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Poetic Wanderings

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No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
       Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
       By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
               Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
       Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
               Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
       For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
               And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
       Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
       And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
       Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
               Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
       Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
               And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
       And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
       Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
       Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
               Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
       Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,
               And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
John Keats - 'Ode to Melancholy'

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She Walks in Beauty
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
By Lord Byron (George Gordon)

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When will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut,

Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs?

When, when, Peace, will you, Peace? I’ll not play hypocrite

To own my heart: I yield you do come sometimes; but

That piecemeal peace is poor peace. What pure peace allows       

Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?


O surely, reaving Peace, my Lord should leave in lieu

Some good! And so he does leave Patience exquisite,

That plumes to Peace thereafter. And when Peace here does house

He comes with work to do, he does not come to coo,       

        He comes to brood and sit.


Gerard Manley Hopkins - 'Peace'

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I wept today, 
For I saw the truth, 
But heard the lies once more.
I thought I heard you say never again, 
I thought I heard the words “no more.”
I guess my ears were wrong, for those were untrue.
I would have to be blind, 
And I would have to be deaf, 
To believe the tales you whisper so softly.
Some would call me naive, 
While others would stand behind me proudly, 
As I batter your name, what we had, and what could have been.
The tears sting, 
But not as badly as the words you spoke.
The wounds are deep, untouchable, and unfixable.
I had faith in your dreams.
I had hope for our future.
I had happiness in my heart, in my smile, and in my eyes. 
But you tore it away, 
slowly but (and) forcefully.
We grew cold.
We grew bitter and selfish.
Neither wanted to let go, 
because the loss of comfort would kill us both.
We got past faking, 
We got past even attempting.
It’s time to walk away.
It’s time for the misery and silly games to come to a stop.
I wish I could say everything will be just fine, 
But then, I would be considered the liar, 
And a hypocrite just like you. 


Lauren Humphrey, Hypocrite

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Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!
Alfred, Lord Tennyson - 'Tears, idle tears'

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A Chieftain to the Highlands bound,
Cries, ‘Boatman, do not tarry;
And I’ll give thee a silver pound
To row us o’er the ferry.’

‘Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?’
‘Oh! I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle,
And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.

‘And fast before her father’s men
Three days we’ve fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.

‘His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?’

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight:
‘I’ll go, my chief – I’m ready:
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady.

‘And by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry:
So, though the waves are raging white,
I’ll row you o’er the ferry.’

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still, as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men-
Their trampling sounded nearer.

‘Oh! Haste thee, haste!’ the lady cries,
‘Though tempests round us gather;
I’ll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.’

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her-
When oh! Too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o’er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing;
Lord Ullin reach’d that fatal shore-
His wrath was chang’d to wailing.

For sore dismay’d, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover;
One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid,
And one was round her lover.

‘Come back! Come back!’ he cried in grief,
‘Across this stormy water;
And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter!- oh, my daughter!’

‘Twas vain: the loud waves lash’d the shore,
Return or aid preventing;
The waters wild went o’er his child,
And he was left lamenting.

Thomas Campbell - Lord Ullin's Daughter

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My mother, who hates thunder storms,
Holds up each summer day and shakes
It out suspiciously, lest swarms
Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there;
But when the August weather breaks
And rains begin, and brittle frost
Sharpens the bird-abandoned air,
Her worried summer look is lost,

And I her son, though summer-born
And summer-loving, none the less
Am easier when the leaves are gone
Too often summer days appear
Emblems of perfect happiness
I can't confront: I must await
A time less bold, less rich, less clear:
An autumn more appropriate.


Philip Larkin - 'Mother, Summer, I'

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There's a one-eyed yellow idol
To the north of Kathmandu;
There's a little marble cross below the town;
And a brokenhearted woman
Tends the grave of 'Mad' Carew,
While the yellow god forever gazes down.

