English

Not only that thy puissant arm could bind
The Tyrant of a world and, conquering fate,
Enfranchise Europe, so I deem thee great:
But that in all thy actions I do find
Exact propriety: no gusts of mind
Fitful and wild, but that continuous state
Of ordered impulse mariners await,
In some benignant and enriching wind,
The break ordained of nature. Thy calm mien
Recalls old Rome as much as thy high deed;
Duty thy only idol, and serene
When all are troubled; in the utmost need
Prescient thy country's servant ever seen,

Fair lady! this the pencil of Vandyke
Might well have painted: thine the English air,
Graceful yet earnest, that his portraits bear,
In that far troubled time, when sword and pike
Gleamed round the ancient halls and castles fair
That shrouded Albion's beauty: though, when need,
They too, though soft withal, would boldly dare,
Defend the leaguered breach, or charging steed,
Mount in their trampled parks. Far different scene
The bowers present before thee; yet serene
Though nowadays, if coming time impart

Decayde I fynde my favor and my fate
my hope thrown downe from heyght of my desire
And truthe that shoulde have bettred my estate
and made my love to wisshed Joyes asspire
Is undermynde with tongues of foule dyspighte
This frawde cann fynde a waye to master right

My tongue no more shall putt my penn to payne
to blaze in booteles words my discontented mynde
Since thow my Harte haste sighde so longe in vayne
that shall suffice to shew who was unkinde
And for good proofe I still contynewe true

I.

If Pythagorick notions would agree,
With sublimated Christianity;
What mighty Soul, shall I allow,
Informs thy Body now;
For when did such appear,
Sure the belov'd Disciple's Soul is here.
Not us'd since then, but kept above,
And taught a more extatick Love;
The Understanding more inlarg'd and free,
Each generous Faculty
Refin'd, Improv'd, made more compleat,

Suddenly he began to torture the flowers
began to twist red winter tulips
faced by the behemothian jaws
for which there is no inevitable IN and OUT.

The carnage at the Menin Gate
the startled blackcock's raucous cry
the Morse code of a boot and crutch
filled the space between river and sky.

But stay! the light is cancelled there
the dark eyes cease
to stare at suns
and light breaks in behind the brain.

I too was present
one of a tufted mat of men
gathered under a high coffer'd ceiling.

Potential
mirror of gentle acts
agents of factual
joy

enjoy
deft engines
but shade yourself
against electric signs.

that in the night
destroy the stars
and lurid phantoms
feature on hotel stairs.

Angelicos
diatoms
of senseful surfeit—
how can man deny you?

He should employ you
whenever
he wakes in the world
out of dusty fever.

and with not worm
and weevil
for whom
God grows stavesacre.

but with bird and lynx

After a wet season
the leaves fall early
and bells among the damsel trees
invent the dusk.

We had been discussing
God and Fate and the eternal reflux:
after the white ecstasy of intellect
the axe, the sceptre, the tent people with bright trappings.

Your voice was the voice of the yellow sunflowers
pouring fire into the dusk;
but above your voice the bells were rocking
my heart beating
with the same reiteration.

flux and reflux.

Carried on this singing sea
(my blood)

Lyke as the Princely faulcon on the fyste feedynge
The frindlye hande that serves her ungently straineth
So the fairest alyve on me her Browes bendinge
The faithfull harte that loves her unkindly payneth
As the proude Byrde on wynge with loftye pitch mastring
The wylder game, the profred trayne and lure scorneth
So my fayre Soverayne with Bewty conqueringe
Pursues the stately, and yeldinge mynds disdayneth
But cease in tyme my plaint for feare of dyspleasinge
And goo to her that my affections ruleth

Come ev'ry Muse with Fire and Garlands too,
Inspire my Breast adorn Clarinda 's Brow;
(Cypress and Mirtle with the Laurel twine,
Three Boughs of each, with Heavenly skill combine,
The mystick Number suits the sacred Nine,)
She does the force of every Passion tell,
None ever Lov'd, or Greiv'd, or Prais'd so well.
Sometimes she soars aloft a Pindar 's height,
In a bright Track nigh lost to human Sight;
Then gently slides into a softer Strain,
And does with Loves and Graces entertain:
In Panegyricks just to that Degree,

Iff this be love, to fyxe the Eyes onn grownde
To fetch deepe sighes, and softely make my mone
To sheedd not bloode yett have a mortall wounde
To take delighte to muse and walke alone
To burne in flames, yet nott Consume by fyre
Yf this be love, such love desarves his hyre

To feele a harme conceald from whence itt growes
To lyke in harte, yett feare to shewe the same
To seeke releefe from whence I reape my woes
To cloake my inwarde greyfe with outewarde game
To fayne dislik yett languyshe in Desyre