I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shade for the leaves when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, I wield the flail of the lashing hail, I sift the snow on the mountains below, In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, Lured by the love of the genii that move Over the rills and the crags and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, As on the jag of a mountain crag An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Glides glimmering o'er my fleecelike floor, And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, And I laugh to see them whirl and flee Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 'The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,— The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, While the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of earth and water, I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; For after the rain, when, with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. Did you tackle that trouble that came your way Or hide your face from the light of day With a craven soul and fearful? Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce, And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts, But only how did you take it? You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that? Come up with a smiling face. It's nothing against you to fall down flat, But to lie there-that's disgrace. The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce; It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts; And though you be done to death, what then? If you played your part in the world of men, Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce, It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts, From "Impertinent Poems" (by permission) Wolsey's Farewell to This soliloquy of Wolsey occurs in the latter half of JOHN FLETCHER (Born December 20, 1579; Died August 28(?), 1625) Farewell! a long farewell to all my greatness! But far beyond my depth; my high blown pride From "Henry VIII" The blessed damozel leaned out She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven. Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, Her seemed she scarce had been a day The wonder was not yet quite gone (To one, it is ten years of years, Surely she lean'd o'er me-her hair Nothing: the autumn fall of leaves. It was the rampart of God's house So high, that looking downward thence |