He was known as 'Mad' Carew
By the subs at Kathmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell,
But, for all his foolish pranks,
He was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along
With the passion of the strong,
And that she returned his love was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one,
And arrangements were begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present
She would like from 'Mad' Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed a squad:
And jestingly she made pretence
That nothing else would do ...
But the green eye of the little yellow god.

On the night before the dance
'Mad' Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him
As they pulled at their cigars,
But for once he failed to smile,
And he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night.. beneath the stars.

 He returned, before the dawn,
With his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temples... dripping red.
He was patched up right away,
And he slept all through the day
While the Colonel's daughter
Watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked her
If she'd send his tunic through.
She brought it and he thanked her with a nod.
He bade her search the pocket,
Saying, 'That's from "Mad" Carew,'
And she found ... the little green eye of the god.

She upbraided poor Carew,
In the way that women do,
Although her eyes were strangely hot and wet,
But she would not take the stone,
And Carew was left alone
With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height
On that still and tropic night,
She thought of him ... and hastened to his room.
As she crossed the barrack square
She could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.

His door was open wide,
With silver moonlight shining through;
The place was wet and slippery where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried
In the heart of 'Mad' Carew ...
'Twas the vengeance of the little yellow god.


There's a one-eyed yellow idol
To the north of Kathmandu;
There's a little marble cross below the town;
And a brokenhearted woman
Tends the grave of 'Mad' Carew,
While the yellow god forever gazes down.


The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God 

Melody - Milton Hayes & Cuthbert Clarke, 1911



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I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy; 
But to see her was to love her; 
Love but her, and love forever. 
Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 
Never met—or never parted— 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 
from Ae Fond Kiss - Robert Burns


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Tell me where is fancy bred,

Or in the heart or in the head?

How begot, how nourished?

Reply, reply.

It is engender’d in the eyes,

With gazing fed; and fancy dies

In the cradle where it lies.

Let us all ring fancy’s knell;

I’ll begin it – Ding, dong, bell.


Shakespeare - The Merchant of Venice, iii/ii

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Batter my heart, three-person’d God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp’d town to another due,
Labour to admit you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv’d, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov’d fain,
But am betroth’d unto your enemy;
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.


Batter my heart, three-person’d God - John Donne



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    Rise heart;  thy Lord is risen.  Sing his praise
                                        Without delayes,
    Who takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise
                                        With him mayst rise:
    That, as his death calcined thee to dust,
    His life may make thee gold, and much more just.

    Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part
                                        With all thy art.
    The crosse taught all wood to resound his name
                                        Who bore the same.
    His stretched sinews taught all strings, what key
    Is best to celebrate this most high day.

    Consort both heart and lute, and twist a song
                                        Pleasant and long:
    Or since all music is but three parts vied,
                                        And multiplied;
    O let thy blessed Spirit bear a part,
    And make up our defects with his sweet art.


George Herbert - 'Easter'

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How hast thou merited -

Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot?

Alack, thou knowest not

How little worthy of any love thou art!

Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,

Save Me, save only Me?


All which I took from thee I did but take,

Not for thy harms,

But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms.

All which thy child's mistake

Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:

Rise, clasp My hand, and come!'


Halts by me that footfall:

Is my gloom, after all,

Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?


'Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,

I am He Whom thou seekest!

Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.'



The Hound of Heaven by Francis Thompson


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He shall be taken with out the walls of the city
Where pestilence shall hold dominion over all
The water will stink and prove bitter on his tongue
A plague of isolation shall deliver him to decrepitude
Wither shall he fly in such misery
He wants to run
Where can he run?
It’s blood uptown and blood downtown
Blood in the woods and blood in the country
He will crawl like a raving dog starving with a hunger
But the will therein lieth, which does not die
Who knows the mysteries of the will with its vigour
For a body is but a great will pervading all things by nature of its intent
Man does not yield himself to the angels
Nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will


Man does not yield himself to the angels
Nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will


The sky shall vanish and he shall enter the empire of the Lord
Through the silent labyrinth of death to the echoing chambers of paradise
In blue serene opalescence live the innocent
And goodness lives forever
Like the odour of nude flowers in the sense of every spirit who lives therein
Where numberless ranks of angels draped in feeble robes that hang like gold leaf is about each celestial frame
Angels who sing as with one voice the fabulous music of the spheres
In the fathomless precincts of eternity she reigns
Immaculate in flames of pale blue mystery
Her frail features radiant with some extra lunar incandescence
The mystic rose in whose blemishing grace he shall come to know the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God.



