Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!

What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy

Which having been must ever be;

In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

ΧΙ

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves!

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

I only have relinquished one delight

To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the Brooks, which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they: The innocent brightness of a new-born Day

Is lovely yet;

The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober coloring from an eye

That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850]

THE WOMAN

WOMAN

NOT she with traitorous kiss her Saviour stung,
Not she denied him with unholy tongue;

She, while apostles shrank, could dangers brave,
Last at the cross and earliest at the grave.

Eaton Stannard Barrett [1786-1820]

WOMAN

THERE in the fane a beauteous creature stands,
The first best work of the Creator's hands,
Whose slender limbs inadequately bear

A full-orbed bosom and a weight of care;

Whose teeth like pearls, whose lips like cherries, show, And fawn-like eyes still tremble as they glow.

From the Sanskrit of Calidasa

SIMPLEX MUNDITIS

From "Epicone"

STILL to be neat, still to be dressed

As you were going to a feast;

Still to be powdered, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,

Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;

Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me

Than all the adulteries of art;

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]

DELIGHT IN DISORDER

A SWEET disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction:

An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher:
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly:

A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat:

A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility:

Do more bewitch me than when art

Is too precise in every part.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

A PRAISE OF HIS LADY

GIVE place, you ladies, and begone!
Boast not yourselves at all!
For here at hand approacheth one
Whose face will stain you all.

The virtue of her lively looks
Excels the precious stone;

I wish to have none other books
To read or look upon.

In each of her two crystal eyes
Smileth a naked boy;

It would you all in heart suffice
To see that lamp of joy.

I think Nature hath lost the mould

Where she her shape did take;

Or else I doubt if Nature could
So fair a creature make.

A Praise of His Lady

She may be well compared

Unto the Phoenix kind,

Whose like was never seen nor heard,
That any man can find.

In life she is Diana chaste,

In truth Penelope;

In word and eke in deed steadfast.
What will you more we say?

If all the world were sought so far,
Who could find such a wight?
Her beauty twinkleth like a star
Within the frosty night.

Her roseal color comes and goes

With such a comely grace,

More ruddier, too, than doth the rose
Within her lively face.

At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet,

Nor at no wanton play,

Nor gazing in an open street,
Nor gadding as a stray.

The modest mirth that she doth use

Is mixed with shamefastness; All vice she doth wholly refuse,

And hateth idleness.

O Lord! it is a world to see
How virtue can repair,
And deck her in such honesty,
Whom Nature made so fair.

Truly she doth so far exceed
Our women nowadays,
As doth the gillyflower a weed;
And more a thousand ways.

365

How might I do to get a graff
Of this unspotted tree?

For all the rest are plain but chaff,
Which seem good corn to be.

This gift alone I shall her give:
When death doth what he can,
Her honest fame shall ever live
Within the mouth of man.

John Heywood [1497?-1580?]

ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT

I KNOW a thing that's most uncommon;

(Envy, be silent and attend!)

I know a reasonable woman,

Handsome and witty, yet a friend.

Not warped by passion, awed by rumor;

Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly; An equal mixture of good-humor

And sensible soft melancholy.

"Has she no faults then (Envy says), Sir?"

Yes, she has one, I must aver:

When all the world conspires to praise her,

The woman's deaf, and does not hear.

Alexander Pope [1688-1744]

PERFECT WOMAN

SHE was a phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight;

A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle. and waylay.