The Road That Has No End

By Joseph Burrows

Hast ever tramped along the road

That has no end?

The far brown winding road, your one

Fast friend

A tattered weather-beaten swag,

A silent mate

To send

His dumb warm comfort to the heart,

A fount where dreams ascend.

There's wondrous freedom on the road

That has no end;

A man's heart glows, his spirit leaps

To blend

Its joy of life with fierce wind's gust

Upon his face:

To lend

Its cry to Nature's tumult, full

And shrill, as twilight shades descend.

The flowers bloom along the road

That has no end

Cool breezes blow, the gum trees sway

And bend;

The wild doves woo, and softly coo

Their soothing notes,

And mend

Heart's throbbing pain to sweet content,

And peace lights on the mind's sad trend

There's pain and toil along the road

That has no end;

A sinking heart, and weary feet

That spend

Their strength, and lag and crave respite;

And dim tired eyes

That tend

To close their heavy lids upon

The stinging dusts that upward wend.

There are sweet still hours along the road

That has no end

'Neath twinkling stars when night's deep shades

O'erpend;

A man's eyes shine with gathered tears,

And memories come

To rend

His straining heart strings, while above

The paling lights his mood commend.

I love the road, the swagman's road

That has no end;

I love its joys, that pains and toils

Transcend;

It is my dreams, the life that fills my heart

And when death comes and would

My peacefulness

Amend,

I pray that God may let my soul depart

With my tattered swag beside me,

'Mid my friends that never chide me,

And my face towards the distant clouded hill,

Where leads the far brown winding road

That has no end.

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Fringford Brook by Violet Jacob

The willows stand by Fringford brook,

From Fringford up to Hethe,

Sun on their cloudy silver heads,

And shadow underneath.

They ripple to the silent airs

That stir the lazy day,

Now whitened by their passing hands,

Now turned again to grey.

The slim marsh-thistle's purple plume

Droops tasselled on the stem,

The golden hawkweeds pierce like flame

The grass that harbours them;

Long drowning tresses of the weeds

Trail where the stream is slow,

The vapoured mauves of water-mint

Melt in the pools below;

Serenely soft September sheds

On earth her slumberous look,

The heartbreak of an anguished world

Throbs not by Fringford brook.

All peace is here. Beyond our range,

Yet 'neath the selfsame sky,

The boys that knew these fields of home

By Flemish willows lie.

They waded in the sun-shot flow,

They loitered in the shade,

Who trod the heavy road of death,

Jesting and unafraid.

Peace! What of peace? This glimpse of peace

Lies at the heart of pain,

For respite, ere the spirit's load

We stoop to lift again.

O load of grief, of faith, of wrath,

Of patient, quenchless will,

Till God shall ease us of your weight

We'll bear you higher still!

O ghosts that walk by Fringford brook,

'Tis more than peace you give,

For you, who knew so well to die,

Shall teach us how to live.

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Adam by Federico García Lorca

A tree of blood soaks the morning

where the newborn woman groans.

Her voice leaves glass in the wound

and on the panes, a diagram of bone.

The coming light establishes and wins

white limits of a fable that forgets

the tumult of veins in flight

toward the dim cool of the apple.

Adam dreams in the fever of the clay

of a child who comes galloping

through the double pulse of his cheek.

But a dark other Adam is dreaming

a neuter moon of seedless stone

where the child of light will burn.

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Requiescat by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

Tread lightly, she is near

Under the snow,

Speak gently, she can hear

The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair

Tarnished with rust,

She that was young and fair

Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,

She hardly knew

She was a woman, so

Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,

Lie on her breast,

I vex my heart alone,

She is at rest.

Peace, Peace, she cannot hear

Lyre or sonnet,

All my life's buried here,

Heap earth upon it.

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The Tiger by William Blake

Tiger Tiger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye,

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp,

Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears

And water’d heaven with their tears:

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tiger Tiger burning bright,

In the forests of the night:

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

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Part III

Showing how they met by appointment in a grove, where she obliged him to fight or wed her.

Early on a summer's morning,

When bright Phoebus was adorning

Every bower with his beams,

The fair lady came, it seems.

At the bottom of a mountain,

Near a pleasant crystal fountain,

There she left her gilded coach,

While the grove she did approach.

Covered with her mask, and walking,

There she met her lover talking

With a friend that he had brought;

So she asked him whom he sought.

'I am challenged by a gallant,

Who resolves to try my talent;

Who he is I cannot say,

But I hope to show him play.'

'It is I that did invite you,

You shall wed me, or I'll fight you,

Underneath those spreading trees;

Therefore, choose you which you please.

'You shall find I do not vapour,

I have brought my trusty rapier;

Therefore, take your choice,' said she,

'Either fight or marry me.'

Said he, 'Madam, pray what mean you?

In my life I've never seen you;

Pray unmask, your visage show,

Then I'll tell you aye or no.'

