Dark ilexes above, dry sward below,
O'er which the flickering sunglobes come and go;
Beyond, the swooping valley roughed by lines
Ruled by the plough between the rows of vines;
O'er yellow sunburnt slopes the olives grey
Casting their rounded shadows; far away
A stately parliament of poised stone-pines;
Dark cypresses with golden balls bestrewn,
Each rocking to the breeze its solemn cone;
Dim mountains, veiled in dreamy mystery,
Sleeping upon the pale and tender sky;
And near, with softened shades of purple brown,

You'll ask, perhaps, wherefore I stay,
Loving so much, so long away.
O do not think 'twas I did part,
It was my body, not my heart;
For like a compass in your love
One foot is fixed and cannot move;
Th' other may follow the blind guide
Of giddy Fortune, but not slide
Beyond your service, nor dares venture
To wander far from you, the centre.

ST . M ICHAEL'S Mount , the tidal isle,
—In May with daffodils and lilies
Is kirtled gorgeously a while
—As ne'er another English hill is:
About the precipices cling
The rich renascence robes of Spring.

Her gold and silver, nature's gifts,
—The prodigal with both hands showers;
O not in patches, not in drifts
—But round and round a mount of flowers—
Of lilies and of daffodils,
The envy of all other hills.

And on the lofty summit looms
—The castle: None could build or plan it.
The four-square foliage springs and blooms,

Come , friend,—her skein I also would unravel!
Art is not Nature lost in man's control,
But Nature's reminiscences of travel
Across the human soul.

Or 'tis a tidal river, that, each day,
Ebbing and flowing under cliff and tree,
With mutual and eternal interplay
Takes and gives back the sea.

“Of all the ploody liars o' the 'orld
Since Ananias' soul was sent to Hell
Aye; since rebel angels to its depths were hurl'd
This is the rankest lie e'er I heard tell!
You rascally, beggarly, scald, pragging knave
You prove yourself a liar and a fool
Lacking th' agility thy face to save
Thy lie thy headsmen is in place of tool!
You scurvy, lousy knave, do you not see
That when you lie you must not be found out.
Whereas your lie 's a lie so palpably
'Twould disgrace th' invention of a butcher's lout.
Pshaw! For liar, praggart, and Got tam't cad

No more I seek, the prize is found,
I furl my sails, my voyage is o'er;
The treacherous waves no longer sound
But sing thy praise along the shore.

I steal from all I hoped of old,
To throw more beauty round thy way;
The dross I part, and melt the gold,
And stamp it with thy every-day.

I did not dream to welcome thee;
Like all I have thou camest unknown,
An island in a misty sea,
With stars, and flowers, and harvests strown.

A well is in the desert sand
With purest water cold and clear,
Where overjoyed at rest I stand,

Behold, the somber pines have pitched their tents
At Shasta's base, like hosts of Night;
For aye besieging in his battlements—
For aye in vain—their monarch, Light!

Though seas dry up and empty deserts bloom;
Though races come and pass away
From earth, it still, it still is seen to loom,
And to flash back God's smile for aye!

Behold, the somber pines have pitched their tents
At Shasta's base, like hosts of Night;
For aye besieging in his battlements—
For aye in vain—their monarch, Light!

Though seas dry up and empty deserts bloom;

Oh! little maid!—(I do not know your name
Or who you are, so, as a safe precaution
I'll add)—Oh, buxom widow! married dame!
(As one of these must be your present portion)
Listen, while I unveil prophetic lore for you,
And sing the fate that Fortune has in store for you.

You'll marry soon—within a year or twain—
A bachelor of CIRCA two and thirty:
Tall, gentlemanly, but extremely plain,
And when you're intimate, you'll call him “BERTIE.”.
Neat—dresses well; his temper has been classified
As hasty; but he's very quickly pacified.

In time I will be dying and at the moment
I never am. And in time I will remember
every least crumb of indignity or love
I had in Babylon and Rigel. But lying here
now, I know nothing—not you—but yes your hair
snuffed in my eyes dark and the one breath you are always
drawing in, and these words mysteriously I know,
and my body's length and curve, and a caul of air.











From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 185, no. 4, Jan. 2005. Used with permission.

O shrive me Friar, my ghostly Friar!
Quick, shrive me now, he cried.
For I have kiss'd a mortal maid,
And something more, beside.

The Friar he frown'd, his belt he hitched,
In accents stern spake he.
The thing that in my day I did,
Was never meant for thee!
Etc., etc.