We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
On January 20, 1961, Robert Frost spoke at John F. Kennedy's inauguration. The snow-glare made it impossible for him to read his new poem for the occasion (he was 87 years old), so he recited a better poem, The Gift Outright, from memory.
~ The Gift Outright ~
The land was ours before we were the land's. She was our land more than a hundred years Before we were her people. She was ours In Massachusetts, in Virginia. But we were England's, still colonials, Possessing what we still were unpossessed by, Possessed by what we now no more possessed. Something we were withholding made us weak. Until we found out that it was ourselves We were withholding from our land of living, And forthwith found salvation in surrender. Such as we were we gave ourselves outright (The deed of gift was many deeds of war) To the land vaguely realizing westward, But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced, Such as she was, such as she would become.
An annual reposting, now at the beginning of duck hunting season.
WHATEVER YOU DO IS WRONG
When you sit in the blind awaiting the flight Of the white-breasted northern sprig, While they circle high and think to light, And they look so close and big, You whisper your pard, as you both crouch low, “Now! – Don’t wait too long!” You shoot – too far – and off they go; Whatever you do is wrong!
Then you curse yourself for a fool greenhorn, Your pride has had a blow; Sullen you sit and smoke and mourn, When – in comes a bunch, fair low! You watch them circle ‘round and ‘round, “Just let them work along!” When – off they swing, southward bound; Whatever you do is wrong!
And so, through life, a poor wretch tries To do what he thinks is right, To place his funds so that when he dies His family’ll be sitting tight; To raise the young with the best in mind, And sometimes it works like a song, But often he finds like the man in the blind, Whatever you do is wrong!
Still, I think that our God who sits in His sky, And watches each man in his blind, When it comes time for the hunter to die, Surely, He’ll keep in mind That each tried to do what it seemed he ought, And He’ll put us where we belong; For He’ll understand the fellow that thought, Whatever he did was wrong!
When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there's a barrel that I didn't fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn't pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off. I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break. But I was well Upon my way to sleep before it fell, And I could tell What form my dreaming was about to take. Magnified apples appear and disappear, Stem end and blossom end, And every fleck of russet showing clear. My instep arch not only keeps the ache, It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round. I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend. And I keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling sound Of load on load of apples coming in. For I have had too much Of apple-picking: I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired. There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall. For all That struck the earth, No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble, Went surely to the cider-apple heap As of no worth. One can see what will trouble This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is. Were he not gone, The woodchuck could say whether it's like his Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, Or just some human sleep.
A hungry feeling Came o'er me stealing And the mice were squealing In my prison cell And that auld triangle went jingle-jangle All along the banks of the Royal Canal
Oh! To start the morning The warden bawling "Get up out of bed, clean out your cell!" And that auld triangle went jingle-jangle All along the banks of the Royal Canal
Oh! the screw was peeping And the lag was sleeping As he lay weeping For his girl Sal And that auld triangle went jingle-jangle All along the banks of the Royal Canal
On a fine Spring evening The lag lay dreaming And the sea-gulls were wheeling High above the wall And that auld triangle went jingle-jangle All along the banks of the Royal Canal
Oh! the wind was sighing And the day was dying As the lag lay crying In his prison cell And that auld triangle went jingle-jangle All along the banks of the Royal Canal
In the female prison There are seventy women It's with all of them That I'd like to dwell Then that auld triangle could go jingle-jangle All along the banks of the Royal Canal.
This song was written by Irish playwright Brendan Behan for his play The Quare Fellow (slang for a condemned man). A lag is slang for a new prisoner. The song has been performed by The Dubliners, The Clancy Brothers, and The Pogues, and is recorded on one of Bob Dylan's practice "basement tapes" with The Band in a folk-rock style.
SHE was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A Creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
WS was right about that, wasn't he?How did he know how long his lines would live?
When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride, He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside. But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail. For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man, He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can. But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail. For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws, They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws. 'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale. For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say, For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away; But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other's tale - The female of the species is more deadly than the male.
Man, a bear in most relations - worm and savage otherwise, - Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise. Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.
Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low, To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe. Mirth obscene diverts his anger - Doubt and Pity oft perplex Him in dealing with an issue - to the scandal of The Sex!
But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same, And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail, The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.
We only have fragments of Archilochus' lyric poetry (ie accompanied by a lyre), which have been found over the years on shreds of papyrus. Here are a few of those fragments:
- My one great talent lies in making those who wrong me suffer horribly.
- I am the servant of Ares, Lord of Battle, and I know the lovely gift of the Muses.
- Some Thracian is delighted with the shield, which beside a bush I left unwillingly, an excellent and perfect armament. Myself I saved! Why should that shield be important to me? The hell with it! I'll get another, just as good.
