Sunrise Along Shore by L. M. Montgomery

Athwart the harbour lingers yet
The ashen gleam of breaking day,
And where the guardian cliffs are set
The noiseless shadows steal away;
But all the winnowed eastern sky
Is flushed with many a tender hue,
And spears of light are smiting through
The ranks where huddled sea-mists fly.
Across the ocean, wan and gray,
Gay fleets of golden ripples come,
For at the birth hour of the day
The roistering, wayward winds are dumb.
The rocks that stretch to meet the tide
Are smitten with a ruddy glow,
And faint reflections come and go
Where fishing boats at anchor ride.
All life leaps out to greet the light–
The shining sea-gulls dive and soar,
The swallows wheel in dizzy flight,
And sandpeeps flit along the shore.
From every purple landward hill
The banners of the morning fly,
But on the headlands, dim and high.
The fishing hamlets slumber still.
One boat alone beyond the bar
Is sailing outward blithe and free,
To carry sturdy hearts afar
Across those wastes of sparkling sea,
Staunchly to seek what may be won
From out the treasures of the deep,
To toil for those at home who sleep
And be the first to greet the sun.

When the Dark Comes Down by L. M. Montgomery

When the dark comes down, oh, the wind is on the sea
With lisping laugh and whimper to the red reef's threnody,
The boats are sailing homeward now across the harbour bar
With many a jest and many a shout from fishing grounds afar.
So furl your sails and take your rest,
Ye fisher folk so brown,
For task and quest are ended when the dark comes down.
When the dark comes down, oh, the landward valleys fill
Like brimming cups of purple, and on every landmark hill
There shines a star of twilight that is watching evermore
The low, dim-lighted meadows by the long, dim-lighted shore,
For there, where vagrant daisies weave the grass a silver crown,
The lads and lassies wander when the dark comes down.
When the dark comes down, oh, the children fall asleep,
And mothers in the fisher huts their happy vigils keep;
There's music in the song they sing and music on the sea,
The loving, lingering echoes of the twilight's litany,
For toil has folded hands to dream, and care has ceased to frown,
And every one's a lyric when the dark comes down.

On His Blindness by John Milton

    When I consider how my light is spent
    Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
    And that one talent which is death to hide
    Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
    To serve therewith my Maker, and present
    My true account, lest he returning chide,
    "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
    I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
    That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
    Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
    Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
    Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
    And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
    They also serve who only stand and wait."

From a Full Heart by A. A. Milne

    In days of peace my fellow-men
        Rightly regarded me as more like
    A Bishop than a Major-Gen.,
        And nothing since has made me warlike;
    But when this age-long struggle ends
        And I have seen the Allies dish up
    The goose of Hindenburg - oh, friends!
        I shall out-bish the mildest Bishop.

    When the War is over and the Kaiser's out of print
    I'm going to buy some tortoises and watch the beggars sprint;
    When the War is over and the sword at last we sheathe
    I'm going to keep a jelly-fish and listen to it breathe.

    I never really longed for gore,
        And any taste for red corpuscles
    That lingered with me left before
        The German troops had entered Brussels.
    In early days the Colonel's "'Shun!"
        Froze me; and as the war grew older
    The noise of some one else's gun
        Left me considerably colder.

    When the War is over and the battle has been won
    I'm going to buy a barnacle and take it for a run;
    When the War is over and the German fleet we sink
    I'm going to keep a silkworm's egg and listen to it think.

    The Captains and the Kings depart -
        It may be so, but not lieutenants;
    Dawn after weary dawn I start
        The never ending round of penance;
    One rock amid the welter stands
        On which my gaze is fixed intently:
    An after-life in quiet lands
        Lived very lazily and gently.

    When the War is over and we've done the Belgians proud
    I'm going to keep a chrysalis and read to it aloud;
    When the War is over and we've finished up the show
    I'm going to plant a lemon pip and listen to it grow.