Truth Lies Within, John Cooper Clarke


Edited by lunababymoonchild
nit picking in order to get it completely correct

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To see a World in a Grain of Sand 

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower 

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand 

And Eternity in an hour


A Robin Red breast in a Cage 

Puts all Heaven in a Rage 

A Dove house filld with Doves & Pigeons 

Shudders Hell thr' all its regions 

A dog starv'd at his Masters Gate 

Predicts the ruin of the State 

A Horse misusd upon the Road 

Calls to Heaven for Human blood 

Each outcry of the hunted Hare 

A fibre from the Brain does tear 

A Skylark wounded in the wing 

A Cherubim does cease to sing 


From Auguries Of Innocence - by William Blake  Auguries of Innocence


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I saw Eternity the other night,
Like a great ring of pure and endless light,
All calm, as it was bright;
And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years,
Driv’n by the spheres
Like a vast shadow mov’d; in which the world
And all her train were hurl’d.
The doting lover in his quaintest strain
Did there complain;
Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights,
Wit’s sour delights,
With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure,
Yet his dear treasure
All scatter’d lay, while he his eyes did pour
Upon a flow’r.
The darksome statesman hung with weights and woe,
Like a thick midnight-fog mov’d there so slow,
He did not stay, nor go;
Condemning thoughts (like sad eclipses) scowl
Upon his soul,
And clouds of crying witnesses without
Pursued him with one shout.
Yet digg’d the mole, and lest his ways be found,
Work’d under ground,
Where he did clutch his prey; but one did see
That policy;
Churches and altars fed him; perjuries
Were gnats and flies;
It rain’d about him blood and tears, but he
Drank them as free.
The fearful miser on a heap of rust
Sate pining all his life there, did scarce trust
His own hands with the dust,
Yet would not place one piece above, but lives
In fear of thieves;
Thousands there were as frantic as himself,
And hugg’d each one his pelf;
The downright epicure plac’d heav’n in sense,
And scorn’d pretence,
While others, slipp’d into a wide excess,
Said little less;
The weaker sort slight, trivial wares enslave,
Who think them brave;
And poor despised Truth sate counting by
Their victory.
Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing,
And sing, and weep, soar’d up into the ring;
But most would use no wing.
O fools (said I) thus to prefer dark night
Before true light,
To live in grots and caves, and hate the day
Because it shews the way,
The way, which from this dead and dark abode
Leads up to God,
A way where you might tread the sun, and be
More bright than he.
But as I did their madness so discuss
One whisper’d thus,
“This ring the Bridegroom did for none provide,
But for his bride.”
Henry Vaughan - 'The World'

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Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others,
even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.


Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding, as it should.


Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labours and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.


Be cheerful.


Strive to be happy.


Max Ehrmann, Desiderata

Edited by lunababymoonchild

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The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
William Wordsworth - 'The World Is Too Much With Us'

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I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.


And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.


I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.


The Lake Isle of Innisfree, William Butler Yeats

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I sing to him that rests below,
   And, since the grasses round me wave,
   I take the grasses of the grave,
And make them pipes whereon to blow.
The traveller hears me now and then,
   And sometimes harshly will he speak:
   'This fellow would make weakness weak,
And melt the waxen hearts of men.'
Another answers, 'Let him be,
   He loves to make parade of pain
   That with his piping he may gain
The praise that comes to constancy.'