'I will not my face uncover

Till the marriage ties are over;

Therefore, choose you which you will,

Wed me, sir, or try your skill.

'Step within that pleasant bower,

With your friend one single hour;

Strive your thoughts to reconcile,

And I'll wander here the while.'

While this beauteous lady waited,

The young bachelors debated

What was best for to be done:

Quoth his friend, 'The hazard run.

'If my judgment can be trusted,

Wed her first, you can't be worsted;

If she's rich, you'll rise to fame,

If she's poor, why! you're the same.'

He consented to be married;

All three in a coach were carried

To a church without delay,

Where he weds the lady gay.

Though sweet pretty Cupids hovered

Round her eyes, her face was covered

With a mask, - he took her thus,

Just for better or for worse.

With a courteous kind behaviour,

She presents his friend a favour,

And withal dismissed him straight,

That he might no longer wait.

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Part IV

Showing how they rode together in her gilded coach to her noble seat, or castle, etc.

As the gilded coach stood ready,

The young lawyer and his lady

Rode together, till they came

To her house of state and fame;

Which appeared like a castle,

Where you might behold a parcel

Of young cedars, tall and straight,

Just before her palace gate.

Hand in hand they walked together,

To a hall, or parlour, rather,

Which was beautiful and fair, -

All alone she left him there.

Two long hours there he waited

Her return; - at length he fretted,

And began to grieve at last,

For he had not broke his fast.

Still he sat like one amazed,

Round a spacious room he gazed,

Which was richly beautified;

But, alas! he lost his bride.

There was peeping, laughing, sneering,

All within the lawyer's hearing;

But his bride he could not see;

'Would I were at home!' thought he.

While his heart was melancholy,

Said the steward, brisk and jolly,

'Tell me, friend, how came you here?

You've some bad design, I fear.'

He replied, 'Dear loving master,

You shall meet with no disaster

Through my means, in any case, -

Madam brought me to this place.'

Then the steward did retire,

Saying, that he would enquire

Whether it was true or no:

Ne'er was lover hampered so.

Now the lady who had filled him

With those fears, full well beheld him

From a window, as she dressed,

Pleased at the merry jest.

When she had herself attired

In rich robes, to be admired,

She appeared in his sight,

Like a moving angel bright.

'Sir! my servants have related,

How some hours you have waited

In my parlour, - tell me who

In my house you ever knew?'

'Madam! if I have offended,

It is more than I intended;

A young lady brought me here:' -

'That is true,' said she, 'my dear.

'I can be no longer cruel

To my joy, and only jewel;

Thou art mine, and I am thine,

Hand and heart I do resign!

'Once I was a wounded lover,

Now these fears are fairly over;

By receiving what I gave,

Thou art lord of what I have.'

Beauty, honour, love, and treasure,

A rich golden stream of pleasure,

With his lady he enjoys;

Thanks to Cupid's kind decoys.

Now he's clothed in rich attire,

Not inferior to a squire;

Beauty, honour, riches' store,

What can man desire more?

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Part II

Showing the Lady's letter of a challenge to fight him upon his refusing to wed her in a mask, without knowing who she was.

Night and morning, for a season,

In her closet would she reason

With herself, and often said,

'Why has love my heart betrayed?

'I, that have so many slighted,

Am at length so well requited;

For my griefs are not a few!

Now I find what love can do.

'He that has my heart in keeping,

Though I for his sake be weeping,

Little knows what grief I feel;

But I'll try it out with steel.

'For I will a challenge send him,

And appoint where I'll attend him,

In a grove, without delay,

By the dawning of the day.

'He shall not the least discover

That I am a virgin lover,

By the challenge which I send;

But for justice I contend.

'He has caused sad distraction,

And I come for satisfaction,

Which if he denies to give,

One of us shall cease to live.'

Having thus her mind revealed,

She her letter closed and sealed;

Which, when it came to his hand,

The young man was at a stand.

In her letter she conjured him

For to meet, and well assured him,

Recompence he must afford,

Or dispute it with the sword.

Having read this strange relation,

He was in a consternation;

But, advising with his friend,

He persuades him to attend.

'Be of courage, and make ready,

Faint heart never won fair lady;

In regard it must be so,

I along with you must go.'

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Part 1

Showing Cupid's Conquest Over a Coy Lady of Five Thousand a Year.

Bachelors of every station,

Mark this strange and true relation,

Which in brief to you I bring, -

Never was a stranger thing!

You shall find it worth the hearing;

Loyal love is most endearing,

When it takes the deepest root,

Yielding charms and gold to boot.

Some will wed for love of treasure;

But the sweetest joy and pleasure

Is in faithful love, you'll find,

Graced with a noble mind.

Such a noble disposition

Had this lady, with submission,

Of whom I this sonnet write,

Store of wealth, and beauty bright.