- Not many bowstrings will be stretched nor slingshot flying thick, when Ares makes his killing field on the plain. Then it will be the grievous work of the sword. They are the Lords of this kind of battle - The spear-famed Lords of Euboea.
- I long for a fight with you, just as a thirsty man longs for drink.
- The fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing.
- There is no country fair and desirable or lovely, like that around the banks of the Siris.
- I have no interest in the business of Gyges and all his gold, nor has such envy ever grasped me, nor do I feel envious of the works of the gods, nor have I love for high rulership, for all these things are very far from my eyes.
Archilochus, the first great Greek poet we know after Homer and Hesiod, is thought to have been a soldier, maybe a mercenary, possibly of the nobility - and the inventor if iambic verse. He was a master of meter, and seems to have been a cranky and vengeful SOB who never got over not being permitted to marry the gal he wanted. His vengeance drove her family to suicide. He died in battle, as he no doubt would have wanted to do. Not the type to die in a bed.
The year's at the spring And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hill-side's dew-pearled The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn; God's in his Heaven - All's right with the world!
Those famous lines are from Browning's 1841Pippa Passes. It's Pippa's song. Pippa is a silk mill worker in Asolo, and has three holidays per year. The poem goes through the morning, noon, evening and night of Pippa's day off. She treasures her precious free time. This is from "Morning":
Oh, Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee, A mite of my twelve-hours treasure, The least of thy gazes or glances, (Be they grants thou art bound to, or gifts above measure) One of thy choices, or one of thy chances, (Be they tasks God imposed thee, or freaks at thy pleasure) My Day, if I squander such labour or leisure, Then shame fall on Asolo, mischief on me! Thy long blue solemn hours serenely flowing, Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help and good Thy fitful sunshine-minutes, coming, going, As if earth turned from work in gamesome mood All shall be mine! But thou must treat me not As the prosperous are treated, these who live At hand here, and enjoy the higher lot, In readiness to take what thou wilt give, And free to let alone what thou refusest; For, Day, my holiday, if thou ill-usest Me, who am only Pippa, old-year's sorrow, Cast off last night, will come again to-morrow Whereas, if thou prove gentle, I shall borrow Sufficient strength of thee for new-year's sorrow. All other men and women that this earth Belongs to, who all days alike possess, Make general plenty cure particular dearth, Get more joy, one way, if another, less: Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven, Sole light that helps me through the year thy suns! Try, now! Take Asolo's Four Happiest Ones And let thy morning rain on that superb Great haughty Ottima; can rain disturb Her Sebald's homage? All the while thy rain Beats fiercest on her shrub-house window-pane, He will but press the closer, breathe more warm Against her cheek; how should she mind the storm? And, morning past, if mid-day shed a gloom O
O'er Jules and Phene, what care bride and groom Save for their dear selves? Tis their marriage-day; And while they leave church, and go home their way, Hand clasping hand, within each breast would be Sunbeams and pleasant weather spite of thee! Then, for another trial, obscure thy eve With mist, will Luigi and his mother grieve? The Lady and her child, unmatched, forsooth, She in her age, as Luigi in his youth, For true content? The cheerful town, warm, close, And safe, the sooner that thou art morose, Receives them! And yet once again, out-break In storm at night on Monsignor, they make Such stir about, whom they expect from Rome To visit Asolo, his brother's home, And say here masses proper to release A soul from pain, what storm dares hurt his peace? Calm would he pray, with his own thoughts to ward Thy thunder off, nor want the angels' guard! But Pippa just one such mischance would spoil Her day that lightens the next twelve-month's toil At wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil! And here I let time slip for nought! Aha, you foolhardy sunbeam caught With a single splash from my ewer! You that would mock the best pursuer, Was my basin over-deep? One splash of water ruins you asleep, And up, up fleet your brilliant bits Wheeling and counterwheeling, Reeling, broken beyond healing Now grow together on the ceiling! That will task your wits! Whoever quenched fire first, hoped to see Morsel after morsel flee As merrily, as giddily . . . Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on, Where settles by degrees the radiant cripple? Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon? New-blown and ruddy as St. Agnes' nipple, Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk bird's poll! Be sure if corals, branching 'neath the ripple Of ocean, bud there, fairies watch unroll Such turban-flowers; I say, such lamps disperse Thick red flame through that dusk green universe! I am queen of thee, floweret; And each fleshy blossom Preserve I not (safer Than leaves that enbower it, Or shells that embosom) From weevil and chafer? Laugh through my pane, then; solicit the bee; Gibe him, be sure; and, in midst of thy glee, Love thy queen, worship me!
Worship whom else? For am I not, this day, Whate'er I please? What shall I please to-day? My morning, noon, eve, night how spend my day? To-morrow I must be Pippa who winds silk, The whole year round, to earn just bread and milk: But, this one day, I have leave to go, And play out my fancy's fullest games; I may fancy all day and it shall be so
The entire piece is here. Yes, Browning specialized in the dramatic monologue. I can easily imagine Pippa as a one-person stage performance. Off topic, but I always got a kick out of the name of Pippa Passes, KY, aka Caney Creek.
