Let him that will, ascend the tottering Seat
Of Courtly Grandeur, and become as great
As are his mountain Wishes; as for me,
Let sweet Repose, and Rest my portion be;
Give me some mean obscure Recess, a Sphere
Out of the road of Business, or the fear
Of Falling lower, where I sweetly may
My Self, and dear Retirement still enjoy.
Let not my Life, or Name, be known unto
The Grandees of the Times, tost to and fro
By Censures, or Applause; but let my Age
Slide gently by, not overthwart the Stage
Of Publick Interest; unheard, unseen,

Let who so lyst with mighty mace to raygne,
In tyckle toppe of court delight to stand
Let mee the sweete and quiet rest obtayne.
So set in place obscure and lowe degree,
Of pleasaunt rest I shall the sweetnesse knoe.
My lyfe unknowne to them that noble bee,
Shall in the steppe of secret sylence goe.
Thus when my dayes at length are over past,
And tyme without all troublous tumult spent,
An aged man I shall depart at last,
In meane estate, to dye full well content.
But greevuous is to him the death, that when
So farre abroade the bruite of him is blowne,

Stond who so list upon the Slipper toppe
Of courtes estates, and lett me heare rejoyce;
And use me quyet without lett or stoppe,
Unknowen in courte, that hath suche brackish joyes.
In hidden place, so lett my dayes forthe passe,
That when my yeares be done, withouten noyse,

I may dye aged after the common trace.
For hym death greep'the right hard by the croppe
That is moche knowen of other, and of him self alas,
Doth dye unknowen, dazed with dreadfull face.

O yee, whome lorde of lande and waters wyde,
Of Lyfe and death grauntes here to have the powre,
Lay yee your proude and lofty lookes aside:
What your inferiour feares of you amis,
That your superiour threats to you agayne.
To greater kyng, eche kyng a subject is.
Whom dawne of day hath seene in pryde to raygne,
Hym overthrowne hath seene the evening late.
Let none rejoyce to much that good hath got,
Let none dispayre of best in worst estate.
For Clotho myngles all, and suffreth not
Fortune to stande: but Fates about doth drive.

To the thatched hut on the topmost peak
A ten mile climb;
No boy answers the knock,
Nothing but a table or two visible within.
He's gathering firewood in his cart,
Gone fishing in some autumn pool.
All that rough trek, and no encounter:
I pause, head high in this void
The glint of grass in the fresh rain,
The sound of pines at the evening window;
The perfect stillness of this place
Of itself eases the mind.
No meeting, but the spirit of
Peace and purity speaks.
The mood passes; time to descend.
Why wait for the man?

Enormous cloud-mountains that form over Point Lobos and into the sunset,
Figures of fire on the walls of to-night's storm,
Foam of gold in gorges of fire, and the great file of warrior angels:
Dreams gathering in the curded brain of the earth,
The sky the brain-vault, on the threshold of sleep: poor earth, you like your children
By mordinate desires tortured make dreams?
Storms more enormous, wars nobler, more toppling mountains, more jewelled waters, more free
Fires on impossible headlands … as a poor girl

There is a garden in our square,
And householders can have the key,
On payment of an annual fee;
Yet no one enters there!

From August till the first of May,
This garden is an empty place;
No puppy-dogs their tails may chase,
No children romp and play!

Here faithful pug or Pekinese
With chain and collar must be led,
Lest he disturb some flower-bed
That no one ever sees!

Here ragged urchins from the street
Peer through the bars with wistful eyes
On a deserted Paradise,
Untrod by children's feet!

They live; we exist.
They feel; we think.
They come; we go.

They play; we fumble.
They dream awake; we dream, asleep.
They sleep; we toss.

We cannot be.
But let us try.

O, LET me soothe thy troubled mind!
To thee shall soon be given
That joy which leaves no sting behind;
For soon thy aching heart shall find
The hope which leads to heaven.

Then shall thy cheek, now pale with care,
By sorrow's tempests riven,
Assume a hue more bright, more fair,
Than earthly joy e'er planted there,—
The light which comes from heaven.

The light which virtue sheds on those
Who in her cause have striven,
Around, a deathless lustre throws,
And gives the heart that sweet repose,—
The peace which comes from heaven.

Againe the morn, againe the day
Hath chaced the shades of night away.