    Oh, I'm tired of the noise and turmoil of battle,
    And I'm even upset by the lowing of cattle,
    And the clang of the bluebells is death to my liver,
    And the roar of the dandelion gives me a shiver,
    And a glacier, in movement, is much too exciting,
    And I'm nervous, when standing on one, of alighting -
    Give me Peace; that is all, that is all that I seek....
                        Say, starting on Saturday week.

Quebec by John McCrae

Of old, like Helen, guerdon of the strong,
Like Helen fair, like Helen light of word,
"The spoils unto the conquerors belong.
Who winneth me must win me by the sword."

Grown old, like Helen, once the jealous prize
That strong men battled for in savage hate,
Can she look forth with unregretful eyes,
Where sleep Montcalm and Wolfe beside her gate?

In Flanders Fields by John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Sea-Fever by John Masefield

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea’s face, and a gray dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way, where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat by Edward Lear

        I.

    The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
    In a beautiful pea-green boat:
    They took some honey, and plenty of money
    Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
    The Owl looked up to the stars above,
    And sang to a small guitar,
    "O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,
    What a beautiful Pussy you are,
    You are,
    You are!
    What a beautiful Pussy you are!"


        II.

    Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl,
    How charmingly sweet you sing!
    Oh! let us be married; too long we have tarried:
    But what shall we do for a ring?"
    They sailed away, for a year and a day,
    To the land where the bong-tree grows;
    And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,
    With a ring at the end of his nose,
    His nose,
    His nose,
    With a ring at the end of his nose.


        III.
       
       

    "Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
    Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
    So they took it away, and were married next day
    By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
    They dined on mince and slices of quince,
    Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
    And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
    They danced by the light of the moon,
    The moon,
    The moon,
    They danced by the light of the moon.

   

The Jumblies by Edward Lear

   

        I.

    They went to sea in a sieve, they did;
    In a sieve they went to sea:
    In spite of all their friends could say,
    On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,
    In a sieve they went to sea.
    And when the sieve turned round and round,
    And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!"
    They called aloud, "Our sieve ain't big;
    But we don't care a button, we don't care a fig:
    In a sieve we'll go to sea!"
    Far and few, far and few,
    Are the lands where the Jumblies live:
    Their heads are green, and their hands are blue
    And they went to sea in a sieve.


        II.

    They sailed away in a sieve, they did,
    In a sieve they sailed so fast,
    With only a beautiful pea-green veil
    Tied with a ribbon, by way of a sail,
    To a small tobacco-pipe mast.
    And every one said who saw them go,
    "Oh! won't they be soon upset, you know?
    For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long;
    And, happen what may, it's extremely wrong
    In a sieve to sail so fast."
    Far and few, far and few,
    Are the lands where the Jumblies live:
    Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;
    And they went to sea in a sieve.


        III.

    The water it soon came in, it did;
    The water it soon came in:
    So, to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
    In a pinky paper all folded neat;
    And they fastened it down with a pin.
    And they passed the night in a crockery-jar;
    And each of them said, "How wise we are!
    Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,
    Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,
    While round in our sieve we spin."
    Far and few, far and few,
    Are the lands where the Jumblies live:
    Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;
    And they went to sea in a sieve.


        IV.

    And all night long they sailed away;
    And when the sun went down,
    They whistled and warbled a moony song
    To the echoing sound of a coppery gong,
    In the shade of the mountains brown.
    "O Timballoo! How happy we are
    When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar!
    And all night long, in the moonlight pale,
    We sail away with a pea-green sail
    In the shade of the mountains brown."
    Far and few, far and few,
    Are the lands where the Jumblies live:
    Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;
    And they went to sea in a sieve.


        V.

    They sailed to the Western Sea, they did, -
    To a land all covered with trees:
    And they bought an owl, and a useful cart,
    And a pound of rice, and a cranberry-tart,
    And a hive of silvery bees;
    And they bought a pig, and some green jackdaws,
    And a lovely monkey with lollipop paws,
    And forty bottles of ring-bo-ree,
    And no end of Stilton cheese.
    Far and few, far and few,
    Are the lands where the Jumblies live:
    Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;
    And they went to sea in a sieve.


