A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns

Tune - "Graham's Strathspey."


I.

O, my luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O, my luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

II.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
'Till a' the seas gang dry.

III.

'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

IV.

And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel a-while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

My Heart's In The Highlands by Robert Burns

Tune - "Failte na Miosg."


I.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

II.

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below:
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

Porphyria's Lover by Robert Browning

    The rain set early in to-night,
    The sullen wind was soon awake,
    It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
    And did its worst to vex the lake:
    I listened with heart fit to break.
    When glided in Porphyria; straight
    She shut the cold out and the storm,
    And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
    Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
    Which done, she rose, and from her form
    Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
    And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
    Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
    And, last, she sat down by my side
    And called me. When no voice replied,
    She put my arm about her waist,
    And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
    And all her yellow hair displaced,
    And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
    And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
    Murmuring how she loved me, she
    Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,
    To set its struggling passion free
    From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
    And give herself to me for ever.
    But passion sometimes would prevail,
    Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain
    A sudden thought of one so pale
    For love of her, and all in vain:
    So, she was come through wind and rain.
    Be sure I looked up at her eyes
    Happy and proud; at last I knew
    Porphyria worshipped me; surprise
    Made my heart swell, and still it grew
    While I debated what to do.
    That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
    Perfectly pure and good: I found
    A thing to do, and all her hair
    In one long yellow string I wound
    Three times her little throat around,
    And strangled her. No pain felt she;
    I am quite sure she felt no pain.
    As a shut bud that holds a bee,
    I warily oped her lids: again
    Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
    And I untightened next the tress
    About her neck; her cheek once more
    Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
    I propped her head up as before,
    Only, this time my shoulder bore
    Her head, which droops upon it still:
    The smiling rosy little head,
    So glad it has its utmost will,
    That all it scorned at once is fled,
    And I, its love, am gained instead!
    Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
    Her darling one wish would be heard.
    And thus we sit together now,
    And all night long we have not stirred,
    And yet God has not said a word!

Pippa's Song by Robert Browning

The year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearl'd;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His heaven
All's right with the world!

My Last Duchess by Robert Browning

FERRARA

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Frà Pandolf” by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say “Her mantle laps
“Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint
“Must never hope to reproduce the faint
“Half-flush that dies along her throat;” such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart . . . how shall I say? . . . too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace, all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men, good; but thanked
Somehow . . . I know not how . . . as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech, (which I have not), to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this
“Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
“Or there exceed the mark”, and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master’s known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

Patience Taught by Nature by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

“O dreary life,” we cry, “O dreary life!”
And still the generations of the birds
Sing through our sighing, and the flocks and herds
Serenely live while we are keeping strife
With Heaven’s true purpose in us, as a knife
Against which we may struggle! Ocean girds
Unslackened the dry land: savannah-swards
Unweary sweep: hills watch unworn; and rife
Meek leaves drop yeary from the forest-trees,
To show, above, the unwasted stars that pass
In their old glory: O thou God of old!
Grant me some smaller grace than comes to these;—
But so much patience as a blade of grass
Grows by, contented through the heat and cold.

On a Portrait of Wordsworth by B. R. Haydon by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

    Wordsworth upon Helvellyn! Let the cloud
    Ebb audibly along the mountain-wind,
    Then break against the rock, and show behind
    The lowland valleys floating up to crowd
    The sense with beauty. He with forehead bowed
    And humble-lidded eyes, as one inclined
    Before the sovran thought of his own mind,
    And very meek with inspirations proud,
    Takes here his rightful place as poet-priest
    By the high altar, singing prayer and prayer
    To the higher Heavens. A noble vision free
    Our Haydon's hand has flung out from the mist:
    No portrait this, with Academic air!
    This is the poet and his poetry.

To Flush, My Dog by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Loving friend, the gift of one,
Who, her own true faith, hath run,
   Through thy lower nature;
Be my benediction said
With my hand upon thy head,
   Gentle fellow-creature!