'Tis true, 'tis day; what though it be? O wilt thou therefore rise from me? Why should we rise, because 'tis light? Did we lie down, because 'twas night? Love which in spite of darkness brought us hither Should in despite of light keep us together.
Light hath no tongue, but is all eye; If it could speak as well as spy, This were the worst that it could say - That being well, I fain would stay, And that I loved my heart and honour so, That I would not from her, that had them, go.
Must business thee from hence remove? Oh, that's the worst disease of love! The poor, the foul, the false, love can Admit, but not the busied man. He which hath business, and makes love, doth do Such wrong as when a married man doth woo.
All I know is a door into the dark. Outside, old axles and iron hoops rusting; Inside, the hammered anvil's short-pitched ring, The unpredictable fantail of sparks Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in water. The anvil must be somewhere in the centre, Horned as a unicorn, at one end square, Set there immoveable: an altar Where he expends himself in shape and music. Sometimes, leather-aproned, hairs in his nose, He leans out on the jamb, recalls a clatter Of hoofs where traffic is flashing in rows; Then grunts and goes in, with a slam and a flick To beat real iron out, to work the bellows.
I am as lovely as a dream in stone; My breast on which each finds his death in turn Inspires the poet with a love as lone As everlasting clay, and as taciturn. Swan-white of heart, as sphinx no mortal knows, My throne is in the heaven's azure deep; I hate all movement that disturbs my pose; I smile not ever, neither do I weep.
Before my monumental attitudes, Taken from the proudest plastic arts, My poets pray in austere studious moods,
For I, to fold enchantment round their hearts, Have pools of light where beauty flames and dies, The placid mirrors of my luminous eyes.
What do you take from these starry nights, O heart, in all your disarray? Yes, what do you take from their delights To guide you on your path by day?
What did you feel when, in the pale Pond’s shell, its silver overswelled; When, deep within the resting vale, A trembling stream of starlight welled?
Can it slip into shadow, as over the ring Of hills, a white flash passed (night’s noon), And, as the rushing bluish wing Of a cloud clung round the moon?
Can it shatter, like the silent blooms That softly waft their heated prayer Over the villas’ rich doors and rooms To your breathing heart in the late-night air?
Can it quiver too, as, softer, lighter, (A sinking string of pearls or lace), The moon’s gleam over the rocking water Fled for the dark without a trace?
Is nothing left of the whispering spray Of the cypresses along the shore, Not one of your dream thoughts that would stray Along your round for an hour or more?
Perhaps but a verse of the wind in its reeling And pure longing for that time that could bless Like fragrance lost in a gentle feeling Of inexpressible tenderness.
A speck that would have been beneath my sight On any but a paper sheet so white Set off across what I had written there. And I had idly poised my pen in air To stop it with a period of ink When something strange about it made me think, This was no dust speck by my breathing blown, But unmistakably a living mite With inclinations it could call its own. It paused as with suspicion of my pen, And then came racing wildly on again To where my manuscript was not yet dry; Then paused again and either drank or smelt-- With loathing, for again it turned to fly. Plainly with an intelligence I dealt. It seemed too tiny to have room for feet, Yet must have had a set of them complete To express how much it didn't want to die. It ran with terror and with cunning crept. It faltered: I could see it hesitate; Then in the middle of the open sheet Cower down in desperation to accept Whatever I accorded it of fate. I have none of the tenderer-than-thou Collectivistic regimenting love With which the modern world is being swept. But this poor microscopic item now! Since it was nothing I knew evil of I let it lie there till I hope it slept.
I have a mind myself and recognize Mind when I meet with it in any guise No one can know how glad I am to find On any sheet the least display of mind.
At six o'clock we were waiting for coffee, waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb that was going to be served from a certain balcony --like kings of old, or like a miracle. It was still dark. One foot of the sun steadied itself on a long ripple in the river.
The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river. It was so cold we hoped that the coffee would be very hot, seeing that the sun was not going to warm us; and that the crumb would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle. At seven a man stepped out on the balcony.
He stood for a minute alone on the balcony looking over our heads toward the river. A servant handed him the makings of a miracle, consisting of one lone cup of coffee and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb, his head, so to speak, in the clouds--along with the sun.
Was the man crazy? What under the sun was he trying to do, up there on his balcony! Each man received one rather hard crumb, which some flicked scornfully into the river, and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee. Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle.
I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle. A beautiful villa stood in the sun and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee. In front, a baroque white plaster balcony added by birds, who nest along the river, --I saw it with one eye close to the crumb--
and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb my mansion, made for me by a miracle, through ages, by insects, birds, and the river working the stone. Every day, in the sun, at breakfast time I sit on my balcony with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.
