TO THE DAISY WITH little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Thou unassuming Common-place Oft on the dappled turf at ease And many a fond and idle name A nun demure, of lowly port; Of all temptations; A queen in crown of rubies drest; A starveling in a scanty vest; A little Cyclops, with one eye That thought comes next-and instantly The shape will vanish, and behold! A silver shield with boss of gold I see thee glittering from afar— Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Sweet Flower! for by that name at last I call thee, and to that cleave fast, That breath'st with me in sun and air, W. Wordsworth. THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS * THIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings And the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. *By permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! Year after year beheld the silent toil Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn; From thy dead lips a clearer note is born While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings: Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! O. W. Holmes. TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785 WEE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O what a panic 's in thy breastie ! Wi' bickerin' brattle! I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, I'm truly sorry man's dominion An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; S a sma' request: I'll get a blessing wi' the lave, And never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell an' keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter past That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! But, och! I backward cast my e'e On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear! R. Burns. TO A SKYLARK HAIL to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. |