English

Why , what a history is on the rose!
A history beyond all other flowers;
But never more, in garden or in grove,
Will the white queen reign paramount again.
She must content her with remembered things,
When her pale leaves were badge for knight and earl;
Pledge of a loyalty which was as pure,
As free from stain, as those white depths her leaves
Unfolded to the earliest breath of June.

What deepest green valley the wide earth knows,
Once offered four wearied wanderers repose,
Where o'er a cool fount a white temple rose?
'Twas the Red Sulphur Springs.

Fair white buildings are ranged round the green,
Clean gravel walks run these buildings between,
Groups of gay people around are seen,
Oh! the Red Sulphur Springs.

Buxom blithe health flies to sip at the fount,
Sickness so feebly comes down from the mount,
The grave and the gay, quite too many to count,
Meet to drink at the Springs.

O Fount of Being's sea,
Forever flowing free,
The One in all,—
Thou whom no eye e'er saw,
Indwelling Love and Law,
To thee we suppliant draw,
On thee we call.

Be consecrate to truth,
In manhood as in youth,
Our growing powers;
That we may read thy thought
Nature and Life inwrought,
Thy perfect will be taught,
And make it ours!

Thine image may we own
In Man, creation's crown,
These temples thine:
Holy our calling be,
From bonds of pain to free,
And bring the liberty

Ain't gonna let nobody turn me 'round,
Ain't gonna let nobody turn me 'round;
I'm gonna wait till my change comes.
Don't let nobody turn you 'round,
Turn you 'round,
Don't let nobody turn you 'round,
Wait until your change comes.

I say that I'm gonna hold out,
Hold out, hold out;
I say that I'm gonna hold out,
Until my change comes.

I promised the Lord that I would hold out,
Hold out;
I promised the Lord that I would hold out,
Wait until my change comes.

Take thy fill of joyance, dear Soul! for others will follow,
Other men there will be; I shall turn to dark mould!
Drink of the wine from the vines on the slopes of Taygetan mountains
Planted by that old man, Theotimos, dear to the gods,
Bringing the water ice-cold from the plane trees down in the valley.
Drinking driveth away cares that infest the soul.
If thou art well engirt with the harness that comes of the winecup
Then thou surely wilt be joyous of heart to the end!

The breeze has swelled the whitening sail,
The blue waves curl beneath the gale,
And, bounding with the wave and wind,
We leave Old England's shores behind—
Leave behind our native shore,
Homes, and all we loved before.

The deep may dash, the winds may blow,
The storm spread out its wings of woe,
Till sailors' eyes can see a shroud
Hung in the folds of every cloud;
Still, as long as life shall last,
From that shore we'll speed us fast.

For we would rather never be,
Than dwell where mind cannot be free,

Why should I hold back, dear body?
I hear many voices, dear body, mingling voices of lust,
And they do not tell the truth about you:
Let me speak out, let me tell the truth, I will not make more seem less:
Let me tell what I see but let me avoid the tangled phrases of the scholars,
Let me tell what I see in the virile direct syllables of love:
The truth about you, dear body, so long misunderstood:
The truth about you, dear body, so long suborned to base uses:
The truth about you, dear body, made the plaything of law and license:

What man dare say that he is quite immune
From charms and spells that ev'ry girl possesses?
A budding love is like the warmth of June,
That lulls and dulls his senses ere he guesses;
Yet who should seek to fly from such attack?
Though stricken sore, I hold my charmer blameless;
My truant heart I would not summon back,
I leave it in the care of one who's nameless.

He jests at scars who never felt the blow
That comes when love first smites and sends him reeling;
The stinging arrow speeds and brings him low,

While discovery is the fact,
Sea-skill and the way to find,
Flee, land, more inland,
Even to the devil's bosom, loneliness.

Which cannot comfort,
But which cannot give a foreign name
Or make you other than desolate.

Yet be not undiscoverable,
Except where land seen is mere sailor's fancy,
Not native strangeness.

For if you be a true unknown,
Discovery must fade into you
And the foreign name translate,

And the discoverer succeed the devil,
Even unto loneliness—
To comfort by it,

The Isles of Quiet lie beyond the years.
Hoar prophets say it; yet, for all the tears,
I doubt the saying of the seers.

I think that whoso seeks them here shall find;
That all with open, patient heart and mind
Shall drink of peace from sun and wind;

Shall make their own the hymn of rest begun
When shadows say the summer day is done,
And sky and field are growing one.

Idler the fancy, closer it may cling;
Yet I believe the wide air's murmuring,
The sweet far song the thrushes sing.