A third is wroth: 'Is this an hour
   For private sorrow's barren song,
   When more and more the people throng
The chairs and thrones of civil power?
'A time to sicken and to swoon,
   When Science reaches forth her arms
   To feel from world to world, and charms
Her secret from the latest moon?'
Behold, ye speak an idle thing:
   Ye never knew the sacred dust:
   I do but sing because I must,
And pipe but as the linnets sing:
And one is glad; her note is gay,
   For now her little ones have ranged;
   And one is sad; her note is changed,
Because her brood is stol'n away.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson - from 'In Memoriam A.H.H.'

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IF you can keep your head when all about you 
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings 
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

If, Rudyard Kipling

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You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
’Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.


From And Still I Rise by Maya Angelou

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O I forbid you, maidens a’,

That wear gold in your hair,

To come or gae by Carterhaugh,

For young Tam Lin is there.


There’s nane that gaes by Carterhaugh

But they leave him a wad,                               [token]

Either their rings, or green mantles,

Or else their maidenhead.


Janet has kilted her green kirtle

A little aboon her knee,

And she has braided her yellow hair

A little aboon her bree,                     [above her brow]

And she’s awa to Carterhaugh,

As fast as she can hie.


When she came to Carterhaugh

Tam Lin was at the well,

And there she found his steed standing,

But away was himsel. 


She had na pu’d a double rose,

A rose but only twa,

Till up then started young Tam Lin,

Says, Lady, thou’s pu nae mae.


Why pu’s thou the rose, Janet,

And why breaks thou the wand?

Or why comes thou to Carterhaugh

Withoutten my command? 


‘Carterhaugh, it is my ain,

My daddie gave it me;

I’ll come and gang by Carterhaugh,

And ask nae leave at thee.’


Traditional - from 'Tam Lin'

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And thou art dead, as young and fair 

As aught of mortal birth; 

And form so soft, and charms so rare, 

Too soon return'd to Earth! 

Though Earth receiv'd them in her bed, 

And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 

In carelessness or mirth, 

There is an eye which could not brook 

A moment on that grave to look. 


I will not ask where thou liest low, 

Nor gaze upon the spot; 

There flowers or weeds at will may grow, 

So I behold them not: 

It is enough for me to prove 

That what I lov'd, and long must love, 

Like common earth can rot; 

To me there needs no stone to tell, 

'T is Nothing that I lov'd so well. 


Yet did I love thee to the last 

As fervently as thou, 

Who didst not change through all the past, 

And canst not alter now. 

The love where Death has set his seal, 

Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 

Nor falsehood disavow: 

And, what were worse, thou canst not see 

Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 


The better days of life were ours; 

The worst can be but mine: 

The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, 

Shall never more be thine. 

The silence of that dreamless sleep 

I envy now too much to weep; 

Nor need I to repine 

That all those charms have pass'd away, 

I might have watch'd through long decay. 


The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 

Must fall the earliest prey; 

Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, 

The leaves must drop away: 

And yet it were a greater grief 

To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 

Than see it pluck'd to-day; 

Since earthly eye but ill can bear 

To trace the change to foul from fair. 


I know not if I could have borne 

To see thy beauties fade; 

The night that follow'd such a morn 

Had worn a deeper shade: 

Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd, 

And thou wert lovely to the last, 

Extinguish'd, not decay'd; 

As stars that shoot along the sky 

Shine brightest as they fall from high. 


As once I wept, if I could weep, 

My tears might well be shed, 

To think I was not near to keep 

One vigil o'er thy bed; 

To gaze, how fondly! on thy face, 

To fold thee in a faint embrace, 

Uphold thy drooping head; 

And show that love, however vain, 

Nor thou nor I can feel again. 


Yet how much less it were to gain, 

Though thou hast left me free, 

The loveliest things that still remain, 

Than thus remember thee

The all of thine that cannot die 

Through dark and dread Eternity 

Returns again to me, 

And more thy buried love endears 

Than aught except its living years.


And Thou art Dead, as Young and Fair


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They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow,
They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces
And husband nature’s riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
   For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
   Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.


Shakespeare - 'Sonnet 94'

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