Like a lady’s ringlets brown,
Flow thy silken ears adown
   Either side demurely,
Of thy silver-suited breast
Shining out from all the rest
   Of thy body purely.

Darkly brown thy body is,
Till the sunshine, striking this,
   Alchemize its dulness, —
When the sleek curls manifold
Flash all over into gold,
   With a burnished fulness.

Underneath my stroking hand,
Startled eyes of hazel bland
   Kindling, growing larger, —
Up thou leapest with a spring,
Full of prank and curvetting,
   Leaping like a charger.

Leap! thy broad tail waves a light;
Leap! thy slender feet are bright,
   Canopied in fringes.
Leap — those tasselled ears of thine
Flicker strangely, fair and fine,
   Down their golden inches

Yet, my pretty sportive friend,
Little is ’t to such an end
   That I praise thy rareness!
Other dogs may be thy peers
Haply in these drooping ears,
   And this glossy fairness.

But of thee it shall be said,
This dog watched beside a bed
   Day and night unweary, —
Watched within a curtained room,
Where no sunbeam brake the gloom
   Round the sick and dreary.

Roses, gathered for a vase,
In that chamber died apace,
   Beam and breeze resigning —
This dog only, waited on,
Knowing that when light is gone,
   Love remains for shining.

Other dogs in thymy dew
Tracked the hares and followed through
   Sunny moor or meadow —
This dog only, crept and crept
Next a languid cheek that slept,
   Sharing in the shadow.

Other dogs of loyal cheer
Bounded at the whistle clear,
   Up the woodside hieing —
This dog only, watched in reach
Of a faintly uttered speech,
   Or a louder sighing.

And if one or two quick tears
Dropped upon his glossy ears,
   Or a sigh came double, —
Up he sprang in eager haste,
Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,
   In a tender trouble.

And this dog was satisfied,
If a pale thin hand would glide,
   Down his dewlaps sloping, —
Which he pushed his nose within,
After, — platforming his chin
   On the palm left open.

This dog, if a friendly voice
Call him now to blyther choice
   Than such chamber-keeping,
“Come out!” praying from the door, —
Presseth backward as before,
   Up against me leaping.

Therefore to this dog will I,
Tenderly not scornfully,
   Render praise and favour!
With my hand upon his head,
Is my benediction said
   Therefore, and for ever.

And because he loves me so,
Better than his kind will do
   Often, man or woman,
Give I back more love again
Than dogs often take of men, —
   Leaning from my Human.

Blessings on thee, dog of mine,
Pretty collars make thee fine,
   Sugared milk make fat thee!
Pleasures wag on in thy tail —
Hands of gentle motion fail
   Nevermore, to pat thee!

Downy pillow take thy head,
Silken coverlid bestead,
   Sunshine help thy sleeping!
No fly’s buzzing wake thee up —
No man break thy purple cup,
   Set for drinking deep in.

Whiskered cats arointed flee —
Sturdy stoppers keep from thee
   Cologne distillations;
Nuts lie in thy path for stones,
And thy feast-day macaroons
   Turn to daily rations!

Mock I thee, in wishing weal ? —
Tears are in my eyes to feel
   Thou art made so straightly,
Blessing needs must straighten too, —
Little canst thou joy or do,
   Thou who lovest greatly.

Yet be blessed to the height
Of all good and all delight
   Pervious to thy nature, —
Only loved beyond that line,
With a love that answers thine,
   Loving fellow-creature!

How Do I Love Thee? by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Menelaus and Helen by Rupert Brooke

I

    Hot through Troy's ruin Menelaus broke
    To Priam's palace, sword in hand, to sate
    On that adulterous whore a ten years' hate
    And a king's honour. Through red death, and smoke,
    And cries, and then by quieter ways he strode,
    Till the still innermost chamber fronted him.
    He swung his sword, and crashed into the dim
    Luxurious bower, flaming like a god.

    High sat white Helen, lonely and serene.
    He had not remembered that she was so fair,
    And that her neck curved down in such a way;
    And he felt tired. He flung the sword away,
    And kissed her feet, and knelt before her there,
    The perfect Knight before the perfect Queen.