        VI.

    And in twenty years they all came back, -
    In twenty years or more;
    And every one said, "How tall they've grown!
    For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,
    And the hills of the Chankly Bore."
    And they drank their health, and gave them a feast
    Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;
    And every one said, "If we only live,
    We, too, will go to sea in a sieve,
    To the hills of the Chankly Bore."
    Far and few, far and few,
    Are the lands where the Jumblies live:
    Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;
    And they went to sea in a sieve.

Piano by D. H. Lawrence

    Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
    Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
    A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
    And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

    In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
    Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
    To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
    And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

    So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
    With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
    Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
    Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

Lament of the Winds by Archibald Lampman

    We in sorrow coldly witting,
    In the bleak world sitting, sitting,
    By the forest, near the mould,
    Heard the summer calling, calling,
    Through the dead leaves falling, falling,
    That her life grew faint and old.

    And we took her up, and bore her,
    With the leaves that moaned before her,
    To the holy forest bowers,
    Where the trees were dense and serried,
    And her corpse we buried, buried,
    In the graveyard of the flowers.

    Now the leaves, as death grows vaster,
    Yellowing deeper, dropping faster,
    All the grave wherein she lies
    With their bodies cover, cover,
    With their hearts that love her, love her,
    For they live not when she dies:

    And we left her so, but stay not
    Of our tears, and yet we may not,
    Though they coldly thickly fall,
    Give the dead leaves any, any,
    For they lie so many, many,
    That we cannot weep for all.

If... by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream, and not make dreams your master;
If you can think, and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings, nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And, which is more, you'll be a Man, my son!

On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer of John Keats

    Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
    And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
    Round many western islands have I been
    Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
    Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
    That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;
    Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
    Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
    Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
    When a new planet swims into his ken;
    Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
    He star'd at the Pacific, and all his men
    Look'd at each other with a wild surmise,
    Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats

    My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
    My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
    Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
    One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
    ’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
    But being too happy in thine happiness,
    That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
    In some melodious plot
    Of beechen green and shadows numberless,
    Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

    O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
    Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
    Tasting of Flora and the country green,
    Dance, and Provenial song, and sunburnt mirth!
    O for a beaker full of the warm South,
    Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
    With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
    And purple-stained mouth;
    That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
    And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

    Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
    What thou among the leaves hast never known,
    The weariness, the fever, and the fret
    Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
    Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
    Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
    Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
    And leaden-eyed despairs,
    Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
    Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

    Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
    Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
    But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
    Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
    Already with thee! tender is the night,
    And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
    Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays;
    But here there is no light,
    Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
    Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

    I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
    Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
    But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
    Wherewith the seasonable month endows
    The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
    White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
    Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;
    And mid-May’s eldest child,
    The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
    The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

    Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
    I have been half in love with easeful Death,
    Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
    To take into the air my quiet breath;
    Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
    To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
    While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
    In such an ecstasy!
    Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain,
    To thy high requiem become a sod.

    Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
    No hungry generations tread thee down;
    The voice I hear this passing night was heard
    In ancient days by emperor and clown:
    Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
    Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
    She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
    The same that oft-times hath
    Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
    Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

    Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
    To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
    Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
    As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.
    Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
    Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
    Up the hill-side; and now ’Tis buried deep
    In the next valley-glades:
    Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
    Fled is that music: Do I wake or sleep?

Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats

    Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
    Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
    Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
    A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
    What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape
    Of deities or mortals, or of both,
    In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
    What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
    What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
    What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

    Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
    Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
    Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
    Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
    Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
    Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
    Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
    Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
    She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
    For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

    Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
    Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
    And, happy melodist, unwearied,
    For ever piping songs for ever new;
    More happy love! more happy, happy love!
    For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
    For ever panting, and for ever young;
    All breathing human passion far above,
    That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,
    A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

    Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
    To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
    Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
    And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
    What little town by river or sea shore,
    Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
    Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
    And, little town, thy streets for evermore
    Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
    Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.

    O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
    Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
    With forest branches and the trodden weed;
    Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
    As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
    When old age shall this generation waste,
    Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
    Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
    “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” that is all
    Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.