A Strip of Blue Beauty, in quivering lines of light, All day I drink of the wine, and deep I watch the foam-wreaths toss and swim Dawn-tinted, from the misty surge: My thrilled, uncovered front I lave, And drain, with its viewless draught, the lore And the fire that maddens the poet's brain 1647 John Townsend Trowbridge [1827-1916] A STRIP OF BLUE I Do not own an inch of land, The orchards and the mowing-fields, The lawns and gardens fine. The winds my tax-collectors are, Richer am I than he who owns I freight them with my untold dreams; My ships that sail into the East Across that outlet blue. Sometimes they seem like living shapes,- From Heaven, which is close by; I call them by familiar names, From violet mists they bloom! Since on life's hospitable sea All souls find sailing-room. The ocean grows a weariness With nothing else in sight; Its east and west, its north and south, God's sweeping garment-fold, The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl, An Ode to Master Anthony Stafford 1649 The waves are broken precious stones, Sapphire and amethyst, Washed from celestial basement walls Out through the utmost gates of space, Yet loses not her anchorage Here sit I, as a little child: The threshold of God's door In height or depth, to me; Glad, when is opened unto my need Some sea-like glimpse of thee. Lucy Larcom [1824-1893] AN ODE TO MASTER ANTHONY STAFFORD TO HASTEN HIM INTO THE COUNTRY COME, spur away, I have no patience for a longer stay, But must go down And leave the chargeable noise of this great town: I will the country see, Where old simplicity, Though hid in gray, Doth look more gay Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad. Farewell, you city wits, that are Almost at civil war- 'Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad. More of my days I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise; For some slight Puisne of the Inns of Court. How shall we spend the day? Shorten the nights? When from this tumult we are got secure, Where mirth with all her freedom goes, Yet shall no finger lose; Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure? There from the tree We'll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry; Go see the wholesome country girls make hay, Than any painted face That I do know Hyde Park can show: Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet (Though some of them in greater state Might court my love with plate) The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street. But think upon Some other pleasures: these to me are none. Why do I prate Of women, that are things against my fate! I never mean to wed That torture to my bed: My Muse is she My love shall be. Let clowns get wealth and heirs: when I am gone And that great bugbear, grisly Death, Shall take this idle breath, If I a poem leave, that poem is my son. Of this no more! We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store, An Ode to Master Anthony Stafford 1651 No fruit shall 'scape Our palates, from the damson to the grape. And hear what music's made; How Philomel Her tale doth tell, And how the other birds do fill the choir; The thrush and blackbird lend their throats, We will all sports enjoy which others but desire. Ours is the sky, Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly: To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare; In any ground they'll choose; The stag, and all. Our pleasures must from their own warrants be, I'm sure all game is free: Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty. And when we mean To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then, A cup or two to noble Barkley's health, I'll take my pipe and try The Phrygian melody; Which he that hears, Lets through his ears A madness to distemper all the brain: And Doric music make, To civilize with graver notes our wits again. Thomas Randolph [1605-1635] |