Or when you peer through a net of woven violet stems
It is not sunlight, not moonlight,
But a separate shining.
Joy lives behind people's eyes.
Reprinted by permission of F. A. Stokes Company, from Shoes of the Wind by Hilda Conkling, copyrighted, 1922.
Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful Jollity,
Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles
Nods, and Becks, and Wreathed Smiles Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Com, and trip it as ye go
On the light fantastick toe,
And in thy right hand lead with thee, The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty; And if I give thee honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crue
To live with her, and live with thee, In unreprovèd pleasures free; To hear the Lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull night, From his watch-towre in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to com in spight of sorrow, And at my window bid good morrow, Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine, Or the twisted Eglantine.
While the Cock with lively din, Scatters the rear of darknes thin, And to the stack, or the Barn dore, Stoutly struts his Dames before, Oft list'ning how the Hounds and horn Chearly rouse the slumbring morn, From the side of som Hoar Hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill. Som time walking not unseen
By Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green, Right against the Eastern gate, Wher the great Sun begins his state, Rob'd in flames, and Amber light, The clouds in thousand Liveries dight. While the Plowman neer at hand, Whistles ore the Furrow'd Land, And the Milkmaid singeth blithe, And the Mower whets his sithe, And every Shepherd tells his tale Under the Hawthorn in the dale. Som times with secure delight The up-land Hamlets will invite, When the merry Bells ring round, And the jocond rebecks sound
To many a youth, and many a maid, Dancing in the Chequer'd shade;
And young and old com forth to play On a Sunshine Holyday.
Towred Cities please us then,
And the busie humm of men,
Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold, In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold, With store of Ladies, whose bright eies Rain influence, and judge the prise Of Wit, or Arms, while both contend To win her Grace, whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear
In Saffron robe, with Taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask, and antique Pageantry, Such sights as youthfull Poets dream On Summer eeves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonsons learnèd Sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespear fancies childe, Warble his native Wood-notes wilde, And ever against eating Cares, Lap me in soft Lydian Aires, Married to immortal verse
Such as the meeting soul may pierce In notes, with many a winding bout Of linckèd sweetnes long drawn out, With wanton heed, and giddy cunning, The melting voice through mazes running; Untwisting all the chains that ty The hidden soul of harmony.
That Orpheus self may heave his head From golden slumber on a bed Of heapt Elysian flowres, and hear Such streins as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half regain'd Eurydice.
These delights, if thou canst give, Mirth with thee, I mean to live.
Jenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in; Time, you thief, who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I'm growing old, but add,
VILLANELLE, WITH STEVENSON'S ASSISTANCE
BY FRANKLIN P. ADAMS
The world is so full of a number of things. Like music and pictures and statues and plays, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.
We've winters and summers and autumns and springs, We've Aprils and Augusts, Octobers and Mays— The world is so full of a number of things.
Though minor the key of my lyrical strings,
I change it to major when pæaning praise: I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.
Each morning a myriad wonderments brings, Each evening a myriad marvels conveys, The world is so full of a number of things.
With pansies and roses and pendants and rings, With purples and yellows and scarlets and grays, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.
So pardon a bard if he carelessly sings
A solo indorsing these Beautiful Days
The world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.
BY SOPHIE JEwett
Dusk of a lowering evening, Chill of a northern zone, Pitiful press of worn faces, And an exiled heart alone.
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