Foliage: Various Poems Part 3

Sing--when a Nightingale Pours forth her own sweet soul To hear dread thunder roll Into a tearful tale-- Heigh ho! The rain!

Sing--when a Sparrow's seen Trying to lie at rest By pressing his warm breast To leaves so wet and green-- Heigh ho! The rain!

LOVE'S INSPIRATION

Give me the chance, and I will make Thy thoughts of me, like worms this day, Take wings and change to b.u.t.terflies That in the golden light shall play; Thy cold, clear heart--the quiet pool That never heard Love's nightingale-- Shall hear his music night and day, And in no seasons shall it fail.

I'll make thy happy heart my port, Where all my thoughts are anch.o.r.ed fast; Thy meditations, full of praise, The flags of glory on each mast.

I'll make my Soul thy shepherd soon, With all thy thoughts my grateful flock; And thou shalt say, each time I go-- How long, my Love, ere thou'lt come back?

NIGHT WANDERERS

They hear the bell of midnight toll, And shiver in their flesh and soul; They lie on hard, cold wood or stone, Iron, and ache in every bone; They hate the night: they see no eyes Of loved ones in the starlit skies.

They see the cold, dark water near; They dare not take long looks for fear They'll fall like those poor birds that see A snake's eyes staring at their tree.

Some of them laugh, half-mad; and some All through the chilly night are dumb; Like poor, weak infants some converse, And cough like giants, deep and hoa.r.s.e.

YOUNG BEAUTY

When at each door the ruffian winds Have laid a dying man to groan, And filled the air on winter nights With cries of infants left alone; And every thing that has a bed Will sigh for others that have none:

On such a night, when bitter cold, Young Beauty, full of love thoughts sweet, Can redden in her looking-gla.s.s; With but one gown on, in bare feet, She from her own reflected charms Can feel the joy of summer's heat.

WHO I KNOW

I do not know his grace the Duke, Outside whose gilded gate there died Of want a feeble, poor old man, With but his shadow at his side.

I do not know his Lady fair, Who in a bath of milk doth lie; More milk than could feed fifty babes, That for the want of it must die.

But well I know the mother poor, Three pounds of flesh wrapped in her shawl: A puny babe that, stripped at home, Looks like a rabbit skinned, so small.

And well I know the homeless waif, Fed by the poorest of the poor; Since I have seen that child alone, Crying against a bolted door.

SWEET BIRDS, I COME

The bird that now On bush and tree, Near leaves so green Looks down to see Flowers looking up-- He either sings In ecstasy Or claps his wings.

Why should I slave For finer dress Or ornaments; Will flowers smile less For rags than silk?

Are birds less dumb For tramp than squire?

Sweet birds, I come.

THE TWO LIVES

Now how could I, with gold to spare, Who know the harlot's arms, and wine, Sit in this green field all alone, If Nature was not truly mine?

That Pleasure life wakes stale at morn, From heavy sleep that no rest brings: This life of quiet joy wakes fresh, And claps its wings at morn, and sings.

So here sit I, alone till noon, In one long dream of quiet bliss; I hear the lark and share his joy, With no more winedrops than were his.

Such, Nature, is thy charm and power-- Since I have made the Muse my wife-- To keep me from the harlot's arms, And save me from a drunkard's life.

HIDDEN LOVE

The bird of Fortune sings when free, But captured, soon grows dumb; and we, To hear his fast declining powers, Must soon forget that he is ours.

So, when I win that maid, no doubt Love soon will seem to be half out; Like blighted leaves drooped to the ground, Whose roots are still untouched and sound, So will our love's root still be strong When others think the leaves go wrong.

Though we may quarrel, 'twill not prove That she and I are less in love; The parrot, though he mocked the dove, Died when she died, and proved his love.

When merry springtime comes, we hear How all things into love must stir; How birds would rather sing than eat, How joyful sheep would rather bleat: And daffodils nod heads of gold, And dance in April's sparkling cold.

So in our early love did we Dance much and skip, and laugh with glee: But let none think our love is flown If, when we're married, little's shown: E'en though our lips be dumb of song, Our hearts can still be singing strong.

LIFE IS JOLLY

This life is jolly, O!

I envy no man's lot; My eyes can much admire, And still my heart crave not; There's no true joy in gold, It breeds desire for more; Whatever wealth man has, Desire can keep him poor.

This life is jolly, O!

Power has his fawning slaves, But if he rests his mind, Those wretches turn bold knaves.

Fame's field is full of flowers, It dazzles as we pa.s.s, But men who walk that field Starve for the common gra.s.s.