The Buried Words.

Part 11| Poems I adore.

First:
William Blake.

Night

The sun descending in the West,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower
In heaven's high bower,
With silent delight,
Sits and smiles on the night.

Farewell, green fields and happy grove,
Where flocks have ta'en delight.
Where lambs have nibbles, silent move
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom.
And each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nest
Where birds are covered warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm:
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep upon their head,
And sit down by their bed.

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Second:
William Wordsworth.

Solitary reaper

Behold her single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! For the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound,

No nightingale did not ever chant
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travelers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er has heard
In spring time from the cuckoo bird
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
familiar matter of today?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been and maybe again.

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work;
And o'er the sickle bending;
I listen'd motionless and still;
And as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore.
Long after it was heard no more.

•••••••••••

Third:
Charlotte Brontë

Life

Life, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom.
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make flowers bloom,
O why lament its fall?
Rapidly, merrily,
Life's sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerfully,
Enjoy them as they fall!

What though death at times steps in
And calls our best away?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O'er hope, a heavy sway?
Yet hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trail bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair!

••••••••

Forth:
Rudyard Kipling

If

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 of waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give a way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor walk 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 imposters just the same;
If you can 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 stood and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all 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 cowards and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings- not 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!

••••••••

Fifth:
Michele Campbell:

The worlds to come

Children cry as thunder crashes,
Slaves bleed from whips and lashes
All around me people scream
As destroyed in their golden dream.
Freedom crumbles into ashes,
And children cry as thunder crashes.

Shackles bind their hands and feet,
As they dream of death, so sweet,
To free them from demons' fiery hands
And take them away to foreign lands
Instead they cry, while being beat
And shackles bind their hands and feet.

Forever lost is the glimmer of hope
And pain, torture, and fear elope
In their palms pool crystal tears
As pain carry unspoken fears,
When the people realize that they can't cope,
Forever lost is the glimmer of hope.

Light finally pierces the dreadful gloom
And they are released from their fated doom
Slowly despair lifts from their faces
And from its cage, hope swiftly races
And like tapestry removed from the fates' loom
Light finally pierces the dreadful gloom.
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