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John Donne,


As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go;
Whilst some of their sad friends do

The breath goes now — and some say,

So let us melt and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests

'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th' earth brings harms and

Men reckon what it did, and meant:
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far is innocent.

Dull, sublunary lovers' love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which alimented it.

But we're by love so much refined, That ourselves know not what it is, I Inter-assured of the mind,

Careless eyes, lips, and hands to miss.

Our two souls, therefore (which are

Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no

To move, but doth, if th' other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle's just,
And makes me end where I begun.

Henry Ripley Dorr.


There is a room, a stately room, Now filled with light, now wrapped in gloom.

There is a door, a steel-clad door. Lined with masses of hammered ore,

Closed with a lock of Titan weight, Opened only by hand of Fate!

There is a window, broad and old. Barred with irons of massive mould;

Back from the window, closed and fast,

Stretches the vista of the Past;

A lengthening vista, faint and dim,
Reaching beyond the horizon's rim.

Men may wait at the window-sill
And listen, listen — but all is still.

Men may wait till their hairs are white,

Through the hours of day and night;

Men may shower their tears like rain

And mourn that they cannot pass again;

Over the pathway of the Past;

But travelled first, it is travelled last!

Turn with me to the iron door
Many a mortal has stood before!

Lift the latch? It is fastened down! The hinges are flecked with a rusty brown.

batter away at its massive plates! Hark! do you hear the mocking Fates?

'Tis only the echoes that go and come

Like the measured beats of a muffled drum!

Your hands are bleeding? Then

come away, Perhaps, at length, you have learned


That only when under the grass or snow

We learn what mortals must die to know;

That only when we are still and cold

The door swings wide on its hinges old!

Sir Edward Dyer.


My mind to me a kingdom is;

Such perfect joy therein I find As far exceeds all earthly bliss

That God or Nature hath assigned; Though much I want that most

would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

Content I live; this is my stay.

I seek no more than may suffice. I press to bear no haughty sway;

Look, what I lack my mind supplies.

Lo! thus I triumph like a king! Content with that my mind doth bring.

I see how plenty surfeits oft,
And hasty climbers soonest fall;

I see that such as sit aloft
Mishap doth threaten most of all.

These get with toil, and keep with fear;

Such cares my mind could never bear.

No princely pomp nor wealthy store,
No force to win the victory,

No wily wit to salve a sore.
No shape to win a lover's eye, —

To none of these I yield as thrall;

For why, my mind despiseth all.

Some have too much, yet still they


I little have, yet seek no more, They are but poor, though much they have;

And I am rich with little store. They poor, I rich; they beg, I give: They lack, I lend; they pine, I live.

I laugh not at another's loss,
I grudge not at another's gain:

No worldly wave my mind can toss;
I brook that is another's bane.

I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend;

I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.

I joy not in no earthly bliss;
I weigh not Croesus' wealth a

For care, I care not what it is:
I fear not fortune's fatal law;
My mind is such as may not move
For beauty bright, or force of love.

I wish but what I have at will;

I wander not to seek for more: Hike the plain, I climb no hill;

In greatest storms I sit on shore, And laugh at them that toil in vain To get what must be lost again.

I kiss not where I wish to kill; I feign not love where most I hate;

I break no sleep to win my will;

I wait not at the mighty's gate.
I scorn no poor, I fear no rich;
I feel no want, nor have too much.

The court nor cart I like nor loathe;

Extremes are counted worst of all; f The golden mean betwixt them both

Doth surest sit, and fears no fall; This is my choice; for why, I find No wealth is like a quiet mind.

My wealth is health and perfect


My conscience clear my chief de-

I never seek by bribes to please,
Nor by desert to give offence.
Thus do I live, thus will I die;
Would all did so as well as 1!

William D. Gallagher.


When last the maple bud was swelling,

When last the crocus bloomed below,

Thy heart to mine its love was telling; Thy soul with mine kept ebb and flow:

Again the maple bud is swelling, Again the crocus blooms below: —

In heaven thy heart its love is telling. But still our souls keep ebb and flow.

When last the April bloom was flinging

Sweet odors on the air of spring. In forest aisles thy voice was ringing,

Where thou didst with the red-bird sing.

Again the April bloom is flinging

Sweet odors on the air of spring, But now in heaven thy voice is ringing,

Where thou dost with the angels sing.


Stand up, erect! Thou hast the form

And likeness of thy God! — who

A soul as dauntless mid the storm
Of daily life, a heart as warm
And pure as breast e'er wore.

What then? Thou art as true a man
As moves the human mass among;
As much a part of the great plan,
As with creat ion's dawn began,
As any of the throng.

Who is thine enemy? The high

In station, or in wealth the chief? The great, who coldly pass thee by, With proud step and averted eye? Kay! nurse not such belief.

If true unto thyself thou wast,

What were the proud one's scorn to

A feather, which thou mightest cast
Aside, as idly as the blast,
The light leaf from the tree.

No: — uncurbed passions, low desires.