II

    So far the poet. How should he behold
    That journey home, the long connubial years?
    He does not tell you how white Helen bears
    Child on legitimate child, becomes a scold,
    Haggard with virtue. Menelaus bold
    Waxed garrulous, and sacked a hundred Troys
    'Twixt noon and supper. And her golden voice
    Got shrill as he grew deafer. And both were old.

    Often he wonders why on earth he went
    Troyward, or why poor Paris ever came.
    Oft she weeps, gummy-eyed and impotent;
    Her dry shanks twitch at Paris' mumbled name.
    So Menelaus nagged; and Helen cried;
    And Paris slept on by Scamander side.

Remembrance by Emily Brontë

    Cold in the earth, and the deep snow piled above thee,
    Far, far, removed, cold in the dreary grave!
    Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
    Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

    Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
    Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
    Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
    Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?

    Cold in the earth, and fifteen wild Decembers,
    From those brown hills, have melted into spring:
    Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers
    After such years of change and suffering!

    Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
    While the world's tide is bearing me along;
    Other desires and other hopes beset me,
    Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

    No later light has lightened up my heaven,
    No second morn has ever shone for me;
    All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
    All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

    But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,
    And even Despair was powerless to destroy;
    Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
    Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.

    Then did I check the tears of useless passion,
    Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
    Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
    Down to that tomb already more than mine.

    And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
    Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;
    Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
    How could I seek the empty world again?

Self-Interogation by Emily Brontë

    "The evening passes fast away.
    'Tis almost time to rest;
    What thoughts has left the vanished day,
    What feelings in thy breast?

    "The vanished day? It leaves a sense
    Of labour hardly done;
    Of little gained with vast expense,
    A sense of grief alone?

    "Time stands before the door of Death,
    Upbraiding bitterly
    And Conscience, with exhaustless breath,
    Pours black reproach on me:

    "And though I've said that Conscience lies
    And Time should Fate condemn;
    Still, sad Repentance clouds my eyes,
    And makes me yield to them!

    "Then art thou glad to seek repose?
    Art glad to leave the sea,
    And anchor all thy weary woes
    In calm Eternity?

    "Nothing regrets to see thee go,
    Not one voice sobs' farewell;'
    And where thy heart has suffered so,
    Canst thou desire to dwell?"

    "Alas! the countless links are strong
    That bind us to our clay;
    The loving spirit lingers long,
    And would not pass away!

    "And rest is sweet, when laurelled fame
    Will crown the soldier's crest;
    But a brave heart, with a tarnished name,
    Would rather fight than rest.

    "Well, thou hast fought for many a year,
    Hast fought thy whole life through,
    Hast humbled Falsehood, trampled Fear;
    What is there left to do?

    "'Tis true, this arm has hotly striven,
    Has dared what few would dare;
    Much have I done, and freely given,
    But little learnt to bear!

    "Look on the grave where thou must sleep
    Thy last, and strongest foe;
    It is endurance not to weep,
    If that repose seem woe.

    "The long war closing in defeat,
    Defeat serenely borne,
    Thy midnight rest may still be sweet,
    And break in glorious morn!"

The Philosopher by Emily Brontë

    Enough of thought, philosopher!
    Too long hast thou been dreaming
    Unlightened, in this chamber drear,
    While summer's sun is beaming!
    Space-sweeping soul, what sad refrain
    Concludes thy musings once again?

    "Oh, for the time when I shall sleep
    Without identity.
    And never care how rain may steep,
    Or snow may cover me!
    No promised heaven, these wild desires
    Could all, or half fulfil;
    No threatened hell, with quenchless fires,
    Subdue this quenchless will!"

    "So said I, and still say the same;
    Still, to my death, will say,
    Three gods, within this little frame,
    Are warring night; and day;
    Heaven could not hold them all, and yet
    They all are held in me;
    And must be mine till I forget
    My present entity!
    Oh, for the time, when in my breast
    Their struggles will be o'er!
    Oh, for the day, when I shall rest,
    And never suffer more!"

