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TO LUCASTA, GOING TO THE WARS

I11

Nothing in the world is single,

All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle-

Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven

And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven

If it disdain'd its brother:
And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

TO LUCASTA, GOING TO THE WARS

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,

That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind

To war and arms I fly.

True: a new Mistress now I chase,

The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace

A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such,

As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Lov'd I not Honour more.

RICHARD LOVELACE

SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN

WAYS

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise

And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

THE POET'S DREAM

On a poet's lips I slept
Dreaming like a love-adept
In the sound his breathing kept;
Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses,
But feeds on the aerial kisses
Of shapes that haunt thought's wildernesses.
He will watch from dawn to gloom
The lake-reflected sun illume
The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom,

SWEET PEACE

113

Nor heed nor see what things they be;
But from these create he can
Forms more real than living man,
Nurslings of immortality!

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

THE WORLD

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

SWEET PEACE

My soul, there is a country

Far beyond the stars,
Where stands a winged sentry

All skilful in the wars.

There, above noise and danger,

Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles,
And One born in a manger

Commands the beauteous files.
He is thy gracious Friend,

And – O my soul, awake! -
Did in pure love descend

To die here for thy sake.
If thou canst get but thither,

There grows the flower of Peace,
The rose that cannot wither,

Thy fortress and thy ease.
Leave then thy foolish ranges;

For none can thee secure
But One who never changes
Thy God, thy life, thy cure.

HENRY VAUGHAN

THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE

How happy is he born and taught

That serveth not another's will; Whose armour is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill;

Whose passions not his masters are;

Whose soul is still prepared for death, Untied unto the world by care

Of public fame or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,

Nor vice; who never understood

DEATH STANDS ABOVE ME

115

How deepest wounds are given by praise,

Nor rules of state, but rules of good;

Who hath his life from rumours freed;

Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,

Nor ruin make oppressors great.

Who God doth late and early pray

More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day

With a religious book or friend.

This man is freed from servile bands

Of hope to rise or fear to fall:
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And, having nothing, yet hath all.

SIR HENRY WOTTON

ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY

I STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife,

Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art; I warmed both hands before the fire of life: It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

DEATH STANDS ABOVE ME

DEATH stands above me, whispering low

I know not what into my ear.

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