Absence of noble self-respect, Death, in the breast's consuming fires, To that high nature which aspires Forever, till thus checked;

These are thine enemies — thy worst;

They chain thee to thy lonely lot: Thy labor and thy lot accursed. Oh! stand erect, and from them burst,

And longer suffer not.

Thou art thyself thine enemy.
The great! What better they than

As theirs, is not thy will as free?
Has God with equal favors thee
Neglected to endow.

True, wealth thou hast not — 'tis but dust!

Nor place — uncertain as the wind! But that thou hast, which, with thy crust

And water, may despise the lust
Of both — a noble mind.

With this, and passions under ban,
True faith, and holy trust in God,

Thou art the peer of any man.

Look up, then, that thy little span
of life may be well trod.

William Wheeler Gay.


Supreme among a race of gods he stands.

His strong limbs strained and quivering with might; His heart exulting, as his foemen's bands

Before the dreadful aegis, melt in flight.

So once he strode on red Scamander's plain

Breasting at Hector's side the storm

of spears; Perchance in dreams he shakes the

shield again And, shouting, fills the Grecian

host with fears.

Far-darting god of Homer, dost thou dream

That Time still wears a crown of

sunny hair? That dawn-faced Daphne sings by

Peneus' stream, And Dian routs the roebuck from

his lair?

Know, shrineless god, that temples

sink to dust; Creeds moulder with the heart that

gave them birth; Time is a despot, and gods, even,


Bow to his will like mortals of the earth.

Look close! the crowds that throng this Belvedere Are not gray-bearded elders laden well

With costly gifts, from Athens sent to hear

The fateful murmurs issue from thy cell.

No longer now they tremble as they stand

Before thy face, remembering


Nor reverence thee, but him whose mortal hand Gave thee the gift of immortality.

Edmund W. Gosse.


Wouldst thou not be content to die
When low-hung fruit is hardly
And golden autumn passes by?

If we could vanish, thou and 1 While the last woodland bird is singing,

Wouldst thou not be content to die?

Deep drifts of leaves in the forest lie, Red vintage that the frost is flinging.

And golden autumn passes by.

Beneath this delicate, rose-gray sky. While sunset bells are faintly ringing,

Wouldst thou not be content to die?

For wintry webs of mist on high Out of the mutlled earth are springing,

And golden autumn passes by.

Oh. now, w hen pleasures fade and fly, And hope her southward flight is winging,

Wouldst thou not be content to die?

Lest winter come, with wailing cry,

His cruel, icy bondage bringing, When golden autumn hath passed by,

And thou with many a tear and sigh,
While Life her wasted hands is
Shalt pray in vain for leave to die
When golden autumn hath passed by.


Where are you, Sylvia, where? For our own bird the woodpecker, is here,

Calling on you with cheerful tappings loud!

The breathing heavens are full of liquid light;

The dew is on the meadow like a cloud;

The earth is moving in her green

delight — Her spiritual crocuses shoot through, And rathe hepaticas in rose and blue; But snow-drops that awaited you so


Died at the thrush's song.

"Adieu, adieu!" they said, "We saw the skirts of glory fade; We were the hopeless lovers of the spring,

Too young, as yet, for any love of ours;

She is harsh, not having heard the

white-throats sing; She is cold, not knowing the tender

April showers; Yet have we felt her, as the buried


May feel the rustle of the unfallen rain;

We have known her, as the star that

sets too soon Bows to the unseen moon."

David Gray.

Die do trN, o Dismal Day.

Die down, O dismal day, and let me live;

And come, blue deeps, magnificently strewn

With colored clouds, — large light,

and fugitive. — By upper winds through pompous

motions blown. Now it is death in life, — a vapor


Creeps round my window till I cannot


The far snow-shining mountains and

the glens

Shagging the mountain-tops. O God!

make free This barren shackled earth, so deadly


Breathe gently forth thy spring, till

winter flies In rude amazement, fearful and yet


While she performs her customed

charities; I weigh the loaded hours till life is

bare, —

O God, for one clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air!


If it must be — if it must be, O

That I die young and make no further moans;

That underneath the unrespeetive sod,

In unescutcheoned privacy, my bones Shall crumble soon; — then give me

strength to bear The last convulsive throe of too

sweet breath! I tremble from the edge of life, to


The dark and fatal leap, having no faith,

No glorious yearning for the Apocalypse;

But like a child that in the nighttime cries for light, I cry; forgetting the eclipse Of knowledge and our human destinies—

O peevish and uncertain soul! obey The law of patience till the Day.


O W'lNTEli, wilt thou never, never go?

O summer, but I weary for thy coming,

Longing once more to hear the Luggie flow.

And frugal bees laboriously humming,

Now the east wind diseases the infirm,

And I must crouch in corners from

rough weather. Sometimes a winter sunset is a

charm —

When the fired clouds compacted,

burn together. And the large sun dips red behind the


I, from my window can behold this pleasure;

And the eternal moon what time she fills

Her orb with argent, treading a soft measure,

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