    "I saw a spirit, standing, man,
    Where thou dost stand, an hour ago,
    And round his feet three rivers ran,
    Of equal depth, and equal flow,
    A golden stream, and one like blood;
    And one like sapphire seemed to be;
    But, where they joined their triple flood
    It tumbled in an inky sea
    The spirit sent his dazzling gaze
    Down through that ocean's gloomy night;
    Then, kindling all, with sudden blaze,
    The glad deep sparkled wide and bright,
    White as the sun, far, far more fair
    Than its divided sources were!"

    "And even for that spirit, seer,
    I've watched and sought my life-time long;
    Sought him in heaven, hell, earth, and air,
    An endless search, and always wrong.
    Had I but seen his glorious eye
    ONCE light the clouds that wilder me;
    I ne'er had raised this coward cry
    To cease to think, and cease to be;

    I ne'er had called oblivion blest,
    Nor stretching eager hands to death,
    Implored to change for senseless rest
    This sentient soul, this living breath,
    Oh, let me die, that power and will
    Their cruel strife may close;
    And conquered good, and conquering ill
    Be lost in one repose!"

Last Lines by Emily Brontë

NO coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere:
I see Heaven’s glories shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.

O God within my breast,
Almighty, ever-present Deity!
Life—that in me has rest,
As I—undying Life—have power in Thee!

Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men’s hearts, unutterably vain,
Worthless as withered weeds,
Or idle froth amid the boundless main,

To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by Thine infinity;
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of immortality.

With wide-embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years,
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.

Though earth and man were gone,
And suns and universes ceased to be,
And Thou were left alone,
Every existence would exist in Thee.

There is no room for Death,
Nor atom that his might could render void:
Thou—Thou art Being and Breath,
And what Thou art may never be destroyed.

I See Around Me Tombstones Grey by Emily Brontë

    I see around me tombstones grey
    Stretching their shadows far away.
    Beneath the turf my footsteps tread
    Lie low and lone the silent dead,
    Beneath the turf, beneath the mould,
    Forever dark, forever cold,
    And my eyes cannot hold the tears
    That memory hoards from vanished years
    For Time and Death and Mortal pain
    Give wounds that will not heal again,
    Let me remember half the woe
    I've seen and heard and felt below,
    And Heaven itself, so pure and blest,
    Could never give my spirit rest,
    Sweet land of light! thy children fair
    Know nought akin to our despair,
    Nor have they felt, nor can they tell
    What tenants haunt each mortal cell,
    What gloomy guests we hold within,
    Torments and madness, tears and sin!
    Well, may they live in ectasy
    Their long eternity of joy;
    At least we would not bring them down
    With us to weep, with us to groan,
    No, Earth would wish no other sphere
    To taste her cup of sufferings drear;
    She turns from Heaven with a careless eye
    And only mourns that we must die!
    Ah mother, what shall comfort thee
    In all this boundless misery?
    To cheer our eager eyes a while
    We see thee smile; how fondly smile!
    But who reads not through that tender glow
    Thy deep, unutterable woe:
    Indeed no dazzling land above
    Can cheat thee of thy children's love.
    We all, in life's departing shine,
    Our last dear longings blend with thine;
    And struggle still and strive to trace
    With clouded gaze, thy darling face.
    We would not leave our native home
    For any world beyond the Tomb.
    No, rather on thy kindly breast
    Let us be laid in lasting rest;
    Or waken but to share with thee
    A mutual immortality.

The Teacher's Monologue by Charlotte Brontë

    The room is quiet, thoughts alone
    People its mute tranquillity;
    The yoke put off, the long task done,
    I am, as it is bliss to be,
    Still and untroubled. Now, I see,
    For the first time, how soft the day
    O'er waveless water, stirless tree,
    Silent and sunny, wings its way.
    Now, as I watch that distant hill,
    So faint, so blue, so far removed,
    Sweet dreams of home my heart may fill,
    That home where I am known and loved:
    It lies beyond; yon azure brow
    Parts me from all Earth holds for me;
    And, morn and eve, my yearnings flow
    Thitherward tending, changelessly.
    My happiest hours, aye! all the time,
    I love to keep in memory,
    Lapsed among moors, ere life's first prime
    Decayed to dark anxiety.

