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CROSSING THE BAR

SUNSET and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

EDWARD FITZGERALD [1809-1883]

THE LOQUACIOUS VESSELS

As under cover of departing Day
Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazán away,

Once more within the Potter's house alone
I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.

Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small, That stood along the floor and by the wall; And some loquacious Vessels were; and some Listen'd perhaps, but never talk'd at all.

Said one among them-"Surely not in vain
My substance of the common Earth was ta'en
And to this Figure moulded, to be broke,
Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again."

Then said a Second-"Ne'er a peevish Boy
Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy;
And He that with his hand the Vessel made
Will surely not in after Wrath destroy."

After a momentary silence spake

Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make;

"They sneer at me for leaning all awry: What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"

Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot-
I think a Súfi pipkin-waxing hot-

"All this of Pot and Potter-Tell me then, Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"

"Why," said another, "Some there are who tell Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell

The luckless Pots he marr'd in making-Pish! He's a Good Fellow, and 't will all be well."

"Well," murmur'd one, "Let whoso make or buy, My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry:

But fill me with the old familiar Juice, Methinks I might recover by and by."

So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
The little Moon look'd in that all were seeking:
And then they jogg'd each other, “Brother! Brother!
Now for the Porter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!"

[From THE RUBÁIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM.]

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

Go from me.

[1806-1861]

SONNETS

Yet I feel that I shall stand

Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life, I shall command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,

Without the sense of that which I forbore

Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two.

IF I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
And be all to me? Shall I never miss
Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss
That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,
When I look up, to drop on a new range
Of walls and floors, another home than this?
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is
Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change?
That's hardest. If to conquer love, has tried,
To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove;
For grief indeed is love and grief beside.
Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love.
Yet love me-wilt thou? Open thine heart wide,
And fold within the wet wings of thy dove.

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 everyday'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.

[From SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE.]

ROBERT BROWNING [1812-1889]

TWO SONGS

I

HEAP cassia, sandal-buds and stripes
Of labdanum, and aloe-balls,

Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes
From out her hair: such balsam falls
Down sea-side mountain pedestals,

From tree-tops where tired winds are fain,
Spent with the vast and howling main,
To treasure half their island-gain.

And strew faint sweetness from some old
Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud
Which breaks to dust when once unrolled;
Or shredded perfume, like a cloud
From closet long to quiet vowed,
With mothed and dropping arras hung,
Mouldering her lute and books among,
As when a queen, long dead, was young.
[From PARACELSUS.]

II

The year's at the spring
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;

The hill-side's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn:

God's in his heaven

All's right with the world!

[From PIPPA PASSES.]

HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD

Он, to be in England

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England-now!

And after April, when May follows,

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops-at the bent spray's edge-
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture

The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew

The buttercups, the little children's dower
-Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

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