Sonnet Xvii

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

Xvii (I Do Not Love You...)

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

A Brook In The City

The farmhouse lingers, though averse to square With the new city street it has to wear A number in. But what about the brook That held the house as in an elbow-crook? I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength And impulse, having dipped a finger length And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed A flower to try its currents where they crossed. The meadow grass could be cemented down From growing under pavements of a town;

Love Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

Gitanjali

1. Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life. This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new. At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable. Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.

Two Dogs Have I

For years we've had a little dog, Last year we acquired a big dog; He wasn't big when we got him, He was littler than the dog we had. We thought our little dog would love him, Would help him to become a trig dog, But the new little dog got bigger, And the old little dog got mad. Now the big dog loves the little dog,

Evangeline: A Tale Of Acadie

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman

Alone But Not Lonely

Alone but not lonely Broke yet not poor Down, yet not out Smiling, but not laughing Blessed yet not enriched Hurting though not pained Hearing but not heard Risen yet not rising Old but not elderly

A Dramatic Poem

The deck of an ancient ship. At the right of the stage is the mast, with a large square sail hiding a great deal of the sky and sea on that side. The tiller is at the left of the stage; it is a long oar coming through an opening in the bulwark. The deck rises in a series of steps hehind the tiller, and the stern of the ship curves overhead. When the play opens there are four persons upon the deck. Aibric stands by the tiller. Forgael sleeps upon the raised portion of the deck towards the front of the stage. Two Sailors are standing near to the mast, on which a harp is hanging.

A Morning Exercise

FANCY, who leads the pastimes of the glad, Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to throw; Sending sad shadows after things not sad, Peopling the harmless fields with signs of woe: Beneath her sway, a simple forest cry Becomes an echo of man's misery. Blithe ravens croak of death; and when the owl Tries his two voices for a favourite strain-- 'Tu-whit--Tu-whoo!' the unsuspecting fowl Forebodes mishap or seems but to complain;

Leaves Of Grass. A Carol Of Harvest For 1867

A SONG of the good green grass! A song no more of the city streets; A song of farms--a song of the soil of fields. A song with the smell of sun-dried hay, where the nimble pitchers handle the pitch-fork; A song tasting of new wheat, and of fresh-husk'd maize.

Fireflies

My fancies are fireflies, — Specks of living light twinkling in the dark. The voice of wayside pansies, that do not attract the careless glance, murmurs in these desultory lines. In the drowsy dark caves of the mind dreams build their nest with fragments

The Pied Piper Of Hamelin

I. Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so

Ballad Of The Long-Legged Bait

The bows glided down, and the coast Blackened with birds took a last look At his thrashing hair and whale-blue eye; The trodden town rang its cobbles for luck. Then good-bye to the fishermanned Boat with its anchor free and fast As a bird hooking over the sea, High and dry by the top of the mast,

My Sunrise

The chirp of birds in the early morning Bless my smiles with their innocent calling I head outside with my blanket wrapped around And lay there listening to this memorable sound. Inspiring orange light of dawn, infatuating With all colours the sun rise is portraying Its cheerful glow fills my heart with serenity And takes me to a tranquil fantasy.

Andrea Del Sarto

But do not let us quarrel any more, No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once: Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. You turn your face, but does it bring your heart? I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear, Treat his own subject after his own way, Fix his own time, accept too his own price, And shut the money into this small hand When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly? Oh, I'll content him,- but to-morrow, Love!

Christabel

PART I 'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock And the owls have awakened the crowing cock; Tu-whit!- Tu-whoo! And hark, again! the crowing cock, How drowsily it crew. Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, Hath a toothless mastiff, which From her kennel beneath the rock

The City In Which I Loved You

And when, in the city in which I love you, even my most excellent song goes unanswered, andI mount the scabbed streets, the long shouts of avenues, and tunnel sunken night in search of you... That I negotiate fog, bituminous rain rining like teeth into the beggar's tin, or two men jackaling a third in some alley weirdly lit by a couch on fire, that I

A Tree Telling Of Orpheus

White dawn. Stillness.When the rippling began I took it for sea-wind, coming to our valley with rumors of salt, of treeless horizons. But the white fog didn't stir; the leaves of my brothers remained outstretched, unmoving. Yet the rippling drew nearer – and then

Resurrection

Once more I hear the everlasting sea Breathing beneath the mountain's fragrant breast, Come unto Me, come unto Me, And I will give you rest. We have destroyed the Temple and in three days He hath rebuilt it -- all things are made new: And hark what wild throats pour His praise