On fame II

John Keats (1795–1821)

How fever’d is the man, who cannot look
Upon his mortal days with temperate blood,
Who vexes all the leaves of his life’s book,
And robs his fair name of its maidenhood;
It is as if the rose should pluck herself,
On the ripe plum finger its misty bloom,
As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf,
Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom:
But the rose leaves herself upon the briar,
For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed,
And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire,
The undisturbed lake has crystal space;
Why then should man, teasing the world for grace,
Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed?

On Fame

John Keats

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
To those who woo her with too slavish knees,
But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,
And dotes the more upon a heart at ease;
She is a Gypsy,—will not speak to those
Who have not learnt to be content without her;
A Jilt, whose ear was never whispered close,
Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her;
A very Gypsy is she, Nilus-born,
Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;
Ye love-sick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn;
Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are!
Makeyour best bow to her and bid adieu,
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.

House With The Grey Gate

Tabish Khair

In my street there is a white house with a little grey gate
That is slightly off one hinge and always open.

An old woman sits on its porch and knits,
Looking up when the gate creaks with age or wind,
Expecting someone; though no one comes, nor has come for years.

An old man sometimes tidies up the faded garden
Where shrubbery has spread, refusing to be weeded out.

Ever since I moved here I have seen this little white house-
With the old man and the old woman and an old pattern of life-

Refusing to be weeded out from this skyscraping street;
Where two people had grown roots, once, scattered seeds,
And now, with a hope stubborn as weeds,
Still peer through curtained windows when the gate creaks.

Palanquin Bearers

Sarojini Naidu

Lightly, O lightly we bear her along,
She sways like a flower in the wind of our song;
She skims like a bird on the foam of a stream,
She floats like a laugh from the lips of a dream.
Gaily, O gaily we glide and we sing,
We bear her along like a pearl on a string.
Softly, O softly we bear her along,
She hangs like a star in the dew of our song;
She springs like a beam on the brow of the tide,
She falls like a tear from the eyes of a bride.
Lightly, O lightly we glide and we sing,
We bear her along like a pearl on a string.

Ozymandias

P. B. Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert... Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.'

Little drops of water

Julia Carney
1845

Little drops of water,
Little grains of sand,
Make the mighty ocean
And the beauteous land.

And the little moments,
Humble though they may be,
Make the mighty ages
Of eternity.
Little deeds of kindness,
Little words of love,
Mour earth an Eden,
Like the heaven above.

So our little errors
Lead the soul away,
From the paths of virtue
Far in sin to stray.

Little seeds of mercy
Sown by youthful hands,
Grow to bless the nations
Far in heathen lands.

Glory then for everbe
To God on high,
Beautiful and loving,
To eternity.

The Ballad of Semmerwater

Sir William Watson

Deep asleep, deep asleep, Deep asleep it lies,
The still lake of Semmerwater Under the still skies.
And many a fathom, many a fathom, Many a fathom below,
In a king's tower and a queen's bower The fishes come and go.

Once there stood by Semmerwater
A mickle town and tall;
King's tower and queen's bower
And the wakeman on the wall.

Came a beggar halt and sore,
"I faint for lack of bread!"
King's tower and queen's bower
Cast him forth unfed.

He knock'd at the door of the eller's cot,
The eller's cot in the dale.
They gave him of their oatcake,
They gave him of their ale.

He has cursed aloud that city proud,
He has cursed it in its pride;
He has cursed it into Semmerwater
Down the brant hillside;
He has cursed it into Semmerwater
There to bide.

King's tower and queen's bower,
And a mickle town and tall;
By glimmer of scale and gleam of fin,
Folk have seen them all.

King's tower and queen's bower,
And weed and reed in the gloom;
And a lost city in Semmerweater,
Deep asleep till Doom.