
And turned, without perceiving his condition,
Like Coleridge into a metaphysician.
XCII
He thought about himself and the whole earth,
Of man the wonderful and of the stars
And how the deuce they ever could have birth,
And then he thought of earthquakes and of wars,
How many miles the moon might have in girth,
Of air balloons and of the many bars
To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies.
And then he thought of Donna Julia’s eyes.
XCIII
In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern
Longings sublime and aspirations high,
To plague themselves withal, they know not why.
’Twas strange that one so young should thus concern
His brain about the action of the sky.
If you think ’twas philosophy that this did,
I can’t help thinking puberty assisted.
ADRIAN MITCHELL
A Puppy Called Puberty
It was like keeping a puppy in your underpants
A secret puppy you weren’t allowed to show to anyone
Not even your best friend or your worst enemy
You wanted to pat him stroke him cuddle him
All the time but you weren’t supposed to touch him
He only slept for five minutes at a time
Then he’d suddenly perk up his head
In the middle of school medical inspection
And always on bus rides
So you had to climb down from the upper deck
All bent double to smuggle the puppy off the bus
Without the buxom conductress spotting
Your wicked and ticketless stowaway.
Jumping up, wet-nosed, eagerly wagging –
He only stopped being a nuisance
When you were alone together
Pretending to be doing your homework
But really gazing at each other
Through hot and hazy daydreams
Of those beautiful schoolgirls on the bus
With kittens bouncing in their sweaters.
SASHA DUGDALE
First Love
He asked to see her breasts in the back room of the
butcher’s store.
Silhouetted against the encaustic tiles they rise in points
Childish and disappointing, she thought them,
Insubstantial. Looking down at them,
Departing from the cross arms of her breast bone
Hardly at all. What is it he finds so interesting
She thinks and looks at him, so tirelessly watching
And now stretching out a timid hand, red raw
With cleaving the meat off the hanging carcasses,
Towards her, his hand floats in the air and breathes,
She feels the pulse in his wrist before the touch.
There is no blood on the marble cutting slabs
Nor on the floor, because hygiene is everything
Hygiene is everything, the butcher tells them
When uncooked meat is being handled.
The shop itself is dark. The blue light of the flycatcher
On the wall is all.
She buttons up again and leaves him.
He is leaning, eyes closed, up against the door.
TOGARA MUZANENHAMO
Smoke
For a brief moment I was lost in a thought
While walking up the flight of stairs to her room –
Her hand leading me up, my eyes catching a flash
Of her bare thighs under a simple yellow skirt –
And I was a boy again, in that small moment,
Holding a present I had longed and wished for –
Bright blue emotions, sparks in mid-ignition
Bursting in my chest – lights never to grow old.
When I think of her leading me upstairs to her bed,
There’s always a thought of that one precious
Christmas –
The lightweight pig-iron cap-gun, the blind surprise
And spurt of gunpowder-smoke after the first bang.
FREDERICK GODDARD TUCKERMAN
An upper chamber in a darkened house,
Where, ere his footsteps reached ripe manhood’s
brink,
Terror and anguish were his lot to drink;
I cannot rid the thought nor hold it close
But dimly dream upon that man alone:
Now though the autumn clouds most softly pass,
The cricket chides beneath the doorstep stone
And greener than the season grows the grass.
Nor can I drop my lids nor shade my brows,
But there he stands beside the lifted sash;
And with a swooning of the heart, I think
Where the black shingles slope to meet the boughs
And, shattered on the roof like smallest snows,
The tiny petals of the mountain ash.