’Tis the man who with a manIs an equal, be he King,
Or poorest of the beggar-clan,
Or any other wondrous thing
A man may be ‘twixt ape and Plato;
’Tis the man who with a bird,
Wren or Eagle, finds his way to
All its instincts; he hath heard
The Lion’s roaring, and can tell
What his horny throat expresseth,
And to him the Tiger’s yell
Comes articulate and presseth
On his ear like mother tongue.
Oh, I am frighten’d with most hateful thoughts!
Oh, I am frighten’d with most hateful thoughts!
Perhaps her voice is not a nightingale’s,
Perhaps her teeth are not the fairest pearl;
Her eye-lashes may be, for aught I know,
Not longer than the mayfly’s small fan-horns;
There may not be one dimple on her hand;
And freckles many; ah! a careless nurse,
In haste to teach the little thing to walk,
May have crumpt2 up a pair of Dian’s legs,
And warpt the ivory of a Juno’s neck.
Meg Merrilies
I
Old Meg she was a gipsy,
And liv’d upon the moors:
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out of doors.
II
Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants pods o’ broom;
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
Her book a churchyard tomb.
III
Her brothers were the craggy hills,
Her sisters larchen trees -
Alone with her great family
She liv’d as she did please.
IV
No breakfast had she many a morn,
No dinner many a noon.
And ‘stead of supper she would stare
Full hard against the moon.
V
But every mom of woodbine fresh
She made her garlanding.
And every night the dark glen yew
She wove, and she would sing.
VI
And with her fingers old and brown
She plaited mats o’rushes,
And gave them to the cottagers
She met among the bushes.
VII
Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen
And tall as Amazon:
An old red blanket cloak she wore;
A chip hat had she on.
God rest her aged bones somewhere -
She died full long agone!
To Autumn
1.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
2.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
3.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, —
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with
