Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard To a Skylark

by Thomas Gray by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, Bird thou never wert,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way, That from Heaven, or near it,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Higher still and higher
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, From the earth thou springest
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, In the golden lightning
Molest her ancient solitary reign. Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Thou dost float and run;
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, Like a star of Heaven,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, In the broad day-light
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
Keen as are the arrows
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Of that silver sphere,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care: Whose intense lamp narrows
No children run to lisp their sire's return, In the white dawn clear
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, All the earth and air
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; With thy voice is loud,
How jocund did they drive their team afield! As, when night is bare,
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflow'd.
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; What thou art we know not;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile What is most like thee?
The short and simple annals of the poor. From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. Like a Poet hidden
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault Like a high-born maiden
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. In a palace-tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Can storied urn or animated bust Soul in secret hour
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Scattering unbeholden
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Its aëreal hue
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.
Like a rose embower'd
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page In its own green leaves,
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; By warm winds deflower'd,
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, Till the scent it gives
And froze the genial current of the soul. Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves:

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, Sound of vernal showers

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: On the twinkling grass,
Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, Rain-awaken'd flowers,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Teach us, Sprite or Bird,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, What sweet thoughts are thine:
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, Chorus Hymeneal,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, Or triumphal chant,
Match'd with thine would be all
Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone But an empty vaunt,
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, What fields, or waves, or mountains?
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, What shapes of sky or plain?
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
With thy clear keen joyance
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Languor cannot be:
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Shadow of annoyance
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life Never came near thee:
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Thou lovest: but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect, Waking or asleep,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, Thou of death must deem
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Things more true and deep
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply: We look before and after,
And many a holy text around she strews, And pine for what is not:
That teach the rustic moralist to die. Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Yet if we could scorn
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind? Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Not to shed a tear,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires; I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead Better than all treasures
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; That in books are found,
If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Teach me half the gladness
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, That thy brain must know,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Such harmonious madness
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away From my lips would flow
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,

Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next with dirges due in sad array

Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."
 Merciless Beauty Go, Lovely Rose
by Geoffre Chaucer by Edmund Waller

Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly;
Their beauty shakes me who was once serene;
Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen.
Only your word will heal the injury
To my hurt heart, while yet the wound is clean -
Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly;
Their beauty shakes me who was once serene.
Upon my word, I tell you faithfully
Through life and after death you are my queen;
For with my death the whole truth shall be seen.
Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly;
Their beauty shakes me who was once serene;
Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen.
Go, lovely rose!
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that’s young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

The Old Pond Then die! that she

by Matsuo Bashō The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share
Furuike ya That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto

-- Basho Daddy Limerick

by Leanne Guenther
Fu-ru (old) i-ke (pond) ya,
ka-wa-zu (frog) to-bi-ko-mu (jumping into) There once was a very sad daddy,
mi-zu (water) no o-to (sound) Whose golf game was going quite badly.

– Translated by Fumiko Saisho He looked left and right --

No ball was in sight.
Old pond...
a frog jumps in I think that he needed a caddy!
water's sound

– Translated by William J. Higginson

I want to sleep
by Masaoka Shiki

I want to sleep
Swat the flies
Softly please