She had left, by a good grannum,

Full five thousand pounds per annum,

Which she held without control;

Thus she did in riches roll.

Though she had vast store of riches,

Which some persons much bewitches,

Yet she bore a virtuous mind,

Not the least to pride inclined.

Many noble persons courted

This young lady, 'tis reported;

But their labour proved in vain,

They could not her favour gain.

Though she made a strong resistance,

Yet by Cupid's true assistance,

She was conquered after all;

How it was declare I shall.

Being at a noble wedding,

Near the famous town of Redding,

A young gentleman she saw,

Who belonged to the law.

As she viewed his sweet behaviour,

Every courteous carriage gave her

New addition to her grief;

Forced she was to seek relief.

Privately she then enquired

About him, so much admired;

Both his name, and where he dwelt, -

Such was the hot flame she felt.

Then, at night, this youthful lady

Called her coach, which being ready,

Homewards straight she did return;

But her heart with flames did burn.

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The Lotos-eaters

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

“Courage!” he said, and pointed toward the land,
“This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.”
In the afternoon they came unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon.
All round the coast the languid air did swoon,
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;
And some thro’ wavering lights and shadows broke,
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
They saw the gleaming river seaward flow
From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops,
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,
Stood sunset-flush’d: and, dew’d with showery drops,
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.

The charmed sunset linger’d low adown
In the red West: thro’ mountain clefts the dale
Was seen far inland, and the yellow down
Border’d with palm, and many a winding vale
And meadow, set with slender galingale;
A land where all things always seem’d the same!
And round about the keel with faces pale,
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,
The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave
To each, but whoso did receive of them,
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave
On alien shores; and if his fellow spake,
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;
And deep-asleep he seem’d, yet all awake,
And music in his ears his beating heart did make.

They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
Between the sun and moon upon the shore;
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
Most weary seem’d the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then some one said, “We will return no more”;
And all at once they sang, “Our island home
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.”

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For Whom the Bell Tolls

by John Donne

No man is an island,

Entire of itself.

Each is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less.

As well as if a promontory were.

As well as if a manor of thine own

Or of thine friend's were.

Each man's death diminishes me,

For I am involved in mankind.

Therefore, send not to know

For whom the bell tolls,

It tolls for thee.

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Fire and Ice

by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favour fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

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Faery Songs

By John Keats

I.

Shed no tear! oh, shed no tear!

The flower will bloom another year.

Weep no more! oh, weep no more!

Young buds sleep in the root's white core.

Dry your eyes! oh, dry your eyes!

For I was taught in Paradise

To ease my breast of melodies,

Shed no tear.

Overhead! look overhead!

'Mong the blossoms white and red

Look up, look up! I flutter now

On this fresh pomegranate bough.

See me! 'tis this silvery bill

Ever cures the good man's ill.

Shed no tear! oh, shed no tear!

The flower will bloom another year.

Adieu, adieu, I fly adieu!

I vanish in the heaven�s blue,

Adieu, adieu!

II.

Ah! woe is me! poor silver-wing!

That I must chant thy lady's dirge,

And death to this fair haunt of spring,

Of melody, and streams of flowery verge,

Poor silver-wing! ah! woe is me!

That I must see

These blossoms snow upon thy lady's pall!

Go, pretty page! and in her ear

Whisper that the hour is near!

Softly tell her not to fear

Such calm favonian burial!

Go, pretty page! and soothly tell,

The blossoms hang by a melting spell,

And fall they must, ere a star wink thrice

Upon her closed eyes,

That now in vain are weeping their last tears,

At sweet life leaving, and these arbours green,

Rich dowry from the Spirit of the Spheres,

Alas! poor Queen!

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The Four Ages Of Man

By William Butler Yeats

He with body waged a fight,

But body won; it walks upright.

Then he struggled with the heart;

Innocence and peace depart.

Then he struggled with the mind;

His proud heart he left behind.

Now his wars on God begin;

At stroke of midnight God shall win.

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The Water

By Henry Lawson

    Let others make the songs of love

    For our young struggling nation;

    But I will sing while e'er I live

    The Songs of Irrigation;

    For while the white man shall beget

    The white man's son and daughter,

    The two most precious things for us

    Shall still be wheat and water.

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The Reaper and the Flowers 

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,

And, with his sickle keen,

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,

And the flowers that grow between.

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A Ballad Of John Silver

By John Masefield

We were schooner-rigged and rakish, with a long and lissome hull,

And we flew the pretty colours of the cross-bones and the skull;

We'd a big black Jolly Roger flapping grimly at the fore,

And we sailed the Spanish Water in the happy days of yore.

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Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

By Robert Lee Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village, though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

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Ulysses 

by Alfred Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,

By this still hearth, among these barren crags,

Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole

Unequal laws unto a savage race,

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink

Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd

Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those

That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;

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