    Sometimes, I think a narrow heart
    Makes me thus mourn those far away,
    And keeps my love so far apart
    From friends and friendships of to-day;
    Sometimes, I think 'tis but a dream
    I treasure up so jealously,
    All the sweet thoughts I live on seem
    To vanish into vacancy:
    And then, this strange, coarse world around
    Seems all that's palpable and true;
    And every sight, and every sound,
    Combines my spirit to subdue
    To aching grief, so void and lone
    Is Life and Earth, so worse than vain,
    The hopes that, in my own heart sown,
    And cherished by such sun and rain
    As Joy and transient Sorrow shed,
    Have ripened to a harvest there:
    Alas! methinks I hear it said,
    "Thy golden sheaves are empty air."

    All fades away; my very home
    I think will soon be desolate;
    I hear, at times, a warning come
    Of bitter partings at its gate;
    And, if I should return and see
    The hearth-fire quenched, the vacant chair;
    And hear it whispered mournfully,
    That farewells have been spoken there,
    What shall I do, and whither turn?
    Where look for peace?    When cease to mourn?

    'Tis not the air I wished to play,
    The strain I wished to sing;
    My wilful spirit slipped away
    And struck another string.
    I neither wanted smile nor tear,
    Bright joy nor bitter woe,
    But just a song that sweet and clear,
    Though haply sad, might flow.

    A quiet song, to solace me
    When sleep refused to come;
    A strain to chase despondency,
    When sorrowful for home.
    In vain I try; I cannot sing;
    All feels so cold and dead;
    No wild distress, no gushing spring
    Of tears in anguish shed;

    But all the impatient gloom of one
    Who waits a distant day,
    When, some great task of suffering done,
    Repose shall toil repay.
    For youth departs, and pleasure flies,
    And life consumes away,
    And youth's rejoicing ardour dies
    Beneath this drear delay;

    And Patience, weary with her yoke,
    Is yielding to despair,
    And Health's elastic spring is broke
    Beneath the strain of care.
    Life will be gone ere I have lived;
    Where now is Life's first prime?
    I've worked and studied, longed and grieved,
    Through all that rosy time.

    To toil, to think, to long, to grieve,
    Is such my future fate?
    The morn was dreary, must the eve
    Be also desolate?
    Well, such a life at least makes Death
    A welcome, wished-for friend;
    Then, aid me, Reason, Patience, Faith,
    To suffer to the end!

On the Death of Anne Brontë by Charlotte Brontë

    There's little joy in life for me,
    And little terror in the grave;
    I 've lived the parting hour to see
    Of one I would have died to save.

    Calmly to watch the failing breath,
    Wishing each sigh might be the last;
    Longing to see the shade of death
    O'er those belovèd features cast.

    The cloud, the stillness that must part
    The darling of my life from me;
    And then to thank God from my heart,
    To thank Him well and fervently;

    Although I knew that we had lost
    The hope and glory of our life;
    And now, benighted, tempest-tossed,
    Must bear alone the weary strife.

Yes Thou Art Gone by Anne Brontë

    Yes, thou art gone! and never more
    Thy sunny smile shall gladden me;
    But I may pass the old church door,
    And pace the floor that covers thee,

    May stand upon the cold, damp stone,
    And think that, frozen, lies below
    The lightest heart that I have known,
    The kindest I shall ever know.

    Yet, though I cannot see thee more,
    'Tis still a comfort to have seen;
    And though thy transient life is o'er,
    'Tis sweet to think that thou hast been;

    To think a soul so near divine,
    Within a form, so angel fair,
    United to a heart like thine,
    Has gladdened once our humble sphere.