The Hundred Best English Poems - LightNovelsOnl.com
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ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
84. _Requiem._
Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me: _Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill._
_1887 Edition._
LORD TENNYSON.
85. _Song from 'The Miller's Daughter.'_
It is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles in her ear: For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white.
And I would be the girdle About her dainty dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest: And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight.
And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom, With her laughter or her sighs, And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasp'd at night.
86. _St. Agnes' Eve._
Deep on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon: My breath to heaven like vapour goes: May my soul follow soon!
The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord: Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my bosom lies.
As these white robes are soil'd and dark, To yonder s.h.i.+ning ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee; So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be.
Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Thro' all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean.
He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her lights below, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin.
The sabbaths of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide-- A light upon the s.h.i.+ning sea-- The Bridegroom with his bride!
87. _Break, break, break._
Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad.
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately s.h.i.+ps go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
88. _Song from 'The Princess.'_
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The cas.e.m.e.nt slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remember'd kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
89. _Song from 'The Princess.'_
Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee?
Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye: Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live; Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd: I strove against the stream and all in vain: Let the great river take me to the main: No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield; Ask me no more.
90. _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.
_1902 Edition._
