Eclogue 3: Menalcas Daemoetas Palaemon (Publius Vergilius Maro Poems)
MENALCASWho owns the flock, Damoetas? Meliboeus?DAMOETASNay, they are Aegon's sheep, of late by himCommitted to my care.MENALCAS O every wayUnhappy sheep, ...
MENALCASWho owns the flock, Damoetas? Meliboeus?DAMOETASNay, they are Aegon's sheep, of late by himCommitted to my care.MENALCAS O every wayUnhappy sheep, ...
I.I purposed once to take my pen and write,Not songs, like some, tormented and awry *With passion, but a cunning ...
To stad on Terms twere vain. By hook & crookOne Terme I was defrauded of a Booke.Now Readers your assistance ...
No Thrasion harpe, but a steeld furious whippe, no Nightingales, but Mandrakes shreeking sound,Adastors snakes to make these Thrasors skippe: ...
Thou art a radiant and imperial star,Planet! whose silver crest beams bright, afarUpon the edge of yonder eastern hill,That, nightlike, ...
What would'st thou have for easement after grief, When the rude world hath used thee with despite, And care sits at thine elbow day and night, Filching thy pleasures like a subtle thief? To me, when life besets me in such wise, 'Tis sweetest to break forth, to drop the chain, And grasp the freedom of this pleasant earth, To roam in idleness and sober mirth, Through summer airs and summer lands, and drain The comfort of wide fields unto tired eyes. By hills and waters, farms and solitudes, To wander by the day with wilful feet; Through fielded valleys wide with yellowing wheat; Along gray roads that run between deep woods, Murmurous and cool; through hallowed slopes of pine, Where the long daylight dreams, unpierced, unstirred, And only the rich-throated thrush is heard; By lonely forest brooks that froth and shine In bouldered crannies buried in the hills; By broken beeches tangled with wild vine, And long-strewn rivers murmurous with mills. In upland pastures, sown with gold, and sweet With the keen perfume of the ripening grass, Where wings of birds and filmy shadows pass, Spread thick as stars with shining marguerite: To haunt old fences overgrown with brier, Muffled in vines, and hawthorns, and wild cherries, Rank poisonous ivies, red-bunched elder-berries, And pièd blossoms to the heart's desire, Gray mullein towering into yellow bloom, Pink-tasseled milkweed, breathing dense perfume, And swarthy vervain, tipped with violet fire. To hear at eve the bleating of far flocks, The mud-hen's whistle from the marsh at morn; To skirt with deafened ears and brain o'erborne Some foam-filled rapid charging down its rocks With iron roar of waters; far away Across wide-reeded meres, pensive with noon, To hear the querulous outcry of the loon; To lie among deep rocks, and watch all day On liquid heights the snowy clouds melt by; Or hear from wood-capped mountain-brows the jay Pierce the bright morning with his jibing cry. To feast on summer sounds; the jolted wains, The thresher humming from the farm near by, The prattling cricket's intermittent cry, The locust's rattle from the sultry lanes; Or in the shadow of some oaken spray, To watch, as through a mist of light and dreams, The far-off hayfields, where the dusty teams Drive round and round the lessening squares of hay, And hear upon the wind, now loud, now low, With drowsy cadence half a summer's day, The clatter of the reapers come and go. Far violet hills, horizons filmed with showers, The murmur of cool streams, the forest's gloom, The voices of the breathing grass, the hum Of ancient gardens overbanked with flowers: Thus, with a smile as golden as the dawn, And cool fair fingers radiantly divine, The mighty mother brings us in her hand, For all tired eyes and foreheads pinched and wan, Her restful cup, her beaker of bright wine: Drink, and be filled, and ye shall understand!(Archibald Lampman)
If any strive to injure, or defameYour honour, filching from you your good name;Consider, he believes this blame your due,That ...
(For D. C. T., Killed at Fricourt, March, 1916) Yet once an earlier David took Smooth pebbles from the brook: ...
Sharp was the frost, the wind was high And sparkling stars bedeckt the sky Sly Dick in arts of cunning ...
So are you to my thoughts as food to life, Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground; And for ...
So are you to my thoughts as food to life, Or as sweet-seasoned showers are to the ground; And for ...
(AMSTERDAM, 1645) And there you are again, now as you are. Observe yourself as you discern yourself In your discredited ...
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