We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee. A window across the river caught the sun as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony.
it was on the 2nd floor on Coronado Street I used to get drunk and throw the radio through the window while it was playing, and, of course, it would break the glass in the window and the radio would sit there on the roof still playing and I'd tell my woman, "Ah, what a marvelous radio!" the next morning I'd take the window off the hinges and carry it down the street to the glass man who would put in another pane. I kept throwing that radio through the window each time I got drunk and it would sit there on the roof still playing- a magic radio a radio with guts, and each morning I'd take the window back to the glass man. I don't remember how it ended exactly though I do remember we finally moved out. there was a woman downstairs who worked in the garden in her bathing suit, she really dug with that trowel and she put her behind up in the air and I used to sit in the window and watch the sun shine all over that thing while the music played.
All we need is fourteen lines, well, thirteen now, and after this one just a dozen to launch a little ship on love's storm-tossed seas, then only ten more left like rows of beans. How easily it goes unless you get Elizabethan and insist the iambic bongos must be played and rhymes positioned at the ends of lines, one for every station of the cross. But hang on here while we make the turn into the final six where all will be resolved, where longing and heartache will find an end, where Laura will tell Petrarch to put down his pen, take off those crazy medieval tights, blow out the lights, and come at last to bed.
Hours before dawn we were woken by the quake. My house was on a cliff. The thing could take Bookloads off shelves, break bottles in a row. Then the long pause and then the bigger shake. It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
And far too large for my feet to step by. I hoped that various buildings were brought low. The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
It seemed quite safe till she got up and dressed. The guarded tourist makes the guide the test. Then I said The Garden? Laughing she said No. Taxi for her and for me healthy rest. It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
The language problem but you have to try. Some solid ground for lying could she show? The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
None of these deaths were her point at all. The thing was that being woken he would bawl And finding her not in earshot he would know. I tried saying Half an Hour to pay this call. It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
I slept, and blank as that I would yet lie. Till you have seen what a threat holds below, The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
Tell me again about Europe and her pains, Who's tortured by the drought, who by the rains. Glut me with floods where only the swine can row Who cuts his throat and let him count his gains. It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
A bedshift flight to a Far Eastern sky. Only the same war on a stronger toe. The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
Tell me more quickly what I lost by this, Or tell me with less drama what they miss Who call no die for a god for a throw, Who says after two aliens had one kiss It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
But as to risings, I can tell you why. It is on contradiction that they grow. It seemed the best thing to be up and go. Up was the heartening and the strong reply. The heart of standing is we cannot fly.
The poem is partly about WW2, I think. An "aubade" is a lyric poem about lovers separating at dawn. Sir William Empson, a poet and great literary critic, wrote the fascinating and masterful 7 Types of Ambiguity (when he was 21), which I recommend to anyone who enjoys language and writing.
Here's a review of a new bio of the passionately religion-hating Empson, and here's a 1949 Time Magazine comment on the publication of his Collected Poems.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share,
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
The rest of the poem is below the fold. Dalrymple recently discussed Grey: Fifty Shades of Grey)
The evening comes, the fields are still The tinkle of the thirsty rill, Unheard all day, ascends again; Deserted is the half-mown plain, Silent the swaths! the ringing wain, The mower's cry, the dog's alarms, All housed within the sleeping farms! The business of the day is done The last-left haymaker is gone. And from the thyme upon the height, And from the elder-blossom white And pale dog-roses in the hedge, And from the mint-plant in the sedge, In puffs of balm the night-air blows The perfume which the day forgoes. And on the pure horizon far, See, pulsing with the first-born star, The liquid sky above the hill! The evening comes, the fields are still. Loitering and leaping, With saunter, with bounds-- Flickering and circling In files and in rounds-- Gaily their pine-staff green Tossing in air, Loose o'er their shoulders white Showering their hair-- See! the wild Maenads Break from the wood, Youth and Iacchus Maddening their blood. See! through the quiet land Rioting they pass-- Fling the fresh heaps about Trample the grass. Tear from the rifled hedge Garlands, their prize; Fill with their sports the field, Fill with their cries. Shepherd, what ails thee, then? Shepherd, why mute? Forth with thy joyous song! Forth with thy flute! Tempts not the revel blithe? Lure not their cries? Glow not their shoulders smooth? Melt not their eyes? Is not, on cheeks like those, Lovely the flush? --Ah, so the quiet was! So was the hush!
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red: If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, then wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes there is more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound: I grant I never saw a goddess go, - My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.
WHATEVER YOU DO IS WRONG 
After Apple Picking
A hungry feeling 
She was a phantom of delight (1804)
Sonnet 18 
When the Himalayan peasant meets the
Break of Day
Beauty
A Miracle for Breakfast
Aubade (1937)
